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 her own. That is all there is to it, but it goes on for a long while and is a great comfort. The story tells why the chickens were in the field, and what they were doing there.

Once upon a time there was a hen who had a large family of young chickens. They were a great care to her. They had to be watched and looked after all the time. The hen had to see that their feathers were kept clean, that they drank fresh water, that they didn't get their feet wet, and didn't eat indigestible beetles with stings. This busy hen was on the go all day, clucking to them not to cross the road in front of cars, not to wander into the next-door garden, not to go rambling in the open field which was full of dangers. Like all mothers, her legs got very tired toward evening. But if she lay down a minute to rest them in the nice warm dust, the chickens were in some trouble or other. Shrill peeps of dismay summoned her, and she would run to the rescue, all her feathers trembling with anxiety. Weary as she was, she couldn't get a good sleep at night, with all those soft jostling chickens crowding under her wings and even squatting on her back. I used to see her out walking in the

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 morning with her family, and there was sometimes quite a wild sparkle in her handsome eye.

And then one day, when she was picking around in the driveway she happened to find a cigarette that someone had tossed out from a car. It was still lit, and just in curiosity the hen put it in her beak and took a few puffs. She liked the taste and it made her feel quite rakish to be smoking, just as she had seen well-dressed ladies doing on the front porch. She held the cigarette gracefully in one claw, and tossed her head at a mischievous angle. She saw other hens in the yard looking at her with surprise, and caught a gleam of attention from the big red rooster. Suddenly she determined to have a gay life while it was still possible. Why should she spend all her time looking after the chickens?

The whole neighbourhood is still talking about the lively doings that followed. You would never have known she was the same hen. She had her feathers smartly shingled, she bought some new clothes, and very thin yellowish silk stockings, and she smoked all the time. She got herself a swift little roadster with a rumble seat behind, and she could be seen flashing along the North Shore roads at a great pace. She didn't even need

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 to stop driving to light a cigarette: she bought a car that had an electric lighter. She never got home to the roost until late, for she usually dined out at some gay roadhouse. If her legs were tired now, it was from dancing. She even had a fifty-trip ticket on the railroad, and the only worry she had was to find places to park the car while she went to a matinée in town.

And while the gay hen was leading this exciting life, with a little blue trail of cigarette smoke behind her, where were the chickens? Why, they were in the field, as Blythe had noticed. They had wandered across the road and you could see them over there, scattered at their own sweet will. They were having a grand time I dare say, but they were getting their feet wet and eating all sorts of dangerous things. They got into poison ivy and they coughed at night. They were getting quite tough, and there is nothing more regrettable in a chicken.

One day the gay hen was on her way back from a tea party in Great Neck. She wanted to smoke a cigarette, but the lighter in her car had got out of order. So she stopped and waved to the first car that came along, to borrow a match.

It happened to be Mr. Mistletoe's car, Dean

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 Swift, with the whole family on board. Of course Mr. Mistletoe had a match, and hastened to give a light to such a smart-looking hen. Blythe, sitting in the back of the car, was greatly interested. She watched the hen carefully, and then began to sing her little ditty. "Chickens, chickens, in the field," she sang.

The gay hen was just tossing away the match with a debonair gesture. She was ready to step on the gas and go scooting off down the road to another party in Locust Valley. Suddenly she realized how tired she was of a roadhouse life. When she heard Blythe's song she thought with sadness of the chickens running wild all over the fields, not wearing rubbers, eating wrong food, quarrelling and using bad words, growing up rowdy and tough.

She threw away the cigarette, and drove home fast, very fast. She leaped out of the smart roadster and called all the chickens home from the field, with the old bedtime call that they still remembered. They were very big now, but once more she took them all under her wings as best she could, though they kicked and skirmished so that she was awake most of the night.

The next day she cleaned out the rumble seat,

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 which was full of cigarette ashes dropped by her dissipated friends. Now, when she goes driving, the rumble is full of chickens, enjoying the air. There isn't even room for a package of cigarettes on the front seat, because it's crowded with fresh vegetables, from the stalls along the roads near Farmingdale. . . ..

And if the story has really been a success, and is told in a drowsy tone, to the rhyming hum of the car, Blythe is now asleep. She doesn't wake up until the Dean hits that bump at the bottom of the home driveway.

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LACKBERRIES reddened down by the pond; the pink hollyhocks were eight feet tall by the kitchen steps; the white phlox was out along the brick path; every afternoon the children's wet bathing suits hung on the line near the grape arbor. The sight of those bathing suits, and letters from Christopher describing the good time he was having at Camp near Port Jefferson, made the animals restless. It was midsummer, and they needed a change. Donny, after a specially alluring letter from Christopher describing how he had slept alone in the woods, made the suggestion, "Let's go camping," he said.

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 It was a grand idea. There was really no reason why they shouldn't go away for a little trip. The Grape Arbor Tea Room had made a good profit so they had some money to spend. The children would miss them, but a little separation would make them all appreciate each other better when they returned. And Mr. Mistletoe, who was trying to do some writing, was keen about the idea.

Donny was given the money and sent in town to buy what was needed for the expedition. He did not often go to the city, and when he did it was an excitement for the whole household. Fourchette scrubbed some food stains from his Palm Beach suit, and pressed it, and cleaned his Panama hat. Mr. Mistletoe gave him a bath with flea soap and trimmed his whiskers. Nothing could make hairy old Donny look like a real commuter: at his very best he looked more like a sailing-ship skipper togged out in unaccustomed shore clothes. His Panama hat had shrunk a bit and was too small for his big shaggy head. But at any rate he looked most respectable. The whole family lined up to inspect him, straightened his hat, put a dahlia in his button hole. Mr. Mistletoe lent him an old brief-case,

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 to carry packages, and Donny went off very pleased with himself.

While Donny was in town that day an exciting thing happened. Fourchette was at the A. & P., buying provisions for the trip, when the Glen Cove peanut wagon came by. You've seen it trundling gently along the shore road drawn by a thoughtful white horse. It carries ice cream cones and candy and crackers and popcorn and ginger ale—all the things people have a hunger for on hot weather picnics. It has a sign on it that says, and the steam-pipe of the peanut cooker comes up through the roof of the wagon and makes a merry sing-song whistling as the wagon rolls by. When Fourchette saw the wagon she was struck with a great idea. That would be just the thing for them to take their expedition in. She rushed out to ask George Vlachos, the peanut man, if he would sell his wagon.

George didn't like the idea of selling the wagon, but he said he would rent it to them for a while. This would give him a chance to go back to Greece for a holiday. The price came rather high, and Fourchette had to break open the kittens' banks and also Donny's china pig with a slit in

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 its back. But she was convinced that in the lunch wagon they could combine business with pleasure. They could sell hot dogs and ice cream cones to the animals along the road. Animals love these things and rarely get them. She paid George Vlachos the rent at once, for fear he might change his mind, and drove him down to the station so he could get back to Glen Cove by train. Then she brought the wagon back to the house. Everyone was amazed.

The kittens wanted to drive the peanut wagon down to the station to meet Donny's train late that afternoon. But Escargot was very tactful. No, he said, don't do that, because Donny will come home very happy and excited and eager to tell us all about his day in town. It would be unkind to take the wind out of his sails by having such a Surprise waiting for him at the station. Let him tell us about his adventures first.

This was true thoughtfulness. They hid the peanut wagon in the garage and took the white horse (whose name was Bowser) into the back lot to enjoy some grass.

Donny came back on the 4.59 express, which is due at Roslyn at 5.46. He had had a great day. As a matter of fact he got through his errands

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 very quickly, and in his elation at being relieved for a few hours of his home responsibilities he went to a movie. There he sat happily, watching the pictures and whining a little with applause. He did not mention this to the others, however, as somehow he thought it better to speak of the difficult shopping he had done and how hot and crowded New York was. He admitted that he had a frosted chocolate in a drugstore, but they had guessed that already because he forgot to wipe off some of the foam that stuck to his moustache. He was specially proud because he had met the fashionable Mr. Airedale in the Penn Station, and Mr. Airedale had invited him to ride in the club car among all the important people from Oyster Bay. Donny made himself quite at home in the club car, crossed one leg over another like a Prominent Commuter, and talked easily about just having run in to Town to buy a camping outfit. In fact, his behaviour had been so clever all day that no one in New York suspected him. The man at the soda fountain looked at him rather queerly, and said to himself "Isn't it odd how much some people look like dogs." But no one actually found him out.

The animals were delighted with the things he

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 had brought. There were little ponchos and fishing tackle for the kittens, a flashlight for Escargot, flannel shirts for the rabbits, and a pair of very becoming khaki knickers for Fourchette. He had not forgotten the remark she often made when they went on picnics, that knickers are really much more modest than a skirt.

