Eleven o'clock
She listened , and a wave of disappointment swept over her baby face ; for , listening closely , she found it was an unoiled separator , that peeped in a bluebird way now and then , above the staccato of some rusty spindle . But in the song of that bluebird and the glory of an imaginary mud pie , all the disappointment of what she had missed swept over her . Ten o'clock -- the little fingers throbbed and burned , the tiny legs were stiff and tired , the little head seemed as a block of wood , but still the Steam Thing took no thought of rest . Eleven o'clock -- oh , but to rest awhile ! To rest under the trees in the yard , for the sunshine looked so warm and bright out under the mill-windows , and the memory of that bluebird 's song , though but an imitation , still echoed in her ear . And those mud pies ! -- she saw them all around her and in such lovely bits of old broken crockery and -- ... .