“My goodness!  What’s that?” cried Brighteyes, for she was a bit nervous from having had a tooth pulled week before last.

“Don’t be alarmed, my dear,” spoke a soft voice.  “It’s only me,” and if there wasn’t a great, big, motherly-looking hoptoad, out in the dusty road, and the next moment if that toad didn’t begin hopping up and down as fast as she could hop.

“Why, whatever in the world are you doing?” asked Brighteyes Pigg, for she noticed that the toad didn’t seem to get anywhere; only hopping up and down in the same place all the while.

“I’m jumping, my dear,” answered the toad.

“So I see,” remarked the little guinea pig girl, “but where are you jumping to?  You don’t seem to be getting any place in particular.”

“And I don’t want to, my dear,” went on the toad, and she never stopped going up and down as fast as she could go.  “I’m churning butter,” she went on, “and when one churns butter one must jump up and down you know.  That’s the way to make butter.  Don’t your folks churn?” and then, for the first time, Brighteyes noticed that the toad had a little wooden churn, made from an old clothespin, fastened on her back.

“No, my mother doesn’t churn,” answered Brighteyes.

“Then I don’t suppose you keep a cow,” went on Mrs. Toad.  “Neither do we, but next door to us is the loveliest milk-weed you ever saw, and I thought it a shame to see all the milk juice go to waste, so I churn it every week.  It makes very fine butter.”

“I should think it might,” answered Brighteyes.  “But isn’t it hard work?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Mrs. Toad, “and I know you’ll excuse me, my dear, for not stopping my jumping to sit and chat with you, but the truth of the matter is that I think the butter is beginning to come, and I daren’t stop.”

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” begged Brighteyes, politely.  “I can talk while you jump.”

“Very good,” replied the toad, “I think I will soon be finished, though on hot days the butter is longer in coming,” and she began to hop up and down faster than ever.

Then, all at once, oh, about as soon as you can pull off a porous plaster when you’re quick about it, if poor Mrs. Toad didn’t give a cry, and stop jumping.

“What’s the matter?” asked Brighteyes, “has the butter come?”

“No,” was the answer, “but I stepped on a sharp stone, and hurt my foot, and now I can’t jump up and down any more.  Oh, dear! now the butter will be spoiled, for there is no one else at my home to finish churning it.  Oh, dear me, and a pinch of salt on a cracker!  Isn’t that bad luck?” and she sat down beside a burdock plant.

Well, sure enough, she had cut her foot quite badly, and it was utterly out of the question for her to jump up and down any more.

“Will you kindly help me to get the churn off my back?” Mrs. Toad asked of Brighteyes, and the little guinea pig girl helped her.