“What is this horse’s name?” asked Stella, taking the reins to learn to drive.
“He has none, I guess. Mike calls him ’Giddup.’”
“No, it’s Dobbin. He looks just like a Dobbin. He has a kind of conventional, discouraged tail, like a Dobbin. Giddup, Dobbin!”
The horse started to trot. “There, you see, it is his name!” she laughed.
On Bentford Main Street we passed several motors and a trap drawn by a prancing span, and all the occupants stared at us, or rather at Stella, who was beaming from her humble seat on the farm wagon more like an eighteenth century shepherdess than a New England farmer’s wife. We added over $3 more in the account book with the market, and read with delight the grand total of $40.80 already in two weeks.
“Next year,” said I, “I’ll double it!”
Then I spent the $3, and some more, for Portland cement.
We got into our oldest clothes when we reached home, I put on rubber boots, and we tackled the pool. Even with the brook as low as it was, the engineering feat was not easy for our unskilful hands. Peter soon joined us, and lent at least unlimited enthusiasm.
“Peter,” said I, “you never worked this hard splitting kindlings.”
Peter grinned. “Ho, I like to make dams,” he said.