"though I'd never have said so while you was in camp."
I patted the dog and looked into the garden. Everything was growing splendidly. Euphemia rushed to the chicken-yard. It was in first-rate order, and there were two broods of little yellow puffy chicks.
Down on her knees went my wife to pick up the little creatures, one by one, press their downy bodies to her cheek, and call them tootsy-wootsies, and away went I to the barn, followed by Pomona, and soon afterwards by Euphemia.
The cow was all right.
"I've been making butter," said Pomona, "though it don't look exactly like it ought to yet, and the skim milk I didn't know what to do with, so I gave it to old John. He came for it every day, and was real mad once because I had given a lot of it to the dog, and couldn't let him have but a pint."
"He ought to have been mad," said I to Euphemia, as we walked up to the house. "He got ten cents a quart for that milk."
We laughed, and didn't care. We were too glad to be at home.
"But where are our friends?" I asked Pomona. We had actually forgotten them.
"Oh, they're gone out for a walk," said she. "They started off right after breakfast."
We were not sorry for this. It would be so much nicer to see our dear home again when there was nobody there but ourselves. Indoors we rushed. Our absence had been like rain on a garden. Everything now seemed fresher and brighter and more delightful. We went from room to room, and seemed to appreciate better than ever what a charming home we had.
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