eye,
Looked down at her shoe, and said 'boo-oo.'"

Now I am going to tell you how the soldier boy kept his promise.

Old Squire had loaded a wagon with pumpkins, golden-brown russet apples,
and splendid potatoes to take into town, a few miles off. He promised to
give the children a lift as far as the forks of the road. Roberta coaxed
Aunt Judy to fix her a nice lunch. They wanted to gather wild grapes and
nuts in the woods and have a tea-party besides. Aunt Judy fried her some
spiced apple turnovers, made beaten biscuits, crisp and brown, split them
while they were hot, buttered them, and put thin slices of pink ham
between. Then she got at least one half of an iced white mountain cake,
left from Sunday, and packed that in with the other things. Little did
Roberta suspect who would eat that lunch, and think it the best lunch ever
eaten.

It was good; Aunt Judy knew all about fixing lunches. She was a great
"Camp-meeting" woman.

Roberta took up the basket and flew out to the wood-pile, where Uncle
Squire was cutting wood. He saw her coming, and called out:

"Look out, honey! chips iz mity keerless things, you never know when they
gwiner fly at you, like some fo'ks I knows."

"Old man," called Judy from the kitchen, "that ash-hopper is plum dry.
Don' forgit ter put some water in it fo' you goze."

"Dat ash-hopper allers iz dry. It's like me since Mars Charlie's bin gorn.
Judy," he called out again, with a mighty bravado of voice, "I am got no
time ter be fillin' dat ash-hopper fo' I goze, you knows dat."

"I can wait, Uncle Squire," said the child, always willing to make peace
at any cost to her own convenience.

"'Twon' take no mo' dan er minit to fill it up, honey, I got de water
ready. I jes' wanter show her I wuzen' gwiner be bullied inter it."

The children thought it was prime fun to be jostled along in the wagon
with the pumpkins and potatoes. Inconveniences in youth are diversions
only. One seeks them.

If the children who read this story have never seen our glorious Kentucky
woods in October, they can have but faint idea of its beauty. It is just
like some vast cathedral--aisle upon aisle opening before one, columned
and gorgeous beyond description, in infinite variety of tint, shaded from
blood-red to pink, from orange to tawny yellow, from golden russet-brown
to more delicate wood-colors.

Under foot is a tesselated floor, mosaiced with the same gorgeous colors.
From every quarter is wafted h