Stormy, Misty's Foal

by Marguerite Henry

"Mice?"

"No, Grandma. Guess again."

"Probably some toady-frog or lizard."

"No! No! Feel!"

Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and poked a cautious fingertip into Maureen's pocket. She touched something smooth and curved. Smiling, she reached in and brought out two tiny brown-flecked eggs.

"And there's two in my other pocket! I found 'em high and dry in Misty's manger."

Grandpa and Paul came stomping into the back hall with armfuls of wood. "What's to eat?" Grandpa shouted. "I could swaller a whale."

Grandma shook her head. "Bread's mouldy. Milk's sour. Only thing we got is four little bitty banty eggs."

"Why, they're good," Maureen said in a hurt tone.

"Course they are, honey." Grandma placed them on the table. "Paul, you still got your boots on. Run out to the smokehouse for some bacon. We'll have a tiny fried egg apiece and plenty o' crispy bacon. I'll put the skillet on and have it spittin' hot."