Ten o'clock
She listened again -- yes , it did sound something like a bluebird , peeping in a distant far off way , such as she had heard in the cabin on the mountain before she had ever heard the voice of the Big Thing at the mill . 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 !