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“Poor old Pidy,
She died last Friday:
Poor old creetur,
The turkey-buzzards—-“

But before they could finish the line, while they were yet hanging to the tails of the turkey-buzzards, so to speak, Bobby burst out with:

“La! that’th the toon the old cow died on. I wouldn’t thing that.”

“You wouldn’t, hey?” said the woman, getting angry.

“No, I wouldn’t, little dumplin’.”

Whereupon the little woman got so furious that she Went fast asleep, and the reader, growing interested and falling into a doze, tumbled off his chair on his head, but as his head was quite soft and puttyish, it did him no particular harm, except that the fall made him sleep more soundly than ever.

When they had waked up again, Bobby thought it time to move on, but as soon as he offered to move, the Sleepy-heads surrounded him and began to sing a drawling song, which made Bobby sleepy. He soon found that they meant to make him one of themselves, and this was not at all to his taste. He struggled to get away, but something held him about the feet. What should he do?

Suddenly a bright thought came to his relief. The Sleepy-heads were now all standing in a ring around him. He began to tell a story at the top of his voice:

“My gran’pappy, he fit weth a red Injun. An’ the Injun he chopped my gran’pappy’s finger off weth his tomahawk, and—-“

But at this point all the little people got intensely excited over Bobby’s gran’pappy’s fight, and so, of course, fell asleep and fell forward into a pile on top of Bobby, who had an awful time getting out from under the heap. Just as he emerged, the people began to wake up and to lay hold of his feet, but Bobby screamed out:

“And my gran’pappy, he up weth his hatchet and he split the nasty ole red Injun’s head open—-“

They were all fast asleep again.

Bobby now ran off toward the door, not caring to go any further underground at present, though he knew there were other wonders beyond. He reached the door at last, but it was closed. There was no key-hole even.

After looking around a long time he found the Fly-up-the-creek fairy, not far from the door, sitting by a fire, with a large, old owl sitting over against him.

“Give me the key to the door, Ole Ke-whack!” said Bobby.

“Oh, no! I will not give you my clothes, ke-whack! Do you think I would give you my party clothes? If you hadn’t sung so loud, the door wouldn’t have shut. You scared it. Now I can’t give you my fine clothes, and so you’ll have to stay here, ke-whack!”

Poor Bobby sat down by the fire, not knowing what to do. “I don’t want to stay here, Ke-whack!” he whimpered.

“Tell him about the Sleepy-headed People,” said the owl to Bobby, solemnly.

“Shut up, old man, or I’ll bite your head off!” said the Fly-up-the creek to the owl.

“Do as I say,” said the owl. “If you stay here, you’ll turn to an owl or a bat. Be quick. The Sleepy-heads are his cousins–he doesn’t like to hear about them.”

“Don’t mind a word the old man says, ke-whack!”

“Give me the key, then,” said Bobby.

“Do as I say,” said the owl.

The Fly-up-the-creek uttered an angry “ke-whack” and tried to bite off the owl’s head, but the “old man” hopped out of his way. Bobby began to tell the story of his adventures among the Sleepy-heads, and the stake-driver kept crying, “Ke-whack! ke-whack!” to drown his words; but as Bobby’s shrill voice rose higher the stake-driver’s voice became weaker and weaker. Bobby was so amazed that he stopped.

“Go on!” groaned the owl, “or you’ll never get out, or I either.”

So Bobby kept up his talk until the stake-driver was lying senseless on the floor.

“Put the key in the lock, quick,” cried the owl.

“Where is the key?”

“His fine clothes. Take them off, quick! Cap first!”

Bobby began with the cap, then stripped off the coat and vest and boots.

“Put them in the keyhole, quick!” said the owl, for the stake-driver was reviving.

“Where is the key-hole?”

“There! there!” cried the owl, pointing to the fire. By this time the Fly-up-the-creek had already begun to reach out for his clothes, which Bobby hastily threw into the fire. The fire went out, the great door near by swung open, and the big-eyed owl, followed by Bobby, walked out, saying, “I’m free at last.”

Somehow, in the daylight, he was not any longer an owl, but an old man in gray clothes, who hobbled off down the road.

And Bobby looked after him until he saw the stake-driver, shorn of his fine clothes, sweep over his head and go flying up the creek again. Then he turned toward his father’s cabin, saying:

“Well, I never! Ef that haint the beatinest thing I ever did see in all my born’d days.”

And I think it was.