When he had told them all his adventures, and taken off his good clothes, and had a roll on the gravel to express his satisfaction at being home again, Fourchette said: "And now we have something to show you." They took him behind the garage and explained the peanut wagon to him.

Donny was so tickled with the wagon that later in the evening he had one of those barking spells dogs sometimes get, when they go on and on, barking so wildly that they can't stop—although they have quite forgotten what they're barking about. It happens specially on hot still nights when there is a queer heavy silence in the air. He barked and barked until Mr. Mistletoe, already cross because there were so many moths fluttering under his desk lamp, rushed outdoors in his pyjamas, very angry. He chased Donny all round the garden in the moonlight, and sent

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 him to bed. So a day of too much excitement ended, as it often does, with punishment.

But the next day that was all forgotten. Fourchette was up early, stowing the provisions into the wagon. The peanut stove was lit and sent up its gay whistle into the warm blue morning. Bowser, the white horse, who had been a little lonely without his friend George Vlachos, now began to see that this new adventure would be good fun. He was given a big breakfast, and Perez even fried an egg for him, something Bowser had never tasted before. Hops and Malta each had a very small suitcase, to hold their toothbrushes and bathing suits and a few toys. Then they arranged themselves for the journey. Binny and Bunny wanted to do the selling, but everyone knew their hungry natures, and it was feared they would eat more than they would sell. Fourchette took charge of the business department, she lay comfortably on a shelf and kept watch on the stock. Escargot was near, high up on one of the glass windows of the wagon where he could see everything and Fourchette could

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 ask him questions in arithmetic in case she got puzzled. Escargot's thoughtful mind was very quick at figures. The others climbed up into the broad front seat. Donny held the reins, the rabbits and kittens sat beside him, continually asking "How soon can I drive?"

Now they were ready, and Donny was panting with eagerness. All the children of the neighbourhood had gathered to see them start, Mr. Mistletoe had hoisted the flag on the pole. Blythe wept a little because she could not go too. Then witha wave from Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe and a cheer from all the children and a broad grin from Perez, off they went.

Out from the green shadows of the Estates, out into the open sunshine of the big roads, went the: peanut wagon. First they had some errands to do. They stopped at the post office to ask Mrs. Breen to hold their mail for them until they returned. They stopped at Mr. Hamilton's feed warehouse down by the railroad: Donny went into the cool grainy smell of that interesting place where so many sacks are piled up, and brought out a big bag of oats for Bowser. Fourchette, who looked very handsome in her khaki knickers and a red bandanna handkerchief knotted round her

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 neck, visited Roulston's grocery for some chocolate-covered graham crackers as a treat for Donny. Then they rolled down the winding hill, past Mr. Pickering's curiosity shop, past what Helen calls the Muriel Building (she means Memorial). They halted at the bakery to get some bezluks and hodas. Bezluk and Hoda are really the names of the bakers, but the children had given those words to two very delicious kinds of buns they always got there when they were hungry after bathing. A bezluk is a soft bun with raisins in it, a hoda is a crunchier kind with sprinklings of brown sugar. As soon as the rabbits saw the bezluks and hodas they began to say they were hungry; but that was absurd, they weren't even out of the village yet.

They meant to take the turnpike, but Bowser started along the Shore Road by force of habit, and it didn't really matter. So they went past Cedarmere, and under the long arcade of trees by the Engineers' Club, and stopped to sell some of the fresh buns to the black swans at Glenwood. Everywhere the peanut whistle sang its shrill call, like the Pied Piper, and hungry animals came out to bark and wave and welcome them. They didn't get on very fast, there were too many

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 customers, some of whom followed them far along the road. Fourchette was kept busy serving ice cream cones to cats, and hot frankfurters to dogs, and peanuts and popcorn to birds and squirrels who came down from the trees to see what was happening. Seagulls came slanting in from the harbour, and frogs gargled at them from the ponds. Such a crowd gathered when they stopped that they had to pull off to one side to avoid holding up the traffic. Bowser, who proved to be quite a character, always had some humorous comment to make about the cars that hurried past them. He did not even complain when birds and squirrels sat on his back while they ate their peanuts.

Willow trees were rumpled silver in the breeze, bright regiments of tiger lilies paraded on hillsides, the tide pressed high among the reeds and on sandy beaches, strong salty smells sharpened the dulcet air. The road was firm under their rolling wheels, under Bowser's ambling hooves. I know a secret, the little whistle seemed to shrill. Life goes down into the strong earth, life moves in the pushing tide, and life surrounded the wagon with beauty. The shining weather blessed them with colour and laughter in honour of their

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 innocence. For animals are cruel but not cowardly, they are fierce but not mean, they do mischief but never malice. They make no plans, they have no hopes, they ask no questions. Because they are so happy, human beings labour to support them. Their meals are waiting, their needs supplied, men are the humble gods who tend them. As electricity is the servant of man, so is man the servant of animals. Their lack of malice makes them our conquerors. I know a secret! shrilled the little whistle: Life is its own reward.

As they had taken such a roundabout road they could not reach Lloyds Neck that day. They spent the afternoon peacefully dawdling on the winding ways past Dosoris, Lattingtown, Locust Valley—a region of great estates where they found few customers. Bowser, who knows all the geography of Nassau County, told them that the name Dosoris comes from Dos Uxoris, which is Latin and means the Dowry of the Wife. But evidently it was just a phrase he had been told, for when they questioned him he could not say whose wife it was or what was a dowry.

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 Donny said that a dowry was a kind of rowboat, but Fourchette, always a very modern cat and full of decided views, contradicted him. A dowry, she said, is the property a woman gives to any husband who is kind enough to marry her. It is an old exploded idea, a relic of the dark ages, she said quite fiercely. "When I married that lazy loafing cat from the A. & P. I had a can of Norwegian sardines as a dowry. I thought it was safe, for the key to open it had been lost; but within a week he had got a plumber to open it for him and ate them all. That was the beginning of the end. If Malta ever marries, I hope it will be some honest ambitious cat who is willing to work for her."

"However, I regret nothing," she added, embracing the kittens fondly.

Talking cheerfully about this and that, they reached the popular beach at Bayville. Here a curious incident happened, which had much effect on their affairs later. Among the crowd of animals that surrounded them was a dark wizened monkey who belonged to a hand-organ man. The monkey was very thirsty, he had put in a hard long day collecting pennies, and they gave him an ice cream cone. The kittens were enchanted

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 with him: he wore a red jacket and trousers and a very tiny doughboy cap, all extremely dirty. He had a habit of taking off his cap with a quick gesture whenever anything was said to him, and holding out a small dark hand. His forehead was very wrinkled and he seemed nervous and tired.

They unhitched Bowser and left the wagon on the beach while they went for a bathe. The keeper of the bathing pavilion made some protest about Bowser going in. There was no bath-house big enough for him, and also he had no bathing suit.

"How ridiculous!" said Donny angrily. "Bathing suits are absurd anyhow, a relic of the dark ages—like dowries," he added, for he was always quick to pick up a new word.

The keeper was impressed, for he did not know what dowries were either, but he said it was the tule. They hired a dozen bathing suits, at a special rate, and pinned them all together to make a kind of cloak for Bowser.

Escargot, on account of his shell was allowed to go in as he was.

While they were in the water they heard a sort of commotion on the beach, but they paid no attention, thinking it was just the natural admiration of the people at Bowser's unusual bath-

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 ing costume. They had to wait quite a while for Escargot to come back from the water, but at last they started off again. When they were well on the road a dark wrinkled face suddenly popped up from the sack of unroasted peanuts. It was the monkey. Weary of his difficult life as a handorganist he had come along as a stowaway. He had burrowed into the sack of peanuts and hidden there.

"Oh, then that was what all the noise was about?" said Fourchette.

"Yes," said the monkey. "It was very comic. I could hear it all: Tonio—that's the organ-man—was furious at the bath-house keeper. Tonio said I'd been stolen, and how could he find me again with such a crowd on the beach. The keeper said it was none of his business, and Tonio threatened to take one of the bath-house keeper's children as a substitute."

They were glad to have the monkey join them, as he was an amusing companion, though Fourchette was horrified at the condition of his clothes and would not let the kittens sit next to him, which caused some bickering. They christened him Dosoris as he was an unexpected addition to their resources.

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 It was almost dark when they reached the old town of Oyster Bay. There was a good deal of traffic in the streets and they had some difficulty in finding a place to park. They were moved on several times by policemen who said they were causing a nuisance. Donny saw some of the prominent people with whom he had ridden in the club car, and barked gaily to them, but none of them recognized him. Finally they drove on through the town to the cemetery. They left the wagon under a tree and went up to. Theodore Roosevelt's grave, where they felt sure they would not be turned away. They all lay down respectfully outside the railings of the grave and slept in peace. Fourchette was afraid that this might be thought a liberty, but Donny replied that T. R. was always interested in animals and would not mind. I think myself that no nicer tribute was ever paid him.

