“Wot we all gwine do now?” drawled Bud, with a turtle-like stretch of his little round head as he peered through the steps.

[Illustration:  ‘Wot we all gwine do now?’]

John Jay scanned the horizon on all sides, and thoughtfully rubbed his ear.  His quick eyes saw unlimited possibilities for enjoyment, where older sight would have found but a dreary outlook; but older sight is always on a strain for the birds in the bush.  It is never satisfied with the one in the hand.  Older sight would have seen only a poor shanty set in a patch of weeds and briers, and a narrow path straggling down to the dust of the public road.  But the outlook was satisfactory to John Jay.  So was it to the neighbor’s goat, standing motionless in the warm sunshine, with its eyes cast in the direction of a newly-made garden.  So was it to the brood of little yellow goslings, waddling after their mother.  They were out of their shells, and the world was wide.

Added to this same feeling of general contentment with his lot, John Jay had the peace that came from the certainty that, no matter what he might do, punishment could not possibly overtake him before nightfall.  His grandmother was always late coming home on Tuesday.

“Wot we all gwine do now?” repeated Bud.

John Jay caught at the low branch of the apple-tree to which the clothes-line was tied, and drew himself slowly up.  He did not reply until he had turned himself over the limb several times, and hung head downward by the knees.

“Go snake huntin’, I reckon.”

“But Mammy said not to take Ivy in the briah-patch again,” said Bud solemnly.

“That’s so,” exclaimed John Jay, “an’ shingle say so too,” he added, with a grin, for his legs still smarted.  Loosening the grip of his knees on the apple-bough, he turned a summersault backward and landed on his feet as lightly as a cat.

“Ivy’ll go to sleep aftah dinnah,” suggested Bud.  “She always do.”  It seemed a long time to wait until then, but with the remembrance of his last punishment still warm in mind and body, John Jay knew better than to take his little sister to the forbidden briar-patch.

“Well, we can dig a lot of fishin’ worms,” he decided, “an’ put ’em in those tomato cans undah the ash-hoppah.  Then we’ll make us a mud oven an’ roast us some duck aigs.  Nobody but me knows where the nest is.”

Bud’s eyes shone.  The prospect was an inviting one.

Most of the morning passed quickly, but the last half-hour was spent in impatiently waiting for their dinner.  They knew it was spread out under a newspaper on the rickety old table, but they had strict orders not to touch it until Aunt Susan sounded her signal for Uncle Billy.  So they sat watching the house across the road.

“Now it’s time!” cried Bud excitedly.  “I see Aunt Susan goin’ around the end of the house with her spoon.”

An old cross-cut saw hung by one handle from a peg in the stick chimney.  As she beat upon it now with a long, rusty iron spoon, the din that filled the surrounding air was worse than any made by the noisiest gong ever beaten before a railroad restaurant.  Uncle Billy, hoeing in a distant field, gave an answering whoop, and waved his old hat.