Mrs. Motherwell stopped pumping for a minute and looked at Pearl.
"Why didn't ye git here earlier?" she asked.
"Well," Pearl began, "I was late gettin' started by reason of the washin' and the ironin', and Jimmy not gettin' back wid the boots. He went drivin' cattle for Vale the butcher, and he had to have the boots for the poison ivy is that bad, and because the sugar o' lead is all done and anyway ma don't like to keep it in the house, for wee Danny might eat it—he's that stirrin' and me not there to watch him now."
"Lord! what a tongue you have! Put down your things and go out and pick up chips to light the fire with in the morning."
Pearl laid her bird-cage on a chair and was back so soon with the chips that Mrs. Motherwell could not think of anything to say.
"Now go for the cows," she said, "and don't run them home!"
"Where will I run them to then, ma'am?" Pearl asked innocently.
"Good land, child, have I to tell you everything? Folks that can't do without tellin' can't do much with, I say. Bring the cows to the bars, and don't stand there staring at me."
When Pearl dashed out of the door, she almost fell over the old dog who lay sleepily snapping at the flies which buzzed around his head. He sprang up with a growl which died away into an apologetic yawn as she stooped to pat his honest brown head.
A group of red calves stood at the bars of a small field plaintively calling for their supper. It was not just an ordinary bawl, but a double-jointed hyphenated appeal, indicating a very exhausted condition indeed.