"Dere was ninety an' nine dat safely lay
In de shelter ob de fol',
But one had wandered fur away,
Fur from de streets ob gol'."
At sight of the boy's flushed face, and in the presence of his eager request, hymn and churning ceased together.
"What you gwine do wid mo' bread, honey?" she asked.
"I'm going to kill some birds," declared the boy with a burst of optimism, forgetting for the moment that Pete might have decreed otherwise.
The old woman rose chuckling from her churn and waddled across the floor to the cupboard, no bigger and broader than she.
"Whar you baitin' 'em, honey?" she asked next.