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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Well," said I, "you would have some name for it yourself if you sent a deputy sheriff to look after your rights, and he came back tied to the cow-catcher!" The man smiled luxuriously over this memory. "We didn't hurt him none. Just returned him to his home. Hear about the label Honey Wiggin pinned on to him? 'Send us along one dozen as per sample. Honey's quaint!
To begin with the youngest children of all, here is a poem which contains a thread of story, just enough to give a human interest: MILKING-TIME When the cows come home, the milk is coming; Honey's made when the bees are humming. Duck, drake on the rushy lake, And the deer live safe in the breezy brake, And timid, funny, pert little bunny Winks his nose, and sits all sunny.
Honey likes to have c'ean c'o'es on, and have comp'ny." It was the visitors' turn now to blush, but Honey's papa and mama laughed so heartily it made them feel that it was all right even if Honey had sent out the invitations. And not one went home without extending an invitation to her host and hostess to another dinner or supper, and in every one Honey was included.
The dishes ceased rattling for a minute, and there was a sharp exclamation, stifled but unmistakable. Involuntarily Bud made a movement in that direction, when Honey's voice stopped him with a subdued laugh. "That's only Lew and Mary Ann," she explained carelessly. "They have a spat every time they come within gunshot of each other."
And one day, when Honey, working on the roof, dropped a screw-driver, she flew down, picked it up, flew back, and placed it within reach of his hand. She would hover over him for hours, helping in many small ways. This only, however, when the other men were sufficiently far away and only when Honey's two hands were occupied.
All through the night-watches he had said the same thing at intervals. The effect always was of a red-hot wire drawn down the frayed ends of their nerves. But again one by one they themselves fell into line. "It was that old woman I remember," said Honey Smith. There were bruises, mottled blue and black, all over Honey's body. There was a falsetto whistling to Honey's voice. "That Irish granny!
"As sure as I live," Honey continued indignantly, "that bird's wings must have extended twenty feet above its head." "Oh, get out!" said Ralph Addington perfunctorily. "As sure as I'm sitting here," Honey went on earnestly. "I heard a woman's laugh. Any of you others get it?" The sense of humor, it seemed, was not extinct. Honey's companions burst into roars of laughter.
"How about the western cowboy and his fancy boots?" Frank shot back over his book. "Oh, that's different," Ralph said. "Honey's right. That business of taking care of their feet symbolizes the whole sex to me. They do the things they do just because the others do them like sheep jumping over a wall. Their fad at present is pedicure. Peachy's at it just like the rest of them.
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