Off on de fiel' you foller de plough, Den¹ w'en you're tire' you scare de cow,
Sickin' de dog till dey jomp de wall,
So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all—
An you're only five an' a half dis fall,
Little Bateese!
—WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.
 
In Elmbrook, parental³ discipline was simple and direct, and consisted of but one method of procedure: when the rising generation departed from the ways of its mothers it was promptly⁵ spanked⁶ back into the path of rectitude, and no more about it.
 
But when the Sawyers found themselves possessed⁷ of a large and lively family, all methods of discipline, whether sanctioned by long custom or invented on the spur of the moment, through the extreme urgency of the case, alike failed.
 
The orphans⁹ presented an entirely¹⁰ unique problem in the rearing of children. In the first place, the community was completely taken aback by their unexpected character. Not one of them at all conformed to the picture of a forsaken¹¹ child, as conceived by the village. The Elmbrook ideal was the sort that languished¹² on the front page of the Sunday-school library books. It was quiet and pensive¹³ and hungry, and gave all its meager¹⁴ earnings¹⁵ to a small invalid¹⁶ brother or drunken father. But the Sawyer orphans were neither pensive nor appealing. There was a defiant¹⁷ belligerency about them that stifled¹⁸ the avenues of pity and put one on the defensive¹⁹. They were wild and gay, and uproarious, too, and with the exception of Tim, the eldest²⁰, they were strong and robust²¹. He certainly looked as though he had been starved, body and soul; but his other unorphan-like qualities were so obtrusive²² that he was looked upon as the biggest counterfeit²³ of the crowd.
 
During school hours the three eldest were kept in some sort of conformity²⁴ to law and order by the strong hand of the Duke of Wellington; but at home and abroad they were a law unto themselves, and kept the whole community in a state of apprehension²⁵, like people living near the crater²⁶ of an active volcano.
 
Their life had been largely spent in the slum district of a crowded city, and the change to the freedom of the Oro fields and woods was almost too much for the orphans. After school hours they all, with one consent, went mad, and ranged far and wide over hill and dale, until Granny Long's old hands grew weary readjusting the telescope. Then when she did catch sight of them it was only to be grossly insulted; for whenever the small scalawags guessed they were within range of the spyglass they would stand in line, and go through frightful²⁷ contortions²⁸ of the face and body, expressive²⁹ of contempt for the instrument and everything behind it.
 
Wherever the orphans went, depredations³⁰ of all sorts followed. They chased the neighbors' cows from the fields out to the road, and the pigs from the road into the fields. They climbed trees and stole birds' nests. They dammed the creek³¹ and flooded Cameron's pasture. They teased Sandy McQuarry's old ram³² until it was mad with rage, and butted³³ the ex-elder all over the barnyard. They smashed windows, and broke down fences, and, in fact, were a caution, and no mistake.
 
But in spite of all, their foster-parents lived in happy unconsciousness of their imperfections. For they were so wonderfully clever that Jake and Hannah were lost in admiration³⁴.
 
Certainly they worked a reform in the slow-moving Sawyer household. They started with the garden, and even Mrs. Winters had to admit they made an improvement there. Jake and Hannah had long felt the humiliation³⁵ of their scratched and scarred front yard, in such ugly contrast to its trim surroundings, but they had never been able to better matters. Hannah had received a present, some years before, of twelve new fowls³⁷, which, as was their pious³⁸ custom, she and Jake presented with Bible names, calling them for the twelve sons of Israel. And now each, like its namesake, had many descendants that had multiplied upon the face of the garden, and turned that promising³⁹ land into a desert. Every year Jake faithfully dug flower-beds, and Hannah as faithfully planted seeds; but, just as regularly, they were scratched up by the Twelve Tribes.
 
