“You teach Bubble Chirk!” he said.  “Why, what would your fine friends say to that, Miss Huldy?  Bubble ain’t nothin’ but a common farm-boy, if he is bright; an’ I ain’t denyin’ that he is.”

“I don’t know what they would say,” said Hildegarde, blushing hotly, “and I don’t care, either!  I know what mamma would do in my place; and so do you, Farmer Hartley!” she added, with a little touch of indignation.

“Waal, I reckon I do!” said Farmer Hartley.  “And I know who looks like her mother, this minute, though I never thought she would.  Yes!” he said, more seriously, “you shall teach Bubble Chirk, my gal; and it’s my belief ‘twill bring you a blessin’ as well as him.  Ye are yer mother’s darter, after all.  Shall I give ye a swing now, before I go; or are ye too big to swing!”

“I—­don’t—­know!” said Hildegarde, eying the swing wistfully.  “Am I too big, I wonder?”

“Yer ma warn’t, when she was here three weeks ago!” said the farmer.  “She just sot heer and took a good solid swing, for the sake of old times, she said.”

“Then I will take one for the sake of new times!” cried Hilda, running to the swing and seating herself on its broad, roomy seat.  “For the sake of this new time, which I know is going to be a happy one, give me three good pushes, please, Farmer Hartley, and then I can take care of myself.”

One! two! three! up goes Queen Hildegarde, up and up, among the dusty, cobwebby sunbeams, which settle like a crown upon her fair head.  Down with a rush, through the sweet, hay-scented air; then up again, startling the swallows from under the eaves, and making the staid and conservative old hens frantic with anxiety.  Up and down, in broad, free sweeps, growing slower now, as the farmer left her and went to his work.  How perfect it was!  Did the world hold anything else so delightful as swinging in a barn?  She began to sing, for pure joy, a little song that her mother had made for her when she was a little child, and used to swing in the garden at home.  And Farmer Hartley, with his hand on the brown heifer’s back, paused with a smile and a sigh as he heard the girl’s sweet fresh voice ring out gladly from the old barn.  This was the song she sang:—­

     If I were a fairy king
       (Swinging high, swinging low),
     I would give to you a ring
       (Swinging, oh!)
     With a diamond set so bright
     That the shining of its light
     Should make morning of the night
       (Swinging high, swinging low)—­
     Should make morning of the night
       (Swinging, oh!).

     On each ringlet as it fell
       (Swinging high, swinging low)
     I would tie a golden bell
       (Swinging, oh!);
     And the golden bells would chime
     In a little merry rhyme,
     In the merry morning time
       (Swinging high, swinging low)—­
     In the happy morning time
       (Swinging, oh!).