Andrew had pilfered some of the chicken feed and scattered it on the snow for the finches.
Suzanna shook her head as she looked out the window. “That child,” she said.
“What’d he do now?” his father asked. He was sitting near the fire, mending mule harness.
“How did you know it was Andrew I spoke of?”
“You had that tone.” He smiled at her.
A small boy appeared on the ladder from the loft as Suzanna said, “There is chicken feed scattered outside, and the chickens are still penned up against the cold.”
The boy stopped suddenly, then began retreating upward.
“That’s not gonna work, son,” his father said.
“Perhaps next summer you should gather grass seed and set it aside for the birds,” Suzanna said, without turning.
He came to stand beside her. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”
“And you are incorrigible.” She reached out to ruffle his hair.