CHAPTER XXXII.
ET me try," said Amadis, taking the handle of the churn from Jearje. The butter was obstinate, and would not come; it was eleven o'clock in the morning, and still there was the rattle of milk in the barrel, the sound of a liquid splashing over and over. By the sounds Mrs. Iden knew that the fairies were in the churn. Jearje had been turning for hours.
Amadis stooped to the iron handle, polished like silver by Jearje's rough hands—a sort of skin sand-paper—and with an effort made the heavy blue-painted barrel revolve on its axis.
Mrs. Iden, her sleeves up, looked from the dairy window into the court where the churn stood.
"Ah, it's no use your trying," she said, "you'll only tire yourself."
Jearje, glad to stand upright a minute, said, "First-rate, measter."
Amaryllis cried, "Take care; you'd better not, you'll hurt yourself."
"Aw!—aw!" laughed Bill Nye, who was sitting on a form by the wall under the dairy window. He was waiting to see Iden about the mowing. "Aw!—aw! Look 'ee thur, now!"