. . .We chose two shingles and began to whittle. But there was no salt in it. Our minds wandered, and after a few moments Ed dropped his shingle, closed his knife, and put it in his pocket.

"I'm goin' into the barn an' look for mice," he announced.

About the chutes which let grain into[35] the stalls, mice were known to linger. Once I had caught one in my hands, a feat which I instantly regretted, for the mouse bit my finger and made his escape in short order. Since that time the pursuit of the common drab mouse had been considered a pastime not without the charm of danger and the risk of bloodshed. But now the mention of mice only brought my thoughts back—as if they needed bringing!—to the subject that possessed us both.

"Do you think you drove that old cat away?" I asked abruptly.

Ed understood immediately; I did not need to specify the cat.

"I dunno," he said; "she may be foolin' round now. P'r'aps we ought. . . Read More