It was a great bird-year at Oakdene. Never had there been so many. The same dear old Phoebe-birds were back, building under the eaves of both the front and back piazzas. The robins, as usual, were everywhere. The Maryland yellow-throats were nesting in great numbers in the young growth of woods on the hill of the ravine, and ringing out their hammer-like note in the merriest manner; a note that no one understood until Dr. Van Dyke told us, in his beautiful little poem, that it is “witchery, witchery, witchery,” and now we wonder that we could have been so stupid as not to have discovered it was exactly that, long ago. But the glory of the summer were the orioles and the scarlet tanagers; the orioles with their marvellous notes, and the tanagers in their scarlet golfing coats glinting here and there in the sunshine. Nests everywhere, and Tattine on one long voyage of discovery, until she knew where at least twenty little bird families were going to crack-shell their way into life. But there was one little family of whose whereabouts she knew nothing, nor anyone else for that matter, until “Hark, what was that?”—Mabel and Rudolph and Tattine were running across the end of the porch, and it was Rudolph who brought them to a standstill.

“It’s puppies under the piazza, that’s what it is,” declared Tattine; “where ever did they come from, and how ever do you suppose they got there?”

“I think it’s a good deal more important to know how you’ll ever get them out,” answered Rudolph, who was of a practical turn of mind.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Tattine thoughtfully, “shouldn’t wonder if they belong to Betsy. I’ve seen her crowding herself through one of the air-holes under the piazza several times lately,” whereupon the children hurried to peer through the air hole. Nothing was to be seen, however, for the piazza floor was not more than a foot and a half from the ground, and it was filled with all sorts of weeds that flourished without sunshine. Still the little puppy cries were persistently wafted out from some remote corner, and, pulling off his jacket, Rudolph started to crawl in and investigate. It did not seem possible that he could make his way, for the place was not high enough for him even to crawl on his hands and knees, and he had rather to worm himself along on his elbows in quite indescribable fashion. Still, Tattine and Mabel were more than ready to have him try, and waited patiently, bending over with their hands upon their knees, and gazing in through the weed-grown hole in breathless, excited fashion.

“I believe I’ll have to give it up,” Rudolph called back; “the cries seem as far off as ever and I’m all but scratched to pieces.” “Oh, don’t! don’t!” cried Tattine and Mabel, in one breath, and Mabel added, “We MUST know what they are and where they are. I shall go in myself if you come out.”

“Well, you wouldn’t go more than three feet then, I can tell you,” and Rudolph was right about that. It was only because he hated to give the thing up, even more than the girls hated to have him, that made him persevere. “Well, here they are at last!” he cried exultingly, a few moments later; “one, two three, four of them, perfect little beauties too. And they must belong to Betsy; they’re just like her.”

“Bring one out, bring one out!” called both the children, and fairly dancing with delight.

“Bring out your grandmother! It’s all I can manage to bring myself out, without holding on to a puppy.”

“Very well,” Tattine called back, with her usual instant acceptance of the inevitable, “but I know what,” and then she was off in a flash, with Mabel following closely to find out what WHAT might be.

It was Joseph the gardener whom Tattine wanted, and she found him where she thought she would, killing potato-bugs in the kitchen-garden.

“What do you think, Joseph? Betsy has a beautiful set of little setters under the piazza. Come quick, please! and see how we can get them out.”

Joseph followed obediently. “Guess we’ll have to let them stay there till they crawl out,” said Joseph; “Betsy’ll take as good care of them there as anywhere,” whereupon the children looked the picture of misery and despair. At this moment Rudolph emerged from the hole a mass of grass and dirt stains, and both Mabel and Tattine thought he had been pretty plucky, though quite too much preoccupied to tell him so, but Rudolph happily felt himself repaid for hardships endured, in the delight of his discovery.

“It will be a month before they’ll have sense enough to crawl out,” he remarked to Joseph, “and they’re wedged in between some old planks in very uncomfortable fashion. They look like fine little fellows too. I think we ought to manage in some way to get them out.”

