helter ob de fol',
But one had wandered fur away,
Fur from de streets ob gol'."

At sight of the boy's flushed face, and in the presence of his eager
request, hymn and churning ceased together.

"What you gwine do wid mo' bread, honey?" she asked.

"I'm going to kill some birds," declared the boy with a burst of
optimism, forgetting for the moment that Pete might have decreed
otherwise.

The old woman rose chuckling from her churn and waddled across the floor
to the cupboard, no bigger and broader than she.

"Whar you baitin' 'em, honey?" she asked next.

"Behind the barn!"

She sat down, bread in hand, pulled him to her, and patted his back.
That was the price he had always to pay for bread or butter or jam.
Finally, she gave him the bread and let him go. Down the back steps he
came, running eagerly and calling Frank. Once more in the kitchen began
the flop of the churn, once more rose the wail of the song.

"Away on de mountings he heered its cry,
Sick an' helpless an' ready to die----"

Twice more did Tommy drive the intolerable rooster away. The first time
he chased him deep into the corn, almost to the pasture. The second time
he tried to corral him and the hens and drive the whole bunch into the
chicken yard, running here and there with eager face and outstretched
hands.

He almost succeeded, for Frank helped him at this like a collie dog
herding sheep. Right to the gate of the chicken yard Pete went, followed
by the excited hens. Then he seemed to suspect some sort of trap or
hidden mine in there, and, with loud ejaculations, broke away and ran
streaming toward the corn, followed by the hens.

Grim of face, the boy took his stand once more at the knothole. Boastful
as ever, after an interval, came Pete. Not only to-day, but to-morrow
and the next day and through all the days to come, he would have to
give up shooting sparrows because Pete liked bread crumbs.

"Shoo!" he said for the last time, rather quietly now.

"Caw, caw!" retorted Pete, throwing up his head.

The shiny sight of the air rifle glistened against the beady, vicious,
triumphant eye, cocked a little sideways. "Ping!" spoke the air rifle.
In a stall a frisky young mule wheeled around and kicked the bars
continuously like a rapid-fire gun. Old Frank, who had lain soberly
down, sprang to his feet with pricked ears and eager eyes. From without
came a hoarse, faint squawk and heavy flopping of wings. Out o