“Yes, thet’s another p’int. I’ve kinder been layin’ round for them little girls o’ yourn, to warn ’em off. They’re proper fond of junketin, round the barns, but I think p’raps they’d better make themselves skurse while this critter is in the barnyard. I hevn’t put her out with the other caows to-day. I’ve got to go to the lower medder this mornin’, and I hain’t got no more time to waste now. P’raps you’ll see them?” ’Gustus had a very soft spot in his heart for the doctor’s family, and always kept a careful lookout for the little girls.
“I’ll tell them, though it isn’t likely that they will turn up at the house before dinner,” said the doctor, laughing. “They are very busy young women, and I haven’t an idea where they are this morning. I’ll send one of the boys in search of them.”
“I know where they are,” piped up Mamie, who, as usual, was hopping around, listening with her sharp little ears. “They’re up the brook, by the stepping-stones. I seen ’em there this morning.”
“You kin tell ’em about it, then,” said her father, turning to her. “Jog along over there, an’ tell ’em that I say there’s an awful fierce cow in the barnyard, and they better keep out of there till I tell ’em it’s safe. Come, skedaddle.” And Mamie “skedaddled.”
The doctor watched her doubtfully as she disappeared around the house. “Will she tell them?” he asked.
“She’ll tell ’em fast enough,” answered ’Gustus John. “She’ll admire to.”
“I’ll send one of the boys, anyway,” the doctor said. “I don’t want to run any risks. Yes, do as you like with the cow, if she is really so cross. She’ll spoil the others. Fatten her for killing, certainly. I’m sorry, for she is of good stock.” Then the doctor went on up the hill, reading his letters as he went. Among them he found a note, begging him to come at once to a house at the other side of the village, on a little matter of business. So Mike being bidden to harness at once, the doctor drove off, quite forgetting the cross cow, and that he meant to send one of the boys with a special message to his little daughters.
Mamie, meantime, ran across the pasture in high spirits. How delightful to be able to tell those big girls of something which they must not do! She began screaming out their names at the top of her lungs, as soon as she came in sight of them. The girls sat by the brook, busily plaiting little baskets out of pliant willow twigs.
“Eunice! Cricket! my pa says you shan’t go in our barnyard to-day, so there!”
“Oh, dear me!” sighed Cricket, in deep disgust. “If there isn’t that horrid little tag-tail again.”