"Great work, Farmwoman," said Adam as we sat down on the side steps to eat, bite-about, the huge red apple he had taken from the bundle of emigrant appearance which he always carried over his shoulder on the end of a long hickory stick and which I had by investigation at different times found to contain everything from clean linen to Sanskrit poetry for father. To-day I found the manuscript score of a new opera by no less a person than Hurter himself, which he insisted on having me hum through with him while we ate the apple.
"I told Hurter I thought that fourth movement wouldn't do, and now I know it after hearing you try it through an apple," said Pan as he rose from beside me, tied the manuscript up in the bandana bundle, and picked up his long pruning-knife. "Now, Woman, we'll put a curb on the rambling of every last rambler in this garden and then we can lay out the rows for Bud to plant with the snap beans to-morrow." Adam, from the first day he had met me, had addressed me simply with my generic class name, and I had found it a good one to which to make answer. Also Adam had shown me the profit and beauty of planting all needful vegetables mixed up with the flowers in the rich and loamy old garden, and had adjusted a cropping arrangement between the Corn-tassel Bud and me that was to be profitable to us both, Bud only doing in odd hours the work I couldn't do, and getting a share of the profits.
"Don't work me to death to-day," I pleaded, and told him about the rescue of the babies Bird with so much dramatic force that his laughter rang out with such volume that old Rufus came to the kitchen window to look out and shake his head, and I knew he was muttering about "Peckerwoods," "devils," and the sixth day of the week. "Will the chicks live all right, do you think?" I asked anxiously.
"They're safe if they never got cold to the touch and you didn't joggle 'em too much. Do either you or Miss Rutherford happen to er—er—kick in your sleep?"
"We do not!" I answered with dignity, as I snipped away a dead branch of ivy from across the path.
"I just thought Miss Rutherford might from—"
"You don't know Bess; she's so executive that—"
"That she wouldn't kick eggs for anything," finished Pan, mockingly. "She does pretty well in the Russian ballet, doesn't she?"
"Oh, I wish you could just see her in the 'Cloud Wisp'!" I exclaimed, with the greatest pride, for Bess Rutherford has nothing to envy Pavlova about.
"I have—er—have a great desire to so behold her at some future time," answered Pan, with one of his eery laughs, and I could almost see hoofs through the raw hide of his shoes. I would have ruffled the red crests off of the tips of his ears to see if they really were pointed if he had not stood just out of reach of my hand, where it would have been impossible to catch him if I tried.