But when the orphans arrived the marauders were taught their true place. Though it was late in the season, the twins planted a half bushel of flower seeds, and dug and raked enough for a plantation⁴⁰. Then, the first time the Twelve Tribes emigrated from the back yard they were promptly shooed across the street and over into the doctor's garden. Davy Munn, indignant at this unsolicited presentation, as promptly shooed them back again, and war was declared. Tim had hitherto looked upon the gardening enterprise with contempt, but now he entered heartily⁴¹ into it, and the battle raged tumultuously. Each side was bombarded with sticks and stones and clods of dirt and hysterical⁴² hens, until Granny Long sent word to the doctor that if he didn't want to be buried alive he'd better do something to the orphans, and that right speedily. So the young man marched into the field, routed both sides, and chased the Twelve Tribes back to their own country. For a long time the eldest orphan⁸ felt the terrifying strength of the arm that had lifted him from the ground and shaken him till his teeth chattered⁴³. Thereafter he had such a profound admiration for the doctor that his viceroy, Davy Munn, was allowed to rule his own yard in peace.
 
But the hens had still to be conquered, so the orphans set to work and built around the back yard a lofty fence of wire and laths, borrowed from the sawmill when Sandy McQuarry was away. Inside this the Twelve Tribes were shut up in Egyptian bondage⁴⁴ until the garden was in bloom. Even Isaac and Rebekah were permitted to promenade⁴⁵ in the barnyard only, among the dogs, cats and rabbits with which that interesting place swarmed⁴⁷.
 
Within the house, too, the children accomplished⁴⁸ a revolution. The girls did nearly all the work, Hannah declared, and did it so swiftly they left her in a state of dazed admiration. Of course, they were liable to drop an unfinished task and take a sudden excursion to field or wood, but, on the whole, even Mrs. Winters was forced to confess that they were a caution, and no mistake, and might be smart housekeepers⁴⁹ some day, if Hannah would only make them behave.
 
Sometimes a doubt of their absolute perfection would darken, for a moment, their foster-mother's placid⁵⁰ sky, but even then her blame was tempered with praise.
 
"Well! well! well!" she remarked one evening, "yous youngsters is awful smart, that's a fact; but I'm 'most scared you're too smart."
 
This confession⁵¹ was wrung⁵² from her by the black-haired twin's dexterity⁵³ in catching⁵⁴ a plate that the fair-haired one had let fall, and at the same instant administering a sharp slap to the delinquent's ear.
 
Hannah was preparing the evening meal, with spasmodic assistance from the family. She stood over the stove, frying pancakes, while the orphans darted⁵⁵ about her like swallows. Tim, always the swiftest, in spite of his lameness⁵⁷, was rushing about in his usual capacity of superintendent⁵⁸, cramming⁵⁹ more wood into the already red-hot stove, tasting the pancakes to see if they were just right, and rapping Joey over the head with the dripping batter-spoon when he attempted to follow his example. At brief intervals⁶⁰ he would dart⁵⁶ into the dining-room to settle a dispute between the belligerent⁶¹ twins.
 
The latter were setting the table with the best china teaset, a precious relic⁶² handed down from Jake's grandmother, and used only when there was distinguished⁶³ company. No visitors were expected to-night, but the twins loved variety, and had arrayed the table in its best as a pleasant surprise for daddy. Joey was busiest of all. He had wailed⁶⁴ loudly for a task, and Hannah had given him permission to fill the woodbox and the water-bucket. He was diligently⁶⁵ carrying out her instructions, with one slight variation that showed him to be a true orphan. He filled the bucket with sticks, and then went paddling to and from the water-barrel, leaving a wet and muddy trail behind him, and gleefully deposited dipperfuls of water into the woodbox. He was finally discovered by his brother, promptly cuffed⁶⁶, and set to reverse the order of his going.
 
The arrival of Jake from the mill was the signal for a shrieking⁶⁷ exodus⁶⁸ in his direction, and soon afterward⁶⁹ they were all seated around the table. The twins were placed opposite each other, to prevent hair-pulling—making faces did not cause much disturbance—and Jake and Hannah sat at either end, gazing at the array with much the same air as that with which a pair of good-tempered, puzzled hens might regard a swarm⁴⁶ of agile⁷⁰ ducklings.
 
After Jake had rapturously praised the fine appearance of the table, the orphans were, with some difficulty, prevailed upon to sit still while the blessing⁷¹ was being asked; and then the pancakes and the hot biscuits and the maple⁷² syrup⁷³ began to disappear in an amazing manner.
 
"Well, an' how's daddy's little woodpecker?" asked Jake, passing his big hand fondly over Joey's red curls. "Been a good boy to-day?"
 