It was the next afternoon when they finally got to Lloyds Neck. Escargot and the rabbits had been raised to such a pitch of expectancy by Donny's praise of that country that nothing

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 could have surprised them. But no one is ever disappointed in Lloyds Neck. When Bowser, trotting merrily, pulled the wagon out onto the long narrow strip that joins the Neck to the mainland, they were all thrilled by the view. Escargot stretched his short-sighted eyes to their very longest, like telescopes, to see as much as possible. Even Dosoris, who had spent most of his life in towns and liked crowded places where pennies were frequent, was much impressed by the scenery. The water was going out, and the quiet inlet of Lloyd Harbour had that fine savoury low-tide smell that gives you such an appetite. The rabbits kept exclaiming with hunger, and wanted the wagon to stop every few yards to let them try some of the green things they saw. But they pushed on, along the shore, past the beautiful old Colonial manor, through woods and blue glimpses, until they came to the big tree. There they turned in on a lumber trail. The black dog who is chained up at the farmhouse kept shouting wildly "Private Property! Private Property!" but a couple of frankfurters stopped that.

There was some hard pulling for Bowser, up sandy slopes, but once over the crest of the hill they went easily down through the woods toward

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 the Sound. Donny had picked out the perfect place for a camp. There is a little cliff that overlooks the water, where a circle of trees surrounds a grassy clearing. The beach is rocky, but there are patches of sand, and in late afternoon light the water shines with a marvellous golden-green clearness. Bushes of sweet-fern give off a warm fragrance, and there is any amount of driftwood for building fires. They did not need to bother about a tent, for there was room for them all to sleep under the wagon, except Bowser, who made himself comfortable in a sheltered little grove of cedars not far away.

Fourchette, who always liked everything neat and orderly, said that the first thing to do was to wash Dosoris's clothes. They had some difficulty in persuading him to take them off: he had worn the red jacket and pantaloons, and the doughboy cap, so long, that he really believed they were part of himself. Also, he did not seem to know much about water and how comfortable it is to splash about in. He made a great fuss, but finally they got him undressed and forced him into the water, while Fourchette gave the clothes a good scrub and hung them on a tree to air. Like so many people who make a fuss about doing some-

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 thing, once he was in that warm green bathing he became enthusiastic. Also he quite refused to put on the clothes again, he was so much more comfortable without them. He did not give up the cap, which he was proud of, and continued to take it off hastily every time anyone spoke to him, but the red jacket and trousers were left hanging on the tree.

Meanwhile the kittens had been fishing, from a large rock near the shore, and Escargot had found some snails he could talk to. The long twilight softened around them, and the watchful Fourchette began to observe signs of peevishness—both in herself and the others. After two days on the road they were all tired, and also they had been eating too many sweets. Even the rabbits, usually so gentle, were complaining that they could find no plantain in the woods. As they gathered for supper Escargot just escaped being trodden upon by Bowser, and asked him sharply to be more careful. Dosoris was rather annoyed by repeated references to fleas, and made some brisk retorts to Donny. Then they discovered they had forgotten to bring any water and had nothing to drink but ginger ale and sarsaparilla, which Bowser did not care for. The

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 best thing to do was to go to bed, and they did so. Escargot slept with his flashlight lighted be side him, so that no one would walk on him in the dark.

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E DO not know all the adventures that—the animals had while camping, but we have a glimpse of their activities in a letter that Fourchette wrote to Louise. When the peanut wagon left, Louise gave Fourchette a fountain pen filled with ink, and Helen gave her a tablet of paper, and they asked her to write. Some time went by without any news, but at last a letter came. Fourchette was a good writer: as you will notice, she made only twelve mistakes in spelling in a very long letter. And one of those we must excuse, as she copied it from the peanut wagon.

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 This was the letter:—

Grape Arbor Camp Lloyds Neck, L. I.

I am sorry I did not write before, but if you ever go camping you will understand how much there is to do. Something happening every moment. But this afternoon Donny and Bowser are going to Huntington to get supplies and can mail a letter. I have sent Hops and Malta down the beach to go fishing, and the rabbits with them to keep them out of mischeif. Fortunately the rabbits are of a cautious and sencible disposition, they are as good as two. I have given them the job of seeing that the kittens clean their teeth every morning, though Hops and Malta do not like doing it in salt water. We have to be careful of our fresh water, as it all has to be brought from the farmhouse on the other side of the Neck. Donny started to dig a well, but it is a much bigger job than digging for moles, and he gave up.

The monkey we picked up on the road, Dosoris by name, is a great problem to me. Really sometimes I get disscouraged, raising a family

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 is no end of toil. I get so fidgety I just have to skin up a tree to cool off. Dosoris is always in some pickle or other and seems never to have had any real home training. The first day or so he was quite ill from eating to many peanuts, then he recovered and became very mischeivious but he is so comic in his ways he keeps us bawling with laughter. The other day a cock pheasant came to call on us, a beautiful golden bird (very good eating, they tell me) with feathers coloured like a whole box of new crayons, yellow and red and blue and green, how you would have liked to see him. He came over from the big Marshall Field estate near here and was rather proud. Very high-hat, the kittens called him, where they pick up their slang I don't know. Dosoris took off his little cap to him, the way he does to everybody, and held out his hand, it's a habit from being always in the organ buisness, but the pheasant thought Dosoris was making fun of him and became very haughty. Well, we were all flattered to have a visit from such a handsome party, I wished you could see Donny's eyes stick out, he did not know there were such handsome birds in the world. It was all he could do to mind his manners when the visitor came strutting up. I

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 gave him the Emergency signal just in time. We gave the pheasant some popcorn and everything was going nicely when Dosoris sneaked up behind and pulled out three of his grand golden feathers.

The pheasant was furious and I don't blame him. Of course Dosoris was up a tree in an instant, grinning and chattering and taking off his cap in his irritating way. He stuck the feathers in his cap and was delighted with his mischeif. The pheasant went off very angry, saying he would report the matter to Mr. Marshall Field, so we have been a bit nervous. But we hope the pheasant would not dare say anything to Mr. Field because he had no buisness going off the Field estate. Where we are of course is Private Property.

That brings me to another adventure. It happened, as things always do, when we were not at all prepared for visitors. Escargot spends most of his time down by the water, he is happy to get a chance to go bathing again, he says it reminds him of Normandy. Perhaps he was a bit careless, anyhow while he was idling on a wet rock a seagull's pied him, and astonished at the sight of such a large lucious snail made a swoop at him and in fact seized him. We were all horri-

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 bly dismayed and I thought all was over, but we shouted such screams of anger that the gull was startled and dropped him. Escargot was badly frightened, and for a long time we could not persuade him to come out of his shell so we could not tell if he was hurt or not. At last he did so, very pale. He was only bruised, but nervous. While we were all upset by this accident and were ministering to the troubled snail we were horrified to see a man approaching.

We were alarmed, we feared it was someone to move us off this happy spot which we have made so much our own. Also we were not pleased at the idea of any grown-up person intruding upon us, specially at a moment of suffering. Escargot again retreated into his privacy and Dosoris kept taking off his cap and gesticulating for a penny. It was queer to see how the presence of a human being again brought out all that monkey's worst manners, after we thought we had dissiplined him into some sensible behaviour.

The stranger was surprised to see us there, but I must say he was a friendly man. He gave Dosoris a penny, and explained that he had seen the monkey's clothes (still hanging on a tree)

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 and thought them some kind of flag or signal. He knew how to behave with animals, for he sat down quietly and we soon got used to him. Donny gave him a good smelling and believed him to be all right. There was still a good deal of surprise in his looks, but he bought some rosted peanuts and we had a talk. He told us that he and some other people had bought all this piece of land, and he was very enthusiastic about the improvements they were going to make. There would be big concrete roads all through here, and electric light, and laid out in building lots. Why, he said, when this gets developed it will be worth twenty-five hundred an acre. How would you like to buy a couple of lots?

I think he was a little ashamed to have mentioned money, because right away Dosoris held out his hand.

Donny admitted he had always wanted to buy a few acres of land near the water, to retire to when the Roslyn Estates get civilized, but we all protested against this idea of developing Lloyds Neck with real estate schemes. But this man was a good salesman, he got out maps and more than once I was afraid he would have Donny signed up to buy something we could not

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 possibly afford. Besides, why should we buy the property when we were using it anyway free of charge.

The man stayed to supper with us. It was a still evening and he lit a fire on the beach to keep away the mosquitoes, although he said there weren't any. We told stories for the kittens before they went to bed, and the visitor enjoyed them highly. He said that real estate men were always fond of fairy tales, and told us some of his own, about building houses on the South Shore of Long Island. Then he made a suggestion that excited us very much.

