ittle sewing-bird that belonged
to Granny Metz still and screwed the bird on the table and you sewed
that nice! And now you don't want to do no more patches--how will you
ever get your big chest full of nice quilts if you don't patch?"

But the child was too thoroughly possessed with the desire to be
outdoors to be won by any pleading or praise. She pulled savagely at
the two long braids which hung over her shoulders and cried, "I don't
want no quilts! I don't want no chests! I don't like red and green
quilts, anyhow--never, never! I wish my pop would come in; he wouldn't
make me sew patches, he"--she began to sob--"I wish, I just wish I had a
mom! She wouldn't make me sew calico when--when I want to play."

Something in the utter unhappiness of the little girl, together with the
words of yearning for the dead mother, filled the woman with a strange
tenderness. Though she never allowed sentiment to sway her from doing
what she considered her duty she did yield to its influence and spoke
gently to the agitated child.

"I wish, too, your mom was here yet, Phoebe. But I guess if she was
she'd want you to learn to sew. Ach, it's just that you like to be out,
out all the time that makes you so contrary, I guess. You're like your
pop, if you can just be out! Mebbe when you're old as I once and had
your back near broke often as I had with hoein' and weedin' and plantin'
in the garden you'll be glad when you can set in the house and sew. Ach,
now, stop your cryin' and go finish your patchin' and when you're done
I'll leave you go in to Greenwald for me to the store and to Granny
Hogendobler."

"Oh"--the child lifted her tear-stained face--"and dare I really go to
Greenwald when I'm done?"

"Yes. I need some sugar yet and you dare order it. And you can get me
some thread and then stop at Granny Hogendobler's and ask her to come
out to-morrow and help with the strawberry jelly. I got so much to make
and it comes good to Granny if she gets away for a little change."

"Then I'll patch quick!" Phoebe said. The world was a good place again
for the child as she went back to the sitting-room and resumed her
sewing.

She was so eager to finish the unpleasant task that she forgot one of
Aunt Maria's rules, as inexorable as the law of the Medes and
Persians--the door between the kitchen and the sitting-room _must_ be
closed.

"Here, Phoebe," the woman called sharply, "make that door shut! Abody'd
think you was born in a sawmill!