“They’re my father’s barns, and I’ll go in them just as much as I please,” answered Eunice, turning away with much dignity, now that she had driven Mamie well off the grounds.
“What can she have meant by all that nonsense, Cricket, do you think?” she said, seating herself again. “The idea of ’Gustus John telling us to keep out of the barns! He would as soon think of telling us to keep out of our own stables,” she added.
“Why, I think she just wanted to plague us, and couldn’t think of anything else to say,” answered Cricket. “Eunice, I do b’lieve we haven’t been down to the barns this week. Let’s go by-and-by, and jump on the hay.”
“All right. Let’s go now,” said Eunice, jumping up. “I feel just like it. I’m stiff sitting still so long.” And accordingly, down went the willow baskets, and off ran the two little maids.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE NEW COW.
The warm sunshine lay full on the great barnyard, and the silence of a summer morning in the country lay over everything. The farmhands were off at work, and the wide barn-doors stood open. The air was full of the sweet, warm odour of drying hay.
The children loved the big, rambling barn, with its dark, dusky corners, and they would play there by the hour. They would climb up the steep ladders, walk fearlessly across the big beams, and, with a wild whoop, would plunge downward on the mass of soft, sweet-smelling hay beneath.
Cricket had learned to achieve a somersault while in mid-air, and was very proud of this accomplishment. Then such places for hide-and-seek, when they could coax the boys to join them, did the dim corners afford! Such a famous place it was in which to play “Indians,” for they could barricade themselves behind mounds of hay, and fire a scattering shot of grain at the enemy who besieged them. The front doors of the barn were level with the lane, but behind it, where the barnyard was, the ground fell sharply, so that the same floor was a second story, beneath which the cow-stables lay. At the back of the barn, opposite the front door, was another wide door, opening on the cowyard, ten feet below, so that a wagon backed up there could easily be loaded from above.
Fortunately, ’Gustus John was good-nature itself, and “admired to hev the children enjoy themselves,” as he often said. In all their capers, he had never been known to say anything stronger than, “Wal, I do vum! I never see sech goin’s-on.” It was for this reason that Eunice and Cricket did not in the least believe Mamie when she said that her father had sent her to tell them not to go into the barnyard that day. If the child had told them the reason why, they would not have thought of going, for, with all their faults, they were rarely directly disobedient. They were too well-trained for that. Dr. Ward believed in letting the children run wild all summer, while they were in the country, and there were but two things he was severe with: disobedience and the want of truth.
As the girls came up, the barnyard was quite deserted except for one peaceful-looking cow who stood quietly chewing her cud in a shady corner. A few stray hens and chickens clucked and scratched in the straw. Not another sound was to be heard. Even Mamie was not in sight.