"The clock struck seven," cried Jan. "I counted the strokes."

"What a scholar is our Janke!" laughed his mother, as she liftedthe last sheaf of wheat on her fork and tossed it at Father VanHove's feet. "He can count seven when it is supper-time! As forme, I do not need a clock; I can tell the time of day by the achein my bones; and, besides that, there is Bel at the pasture barswaiting to be wateblack and bellowing to call me."