ice literature was
as much household plenishing as beds, tables, and candlesticks.

It was July, and the days were at their longest according to the
Warrock's Almanac that hung over Cousin Frank's desk in a corner of the
dining room. They were never so short to me before.

Adventure No. 1 befell us one forenoon, as Cousin Molly Belle and I were
topping and tailing gooseberries for tarts, on the side porch. Baby
Carter was on the mat at our feet, bulging his eyes and swelling his
cheeks in futile efforts to extort a squeak from a chinquapin whistle
his father had made for him. The kind that, as you may recollect, kept
the whistle in them over night, and did not shrivel up.

"It's there, old fellow, if you really know how to get it out," Cousin
Frank told his son and heir. "Everything depends upon yourself."

"Like other things that people fret for," moralized the mother.

Nevertheless, she reached down for the whistle, wiped the mouthpiece
dry, and sent the baby into ecstasies by executing "Yankee Doodle"
flourishingly upon it. A chinquapin fife lends itself more readily to
the patriotic, step-and-go-fetch-it melody than to any other in the
national _repertoire_. Carter crowed, opened his mouth wide, and beat
his fat pink palms together.

"Just as they applaud the clown at the circus!" said the performer. "He
already recognizes his mother's talents."

"If he ever fails to do that, I'll flog him out of his boots!" retorted
the father.

A wild commotion at "the quarters" cut his speech short. Women shrieked,
children bellowed, men roared, and two words disentangled themselves
from the turmoil.

"_Mad_ dog! _mad_ dog!" pronounced, as the warning cry is spoken
everywhere at the South, with a heavy accent on the first word.

Cousin Frank whipped up the baby; Cousin Molly thrust her hand under the
collar of Hector, a fine pointer who lay on the floor, and, urging me
before them, they hustled us all into the house in the half twinkle of
an eye. In another, Cousin Frank was driving a load of buckshot into his
gun faster than it was ever loaded before, even by him, and he was a
hunting expert.

"Dear!" his wife caught the hand laid on the door-knob; her eyes were
wild and imploring.

"Yes, my darling!"

He was out and the door was shut.

We flew to the window. Right up the path leading by the quarters from
the spring at the foot of the hill, trotted an enormous bull dog. Half a
dozen men were pelting him with st