Billy grew interested at once and laughed aloud; he puckered up his face and tried to weep again, for he wanted more tears to fall into the churn; but the tears refused to come and he couldn't squeeze another one out of his eyes.
“Aunt Minerva,” he said mischievously, “I done ruint yo' buttermilk.”
“What have you done?” she inquired.
“It's done ruint,” he replied, “you'll hafter th'ow it away; 't ain't fitten fer nothin.' I done cried 'bout a bucketful in it.”
“Why did you cry?” asked Miss Minerva calmly. “Don't you like to work?”
“Yes 'm, I jes' loves to work; I wish I had time to work all the time. But it makes my belly ache to churn,—I got a awful pain right now.”
“Churn on!” she commanded unsympathetically.
He grabbed the dasher and churned vigorously for one minute.
“I reckon the butter's done come,” he announced, resting from his labors.
“It hasn't begun to come yet,” replied the exasperated woman. “Don't waste so much time, William.”