off to
their play, well satisfied, for they could think of nothing nicer
than a roll of fresh butter, as yellow as gold and as sweet as clover,
for Grandmother's birthday present.

By and by the cows came home. Their names were Daisy and Dandelion and
Dolly, and as soon as the children heard the tinkle of their bells in
the lane they made haste to open the big back gate, for it was milking
time.

Father milked, and when he carried his buckets of sweet white milk to
the house, Mother strained the milk into the bright tin pans that
stood in a row on the dairy room shelves. The next afternoon every pan
was covered with thick yellow cream, all ready for the churning.
Mother skimmed the cream into the great stone churn.

"Who will churn first?" she asked.

"I will," said Cousin Pen. "I like to make the dasher go dancing up
and down."

So Cousin Pen put on one of Mother's gingham aprons and began to
churn. "It is easy to churn," she said at first, but after a little
her arms grew tired and the dasher grew heavy. She did not think of
giving up, though, for she was churning to get her Grandmother's
birthday butter, and the dasher seemed to say to her as it splashed up
and down:

Oh, the cream to butter's turning,
In the churning, churning, churning.
It will turn, turn, turn,
As you churn, churn, churn,
All the cream to butter turning,
In the churning, churning, churning.

"Brother Fred's turn," called Mother, and Brother Fred came running up
the kitchen steps to take the dasher from Cousin Pen.

"I think it is fun to churn. I don't believe I will ever get tired,"
he said.

He did get tired, but he would not stop even to rest, for he was
churning to get his Grandmother's birthday butter, and the dasher
seemed to say to him:

Hear the buttermilk a-bumming,
For the yellow butter's coming.
It will come, come, come,
With a bum, bum, bum,
All the buttermilk a-bumming,
When the yellow butter's coming.

"Little Ben's turn," called Mother. Little Ben had to stand on a box
to churn, and his cheeks were as red as roses as he worked away.

"Don't you want us to help you?" asked the other children.

"No, indeed," said little Ben; "I guess I can churn to get my
Grandmother some birthday butter," and he churned with a will, till
the dasher seemed to say to him:

Bum, bum,
Butter's come.

Mother looked in the churn and, sure enough, the flakes o