“Hundreds of ’em,� replies the boy contemptuously.
“What do they look like, Tom? Are they green?�
“They’re mostly the color of the thing they’re on, I reckon,� says the oracle. “Sometimes they’re like the bark of the trees or fence, and then again they’re sort of green if they’re on the grass.�
“Humph! You don’t expect me to believe such a fish story as that, do you?� replies Tibby scornfully, drawing up her straight, slim figure with dignity. “As if any mortal thing could change its color! As well might the leopard change his spots,� she continues as her mind reverts to the Scripture lesson of the preceding Sabbath.
“That’s all you know about it! They’re thicker ’n spatter down in the lane, an’ I guess I know what I’m telling you! Why, Tibby, they’re like your eyes. A minute ago they were blue, now they’re yeller. Mother says your eyes make her fidgety, they’re so changeable.� And Tom laughed gleefully.
“Did she, Tom; when?�
“Yisterday. I heard her tell pop. And say, Tibby, if you don’t go down cellar and do that churnin’, she’ll make it hot for you. She says you allus slip off on churnin’ days.�
“It’s already done, Mr. Tom. I did it before I came out here. But mother’ll think I haven’t, and won’t she have a conniption fit?�
Again the twain laugh.
“Say, Tom, wouldn’t you like to go away somewheres, where folks are different—into the city, or somewhere? It’s deadly dull here, an’ then mother’s so cross—