“Mercy,” she thought, “I hope nothing’s happened to him. Where can he be? Oh, see, he’s dug—let me count,” (counting them off) “eighteen holes! My, it must have tired him out.”
“But where can he be?” she went on, and called again and again as loudly as she dared:
“Feather Flop!”
“Feather Flop!”
“FEATHER FLOP!”
“Oh, maybe he’s in my play house!” she suddenly thought and ran to look. And there he was—where do you think? Fast asleep in one of the doll’s beds with the covers tucked close up under his bill!
“Well, you’re a funny kind of a gardener,” laughed Mary Frances as soon as she recovered from her astonishment. “Here it is long past crowing time.”
Feather Flop turned over. Then he began to mutter sleepily:
“I don’t care what people say,