"Yep," answered the baby in muffled⁷⁴ tones. He looked up at his foster-father cunningly. "You won't t'rash me w'en I been a good boy, will yeh?"
 
"Bless the baby's heart! Who'd talk o' thrashin' you?" roared the big man. "If any fellow lifts a finger to you, you let daddy know—an'—an'—he'll bash their heads in for them!" he added explosively.
 
The elder boy glanced up at the man with an admiring flash in his old, weary eyes. "Ole Mis' Cummins uster lambaste him when she came home at night," he said in a hard voice. "That's what's made them marks on his legs."
 
Jake Sawyer set his teeth and Hannah sighed and shook her head. Any mention of the old drunken woman with whom the children had lived, before the Home rescued them, the orphans well knew always stirred their foster-parents' tender hearts.
 
"Tim uster throw stones at her, an' stick pins into her when she was drunk!" cried the black-haired twin, in shrill⁷⁵ triumph. "An' she uster pull my hair, too, an' Lennie's, an' we stole her scissors an' cut it off awful short. But it didn't do no good, 'cause she uster whack⁷⁶ us over the heads with her walkin'-stick."
 
"Well, there ain't nobody goin' to whack any o' yous any more," said big Jake Sawyer grimly. "'Ceptin' it's me, when you're bad," he added warningly.
 
This awful threat was received with loud laughter, and Joey hammered the table with his spoon and shouted joyfully⁷⁷, knowing there must be a grand joke somewhere.
 
Hannah looked across the table and nodded to her husband; it was a good time to disclose an important secret.
 
"Now we want yous to be awful good kids to-night," said Jake, pushing back his plate, and taking Joey on his knee, "because the minister's comin' to see you."
 
"The minister! Why, he's been here already!" cried the black-haired twin indignantly. "What's he comin' again for?"
 
"That was jist a call," said Hannah. "This is different. It's a pastoral visitation this time," she added solemnly. The orphans looked at each other apprehensively⁷⁸.
 
"What's that?" demanded Tim.
 
"It's when he comes to hear you say your verses an' your catechism," explained Jake soothingly⁷⁹; "and you'll all show him how much you know; an' then he prays, and you must be awful good and quiet. Eh, little woodpecker?"
 
The black-haired twin looked across the table at the fair-haired twin, and each read aright the other's rebellious⁸⁰ thought; one sharp glance from Tim, and the matter was settled. The minister might make his pastoral visitation, if he wanted to, but if he thought they were going to stay home to say verses, and be quiet, he was mistaken.
 
The Sawyer parents were dreading⁸¹ signs of rebellion, and Hannah now added enticingly⁸³: "We're goin' to pass 'round the gingerbread and the ras'berry vinegar, and Susan Winters said yous girls could dress up in your new plaid dresses."
 
The twins looked doubtful. Gingerbread and their new frocks! This gave the pastoral visitation a festive⁸⁴ aspect. They slipped away from the table, and followed their elder brother out to the back yard.
 
"Whatter ye goin' to do, Tim?" asked the black-haired twin, divided between dread⁸² of what the pastoral visitation might bring forth⁸⁵ and a natural curiosity to sound its unknown depths.
 
"Mammy says we can wear our Sunday dresses," said the fair-haired one weakly.
 
Tim was drifting slowly, but surely, toward a hole in the back fence.
 
"Yous can stay, if ye wanter, but you bet I don't!" He wagged his head ominously⁸⁶.
 
"Why, what'll he do?" The black-haired twin balanced herself miraculously⁸⁷ on the edge of the water-barrel and stared.
 
"He'll ast ye"—Tim's voice was sepulchral—"he'll ast ye if ye're saved."
 
"If ye're what?" cried the twins, in alarm.
 
"If ye're saved. Preachers always does that. It means if ye're goin' to the bad place."
 
"Well, I ain't," said the black-headed twin stoutly⁸⁸.
 
"Me neither," promptly echoed her sister.
 
Their brother regarded them darkly. "You can't never tell," he answered ominously. "You'd better look out, when the minister's 'round. He ast Billy Winters if he'd got his soul saved."
 
