One pleasant morning Bertie drove his father over to Woodlawn, and, after tying Whitefoot to a tree, ran as fast as he could go to the cellar.  The day before it had been quite damp; and mamma didn’t think it best for him to go out.  So he stayed at the farm and amused Winnie by playing at dolls’ visits with her till it was time for her daily nap, and then went to see Mrs. Taylor in the kitchen.  Esther was shelling peas for dinner; and he helped her till they were all done.

Now he was very anxious to see how much the men had dug.  He had but a little time to stay, for at ten he was to be at the farm to drive mamma to the blacksmith’s house.

He thought as he went toward the cellar that the men had all gone, for he could see nothing of them.  But when he reached the place, there they were down so deep as to be out of sight from the new road.

They had dug a path all around the edge of the cellar, close to the line his papa had marked out.  The path was four feet from the ground which was as deep as it was to go.  Now they did not try to throw out their shovelsful upon the bank, they threw them on the great pile in the centre.

Bertie stood still and watched them for some time, wondering what it could mean.  He did not suppose this great pile was to remain in the middle of the cellar; and yet he did not see how it could be taken out.

The men were so busy he didn’t like to interrupt them.  Besides he didn’t feel so well acquainted with them as he did with Tom and Jim.  A good many times he had jumped on the drag, and the oxen had drawn him to the other part of the farm where the old stone wall was being pulled down.

At last one of the Irishmen looked up to the bank and said pleasantly, ­

“There’s the little master come to see us.”

“I thought you were lost,” answered Bertie, laughing.  “Will you please to tell me what you are going to do with all that ground in the middle of the cellar?”

“The oxen are going to draw it out.  You will see them presently.”

“But how can the oxen get down there?” asked the boy, greatly surprised.

“Run round to the bulkhead, and you will see.”

Bertie had no idea what a bulkhead was, or where it could be found; but as the man pointed to the other side of the cellar, away he ran to find it.

Now the mystery was explained.  Just under the place where his father had told him the kitchen was to be, there was a kind of road leading down into the cellar, and while Bertie was waiting, he heard Tom’s voice calling to Buck to “gee, back, back, sir.”

There was no place to turn around in the cellar so the oxen had to back the cart with its wide wheels down the steep road.  As soon as they were in the right place, the Irishmen came and helped Tom load the cart full, which was very quickly done; and then Buck and Bright pulled away with all their strength till they were out on the level ground.  This time they did not carry the gravel far, and so were ready to back down again in a very few minutes.

“What makes this dirt look so different from that?” inquired Bertie, pointing to a pile of rich black loam.

“The top of the ground is always richer earth,” answered Jim, who was just going by, driving Star and Spot.  “Underneath it is only gravel.”

“What is gravel good for?”

“It will do very well to put on roads, or to fill up with.  I heard your father say he was going to make avenues and terraces with this.”

“What are avenues?”

“Roads, drive-ways.”

“What are terraces?”

Jim laughed aloud.

“I guess,” he said, “if you don’t get to be a Squire yourself some day ’twont be for want of asking questions.”

By this time the oxen were ready to be backed down the cellar, and Bertie was obliged to wait until another time to find out what terraces were.

He waited till Jim came up and tipped his load of gravel upon the heap, and then he said, ­

“I must go and find papa.  I’m afraid it’s almost ten o’clock.”

“I can tell you what time it is,” said Jim, looking up at the sun.

“How can you tell that way?” the boy asked, wondering.

“It’s half past nine, ex-actly,” remarked Jim, drawling out the last word.

Bertie looked up at the sky, but could tell nothing about the time.

“It takes experience to do it,” said the man, laughing at his perplexed look.  “I’ve had thirty-eight years to learn.”

Bertie resolved to ask his father to explain how the sun could be made to tell the time, and then not seeing him anywhere about, untied Whitefoot, who had pulled away to the length of the rein, and was trying to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass, and rode away to the farm.