“Not jest exackly, my little gal,” he said, as he lifted her up in his arms; “but you’ve come purty nigh it. Sandy Ross is what they call me.”
“Has oo dot a thleigh and a waindeer?” persisted the little maiden.
“No; but I’ve got a first-rate wood sled,—pair o’ bobs, with a wood rack on ’t—’n’ ez slick a span o’ Canadian ponies ez ever you see!”
The farmer stroked the dark hair of the little girl with his great, hard hand, and she snuggled down on his shoulder as if he had been her grandfather.
The Burnhams had been joining in the merriment, though they had taken no part in the conversation. But when the little girl climbed down from the arms of Sandy Ross, Will arose and beckoned him to a vacant seat.
“How far from here do you live, Mr. Ross?”
“Right up the bank thar. That’s my house, with a light in the winder.”
It was a comfortable looking white farmhouse, with a sloping roof in the rear and a big chimney in the middle.
“Now, Mr. Ross, I live in Pittsfield, and I want mightily to get there before noon to-morrow. I don’t believe this train will get there before to-morrow night. Could you take my sister and those two little chaps and me, and carry us all home early to-morrow morning on your wood sled, providing it isn’t too cold to undertake the journey?”
“Let’s see. Well, yes; I calc’late I could. I was a-thinkin’ ’bout goin’ over to Pittsfield t’morrer with a little jag o’ wood, ’n’ I reckon live critters like you won’t be no more trouble, ho! ho! The snow ain’t no gret depth; ’t ain’t nigh’s deep on t’ other side o’ the mountain ez ’t is on this side. There’ll be drifts now ’n’ then, but the fences is down, so that we kin turn inter the fields ’n’ go round ’em.”