'"
Doubled up out of sight, behind the bushes that lined the roadside
ditch, John Jay held his breath and listened. When the ringing strokes
of the axe began again, he ventured to poke out his woolly head until
the whites of his eyes were visible. Sheba was trudging down the road
with her basket on her head, to the place where she always washed on
Tuesdays, she was far enough on her way now to make it safe for him to
come out of hiding.
The tears had dried on the boy's long curling lashes, but his bare legs
still smarted from the blows of the shingle, as he climbed slowly out of
the bushes and started back to the cabin.
"Hey, Bud! Come on, Ivy!" he called cheerfully. Nobody answered. It was
a part of the programme, whenever John Jay was punished, for the little
brother and sister to run and hide under the back-door step. There they
cowered, with covered heads, until the danger was over. Old Sheba had
never frowned on the four-year-old Bud, or baby Ivy, but they scuttled
out of sight like frightened mice at the first signal of her gathering
wrath.
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