"She isn't a cattle, Cale Cushing. She's my bossy."
"Yours, do you say? Then you'd better take care of him, Willy. He walked up to the kitchen door to-day, to see if he could find anything there to lay his hands on."
"Hands? He hasn't any hands, Caleb! But you ought to take care of her, any way, till I grow a man; father spects you to. And then, when she gets to be a ox—"
"Well, what are you going to do when she gets to be a ox?"
Willy looked puzzled. He had never thought of that before.
"Have him killed—shan't you, sonny? He'll make very nice eating."
Willy stood upright on Caleb's knee, in horror and amaze.
"My bossy killed? I'll send anybody to jail that kills that bossy."
"Then perhaps you'd better trade him off now to Squire Lyman. Didn't the squire offer to swap his baby for him?"
"Yes; and so I would if that baby was a boy," said Willy, thoughtfully; "but she's only a girl—couldn't help me bring in chips, you know. Guess I don't want a girl-baby."