KIP’S MINISTER.
BY KATE W. HAMILTON.
JACK and Jill went up the hill,’” piped Bud’s shrill voice from the hayloft in the barn where she was hunting eggs. “‘To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, And Jill——’”
If Bud’s own name had been Jill she could not have come “tumbling after,” any more speedily than she did. A board tilted, her foot slipped, and in a moment she was sitting on the floor below. Fortunately a quantity of hay had fallen with her, so there was no broken crown or other crushed bones; but her dignity was considerably jarred, and glancing around to see whether any one had witnessed the mishap, she discovered Kip looking out toward the road from a door at the farther end of the building.
“Kip Crail! what makes you stand there for?” she demanded, severely.
“I’m a-watching my minister,” answered Kip slowly.
It is not every boy who owns a minister all by himself, but Kip spoke as if nobody else had any claim upon this one; and as he seemed to have noticed neither her tone nor her downfall, Bud regained her chubby feet, shook the hay from her yellow curls, and going to Kip’s side looked curiously after the slightly grey-haired man, in clothing somewhat worn, who was quietly picking his way along the road. Her blue eyes discerned nothing remarkable, and she turned away disappointed.