“No, I’m not afraid of him,” said Grandma Bell.  “I’ve seen him before.  You see he’s like a bull—­or a turkey gobbler—­they don’t any of ’em like the sight of red colors.  Run, children!  Amy, you look after them,” she said to Mrs. Bunker.  “I’ll get Margy.”

Mrs. Bunker knew that Grandma Bell knew a lot about farm animals.  So, calling to Violet, Mun Bun and Rose, and seeing that Russ and Laddie were on the way to the fence, Mrs. Bunker followed the two boys.

“I could throw stones at the ram,” said Russ.

“So could I,” added his brother.  “Let’s go do it!”

“No.  You do as grandma told you, and get on the other side of the fence,” said his mother.  “Grandma Bell can take care of the ram.”

The ram, which had big, curving horns, walked toward Margy, now and then stopping to stamp his foot or give a loud: 

“Baa-a-a-a!”

“What’s he saying?” asked Vi.

“Never mind what he’s saying,” said Mrs. Bunker.  “Run!  Don’t stop to ask questions.”

“I guess the ram’s saying he doesn’t like red coats,” put in Russ.

They were soon at the fence and out of any danger from the ram.  Grandma Bell was now close to Margy, who had stopped picking flowers, and was looking at the animal with his shaggy coat of wool and his big, curved horns.

“Come to me, Margy!” cried her grandmother, and Margy ran, and was soon clasped in Mrs. Bell’s arms.

“Baa-a-a-a!” bleated the old ram, again stamping his foot, as he shook his lowered head.

“Oh, he’s going to bunk right into Grandma Bell!” cried Laddie, on the safe side of the fence.

“I’ll go back and help her drive the ram off,” said Mother Bunker.  “You children stay here.”

“Will the old ram-sheep come and get us?” asked Vi.

“No, he can’t get through the fence,” her mother answered after a look around.  “Don’t be afraid.”

By this time Margy’s grandmother had caught the little girl up in her arms, and was walking away from the ram.

“I must cover your red coat up with my apron, and then the ram can’t see it,” said Grandma Bell.  “It’s the red color he doesn’t like.”

“’Cause why?” asked Margy.

“I don’t know why—­any more than I know why turkey gobblers and bulls don’t like red,” answered her grandmother.  “But we had better get out of this meadow.  I didn’t know the ram was so saucy, or we should have gone around another way.”

“Will he bite us?” Margy went on.

“Oh, no.  He may try to hit us with his head.  But that won’t hurt much, as his horns are curved, and not sharp.  Go on back, Bunko!” called Grandma Bell to the ram, Bunko was his name.  “Go on back!”

But Bunko evidently did not want to go back.  He bleated some more, stamped his feet, and shook his head.  Margy’s red coat was almost all covered now by her grandmother’s big apron that she wore when she want to pick wild strawberries.  But still the ram came on.