“Poor little thing! Poor little thing!” she shuddered. “What in the world am I going to do with you?”
“Julie! Aw, Julie!” a strident voice called all at once from the back door, making Julie jump again.
It was Mrs. Dolly Anderson, Julie knew. She had stopped on her way to prayer-meeting. Julie wished she had not come until she had decided what to do about the chimney-swallow.
“Julie! Where are you?” the rasping voice persisted. Mrs. Anderson was coming in through the back way, and was already in the kitchen. Julie hastily replaced the screen, and met her at the shop door.
“There you are, dearie,” the visitor proclaimed. “I been bawling my head off for you. I come by to go with you to prayer meetin’—but you look’s white as a sheet. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I’m all right,” Julie said, nervously.
“Something’s scared you,” the other stated, her stalwart figure settling firmly back upon her heels, as she surveyed Julie with a relentless stare. “I never knowed any person to get scared as easy as you do, Julie. What’s happened now? I’ll bet a hopper-grass jumped at you! Or,” with sudden elephantine playfulness, “I caught you up to something you hadn’t ought to do. Now then!” she admonished, shaking a stubby and roguish finger, and pouncing inexorably upon Julie’s self-conscious look. “Tell its mammy what it’s been doin’.—Oh, for the mercy sake! What’s that?”
The young swallow had broken out stridently once more.
“It’s a chimney-swallow,” Julie confessed. “I was just trying to think what to do with it.”
“Where is it—over in the fireplace?” Mrs. Anderson, with a tread that made the boards complain under her, went over and pulled the screen away, with large competent hands. “Ugh! How I despise little naked birds!” she ejaculated. “Here, where’s the cat?”