He sent the cudgel whirling skyward, dexterously caught it, and set it spinning.
"You damned presumptuous fool!" he cried.

"The thing for you to be thinking of would be to stretch in the muck for the feet of her to be walking over, and then you could hold yourself holy to be even of that service to her.
"Maybe she'll be wanting the cup me blue-and-brown chickens raised their babies in.

Perhaps she'd like to stop at the pool and see me bullfrog that had the goodness to take on human speech to show me the way out of me trouble.

If there's any feathers falling that day, why, it's from the wings of me chickens--it's sure to be, for the only Angel outside the gates will be walking this timberline, and every step of the way I'll be holding me breath and praying that she don't unfold wings and sail away before the hungry eyes of me." So Freckles dreamed his dreams, made his plans, and watched his line.
He counted not only the days, but the hours of each day.

As he told them off, every one bringing her closer, he grew happier in the prospect of her coming.