My family are all good talkers, he said, and I have a brother who is a Radio Announcer at station M.E.O.W. Those stories of yours are so good, he said, you ought to broadcast them. I know my brother would like to get you to tell some of them into the mike. Grown-up people like to hear stories before they go to bed, it takes their minds off anything disagreeable they have been doing to each other during the day. My brother would get you some money for broadcasting your stories, and then you could afford to buy some of this property.

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 Isn't that a wonderful idea? We are all greatly thrilled about it.

When he left he was very kind. He told us to go ahead and use this place as if it was our own. He said that would be the finest kind of advertisement for the whole property, and that he would save this special corner of beach for the Grape Arbor Camp.

Well, Louise and Helen, this is the longest letter I ever wrote, but you will be glad to hear we are having such a good time. We will be home soon. I hope you are all good children, no screeching, and that no one has had to sit on the Church Bench.

Your loving cat, .

There is one thing in Fourchette's letter that needs to be explained. Once Mr. Mistletoe bought an old yellow bench from Mr. Zeifman's antique store down by the Mill Pond. He painted it white and put it in the garden, where it was much admired. And indeed it had a graceful simple shape that was very lovely. Mr. Zeifman said it came from an old church in Huntington,

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 which had sold its picturesque old benches and put in pews. This bench, having lived long years in a church, was supposed to give peaceful thoughts to people who sat on it. So when anyone screeched or squabbled or got savage at croquet, he was supposed to go and sit on the Church Bench until he got Good Ideas.

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HE story that most impressed the Real Estate Man, that evening at Lloyds Neck, was the one about the Thrush's Nest. It was first told by Mr. Mistletoe when they invited him out to the Grape Arbor Tea Room, and all the animals knew that it was perfectly true. It would be a good thing if all Real Estate Men would read this story, because it tells what happens to people who live in houses that are too big for them and too expensive to keep up.

The thrush lived near Mr. Mistletoe's lawn. As we have said before, lawn is too smooth a word. That was the spring all the workmen were there, and a spread of grass constantly trafficked over by ten children (four Mistletoes and half a

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 dozen neighbours) and any number of dogs, plumbers, ash men, masons, carpenters and cesspool drainers, washed out by Long Island thunderstorms and sliced into divots by croquet mallets, is likely to be a little untidy. And so it was. Mr. Mistletoe tried hard, but his face had a discouraged look. Almost any fine evening towards katydid time you could see him out there, picking up pebbles Blythe had thrown for the kittens to chase, or bones that Donny had discarded, or looking for the croquet hoop.

But the thrush didn't mind all this. She even seemed to admire the place, and that spring the weather was so moist that there were plenty of worms. A worm means to a thrush much what a hot frankfurter means to a hungry child on a picnic—except that to her it looks like a hot dog five or six feet long.

At one side of his garden Mr. Mistletoe had put up a deck tennis court. Deck tennis is a kind of miniature tennis they play on board ship, not with rackets and a ball but by throwing and catching a rubber quoit which is tossed across the net. The rules and scoring are just like tennis, and the court is like a tennis court but smaller. Mr. Mistletoe had marked it out very carefully

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 with narrow white tape neatly held down by staples. But in one place this tape had got broken, so there was a loose end.

It was the time of year when birds are building nests. The thrush had just picked out a good site for hers, in the big oak tree above the drive, and then that loose white end of tape caught her eye. So while Mr. Mistletoe was loitering about the garden with nothing particular to do—and that was unusual, for people with four children generally have something definite to do, and someone to whom it ought to be done—he saw the thrush tugging fiercely at the piece of tape. There was something really very comic about the violence of her efforts. She braced her feet and jerked as hard as possible, many times in quick succession. But it wouldn't come. She would pause, pant a little, and you could see her speckled bosom heave. She was a stout matronly thrush, probably not as flexible as she had been once. You could almost hear her say to herself, "Well, for goodness sake!" when the tape wouldn't budge. Then she would try again. She did not know about the staples Mr. Mistletoe had so carefully hammered into the ground.

Mr. Mistletoe and the whole family admired

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 her from a distance. She was so much in earnest that it seemed a pity to disappoint her. Mr. Mistletoe sent Christopher indoors for the big pair of scissors. They cut off the loose end, and then kept away at a polite distance. Sure enough, the thrush flew down from the tree where she had been watching, seized the ribbon, and flew off, so much excited, she forgot to say Thank you. And a few moments later, there she was again, hauling at the rest of the tape as hard as ever.

Perhaps it was generous of Mr. Mistletoe, or perhaps it was merely silly, but to see how much tape the thrush would use he sacrificed his whole deck tennis court. He hasn't played deck tennis since. There must have been two hundred feet of tape, but they cut it all up into pieces and she took every bit. It was a great afternoon for her. She must have thought she had found a tapemine. So that the stout thrush wouldn't even have to stoop, Mr. Mistletoe hung all the tapes on the Nervous Prostration wire that runs between two trees. She flew busily to and fro, carrying the streamers to the oak tree on the other side of the house.

The kittens, of course, knew about the Nervous

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 Prostration wire, but the Real Estate Man, when Fourchette told this story, asked what it was.

The Nervous Prostration wire was a relic of the time when Donny was not well and had such a spell of peevishness. He growled so much, and made himself so disagreeable to delivery men and visitors, and seemed to have such an appetite for trousers, that everyone got worried about him. They took him over to see a doctor who runs a boarding house for dogs in Sea Cliff, and the doctor felt his pulses. (A dog has four pulses, one in each leg, and he felt them all.) Then the doctor looked at his eyes and his tongue and talked to him, and finally he asked about the conditions of Donny's home life.

Mr. Mistletoe attempted to describe the conditions of Donny's life, as well as one can ever describe such delicate matters to a stranger. He told the doctor about the children, and how Donny's time was spent, and finally the doctor said: "This dog has a kind of nervous prostration. He's not as young as he was, and your children are evidently too lively for him. They tire him out."

Mr. Mistletoe thought that that was quite possible, and said he had sometimes felt that way himself.

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 "You must see that Donny gets more quiet," said the doctor. "He ought to take a bromide tablet every day, and he must have a quiet nap after lunch. It would be a good thing to keep him chained up part of the time, in a shady place, so he won't be always on the go. Put a wire between two trees, so his chain can slide along it, that will give him room to move about a bit."

The wire was put there, and was known as the Nervous Prostration wire. Donny used to brag about all this a good deal, and sometimes I believe Mr. Mistletoe envied him when he saw him resting in the shade. Donny soon got better, and the wire was no longer used.

But this story is about the thrush. As we were saying, she took every bit of tape. She used it to build a nest that was a source of scandal to all the other birds. It was almost as big as a beehive, very disorderly and pretentious. Even Abe Blackbird, the lawyer, who rarely meddled in other people's affairs, warned her against making a nest of that sort. But she had been so puffed up with ambition that she was determined to have the biggest and most prominent home in the Roslyn Estates. She even persuaded

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 a photographer to come and make a picture postcard of it, as they do of the handsomer houses.

During the time that she was raising her children Mr. Mistletoe was abroad, so he never knew how they got on. Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe, after watching Donny taking it easy under the trees, decided that they also deserved a holiday. For if the children could give a big sheep dog Nervous Prostration, you can imagine what they could do to their parents. And when Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe came home again, as soon as they had counted up the children and made sure that everything was all right, they asked about the thrush's nest. There was sad news to be told. The big nest had not been a success. It was draughty, inconvenient, and insecure. In the August thunderstorm season the whole untidy bundle had blown away in ruin and wreck. The young thrushes had been cast upon the world, and the stout matronly thrush was working somewhere as a stenographer.

It is a sad story and a true one, and as Mr. Mistletoe always added, it was his own fault. He should have let that stout thrush take only afew strips of tape, not the whole thing at once.

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 Of course she was a little bit crazed with the sentimental excitement of the nesting season, and he should have protected her against her own folly. Perhaps the same thing is true in building a mind. A mind is only a little nest in the infinite oak-tree of life; but it needs to be comfortable and secure, a place where you can hatch eggs of thought; and it must be strong enough not to be blown away in sudden thunder-squalls. Education, I suppose, is like that tape. You can't pull it out of the ground unless some one loosens it for you, but the good parent or teacher will parcel it out gradually in convenient shreds. He won't chop up too much of it at once.

And education differs from that tape in one very important way. There's no end to it.

