They're trying now to create a water famine for the jumpers, and they're making their own mother swim for the good of the cause." Phoebe held out a plump hand, moist and cold from lifting cool crocks of milk, and laughed at her own predicament.
"The water won't rise any more, Mother Hart," Grant called down to her from the top step, where he was sitting unblushingly beside Evadna.

"I told you six inches would be the limit, and then it would run off in the new ditch.

You know I explained just why--" "Oh, yes, I know you explained just WHY," Phoebe cut in disconsolately and yet humorously, "but explanations don't seem to help my poor milk-house any.

And what about the garden, and the fruit, if you turn the water all down into the pasture?
And what about the poor horses getting their feet wet and catching their death of cold?
And what's to hinder that man Stanley and his gang from packing water in buckets from the lake you're going to have in the pasture ?" She looked at Miss Georgie whimsically.

"I'm an ungrateful, bad-tempered old woman, I guess, for they're doing it because it's the only thing they can do, since I put my foot down on all this bombarding and burning good powder just to ease their minds.