"His sole?" The fair-haired twin looked down at the flapping and worn foundation of the shoes so lately purchased, and then at the family oracle⁸⁹.
 
"Aw, it ain't your boot-sole," he said disdainfully; "it's somethin' in your insides; an' if ye don't get it fixed⁹⁰ up, an' saved, the minister'll send ye to the bad place, sure. He'll ast ye about it," he added threateningly.
 
This was too much for the courage of the twins. Even the charms of the gingerbread and their new plaid dresses could scarcely compensate⁹¹ for the terrors of that occult something concerning whose mysteries the minister would be sure to inquire.
 
Their brother was backing through the hole in the fence. "He'll tell ye ye've gotter to be awful good, too," he added, more explicitly⁹².
 
That settled it. This was something one could understand, and was not to be tolerated for a moment. The twins made a dive after him, and the three did not stop running until they began to roll down the bank of the ravine. When they were safely hidden in the green depths Tim delivered his ultimatum⁹³. "Yous two kids ain't goin' to tag after me, mind ye that," and swaggered away.
 
The black-haired twin stood for a moment glaring after him, in dark rebellion. She opened her mouth to scream imprecations, but thought better of it. Tim had a long memory, and an uncomfortable way of exacting⁹⁴ penalties for any such indignity⁹⁵. She soothed⁹⁶ her outraged⁹⁷ feelings somewhat by throwing a stone after the little, limping figure, her erratic⁹⁸ aim saving her from discovery.
 
"Le's go an' play lady," said the fair-haired twin comfortingly. "I bar be Elsie Cameron."
 
"No, you don't!" cried her stronger-minded sister. "I'm goin' to be Elsie. You can be old Arabella Winters, an' you can have Rebekah for your parrot," she said derisively⁹⁹.
 
But the fair-haired twin, though of a yielding disposition¹⁰⁰, was subject to stubborn fits. "I won't play, then," she said, sitting down heavily upon a stone.
 
Her sister understood the sign, and compromised.
 
"Well, we'll say 'Eevery ivery,' an' see who's to be her," she suggested.
 
"All right." The answer was delivered in a weary tone and with a total lack of interest.
 
The black-haired one mounted a stone, and pointing her finger alternately at herself and at her sister, went through the incantation:
 
"Eevery, ivery, ickery Ann,
Fillacy, fallacy, Nicholas Dan;
Queevery, quavery,
English navy,
Come striddle, come straddle, come out!"
 
The last word was uttered as she pointed¹⁰¹ at her sister, and the fair-haired twin sprang up in triumph. "It's me!" she chanted, "it's me! I'm to be Elsie Cameron!"
 
Her sister succumbed¹⁰² to the inevitable¹⁰³ as good-naturedly as possible. No one ever dreamed of calling into question the final decision of the mystic rhyme. They flew down the bank to a green bower¹⁰⁴ which had been their playhouse ever since their arrival, and soon were amicably¹⁰⁵ engaged in a charming drama, in which Lenora was Miss Cameron, and Lorena Dr. Allen, who, mounted upon a barrel-hoop, dashed gallantly¹⁰⁶ up to the door to take the young lady for a drive.
 
Meantime, Tim was still hurrying up the ravine, fired with a new purpose. Ever since the day he had seen the strange, dark man of the Drowned Lands defy the minister, the eldest orphan had regarded the offender¹⁰⁷ with worshiping interest. Among the other peculiarities¹⁰⁸ of the child's queer, twisted nature, was a feeling of comradeship with the wicked and outcast. He had belonged to that class all his life, and as public opinion grew in strength against John McIntyre, in like proportion grew Tim's admiration.
 
To-night he was resolved to visit him. It was a fine opportunity, for he could let the man see that he, too, was frightfully wicked, and despised ministers—in fact, had left home that night because one was coming.
 
As he scrambled¹¹⁰ along beneath the bridge he heard footsteps and voices above him. He crouched¹¹¹ down among the bracken. Billy Winters and the other fellows might be there, and he did not want them when he went to visit a man like John McIntyre. The voices passed, and he peeped out. It was only Dr. Allen and that Cameron girl who sang. Tim decided¹¹² not to throw a stone, after all. The girl had come over and sung Joey to sleep when he was sick, and the doctor was an uncomfortable sort of person to hit with a rock.
 
