“What shall we say when we see her?” asked Mary Ellen anxiously. “Goodness, I almost wish we hadn’t come.”
“We’ll ask her for a drink,” responded Sammy, never at a loss, whose sharp eyes had spied a well round the corner of the house. “We’ll have a good look at her hands, too, when she works the bucket.”
The children scrambled out of the cart, and leaving Maggie to nibble the roadside grass, walked into the front yard. The house seemed deserted. There was no stir of life within doors, and without, the hens stepped about and pecked at the ground in perfect silence. A hush fell upon the children. It was not nearly so much fun as they had expected. To tell the truth, Lydia wished she were at home.
“I smell the pig,” whispered Mary Ellen.
Lydia nodded.
Sammy, the venturesome, pushed round the corner of the house, and beckoned with a grimy hand for them to follow.
“The woodshed,” he exclaimed in a stage whisper. “Look, full of things.”
On a bench in the woodshed stood a row of kettles, each full of a colored liquid. Sammy stuck his finger in one and drew it out dripping with yellow dye.
“Whiz!” muttered Sammy. “Looka!”
In went another finger—this time it came out purple.