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NE of the best amusements for a winter evening, when it gets dark early, is the Magic Lantern. Its real name, I believe, is a Post Card projector; but Magic Lantern sounds better. You fasten the wire to any electric light socket, and put photographs or post cards or pictures cut from magazines into the lantern. It shows them, much enlarged and bright and clear in all their colours, on the screen (which you hang on the dining-room double doors). All interesting post cards are carefully saved for the Lantern: you wouldn't believe what a collection we have. The German cards are specially lovely: the series illustrating the adventures of Hansel

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 and Gretel are great favourites. You get Christopher to tell the story aloud and Mr. Mistletoe throws the pictures on the screen at the proper moment. The floor is thick with little girls, so (the room being dark) you have to be careful where you step. Our neighbourhood is fertile in small girls, and they make good audiences. They deserve encouragement, for some day they will grow up into Women's Clubs and pay people real money to come and give them lectures.

Even better than the post cards are the pictures you make yourself. If it's a wet afternoon you can set the children to work with cardboard, pencils, and paints or crayons, and let them make drawings of their own to be shown in the lantern. There is a fine thrill in seeing your own work displayed in that way. The pictures must be of the right size to fit into the lantern, and of course any lettering on them has to be done backwards so it will come out correct on the screen. Mr. Mistletoe greatly enjoys doing lantern pictures. His kind of art, which is crude but strong, is highly relished by that intelligent audience. Home-made fairy tales deserve home-made illustrations. Some of those pictures have

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 done service for years and are welcomed again with fresh admiration every winter when the Lantern Season begins at Hallowe'en. I am greatly tempted to put in here one of Mr Mistletoe's works of art so that you can see an actual picture the children have so often praised.

If you won't make fun of it I think I will; and tell you the story that goes with it. It is a story about the dog called Gissing, when he was very young. He was only a puppy and knew very little.

In the house where Gissing lived there was a speaking tube in the hall upstairs. This speaking tube was a great joy. When children blew in it it made a loud whistling squeal down in the kitchen. Done suddenly it often startled cooks and cats half out of their wits. It sounded like the squeak of a mouse as big as a police dog. But like many amusing jokes this got overdone. And so, to prevent the speaking tube becoming a nuisance, it was agreed that it was a private magic telephone to Santa Claus and must not be used except in the week before Christmas. Santa Claus, like everyone else, does not care to be bothered with unnecessary telephone calls. Like many other wise people he does not allow

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 his number to be listed in the book, and only tells it to his intimate friends.

But of course in the week before Christmas everyone is so busy that a little extra squeaking in the kitchen does not matter.

Now Gissing, arriving in the house as a very small puppy, heard so much about this Santa Claus telephone that he really believed it. He heard the children making their plans, and writing out lists, and then blowing in the mouthpiece until it squawked and announcing down the tube their desires for Christmas. He wished very much that he too could telephone to Santa Claus and tell what he wanted. But he felt bashful about doing it, and a little ashamed because he did not understand very well just what Christmas was. He heard all the children talking about it, and he tried to pick up some information by listening, but he did not learn anything definite. You know how it is: when everyone else seems to know about something that you yourself don't understand, you don't like to admit your ignorance. You listen carefully, hoping you'll overhear some remark that will explain what it's all about.

Gissing spoke in a casual way to the others,

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 hoping to lead them into saying something that would help him to know what was going to happen. He would say "Christmas will be fun, won't it!" or some such innocent thing. But their replies, though enthusiastic, did not help much. In his heart he was lonely because he felt there was some great secret that they knew and he didn't. "Oh, I wish someone would tell me what Christmas is," he said to himself. "Is it something to eat? Is it something to wear? Is it a game? Is it a person? And who is this mysterious Santa Claus?"

One day so much happened that Gissing felt more sure than ever that Christmas was going to be something very important. It was even a little frightening. From early morning the house was full of movement and hullabaloo. Tin horns were blown, there was crackling of paper parcels being unwrapped, and the living room was so crowded with children playing with new toys that he retired under the dining-room table. Even there he was not safe, for by chance he squatted on the electric bell, and after many visits had been made to the front door he was found and moved off. There were smells of balsam and evergreen, and a whiff of brandy

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 from the kitchen. Most alarming of all, the pudding caught fire and was carried in blazing. It was all rather puzzling to a puppy, and Gissing lay under the couch feeling wistful. Everyone seemed too occupied to play with him, and he began to think that it was all because he had never talked into the magic telephonetelephone. [sic]

After supper things quieted down a bit. The children were got to bed early. The grown-ups, exhausted by picking up so much paper and string, sat down to rest. Gissing saw his chance. With great labour he pulled his toy-box into the upstairs hall and stood on it so he could reach the speaking tube. He blew into it, and heard it squeal at the other end. Then he said, just as he had heard the children do, "Give me North Pole 1." To his great surprise he heard a deep voice coming back to him through the tube. "Santa Claus speaking," it saidsaid. [sic]

Now we must refer to the picture, in which Mr. Mistletoe illustrated the scene with so much skill. You will see young Gissing standing on his toy-box, talking into the speaking tube. And you will see that the wire really did go all the way to Santa Claus's telephone at the North Pole.

Santa Claus had had a long day. He had just

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 got home, very tired after delivering toys all over the world. He was so tired that even before putting away the sleigh and the reindeer he had come into his house to sit down a few moments

and smoke a pipe. Everything was ready for a quiet evening. His slippers were warming in front of the fire; on the mantel a thermos jug of hot cocoa was waiting for him. He had left

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 the door open to remind himself that he still had to go out and stable the reindeer for the night. You can see his footprints in the snow. You can even see the North Pole itself, which is striped red white and blue like a barber's pole.

(Of course in the picture done by Mr. Mistletoe for the Magic Lantern, all the colours are put in. I don't know whether the printer can copy all those beautiful colours. If he can't, and decides to print the picture in black and white, then my advice to you is to get out your paint-box and colour the picture yourself.)

You will also notice that the writing in the picture is carefully done backwards, so it would come out forwards on the screen. That is part of the Lantern's magic.

Santa was a little annoyed when the telephone rang. He believed that he had earned his ease. He was intending to rest his feet a bit, and then, with a happy feeling, he was going to tear off the 25 on the calendar pad that hung on the wall.

"Who is it?" he asked

"This is Gissing," said a small and rather frightened voice that sounded very far away. "You know, Gissing in the Roslyn Estates. At Mr. Mistletoe's house."

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 Of course Santa knew about the Roslyn Estates, but he had never heard of Gissing, who was still so young that his name had not been entered on the lists. Santa gets the names and addresses of all the dogs from the Town Hall in Manhasset, where the dog licenses are registered. However, he answered very kindly.

"Yes, Gissing," he said. "How are you?"

"Why, I'm fine," said Gissing, "but I thought I'd better tell you what I want for Christmas."

It was on the tip of Santa's tongue to say, a little crossly, "But Christmas is over. You're too late." But he could guess from the trembly sound of Gissing's voice that there must be some misunderstanding.

"All right, Gissing," he said in an encouraging voice. "What is it?"

"What have you got?" asked Gissing eagerly.

Santa Claus almost laughed. Gissing, even when he was a small puppy, was always rather impudent. Santa looked at his shelves. There were only a few toys remaining, now that all that year's Christmas presents had been delivered. You can see in the picture just what was left.

"Well," said Santa patiently, "I have a toy

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 schooner, a train, a doll, a rubber ball, a rake, a pail and shovel, a football, a white china cat, a paint-box, and a toy automobile."

Gissing was so excited he could hardly hold all those ideas in his head.

"Would you mind, please, repeating the list?" he asked politely.

Santa repeated, smiling to himself.

"I think I would like a white china cat," said Gissing. He wanted very much to ask for the toy aunbile also, but he restrained himself.

Santa Claus sighed at the thought of going all the way back to the Roslyn Estates that night. He was rather angry at Mr. Mistletoe for not having properly instructed Gissing about Christmas and told him the date. But he did not want anyone to be disappointed.

"Very well," he said. "You hang up your stocking, and the cat will be there in the morning. Merry Christmas!"

"Here's looking at you," replied Gissing. It was a phrase he had heard grown-ups say, and it was the only thing he could think of at the moment. He pulled his toy-box back into the nursery, quietly, so that no one would know what

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 he had been up to, got out his largest stocking, and went to bed.

Santa Claus had a cup of hot cocoa, and gave some to the reindeer, who was peevish at having to go out again. But with such a light load to carry, the sleigh sped swiftly. Across the snowy curve of the world the red sleigh went flashing. Great gauzes of daffodil-yellow rippled and flickered in the blue dark, the wonderful Northern Lights. A brilliant star burned steadily right above the Pole—the North Star, the true Christmas Star. You can easily find it in the sky (unless you live South of the Equator) because the two stars in the end of the Dipper point straight to it.

It was the quietest night of the year, the night when all the children go to sleep at once because they are tired out with toys and excitements. Santa and the reindeer soon got over their irritation at having to go out again. It was very peaceful, even better than the hurry of Christmas Eve.

When Gissing woke up the next morning, there was the china cat. And not only the cat. Because Gissing's request had been so modest, Santa had brought along all the toys that were left—the

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 schooner, the train, the doll, the ball, the rake, the pail and shovel, the football, the paint-box, and the aunbile.

