“No,” said Harry, “we might as well let the dog have it.”

“No, no!” said Eddie, “it would just encourage him to catch another.”

“So it would,” said Gertrude, “let’s make a grand funeral and bury it at the foot of a tree.  If we only knew now which one it used to live on.”

The motion was about to be carried by acclamation, but Vi entered a decided protest.  “No, no, I want to keep it.”

“But you can’t, Vi,” remonstrated Eddie, “dead things have to be buried, you know.”

“Not the skin and feathers, Eddie; they do stuff them sometimes and I’ll ask mamma to let me have this one done.”

“Oh what’s the use?” expostulated Gertrude; “it’s only a common robin.”

“But I love it; the poor dear little thing! and mamma will let me, I know she will,” returned Vi, wiping away her tears as though comforted by the very thought.

The other children wandered off to their play leaving her sitting where she was, on a fallen tree, fondling the bird; but Archie soon came back and seated himself by her side.

“Such a pity; isn’t it?” he said, “I hate that Ranger, don’t you, Vi?”

“No-o I hope not, Archie,” she answered doubtfully:  “folks kill birds to eat them and may be ’tain’t any worse for dogs,” she added, with a fresh burst of tears.  “Poor little birdie; and may be there are some young ones in the nest that have no mamma now to feed or care for them.”

“That old Ranger! and he snapped at you too.  Here he comes again.  I’ll kill him!” cried the boy, with vehemence.  “Oh no, I know what I’ll do!  Here Ranger! here Ranger!” and starting up he rushed away in a direction to take him farther from the schoolhouse and the rest of his party.

He had spied in the distance a farmer’s boy, a lad of fourteen, with whom he had some slight acquaintance.  “Hallo, Jared Bates!” he shouted.

“Well, what’s wantin’?” and Jared stood still, drawing the lash of his carter’s whip slowly between his fingers.  “Hurry up now, for I’ve got to go back to my team.  Whose dog’s that?” as Ranger came running up and saluted him with a sharp, “Bow, wow, wow!”

“Ours,” said Archie, “and I’m mad at him ’cause he killed a bird and tried to bite Vi Travilla, when she went to take it from him.”

“Like enough,” returned Jared, grinning.  “But what about it?”

“I thought may be you’d like to have him.”

“So I would, what’ll you sell him for?”

“Ten cents.”

“I hain’t got but two.”

“Haven’t you, Jared? truly, now?”

“No, nary red, ‘cept them,” and diving into his pantaloons’ pocket, Jared produced a handful of odds and ends—­a broken knife, a plug of tobacco, some rusty nails, a bit of twine, etc.,—­from which he picked out two nickels.  “There, them’s um, and they’s all I got in the world,” he said gravely, passing them over to Archie.

“Well, it’s very cheap,” observed the latter, pocketing the cash, “but you can have him.  Good-bye,” and away he ran back to the spot where he had left Vi.