“Well, then,” said Peter, clearing his throat, “your ma she has had to go on another trip, unexpected, and she says to me, in a way, so to speak, 'Uncle Peter,' she said, 'here's Buddy, and he just can't go with me on this trip, and I want you to take him and—and—show him the pigs and—'”
“And cows,” Buddy prompted. “And horses. And turkeys.”
“Why, yes,” said Peter Lane. “So to speak, that's what she meant, I guess. The horses and turkeys and the things in the world. So she went away, and she wouldn't like to have you fret too much just because she couldn't take you along.”
“All right,” said Buddy, quite satisfied. “Let's go see the pigs, and the cows, and the turkeys.”
For Peter it was a long day, from the time he carried Buddy on his shoulder to the farm-house two miles back on the bluff to the time he stopped for him at the farm-house again, late in the afternoon, and bore him back to the boat, with a chunk of gingerbread in his hand, and the farmer's kind wife standing in the door, wiping her eyes on her blue apron.
When Peter had tucked the boy in the bunk, and had said “Good night,” he took out his jack-knife to shape a wooden spoon. The boy, raising his head, watched him, and Peter, looking up, saw the blue eyes and thought he saw a reproach in them.
“That's so!” he said. “That's so! I forgot it teetotally last night.”
He seated himself on the edge of the bunk and leaned over the boy, taking the small hands in his.
“I don't know if your ma had you say your prayers to her or not, Buddy,” he said, “and I don't rightly remember how that 'Our Father' goes, so we'll get along the best we can 'til I go up to the farm again and I find out for sure. You just say this after Uncle Peter—'O God, make us all well and happy to-morrow: Buddy and Uncle Peter, and Aunt Jane,'”
“And Aunt Jane,” repeated Buddy.