It wasn't until Gissing was much older that he learned that Santa Claus had made a special trip, all the way from the North Pole to the Roslyn Estates. And that was why Gissing himself, when he grew up and went on a long adventure, was careful to get home on Christmas Eve, so that his puppies wouldn't be disappointed.

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HEN the pleasure of mowing the lawn is past, then comes the pleasure of raking leaves. No wonder Helen is proud of having her birthday at the end of September, for perhaps autumn days are loveliest of all. The fields are yellow with goldenrod and blue with asters. The poison ivy runs up the trunks of the locust trees like a red and yellow flame. The air smells sweet of bonfires, and all kinds of smoky fragrance. Down in his greenhouses Mr. Steiger is burning tobacco to kill the chrysanthemum lice.

The time would soon come when the peanut wagon must be returned to George Vlachos. Even after they came back from camp the

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 animals wanted to have as many expeditions in it as possible. Sometimes they took the children too, and all came home singing. The wagon was at its most picturesque plodding in the dusk up the long hill from the Village. Past the Clock Tower, and the house where George Washington had breakfast, it would roll steadily up the winding slope. Bowser refused to be hurried on that hill, and even those terribly big busses marked had to take their time behind him. They would groan and grumble in all their gears, but Bowser insisted—and quite rightly—on his fair share of the road. A red lantern hung inside the wagon and cast a glow over all the company. There was a pink tinge in the little trail of steam floating from the peanut whistle.

But on this last expedition there were no children with them. The children were at school when the animals started before lunch. It was just as well, for this trip resulted in the greatest adventure of all, and it was good to have it a surprise.

They wanted to visit the Jericho Cider Mill, which always opens the first of October. Donny had inherited from Mr. Mistletoe a great passion

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 for cider, particuarly when it was new and sweet. Every autumn the first visit to the Jericho mill was an Event. There is a little bar built outside the mill, and the glass jugs of bright golden juice stand sparkling in the sunshine. Mr. Tappen, who runs the mill since old Mr. Hicks retired, gives away glasses of cider free to everybody who buys a jug. It is said that people who drink largely of the Jericho cider will live to a great and happy age, and it seems to be true. Perhaps that is because it is made of honest old Quaker apples. Certainly there is a Quaker influence in the Jericho cider; after two glasses of it people always say thee to each other, instead of you, in the old Quaker fashion.

The animals were the first visitors to the mill that autumn, and when the peanut wagon halted beside the bar Mr. Tappen welcomed them gladly. No one else was there, so the smaller animals got out and sat on top of the counter, while Donny stood with his feet on the old brass rail just as he had seen Mr. Mistletoe do. Mr. Tappen served Bowser's cider in a pail, and they were all happy. The sun was warm and clear and a few toping flies were drinking greedily from puddles of spilled cider.

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 "Does thee remember the poem?" said Donny to Mr. Tappen, and repeated the following lines:

"What is that from?" asked Escargot.

"Doesn't thee know?" said Fourchette. "It's a verse from a poem Mr. Mistletoe wrote about this cider mill. He wrote it and got it printed in a book."

"No, thee never told me," said Escargot. He liked saying thee, because it was just like the French way of saying tu when you know people very well.

It may have been partly the cheerful influence of the clear autumn elixir they were drinking, for it was then that the great idea came to them. Escargot said it first.

"Look here," he said. "Thee told me about a big printing press not far from Roslyn. Instead of thee going to Station M. E. O. W. to broad-

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 cast our stories, the way thee is planning to do, why don't we write them out and take them over to that printing place? They're Long Island stories, and a Long Island publisher might like them."

They were amazed at the simplicity of this excellent thought.

"Very true," said Fourchette. "A book would be much better than just talking them on the air, because we'd have something to show for it."

"A book with pictures?" shouted Hops and Malta.

"My picture in it too!" squeaked Dosoris.

"Mr. Mistletoe would give us an introduction to Mr. Doubleday," said Donny.

"Think of the labour of writing them all out," said the rabbits. "Writing stories is hard work, see how much fuss Mr. Mistletoe makes about it."

"But Mr. Doubleday would pay us for it," said Escargot.

"It's a wonderful idea," said Donny. "We must think about it carefully."

Escargot had been sipping steadily at the magical cider, which reminded him of his own Normandy, a great cider country. His eyes were

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 long and bright with enthusiasm. "Don't let's think about it," he said. "Let's do it. Let's go there right away and see what Mr. Doubleday says."

"I know where he works," said Bowzer. "It's in that big building over at Garden City. George Vlachos often went there about noon-time to sell things to the printers. They must work very hard because they are terribly hungry when they come out for their lunch hour. I don't know which one is Mr. Doubleday, but they all come out from the press room with ink on their hands."

They consulted Mr. Tappen who thought it a fine idea.

"If you hurry, you can get there before he closes for the afternoon," he said. So they had one last drink of cider all round, to wish luck to the venture. Then they set off along the Jericho Pike.

They were more nervous when they finally got to the Country Life Press. The peanut wagon drove into the circular driveway in front of the building, and they were startled at the size of the establishment. Beyond a blaze of autumn flowers they could see the printing machines flapping great white sheets of paper at them in a

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 threatening way. Now they began to argue which one had better go in to see Mr. Doubleday, and all felt rather timid except Dosoris. He was eager to rush in, and insisted that he could finish the affair in no time. But they were certain that Dosoris was not the best person. His habit of whipping off his cap and holding out an appealing palm might make a bad impression. "A publisher sees quite enough of that sort of thing," said Fourchette.

It was decided that Escargot, who had made the suggestion, should be their representative. Escargot's quiet dignity and his slow thoughtful ways would be appreciated by Mr. Doubleday.

The kittens were impatient. "Hurry, hurry up!" Hops exclaimed. "He will stop work for the day and you'll be too late."

"Thee hold thy tongue," replied Escargot calmly.

The prudent snail was not to be hustled. He tucked a small bag of peanuts inside his shell, as a present for Mr. Doubleday. At his own pace, and pausing to admire the flower garden, he proceeded along the brick path and up the steps. Fortunately someone came out just then and held the front door open for him. He climbed

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 the stairs perseveringly, and a pleasant young woman at a desk in the hall, noticing him on the floor, asked if she could do anything for him.

"I wish to see Mr. Doubleday," he said, outwardly bold but rather shaky deep inside his curly shell.

"Which Mr. Doubleday?" she asked, and this perplexed him for a moment; but he made the proper reply. "There is only one Mr. Doubleday," he said firmly.

He was escorted into a large library where he waited.

Mr. Doubleday did what any wise business man would do. When he was told that an unexpected visitor was asking for him, he sent his assistant, Miss Comstock, to find out what it was all about. Miss Comstock came to the library. At first she could not see anyone, and was puzzled, but then she found Escargot on top of a glass case that holds some rare manuscripts and old printed books. He was pretending to study the manuscripts with keen interest, but as a matter of fact he had climbed there with a sound business instinct. He knew that to talk upward from the floor would put him at a disadvantage.

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 Miss Comstock, after long experience in the publishing business, never shows surprise at anything. She welcomed Escargot with calm cordiality. He explained briefly the nature of his errand. Miss Comstock at first suggested that if they would submit the manuscript of the book when it was ready, it would have careful attention; but when Escargot pointed out the peanut wagon in the driveway, and the animals frisking about it, she felt that Mr. Doubleday would like to hear about this himself. Donny, in the hope of impressing Mr. Doubleday, had stoked up the peanut cooker to a high pressure of steam, and the little whistle was singing violently.

Miss Comstock thought it best to save time by giving Escargot a lift. They brought a little truck, such as is used to carry piles of books or paper, and on this Escargot rode into Mr. Doubleday's private office. There a tall bronzed man with a friendly face and very bright eyes was looking cheerfully at a little blackboard on which was written Number of Books Printed Yesterday, 28,000.

Miss Comstock introduced Escargot and placed him on a chair near Mr. Doubleday's desk. This chair has a broad green arm-piece

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 for writing. Escargot sat there and cleared his throat.

It was now quite late in the afternoon, and Mr. Doubleday had had a secret notion of slipping off for a game of golf before dark, but you would never have known that, he was so polite. Escargot felt at ease immediately, and offered the publisher the bag of peanuts. Mr. Doubleday ate some and listened attentively.

"I have an idea for you," said Escargot.

"That's grand," said Mr. Doubleday. "That's what we need."

Escargot told about the Grape Arbor Tea Room, and about the way the stories had been told. The shrewd questions that Mr. Doubleday asked pleased him very much. He felt that they were both practical wary people and had much in common.

"It sounds like an interesting book," said Mr. Doubleday. "Is any of it written yet? Are any of you good writers?"