He limped along the bank of the pond, dodging¹¹³ behind the willows¹¹⁴, until his feet sank in the soft sawdust. Then he paused behind a heap of logs to reconnoiter.
 
Yes, there was the man sitting in the doorway¹¹⁵ of the engine-room, and looking as dark and wicked as he had done that night when he had thrilled Tim's heart by his shocking conduct. The boy drew slowly near, half fearful of his own daring. What if the dark man should not at first recognize him as a kindred spirit, and should leap at him with a hand-spike? John McIntyre looked up.
 
"What do you want?" he asked harshly. "You'd better go home."
 
This was not a propitious¹¹⁶ beginning, and the visitor squirmed around in embarrassment¹¹⁷. His pride was rather hurt at the man's failure to recognize him, and he could scarcely announce, just at the outset, that he had run away from the minister and had come to him as a companion in iniquity¹¹⁸. Suddenly he thought of a remark that had hitherto never failed to arouse the liveliest interest in a new acquaintance.
 
"I'm one o' the Sawyer orphants," he announced proudly.
 
The dark man looked no whit¹¹⁹ impressed. He made no reply, and Tim gained courage to sidle up closer, and finally seated himself, in an insinuating¹²⁰ manner, on the extreme end of a piece of timber that lay before the door. He turned cautiously and peered with absorbed interest into the engine-room. The great black monster lay there, dimly outlined in the warm darkness, giving forth a hissing¹²¹ sound, like a giant breathing heavily in his sleep. The man arose and opened the furnace door. That was like the giant's mouth, and he was eating his supper of porridge, Tim thought, as the watchman shoveled¹²² in the sawdust. The red glow lit up the dark man's face and arms, and the boy's small, pinched countenance¹²³, and sent a red splash out on the surface of the pond. The door slammed, and again only one bright line beneath the damper showed against the darkness. The man came back, and in silence resumed his seat. Tim was vastly interested in all machinery¹²⁴, and Spectacle John, knowing the eldest orphan's peculiar¹⁰⁹ propensity¹²⁵ toward accidents, had ordered him, on pain of sudden death, not to show his face in the flour mill. Now, here was a chance to examine a far bigger engine than Spectacle John's. There was another charm besides his wickedness in this strange man. Tim became very ingratiating.
 
"Who made that engine?" he asked in a friendly tone.
 
There was no reply. The man seemed unaware¹²⁶ of his presence.
 
"Must have been somebody awful smart," added the visitor insinuatingly¹²⁷.
 
Still no answer.
 
"Mebby God made it," he ventured, just to see what effect this pious remark would have on such a wicked unbeliever.
 
The man turned and looked at him. "You know better than that," he said sharply.
 
Tim felt ashamed. John McIntyre would think him young and innocent, like Billy Winters and Johnny McQuarry, who believed everything their Sunday-school teacher said.
 
"Huh! I bet God ain't smart enough to make an engine like that," he said profanely¹²⁸. He waited for the effect of this, but there was apparently¹²⁹ none; so he proceeded to give forth some more of the unorthodox views that never failed to shock pretty Miss Marjorie Scott, his Sunday-school teacher. "I don't believe half folks tell about God, 'cause I'm a—I'm a——" He hesitated, rummaging¹³⁰ through his memory for that terribly wicked name that Silas Long had given the new watchman. It came to light at last. "I'm a infiddle!" he burst forth proudly.
 
He waited, but even this tremendous disclosure called forth no remark. Probably the man had consorted¹³¹ with infidels and such like all his life, and thought nothing of them. Tim drew a deep breath. It gave one a feeling of ecstatic fear to be able to utter such statements unrebuked. He tried another.
 
"Miss Scott says—she's my Sunday-school teacher, only I don't go to Sunday-school much, you bet—she says God made everybody, but I told her if He made Spectacle John Cross He'd orter be ashamed. An' I bet the devil made ole Mis' Cummins. She was the woman that brought us up, an' I say, she was a corker!"
 
The man slowly turned his weary eyes and fixed them on the child's face. The reflected light from the glimmering¹³² pond lit up the small, wizened¹³³ countenance, and for the first time he noted¹³⁴ the signs it bore of cruel suffering and ill usage.
 
