She showed how long it was, and Tom said,
“Why, it must be a snake.”
We men ran into the kitchen, and there, sure enough, was a little green snake about a foot long and frightened in every inch.
Tom picked up the mop, and carefully aiming at the little creature, he brought it down about three feet away from it. For the snake had eluded him.
Minerva’s curiosity was greater than her fear, and she came to the door of the kitchen to watch us.
Benedict picked up a broom and made a swipe at the snake that upset a pitcher of milk, but missed the snake which coiled its pretty green length in the middle of the floor raised its pretty head and darted out a needle-like and beautifully red tongue at us in a way that reminded me of the Morse alphabet.
I cannot explain why I was thus reminded, and probably such a reminder was far from the snake’s intention.
I could not help feeling sorry for the little fellow. They say that snakes love milk. Here was a place flowing with milk, but he could not stop to drink it because three huge beings threatened his very life.
“Can he jump?” said Minerva, preparing to jump herself.
“No, Minerva, he is perfectly harmless,” said I, resolved to save his life. “Say, you fellows, stop whacking at him and capture him alive. I want to show Minerva that these snakes haven’t a vicious thought in their heads.”