“Minerva,” continued Ethel, “You needn’t scrub the kitchen floor this afternoon. I want you and James to join a little school that I am going to get up.”
“Never did like school,” said Minerva.
“Well,” said Ethel, feeling that she had approached the subject in the wrong way, “I don’t mean a school where you have to sit in a stuffy room and do sums on a board and learn to read and write. I mean that we are going out into the woods to learn something about the denizens of the woods and fields.”
“Yas’m,” said Minerva.
Minerva was an emotional being. There was never any doubt of that. I think it was the next day that Ethel and I were returning from a walk and we saw James leave the kitchen and go around to the front of the house as if he were looking for some one.
When he saw us he said:
“Have you seen Minerva?”
We told him we had not, but just then we all saw her coming out of the woodshed with a handful of kindlings, her cat, still somewhat sticky, perched on her shoulder.
She entered the kitchen and I was just about to ask James a question about the Hurlbert Home when the now familiar shrieking voice of Minerva came to us through the open kitchen window.
“Ow, ow, take it away. Ow, I’m bitten.”