It was quiet on the schoolhouse steps. The shadows crept silently across the road, so silently that they did not disturb a little head pillowed on the hard boards of the porch.
The flowers and grasses in the neglected yard stirred and rustled in the afternoon breeze, just beginning to spring up, but all they murmured was “Hush! Hush!” The bees hummed and buzzed busily about among the flowers, one inquisitive young fellow, who knew no better, actually lighting on Susan’s gay hair-ribbon, as if he thought it a new kind of blossom. But the little mother did not stir, for the very song the bees sang was a lullaby.
So that Susan’s nap was long and refreshing, and when at last she woke and stretched her stiff little arms and legs, she discovered that she was hungry.
“You stay here, baby,” said she, firmly planting the ever-smiling squash baby upon the steps. “I’ll be back in a minute with a cooky for you.”
Susan trudged leisurely up Featherbed Lane. Near the end she halted, and, leaning on the garden wall, stared with interest over at the Tallman house.
The sound of crying was plainly to be heard floating out upon the air. The dismal wails grew louder, and then the door opened and Phil’s father appeared.
He walked with a determined air to the big lilac bush near the foot of the steps, and, pulling out his pen-knife, carefully selected and cut off a stout little branch.
“It’s a switch,” thought Susan, terror-stricken. “Oh, me, it’s a switch.”
At this moment the door was flung open again, and out upon the porch darted a little figure. Its face was red, its arms were whirling, it was dancing up and down and crying all at once. But, nevertheless, as Susan peered closely, she saw that it was Phil. There was no doubt about that.
His friend on the other side of the fence held her breath at the sight. Oh, how sorry she was for him! She knew just how badly he felt. She, too, would have been dancing in a frenzy if, a little earlier that afternoon, she had seen Grandfather cutting a switch.