“Go on, Mother!” called Mrs. Bunker to Grandma Bell.  “You take Margy to the fence and I’ll throw clumps of dirt at the ram.”

This she did, hitting the ram on the head with soft clods of earth, while Grandma Bell hurried to the fence with Margy.

“There we are!” cried the grandmother, as she set the little girl safely down on the far side, away from the ram.  “Now Bunko can’t get us.”

“Baa-a-a-a!” bleated Bunko.  He shook his big, curved horns at Mrs. Bunker, but he did not try to run at her and strike her with his head.  Perhaps he felt that, as long as the little girl with the red coat had gone out of his meadow, everything was quite all right again.

“Well, that was quite an adventure,” said Mother Bunker, as they were all together again, and on their way to the strawberry hill.  “Did the ram ever chase you before, Mother?”

“Oh, no, but he often comes up to sniff at my dress when I take a short cut through the pasture.  But I’m not afraid of him, and he knows it.  I suppose he wondered what sort of new red flower Margy was.”

“I picked some flowers,” said the little girl, “but I dropped ’em when you carried me, Grandma.”

“Never mind.  We can get more,” returned Mrs. Bell.

On they went to the place where the wild strawberries grew.  They brushed aside the green leaves, and saw the fruit gleaming red underneath.  They filled little baskets with the berries, though I think the children ate more than they put in the baskets.

“The old ram wouldn’t like it here,” said Russ, as he popped a berry into his own mouth.

“Why not?” asked Vi.

“’Cause there’s so much red here.  He wouldn’t like it at all.”

“Oh, I think he wouldn’t mind strawberries,” said Grandma Bell with a laugh.  “However, the next time we won’t go through the ram’s meadow.  We can go back another way.  Now let’s see who will get the most berries.  We’ll take some home to Daddy Bunker!”

The children had lots of fun on the warm, sunny hillside, picking the sweet, red, wild strawberries, but if Daddy Bunker had had to depend on the six little Bunkers to bring him home some of the fruit he would have got very few berries, I’m afraid.  For the children ate more than they picked.  But then, one could hardly blame them, as the strawberries were good.

However, Grandma Bell and Mother Bunker saved some for daddy, so he had a chance to taste them, and he ate them at supper that night as he listened to the story of the ram and Margy’s red coat.

The next day, as Laddie, Russ and Rose were out in front of Grandma Bell’s house, playing under the trees, they saw a farmer going down the road with a box under his arm.

“Do you suppose he’s going after strawberries?” asked Rose.

“If he is we’d better tell him to look out for the old ram,” remarked Laddie.

“I will,” said Russ.  And then he called out loudly: