“And wot are ye goin’ to do with the Colonel here?” said Sam, indicating under that gallant title the infant shrike, who, with his claws deeply imbedded in Sam’s finger, was squatting like a malignant hunchback, and resisting his transfer to Peggy.  “Won’t he make it rather lively for the others?  He looks pow’ful discontented for one so young.”

“That’s his nater,” said Peggy promptly.  “Jess wait till I tame him.  Ef he’d been left along o’ his folks, he’d grow up like ’em.  He’s a ’butcher bird’—­wot they call a ’nine-killer ’—­kills nine birds a day!  Yes!  True ez you live!  Sticks ’em up on thorns outside his nest, jest like a butcher’s shop, till he gets hungry.  I’ve seen ’em!”

“And how do you kalkilate to tame him?” asked Sam.

“By being good to him and lovin’ him,” said Peggy, stroking the head of the bird with infinite gentleness.

“That means you’ve got to do all the butchering for him?” said the cynical Sam.

Peggy shook her head, disdaining a verbal reply.

“Ye can’t bring him up on sugar and crackers, like a Polly,” persisted Sam.

“Ye ken do anythin’ with critters, if you ain’t afeerd of ’em and love ’em,” said Peggy shyly.

The tall tunnelman, looking down into the depths of Peggy’s sunbonnet, saw something in the round blue eyes and grave little mouth that made him think so too.  But here Peggy’s serious little face took a shade of darker concern as her arm went down deeper into her pocket, and her eyes got rounder.

“It’s—­it’s—­BURRERED out!” she said breathlessly.

The giant leaped briskly to one side.  “Hol’ on,” said Peggy abstractedly.  With infinite gravity she followed, with her fingers, a seam of her skirt down to the hem, popped them quickly under it, and produced, with a sigh of relief, the missing gopher.

“You’ll do,” said Sam, in fearful admiration.  “Mebbe you’ll make suthin’ out o’ the Colonel too.  But I never took stock in that there owl.  He was too durned self-righteous for a decent bird.  Now, run along afore anythin’ else fetches loose ag’in.  So long!”

He patted the top of her sunbonnet, gave a little pull to the short brown braid that hung behind her temptingly,—­which no miner was ever known to resist,—­and watched her flutter off with her spoils.  He had done so many times before, for the great, foolish heart of the Blue Cement Ridge had gone out to Peggy Baker, the little daughter of the blacksmith, quite early.  There were others of the family, notably two elder sisters, invincible at picnics and dances, but Peggy was as necessary to these men as the blue jay that swung before them in the dim woods, the squirrel that whisked across their morning path, or the woodpecker who beat his tattoo at their midday meal from the hollow pine above them.  She was part of the nature that kept them young.  Her truancies and vagrancies concerned them not:  she was a law to herself, like the birds and squirrels.  There were bearded lips to hail her wherever she went, and a blue or red-shirted arm always stretched out in any perilous pass or dangerous crossing.