CHAPTER II.
WALKING IN SLEEP.
About seven o'clock, one cold evening, Willy was in the bar-room, sitting on Caleb's knee, and holding a private conversation with him, while he nibbled a cookie.
"Don't you think it's the beautifulest bossy ever you saw?"
"Well, middlin' handsome," replied Caleb, mischievously; "middlin' handsome."
"O, Caleb, when it's got a white place in its forehead shaped so!" said Willy, biting his cookie into something like the form of a star.
"Well, yes; you see he'd be quite a decent-looking calf, if it wasn't for that white streak, now," said Caleb, in a tone of regret.
"If it wasn't for that white streak! Why, Caleb Cushing!—when 'twas put there to purpose to be kissed! Love said so."
"Well, everybody to their fancy," returned Caleb, dryly. "I never had any notion for kissing cattle, myself."