"Another," he said, half aloud.
 
"What?" asked Tim, glad to have elicited¹³⁵ even one word.
 
The man did not repeat it. "Where do you live?" he asked.
 
"Up at Jake Sawyer's. I'm one o' the Sawyer orphants, I told you."
 
It was impossible for even John McIntyre, living a life apart, though he did, not to have heard something of the Sawyer orphans' fame. He nodded.
 
"Are they good to you?"
 
Tim hesitated. He would have liked to tell a tale of woe¹³⁶ and terrible tortures, but his genuine regard for his foster-parents forbade. "Yes, course," he answered shortly. "Only they tried to make me stay home to-night 'cause the preacher was comin'. But I cut out, you bet; I can't stand preachers."
 
The man made no comment. His sudden interest seemed to have as suddenly vanished. He arose and took up his lantern.
 
"You must go home now," he said. "I have work to do."
 
He spoke¹³⁷ in a voice that the child understood must be obeyed. Tim arose and moved away, slowly and reluctantly.
 
"I'm comin' another night," he called back, in a voice half appealing, half threatening. The man took no notice, and accepting this as permission, the boy limped away, whistling gaily¹³⁸.
 
Meanwhile, at home, dire⁴ events were pending¹³⁹ for the orphans. When the minister arrived, and Jake and Hannah could produce only Joey as the sole representative of their large family, they were covered with humiliation. Never before, except in cases of severe illness, had it been known throughout the whole Elmbrook congregation that the family had failed to appear in full force at an official visit from the minister. The visitor himself did not treat the matter lightly. He hinted that Jake and Hannah had better keep a firm hand on their children, if they intended to do their duty by them, and that obedience¹⁴⁰ must be exacted, at all costs. When he was gone the husband and wife sat despondently¹⁴¹ in the empty parlor¹⁴², while Joey ate the remains¹⁴³ of the gingerbread and drank all the raspberry vinegar, unnoticed. This was a serious problem. The orphans had really disgraced themselves this time, and something must be done.
 
"Let's go and ask Susan Winters; she'll know," suggested Hannah. "Mebby hers might 'a' run away once when the minister called."
 
Jake shook his head mournfully. He was quite sure such a thing could never have happened in the Winters' well-managed family. Nevertheless, he shouldered Joey, and they went down the street to consult the village oracle. The Duke of Wellington had dropped in for a chat, and the two vigorously took up the case of the absconded¹⁴⁴ orphans. Mrs. Winters, backed up by the schoolmistress, declared that the family's only salvation¹⁴⁵ lay in a thorough, all-around thrashing; and after much scolding, and dire prophecies of the gallows¹⁴⁶ as the termini of the orphans' careers, Jake and Hannah, like two frightened children, were driven to make the desperate promise that as soon as the culprits returned they would administer to each a severe castigation¹⁴⁷.
 
When the stern parents returned home, and sat on the front step to consider what was before them, they were filled with dismay.
 
"If the little woodpecker'd been into it I wouldn't 'a' promised—no, not even for Susan Winters," announced Jake gloomily, as he watched Joey tumbling about the grass with Joshua, the dog. "Spankin' kids ain't a man's work, anyhow," he added, glancing meaningly at his wife.
 
"Oh, Jake!" she cried tremulously, "you wouldn't think o' makin' me do it? I—jist couldn't!"
 
"Well, somebody's got to," said Jake, setting his teeth, "'cordin' to Susan an' the Dook. What does an old maid like her know about bringin' up kids, anyhow?" he added rebelliously¹⁴⁸.
 
A scrambling¹⁴⁹ noise, and the sound of smothered¹⁵⁰ giggles¹⁵¹, floated from the back yard.
 
"That's them!" cried Jake in a terrified voice. "You go and order them to come 'round here, Hannah," he added, with the air of one who is putting off the day of execution, "an' I'll get the gad¹⁵²."
 
Hannah arose and slowly passed out to the back door. The three truants¹⁵³ were trying to make themselves invisible behind the pump.
 
"Come on 'round to the front, children!" called their foster-mother, in a voice that trembled. "You've been awful bad children, so you have!"
 
