I mention this only to show that the hen and I had come to terms of intimacy and mutual understanding.  So when I saw Wills’ dog catch and kill her in the field one day, where she was hunting for grasshoppers, I naturally entertained a feeling of resentment.  I heard the cries of the hen and ran through the orchard and witnessed the end of the tragedy and more.  Away down in the meadow I saw the dog and farther away “the Wills boy,” as we then called him, running toward his home.  The dog had run away as I approached and when I picked up the lifeless body of my little friend the hills seemed to lift up their heads and fall upon me.  Of course that Wills boy had set the dog on her.  I shall write no more of that hour of trial.  Such little things make history, and it is necessary that the reader should understand me.

One June day of the next summer Uncle Peabody and I, from down in the fields, saw a fine carriage drive in at our gate.  He stopped and looked intently.

“Jerusalem four-corners!” he exclaimed.  “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Horace Dunkelberg.”

My heart beat fast at thought of the legendary Dunkelbergs.  Uncle looked me over from top to toe.  “Heavens!” he exclaimed.  “Go down to the brook and wash the mud off yer feet an’ legs.”

I ran for the brook and before I had returned to my uncle I heard the horn blow.

“The Dunkelbergs!—­the Dunkelbergs!  Come quick!” it seemed to say.

Uncle had tied a red handkerchief around his neck and was readjusting his galluses when I returned.  In silence we hurried to the house.  As we drew near I heard the voice of Mrs. Horace Dunkelberg and that of another woman quite as strange to my ear—­a high-pitched voice of melting amiability.  It was the company voice of my Aunt Deel.  I had observed just a faint suggestion of it when the neighbors came, or when meeting was over, but I had never before heard the full-fledged angelicity of her company voice.  It astonished me and I began to regard her as a very promising old lady.  Uncle Peabody, himself, had undergone a change in the presence of the Dunkelbergs.  He held his neck straighter and smiled more and spoke with greater deliberation.

Mr. Dunkelberg was a big, broad-shouldered, solemn-looking man.  Somehow his face reminded me of a lion’s which I had seen in one of my picture-books.  He had a thick, long, outstanding mustache and side whiskers, and deep-set eyes and heavy eyebrows.  He stood for half a moment looking down at me from a great height with his right hand in his pocket.  I heard a little jingle of coins down where his hand was.  It excited my curiosity.  He took a step toward me and I retreated.  I feared, a little, this big, lion-like man.  My fears left me suddenly when he spoke in a small squeaky voice that reminded me of the chirping of a bird.

“Little boy, come here and I will make you a present,” said he.

It reminded me of my disappointment when uncle tried to shoot his gun at a squirrel and only the cap cracked.