The child was a close observer of nature, and knew how indispensable to germinate seed was a mellow, rightly prepared soil, and what service sunshine and timely rainfalls were to growing crops. So she intuitively drew an analogy in her childish way between the soil the plow-man turns over and the human heart.
Now, if there was one thing that Polly delighted in more than another it was the game of "Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow."
So the children joined hands and moved around and around in a circle, singing:
"Chick-a-mie, chick-a-mie, craney-crow,
Went to the well to wash my toe,
When I got back my chickens was gone.
What o'clock is it, old Buzzard?"
Then they would fly around looking for the chickens. At least all of them but Polly would. Polly always took the part of old Buzzard, so she could flop down in Dilsy's seat, although she knew she would have to get right up.
Somehow, that evening Roberta's strategy did not seem to have accomplished its object, judging from Polly's expression. Still she hoped for the best. Polly was the biggest, so she always begun with her.
"Who made you, Polly?"
No answer immediately; then,
"Dunno fur sarten, spec' 't wuz Gord."
A lump gathered in the child's throat. Her bump of reverence was so largely developed it distressed her to see a want of it in others; she said "it hurt her feelings."