“Well, I certainly don’t intend to stop until they are filled,” answered Peter, stiffly, in more ways than one, and without any more waste of sympathy he turned his back and went doggedly at the vines.  That was my opportunity, and I took it.  I rose, looked with fear at the two men at work in front of me, and fled, basket and all.  I stopped long enough to empty my full basket in one of the barrels that were already in the wagon; and as I climbed laboriously down over the wheels, with my paralyzed legs working slowly, I caught a glimpse of a flash of blue out in the bushes, topped by a glint of red that was too large to be that of any bird inhabitant of The Briers.

“Byrd,” I called, softly.

No answer.

“Byrd, do you want to go to town with me to see Mother Hayes?” I asked in subdued tones.  That brought its response.

There were difficulties; but we surmounted them.  We were afraid to wake Mammy at her afternoon nap for the clean clothes of civilization, so we purloined a fairly clean blue jumper hanging on the porch, while I left a note for Sam pinned on my old doll seed-basket hanging by his door.  It was large enough for him to see, and it read: 

     I’m a good young mule, but I’ve broken down.  Poor Peter!  All that
     is left of
          
                                                     Betty.

     P.S.—­I’ve rescued the Byrd for overnight.  I’ll return him to
     his fate to-morrow.  Poor Peter!  Poor Peter!

I wish I could have seen Sam’s face when he found it!  The next morning mother’s black beauty found my old grass basket full of delicious little peas on the front steps with this note in it: 

     You’ll be docked a quarter of a cent every hour you are off your
     job.  Bring that brat home and both of you get to work. 
          
                                                     Sam.

     P.S.—­Something is sprouting in your garden that I don’t
     understand.

I knew those hollyhocks would rise up some day and bear witness against me.  For the life of me I couldn’t make up my mind what to say about them, so I sent the Byrd home by Tolly, who was going to take Edith out to see how her okra was progressing, and stayed in the safe shelter of my home.  On the Byrd’s rompers I pinned this note: 

Strike, if you will, my young back,
But spare, oh spare, this little brat!

Betty.

There are all kinds of poetry in the world.

That night when I was beginning to get restless and wish I had gone out to my fate, even if it included being throttled with a pea-vine, Tolly and Edith came into town and stopped at my gate in such a condition that I was positively alarmed about them.

“Five baskets of peas!” gasped Tolly, as he fell forward limp over his wheel.

“My thumb! my thumb!” moaned Edith, with the afflicted member in her mouth.