“Aunt Lucy,” said Mary Ellen, “do you suppose we could ever raise a garden?”

“Whut’s dat, chile—­raise er gyarden?  Kain’t raise no gyarden out yer, noways.”

“I was just thinking may be we could have a garden, just a little one, next year.”

“Hit don’ never rain ernuf, chile, in this yer country.”

“I know, but couldn’t we use the water from the well?  The windmill is always pumping it up, and it only runs to waste.  I was thinking, if we had a few peas, or beans, or things like that, you know—­”

“Uh-huh!”

“And do you suppose a rose bush would grow—­a real rose bush, over by the side of the house?”

“Law, no, chile, whut you talkin’ ‘bout?  Nothin’ hain’t goin’ to grow yer, ‘less’n hit’s a little broom cohn, er some o’ that alfalafew, er that soht er things.  Few beans might, ef we wortered ’em.  My lan!” with a sudden interest, as she grasped the thought, “whut could I git fer right fraish beans, real string beans, I does wondeh!  Sakes, ef I c’d hev string beans an’ apple pies, I shoh’ly c’d make er foh’tune, right quick.  Why, they tellin’ me, some folks over ontoe that ther Smoky River, las’ fall, they gethered ‘bout hate er peck o’ sour green crabapples, an’ they trade hate o’ them ornery things off fer a beef critter—­’deed they did.  String beans—­why, law, chile!”

“We’ll have to think about this garden question some day,” said Mary Ellen.  She leaned against the corral post, looking out over the wide expanse of the prairie round about.  “Are those our antelope out there, Lucy?” she asked, pointing out with care the few tiny objects, thin and knifelike, crowned with short black forking tips, which showed up against the sky line on a distant ridge.  “I think they must be.  I haven’t noticed them for quite a while.”

“Yass’m,” said Aunt Lucy, after a judicial look.  “Them blame l’il goats.  Thass um.  I wish’t they all wuzn’t so mighty peart an’ knowin’ all ther time, so’st Majah Buford he c’d git one o’ them now an’ then fer to eat.  Antelope tennerline is shoh’ly mighty fine, briled.  Now, ef we jess had a few sweet ’taters.  But, law! whut am I sayin’?”

“Yes,” said Mary Ellen practically.  “We haven’t the antelope yet.”

“I ‘member mighty well how Cap’n Franklin sent us down er quarter o’ an’lope,” said Aunt Lucy.  “Mighty fine meat, hit wuz.  An’ to think, me a brilin’ a piece o’ hit fer a low-down white trash cow-driver whut come yer to eat!  Him a-sayin’ he’d ruther hev chicken, cause he wuz raised on an’lope!  Whut kin’ o’ talk wuz thet?  He talk like an’lope mighty common.  Takes Cap’n Franklin toe git ole Mr. An’lope, though.

“Er—­Miss Ma’y Ellen,” began Aunt Lucy presently, and apparently with a certain reservation.

“Yes?”

Aunt Lucy came over and sat down upon a sod heap, resting her chin upon her hand and looking fixedly at the girl, who still stood leaning against the post.