"What's the reason?" asked Stiefel.
"Don't want to."
"If you don't go with us never, we won't help you tread clay."
"I'll go some time: don't want to go to-day."
The boys went off; and Mrs. Sumerford said, "Sam, what made you so short with the boys? I know they didn't like it. If you wanted to work with your clay, why didn't you tell 'em that was the reason you didn't want to go to-day? then they would have gone down to the Cuthbert house with you."
"I knew they would, marm; and that was just the reason I didn't tell 'em. I didn't want 'em down there: I wanted to be alone to contrive something. Mother, if you was going to draw a piece of linen into the loom, and study out a new figure that you never wove before, would you want all the neighbors in, gabbing?"
"No, I'm sure I shouldn't."
Sammy went to his workshop; and his mother began to wash the breakfast-dishes, saying, "Well, these are new times: I shouldn't think I'd been talking with Sam Sumerford."
The first thing Sammy did was to gather up all the pumpkins, gourds, and squashes he had been at so much pains to select and dig out, and throw them on the woodpile: he had brought with him a piece of ash board (a remnant that was left when Harry made a drum, and had given him), also a large piece of thick, smooth birch-bark pressed flat as a board, and Harry's large compasses. He sat down at the table, and began to talk to himself:—