With this bold statement Hannah's courage vanished. She turned and fled indoors to find refuge with Jake. But, alas¹⁵⁴ for the poor wife! In the most trying ordeal¹⁵⁵ of her life her husband had basely deserted¹⁵⁶ her. Neither Jake nor Joey was to be seen. The instrument of execution, a small, twig-like branch from the lilac bush, was lying upon the doorstep. Mrs. Sawyer took it up with a Spartan¹⁵⁷ air. If Jake could so meanly fly from his duty then she must so much the more face hers.
 
"Yous youngsters has been awful bad," she reiterated¹⁵⁸, returning to the back door, and shaking the innocent-looking branch menacingly, "an' you've jist got to be—to be—whipped," she ended up faintly.
 
The orphans stared at her for a moment in open-mouthed amazement¹⁵⁹; then, with shrieks¹⁶⁰ of hysterical laughter, the twins bounded off the veranda¹⁶¹ and scrambled up to the safe sanctuary¹⁶² of the woodpile.
 
Tim alone stood his ground. He surveyed the meager weapon in the woman's hand, contempt in his wise old eyes. "Ye kin² lick me, if ye like, for the hull¹⁶³ o' them," he said, with weary indifference¹⁶⁴. "I don't care. I'm used to it."
 
At this pathetic confession, Mrs. Sawyer threw down the disciplining rod and sank upon the doorstep. She buried her face in her apron¹⁶⁵ and burst into sobs¹⁶⁶. At the sight of her grief, so inexplicable¹⁶⁷, so terrifying, the twins pitched themselves off the woodpile and flung themselves upon her. They wound their arms chokingly about her neck; they petted and caressed¹⁶⁸, and besought¹⁶⁹ her not to cry; they bewailed their own shortcomings, and made unconditional¹⁷⁰ promises of perfection in the future. And even Tim sidled up, and volunteered a vague hint concerning contemplated¹⁷¹ reformation.
 
So Hannah dried her tears, and lighting¹⁷² a lamp, fetched more gingerbread and raspberry vinegar from the cellar, and they all repaired to the parlor to celebrate the family reunion. They were in the midst of the feast when there came a stealthy movement at the back door, and Jake crept sheepishly in, leading Joey by the hand. He looked at his wife with an expression of mingled¹⁷³ contrition¹⁷⁴ and frightened inquiry¹⁷⁵. Hannah beamed back perfect forgiveness and assurance, and in his overwhelming relief Jake caught up the twins and swung them over his head. The whole family immediately gave itself up to riot, and when the Duke of Wellington and Mrs. Winters came over to see if the orphans had been properly subdued¹⁷⁶ they found the undisciplined household, Hannah included, engaged in a glorious game of blind man's buff. Even while the two officers of the law were peeping through the kitchen window, Jake upset the water-pail, and the twins broke a glass pitcher¹⁷⁷, all unheeded.
 
Mrs. Winters and the Duke turned, and marched indignantly homeward.
 
"Well!" exclaimed the exasperated¹⁷⁸ village manager, as she stumbled through the Sawyers' lumpy garden, "what we've got to do 'fore³⁶ we can raise them orphants, is to raise them two old fools they've got for a father and mother, and I guess it's about fifty years too late!"
 
Not till the still unchastened orphans were in bed and asleep did Jake again broach¹⁷⁹ the subject of corporal punishment. For some time he walked up and down the kitchen, scratching his head, as he always did when worrying out a mental problem.
 
At length he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and paused before the table where Hannah sat mending Tim's riven trousers.
 
"We ain't a-goin' to try that Winters dodge¹⁸⁰ no more, Hannah," he announced firmly, "an' that's all about it."
 
Hannah looked up joyfully. "Oh, Jake, I'm awful glad! I couldn't do it—I jist couldn't!"
 
"Of course you couldn't," he cried sympathetically, "An', what's more, you don't have to try any more. We'll do our best by them kids other ways, an' the good Lord'll see they don't turn out bad. But there's one thing dead sure, an' you can tell Susan Winters, and the Dook, too—I ain't a-goin' to raise my hand to no motherless child; no, not if they burn down the mill; and may the Lord help me so to do!"

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《The End of the Rainbow》