"We can get some help from Mr. Mistletoe," said Escargot.

"Don't you get help from anyone," said Mr. Doubleday. "You write it yourselves, in your own way. If it's written the way you tell it,

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 it'll be all right—I suppose you're rather a slow worker," he added doubtfully.

"Fourchette will do most of the writing," said Escargot. "She is very clever and thinks fast."

"I should like to meet her," said Mr. Doubleday. "We are not clever here, in fact we're only a bunch of farmers, but we work hard."

Escargot could see that what Mr. Doubleday said about being farmers was a joke, and he smiled pleasantly.

"I suppose you would pay us something for a book like that?" he said earnestly.

"I hope you don't expect to make a fortune out of it," said Mr. Doubleday. "Very few books do. This business is very uncertain."

Mr. Doubleday must have taken a fancy to Escargot, for they talked and talked. It grew dusk, and people began streaming out of the press on their way home, and the big windows shone with lights. The animals in the wagon were very anxious, imagining all sorts of ill fortune.

"Perhaps Escargot has got trodden on," said Donny.

"Perhaps he's got caught in one of the machines," said Fourchette.

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 niceties may be omitted. If it be required sometimes to indicate it, I shall write it ạ, as I write ụ the nearly u.

What I said, that no Konkani word may end in a pure consonant, is true if we write Konkani according to Kanarese. But if we do not take this into consideration, we may say that in Konkani words may occur ending in a pure consonant, as in European languages. Of course at the end of each word ending in a consonant, a kind of half vowel is, I may say, naturally pronounced; but this is not a thing peculiar to the Konkani language. This is one of tho reasons why the Kanarese alphabet, following the Kanarese rules, is not perfectly suitable to Konkani.

The consonants are the same as in Latin, except that

1. d, dh, n, l, t, th may have two sounds, i.e. either as in Latin (about dh, th see below) or a sound which is got by turning the tip of the tongue upwards, so as to touch the roof of the mouth far away from the front teeth. For this reason they may be called cerebral consonants. I shall mark these cerebral consonants with a dot under them, e.g. ṭ. The best way to pronounce, at least approximately, the cerebral sound of ḍ and ḍh is to pronounce it like the English r, viz. not full as in Latin, but half only. Yet this ḍ and ḍh do not always take such a sound, i.e. of the English r. Use will teach you.

2. k or c hard, g hard (as g in gallus), g soft (as g in genus, or as the English j), č soft (like c in cinis) t, ṭ, d, ḍ, p have two sounds, i.e. either as in Latin (and ṭ, ḍ, as explained above) or aspirated, as if there were an aspirated English or German h after the consonant, to be sounded distinctly from the preceding consonant, e.g. d'h. It is nearly expressed in the Irish pronunciation of the word which. I shall mark these consonants with an h written after them, e.g. th.

3. The Latin c and g may change in the same word, the soft sound into a hard sound : e.g. ager, agri; g, in the Nominative is soft, in the Genitive is hard. Not so in Konkani. If g in the Nominative has a soft sound, it keeps it in all cases; and if it has a hard sound, it keeps it in all cases. The same must be said of c hard or k and c soft. For the sake of dis-


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 "Perhaps Mr. Doubleday is a Frenchman and has eaten him," suggested the kittens.

And then, just when they were beginning to despair, Mr. Doubleday came out of the doorway. He was carrying Escargot on a piece of paper, which Escargot was carefully reading as he went along. The snail's eyes were stretched far out, he was reading the paper so attentively.

Fourchette's heart gave a jump, for as they got near she could see what the paper was. It was a contract, that is a promise, saying that the book would be published.

Mr. Doubleday was introduced to the others, and admired the wagon. He was impressed by the way the peanut roaster was steaming, which seemed to him to show a fine energy and enthusiasm. Dosoris kept trying to pull off his cap and hold out his hands, but Fourchette held him tight. Donny offered to give Mr. Doubleday a lift back to Oyster Bay in the wagon, but he said his car was waiting for him.

The animals were a little shy, knowing how much depended on Mr. Doubleday being pleased with them, but Escargot and the publisher were now on excellent terms.

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 "Get on with the book," said Mr. Doubleday, "and we'll publish it for you."

"We'll go right home and get to work," said Escargot. "Well, so long, Effendi."

They lit the red lantern and the peanut wagon rolled off toward Roslyn. They went by the back road, through the lonely fields, so that Donny could get out and have one of his barking fits.

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text: I Know a Secret

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Aug. 8. Saturday. Get home at 8.30

I find that B. M. Watson sent me from Plymouth, July 20th, six glow-worms, of which two remain, the rest having escaped. He says they were found by his family on the evenings of the 18th and 19th of July. "They are very scarce, these being the only ones we have found as yet. "They were mostly found on the way from the barn to James's cottage, under the wild cherry trees on the right hand, in the grass where it was very dry, and at considerable distance from each other. We have had no rain for a month."

Examining them by night, they are about three quarters of an inch long as they crawl. Looking down on one, it shows two bright dots near together on the head, and, along the body, nine transverse lines of light, succeeded by two more bright dots at the other extremity, wider apart than the first. There is also a bright dot on each side opposite the transverse lines. It is a greenish light, growing more green as the worm


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4 is brought into more light. A slumbering, glowing, inward light, as if shining for itself inward as much as outward. The other worm, which was at first curled up still and emitted a duller light, was one and one twentieth inches in length and also showed two dots of light only on the forward segment. When stretched out, as you look down on them, they have a square-edged look, like a row of buns joined together. Such is the ocular illusion. But whether stretched out or curled up, they look like some kind of rare and precious gem, so regularly marked, far more beautiful than a uniform mass of light would be.

Examining by day, I found the smallest to be seven eighths to one inch long, and the body about one sixth of an inch wide and from one thirteenth to one twelfth of an inch deep, convex above, pointed at head, broader at tail; head about one twentieth of an inch wide. Yet these worms were more nearly linear, or of a uniform breadth (being perhaps broadest at forward extremity), than the Lampyre represented in my French book, which is much the broadest behind and has also two rows of dots down the back. They have six light-brown legs within a quarter of an inch of the forward extremity. The worm is composed of twelve segments or overlapping scales, like the abdominal plates of a snake, and has a slight elastic projection (?) beneath at tail. It has also six short antennæ-like projections from the head, the two outer on each side the longest, the two inner very short. The general color above was a pale brownish yellow or buff; the head small and dark-brown; the antennæ chestnut and white; white or


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1857] whitish on sides and beneath. You could see a faint dorsal line. They were so transparent that you could see the internal motions when looking down on them.

I kept them in a sod, supplying a fresh one each day. They were invariably found underneath it by day, next the floor, still and curled up in a ring, with the head within or covered by the tail. Were apt to be restless on being exposed to the light. One that got away in the yard was found again ten feet off and down cellar.

What kind are these?

In the account of the Glow-worm in Rees's Cyclopædia it is said, "The head is small, flat, hard, and black, and sharp towards the mouth; it has short antennæ, and six moderately long legs; the body is flat and Is composed of twelve rings, whereas the body of the male consists only of five; it is of a dusky color, with a streak of white down the back."

Knapp, in "Journal of a Naturalist," speaks of "the luminous caudal spot" of the Lampyris noctiluca.

Speaking with Dr. Reynolds about the phosphorescence which I saw in Maine, etc., etc., he said that he had seen the will-o'-the-wisp, a small blue flame, like burning alcohol, a few inches in diameter, over a bog, which moved when the bog was shaken.

Aug. 9. Sunday. I see the blackbirds flying in flocks (which did not when I went away July 20th) and hear the shrilling of my alder locust.


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On the Necessity for Native Schools, - - - 5

On the Kind of Knowledge proper to be communicated, - 10

On the most effectual Means of doing - - 20

Brief account of what has been already done towards realizing the plan; with the Outline of an Institution for Native Schools, -- -33


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Author:Edith Bishop Sherman

Novels

 * Mistress Madcap (1925)
 * Mistress Madcap Surrenders (1926)
 * Milady at Arms (1927)
 * Upstairs, Downstairs (1928)

title: Author:Edith Bishop Sherman


text:
Author:Caroline Crowninshield Bascom

Works

 * The Bird Hospital (1905)

title: Author:Caroline Crowninshield Bascom


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 tinction I shall write the soft g, j. But this j must be pronounced sometimes rather like č (which sound can be explained only orally) or thinner than the English j. The hard g I shall write g. For the same reason I shall write the soft c, č, and the hard c, k. So there is no necessity of a pure c; for its two sounds are expressed either by č or by k; yet, wherever c occurs it must be pronounced according to the Latin, namely before a, o, u as k, before e, i as č. To express, if required, the Latin j, I shall use the English y.

