"You don't mean that that little thing went over it," said she, waving her hat towards the Ohio.
"Poh! you needn't think our river looks that way," dropping the umbrella over his shoulder. "Tell you what it is: that river rises out of bed every spring, but it's hung out to dry in the summer, Prudy."
The little girl stopped short and swung her hat off into space. Horace gallantly restored it.
"O, what is that big thing there? a whale, or an ice-bug?"
Horace laughed. "Whales in the river! Goodness sakes, that's a sand-bar, miss. A man waded across here the other day. Tell you what, if he could do it, I could—want to see me?"
Prudy was alarmed, agreeably to expectation.
"Well, now," said the boy, holding the umbrella upright once more, "here we are at the Kinckles'. Come ahead, girls."
Prudy looked, and saw nothing but a crooked fence. Horace waited till Grace and Cassy came up, then let down the bars. Prudy trembled, and caught fast hold of Horace, for Farmer Kinckle's calves were wandering about the field, eating grass, or playfully biting one another. Tall hickory, persimmon, peach, apple, and mulberry trees cast a deep shade. For some time nothing was to be seen of the house; but at last it appeared in view—dark, unpainted, with chimneys built outside.
A cooking-stove stood in the yard, its long, black funnel puffing out smoke; and, strange to tell, under the stove a nest of young ducklings enjoying the heat and the smell of the cooking.
"Understand it to me, please," said little Prudy. "Do the folks know their stove is out here?"