Susie and Pen had watched them for a while, but both boys had been very obstinate in not making any of the good moves Pen pointed out to them.
There were chores to do both before and after tea; and Porter went out with Corry, determined on undertaking his share of them.
"Did you ever milk cows, Port?"
"Well, no, I never did; but I guess I could if I tried."
"Well, I guess you'd best not try to-night, but you can learn before you go home. Some of our cows are skittish in cold weather."
Port was quite contented, after getting into the cowyard, to let the milking be done by some one who knew how; and he had the satisfaction of seeing Corry kicked over into the snow—pail, milk, and all—by a brindled heifer who had no need of any kind of weather to bring out her natural skittishness.
There were pigs and cattle and horses to feed, and supper to be eaten; and when, at last, the boys had finished their duties, the rest of the family was already gathered in the sitting-room.
Mrs. Farnham and aunt Judith had their knitting; and the deacon had a newspaper in his lap, with his spectacles lying in the middle of it. It seemed, however, the most natural thing in the world, that they should all be sitting in a great semicircle in front of the fireplace. The night promised to be a cold one, and the fire had been built for it in the most liberal manner.
"Corry," said Porter, "what are all those flat-irons and hammers for?"
"Why, to crack nuts. I'm going down cellar to bring 'em up,—butternuts and hickory-nuts. There was a big crop of 'em last fall."