“And it would be bad if any of them died there,” said Joseph, rubbing his head and still ruminating on the subject; “very bad. Well, we’ll have to see what we` can do about it.”

“Will you see right away?” urged Tattine eagerly.

“May as well, I reckon,” and Joseph walked off in the direction of the tool-house, but to Tattine’s regret evidently did not appreciate any need for extreme haste.

In a little while he was back again with Patrick, and both of them were carrying spades. “There’s only one way to do it,” he explained, as they set to work; “you see, the pillars of this porch rest on a stone foundation, so as to support the rooms above, and we’ll have to dig out three or four of the large stones and then dig a sort of trench to wherever the puppies are,” and Rudolph was able of course to indicate the exact spot to which the trench must lead. It was the work of an hour to excavate the foundation-stones, and an additional half-hour to dig the trench. Meantime Betsy appeared upon the scene, and, evidently appreciating what was going on, stood about and superintended matters with quite an important air. Rudolph clambered in and dug the last few feet of the trench, because it did not need to be as large for him as for Joseph and Patrick, and then one at a time he brought the dear little puppies out, and Mabel and Tattine took turns in appropriating them, while Betsy eyed them proudly but withal a little anxiously. And they were dear; as prettily marked as their beautiful grandmother Tadjie, and too cunning for words.

“You have made us a great deal of trouble, Betsy,” said Tattine, “but they are such beauties we forgive you,” whereat Betsy looked up so affectionately that Tattine added, “and perhaps some day I’ll forgive you about that rabbit, since Mamma says it’s natural for you to hunt them.” But Betsy, indifferent creature, did not care a fig about all that; her only care was to watch her little puppies stowed away one by one on fresh sweet-smelling straw, in the same kennel where Doctor and his brothers and sisters had enjoyed their puppy-hood, and then to snuggle up in a round ball close beside them. They were Betsy’s puppies for a certainty. There had been no doubt of that from the first glimpse Rudolph gained of them in their dark little hole under the porch. But the next morning came and then what do you suppose happened? A very weak little puppy cry came from under the porch. Another puppy, that was what it meant, and Joseph was very much out of patience, for the trench had been filled up and the foundation-stones carefully replaced.

“Rudolph ought to have made sure how many there were,” he said rather growlily.

“But, Joseph, this puppy cry comes from another place way over here, it seems to me,” and Tattine ran to a spot on the porch several yards from that under which the others had been found. “I believe it must have been a cleverer little puppy than the others, and crawled away by itself to see what the world was like, and that is why Rudolph missed finding it.”

Joseph put his hand to his ear and, listening carefully, concluded that Tattine was right. “Now I’ll tell you what I am going to do,” he said; “I can make just a little hole, large enough for a puppy to get through, without taking out a foundation-stone, and I’m going to make it here, near where the cry seems to come from. Then I am going to tie Betsy to this pillar of the porch, and I believe she’ll have sense enough to try and coax the little fellow out, and if the is such an enterprising little chap as you think he’ll have sense enough to come out.”

It seemed a good plan. Betsy was brought, and Tattine sat down to listen and watch. Betsy, hearing the little cries, began at once to coax, giving little sharp barks at regular intervals, and trying to make the hole larger with her paws.

Tattine’s ears, which were dear little shells of ears to look at, and very sharp little ears to hear with, thought the cries sounded a little nearer, and now a little nearer; then she was sure of it, and Betsy and she, both growing more excited every minute, kept pushing each other away from the hole the better to look into it, until at last two little beads of eyes glared out at them, and then it was an easy thing for Tattine to reach in and draw out the prettiest puppy of all.

“Why didn’t you tell us there were five, Betsy, and save us all this extra trouble?” and Tattine hurried away to deposit number five in the kennel; but Betsy looked up with the most reproachful look imaginable as though to say, “How much talking could you do if you had to do it all with your eyes and a tail?”