"Dead, yes, dead!" echoed the 'Squire, his words dropping with the weight of lead.
Across the fields of young green wheat ran waves of the spring wind, murmuring and sighing, while the dust of blossoms wheeled, and rose and fell in the last soft rays of the going sun. A big yellow butterfly flitted through the room.
Presently Sammy entered. He came in like a gust of wind, making things rattle with his impetuous motion.
"O, mammy! O, Zach! I's got s'thin' to tell ye, an' I'll bet a biscuit you can't guess what 't is!" he cried breathlessly.
"O, Sammy, honey, O, dear!" groaned the widow.
"S-s-h!" said the 'Squire solemnly.
"Well, I jist wanted 'm to guess," replied Sammy, "for it's awful doggone cur'u's 'at——"
"S-s-h!"
"The fistleo is broke out on Zach's ole hoss ten times as wuss as ever!"
"S-s-s-s-h!"