Old man Avery hurried from the woods toward his camp, evidently excited. His daughter Swickey stood watching the black kitten Beelzebub play a clever but rather one-sided game with a half-dead field-mouse. As Avery saw the girl, he raised both hands above his head in a comical gesture of imprecation.
“Swickey, thet bug-eatin’ ole pork-thief’s been at the butter ag’in!”
“Why, Pop, thet’s the second time he’s done it!”
“Yes, an’ he scraped all the butter he could outen it, an’ upset the crock likewise. Swickey, we’ve got to git that b’ar or take the butter outen the spring-hole.”
The girl’s brown eyes dilated. “Why don’t you trap ’im, Pop?”
“Law ag’in’ trappin’ b’ars in August.”
“Law ag’in’ shootin’ deer in August, too, ain’t they?”
“Thet’s diff’runt. We’ve got to have fresh meat.”
“Ain’t b’ar meat?” she asked ironically.
“Reckon ’tis.”