“Number two is all right,” said Rob, with an approving nod.  “Next!” The Little Colonel held out the third envelope.

“One flew east and one flew west, so I s’pose this will fly into the cuckoo’s nest,” said Rob, as he read the address: 

Miss Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis,
Jaynes’s Post-office,
Kentucky.

“Why, that’s just what mothah calls the place,” cried the Little Colonel, “the cuckoo’s nest!  She says that the cuckoo is the most careless bird in the world about the way it builds its nest.  They weave a few twigs and sticks togethah just in any kind of way, and nevah mind a bit if their poah little young ones fall out of the nest.  They seem to think that any kind of home is good enough, and that is the kind of a home that Elizabeth Lewis has.  She is a poah little orphan, and is livin’ on a farm up Green Rivah.  Mother is her godmothah.  That’s why she is named Elizabeth Lloyd.  Mrs. Lewis was an old school friend of mothah’s, too, and she wants Joyce and Elizabeth and me to be as deah friends as she and Emily Ware and Joyce Lewis were, she says.  That’s why she invited them.”

“And you don’t know anything about this one?” questioned Rob.

“Not a thing.  I shouldn’t be su’prised if she’s mighty countrified, for the farm is several miles from a railroad, and the people she lives with don’t think of anything but work, yeah in and yeah out.”

They had reached the post-office by this time, and Rob held out his hand for the letters.  “I’ll put them in for you,” he said.  Then, dropping them into the box, one by one, he repeated the rhyme: 

     “One flew east and one flew west. 
      And one flew into the cuckoo’s nest.”

Lloyd added, quickly: 

     “Eugenia, Joyce, or Elizabeth,
      Which of the three shall we like best?”

“Joyce,” said Rob, promptly.

“I think so, too,” agreed the Little Colonel, stooping to fasten the locust blossoms more securely behind the pony’s ears.

“Well, the invitations are off now.  Come on, Tarbaby, and see if you can’t beat Bobby Moore’s old gray hawse so bad it will be ashamed to evah race again.”

With that the little black pony was off like an arrow toward Locust, with the big gray horse thundering hard at its heels.

The dust flew, dogs barked, and chickens ran squawking across the road out of the way.  Heads were thrust out of the windows as the two vanished up the dusty pike, and an old graybeard loafing in front of the corner grocery gave an amused chuckle.  “Beats all how them two do get over the ground,” he said.  “They ride like Tarn O’Shanter, and I’ll bet a quarter there’s nothing on earth that either of ’em are afraid of.”

A little while later the three white envelopes were jogging sociably along, side by side in a mail-bag, on their way to Louisville.  But their course did not lie together long.  In the city post-office they were separated, and sent on their different ways, like three white carrier-pigeons, to bid the guests make ready for the Little Colonel’s house party.