4. In Konkani there are five similar sounds, namely the first as a hard s (as in assis), the second a soft s (as in rosa), the third a hard z (as in Ital. sazio), the fourth a soft z (as in Zephirus or zio), the fifth a very strong z (as in German Zeit). The first and second sounds very seldom occur; but the others are very frequent. In order to simplify, I will not introduce signs for the first and second sound; where they occur, I shall mark expressely their sounds. I mark the hard z by s, the soft z by z only, the German z by tz or ts or tč.

This s may have many degrees, i.e., from a sharp Latin s to the hard Italian z. For the sake of simplicity, I express all these sounds from the sharp Latin s to the hard Italian z by s, leaving those degrees to be learned by practice.

5. The Latin sound expressed by the Latin sc in scientia, and in English by sh, I will express by š.

6. In Konkani there occurs at every step the nasal sound expressed in Kanarese by ಂ. If this sound occurs in the middle of a word, it does not differ much from m or n. So in order to simplify, in the middle of a word I shall write it by m or n. But at the end of a word, it has also the same sound, namely, of an indistinct m or pronounced through the nose; but as in Latin a final m or n has not such a sound, I shall mark this nasal sound at the end of a word by m̃ or ñ.

7. The Latin compound consonant gn as in magnus, is usually pronounced, separating both consonants, as if it were written g-n or, as they pronounce it in German, e.g. Ig-natius. So in order to make this clearer, I write the two consonants


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text: Harveian Oration for 1838

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Rh a still clearer light in the same epistle, where he thus speaks: "But when the fulness of time was come, God sent forth His Son, made of a woman." For indeed the enemy would not have been fairly vanquished, unless it had been a man [born] of woman who conquered him. For it was by means of a woman that he got the advantage over man at first, setting himself up as man's opponent. And therefore does the Lord profess Himself to be the Son of man, comprising in Himself that original man out of whom the woman was fashioned (ex quo ea quæ secundum mulierem est plasmatio facta est), in order that, as our species went down to death through a vanquished man, so we may ascend to life again through a victorious one; and as through a man death received the palm [of victory] against us, so again by a man we may receive the palm against death.

2. Now the Lord would not have recapitulated in Himself that ancient and primary enmity against the serpent, fulfilling the promise of the Creator (Demiurgi), and performing His command, if He had come from another Father. But as He is one and the same, who formed us at the beginning, and sent His Son at the end, the Lord did perform His command, being made of a woman, by both destroying our adversary, and perfecting man after the image and likeness of God. And for this reason He did not draw the means of confounding him from any other source than from the words of the law, and made use of the Father's commandment as a help towards the destruction and confusion of the apostate angel. Fasting forty days, like Moses and Elias, He afterwards hungered, first, in order that we may perceive that He was a real and substantial man—for it belongs to a man to suffer hunger when fasting; and secondly, that His opponent might have an opportunity of attacking Him. For as at the beginning it was by means of food that [the enemy] persuaded man, although not suffering hunger, to transgress God's commandments, so in the end he did not succeed in persuading Him that was an hungered to take that food which proceeded from God. For, when tempting


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1. The following translation was intended for beginners; wherefore it is very literal, and here and there not well agreeing with the nature of Konkani; if it had been somewhat free, as it should be apart from such necessity, the beginners could not have found in the English translation the Konkani sentence. This aim must be kept in view in order to judge about this translation. I grant that a freer translation would have been more Konkani.

2. The words between brackets are not words of the Holy Bible but explanations inserted by me when the literal translation was not sufficient to convey a clear notion. Such explanations, together with the footnotes, have been taken either from Menochio or from the English Douay Version.

3. In the translation with Kanarese letters I introduce three new signs in order the better to express thereby the Konkani sounds. These are ಜ಼ = z, ಚ಼ = ts; ಁ above the consonant to express ụ or ạ (half vowel). This ಁ has been used already in such a way by the Basel Mission Press of Mangalore; see Polyglot Vocabulary, p. xv. The simple ಜ = j, ಚ = č. I use ್ for the Sanskrit "virāma", i.e. as a sign of the absence of any vowel or half vowel, as in Kanarese too this ್ has such a meaning.

4. For the sake of convenience I put first the Kanarese alphabet.


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 of progress were both travelling at the same impetuous rate of speed. In the end, indeed, it was probably the age that dropped behind. For a symbol of the Queen's position we must rather recur to the image of a stretch of scenery, in which she was as a mountain so huge and familiar that its disappearance would make the landscape round our own door seem like a land of strangers. She had an inspired genius for the familiarising virtues; her sympathy and sanity made us feel at home even in an age of revolutions. That indestructible sense of security which for good and evil is so typical of our nation, that almost scornful optimism which, in the matter of ourselves, cannot take peril or even decadence seriously, reached by far its highest and healthiest form in the sense that we were watched over by one so thoroughly English in her silence and self-control, in her shrewd trustfulness and her brilliant inaction. Over and above those sublime laws of labour and pity by which she ordered her life, there are a very large number of minor intellectual matters in which we might learn a lesson from

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 the Queen. There is one especially which is increasingly needed in an age when moral claims become complicated and hysterical. That Queen Victoria was a model of political unselfishness is well known; it is less often remarked that few modern people have an unselfishness so completely free from morbidity, so fully capable of deciding a moral question without exaggerating its importance. No eminent person of our time has been so utterly devoid of that disease of self-assertion which is often rampant among the unselfish. She had one most rare and valuable faculty, the faculty of letting things pass—Acts of Parliament and other things. Her predecessors, whether honest men or knaves, were attacked every now and then with a nightmare of despotic responsibility; they suddenly conceived that it rested with them to save the world and the Protestant Constitution. Queen Victoria had far too much faith in the world to try to save it. She knew that Acts of Parliament, even bad Acts of Parliament, do not destroy nations. But she knew that ignorance, ill-temper, tyranny, and

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 officiousness do destroy nations, and not upon any provocation would she set an example in these things. We fancy that this sense of proportion, this largeness and coolness of intellectual magnanimity is the one of the thousand virtues of Queen Victoria of which the near future will stand most in need. We are gaining many new mental powers, and with them new mental responsibilities. In psychology, in sociology, above all in education, we are learning to do a great many clever things. Unless we are much mistaken the next great task will be to learn not to do them. If that time comes, assuredly we cannot do better than turn once more to the memory of the great Queen who for seventy years followed through every possible tangle and distraction the fairy thread of common sense.

We are suffering just now from an outbreak of the imagination which exhibits itself in politics and the most unlikely places. The German Emperor, for example, is neither a tyrant nor a lunatic, as used to be absurdly represented; he is simply a minor poet; and he feels just as any minor poet would feel if he

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 versaries could adduce no proof that his affected ignorance of the discovery of Cesalpino was a mere pretence (p. 172). Ceradini quotes the well- known passage in which Harvey expresses his fear lest, through the novelty of his discovery, he should have all mankind for his enemies (Coll. ed., p. 47; Dr. Willis's trans., p. 45); and on this he makes the following comment: With- out doubt by these subterfuges the Englishman designed to usurp for himself the glory of a discoverer.'¹

Harvey's hostile critic asserts that his doc- trine of the general circulation was based almost exclusively on the presence of valves in the veins (p. 275), which had been first discovered, or at any rate more fully demonstrated and described, by Harvey's anatomical master, Fabricius; and Ceradini affirms that this evidence in support of the doctrine of the circulation is all that Harvey

Nessun dubio che con questi sotterfugi l'Inglese mirasse ad usurpare il vanto di scopritore' (p. 175). It is interesting to note that Harvey's fears were not without reason. John Aubrey tells us he had heard him (Harvey) say that after his book on the "circulation of the blood came out, he fell mightily in his practice; 'twas belicred by the vulgar that he was crack-brained, and all the physitians were against him.'-Dr. R. Willis's William Harvey, p. 165. 39


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 ries and veins, was supposed to be of a to-and- fro character. From the time of Aristotle to that of Cesalpino, and, as we shall presently see, by Cesalpino himself, this movement was compared to the tides of Euripus--that is, to the ebb and flow of the tide in a narrow channel. This, then, was the state of knowledge, or rather of igno- rance, with regard to the movement of blood in the systemic vessels before the publication of Cesalpino's writings. We have now to inquire to what extent he succeeded in throwing light upon the subject.

With regard to the structure of the heart and its valves, Cesalpino says that it is so arranged as to allow of continuous motion from the veins to the heart, and from the heart to the arteries.¹ In these statements there was nothing new. In the chapter ' De Pulmonis Constitutione' lie 2 the says

¹ 'Ut continuus quidam motus fieret ex venis in cor et ex corde in arterias.'--Speculum Artis Medice, lib. vi. cap. xix., ed. 1670, P. 473.

2 Fertur igitur ex corde sanguis fervidus per arteriam ex dextro ventriculo, quam Galen venam arterialem vocat, in pulmonem iterumque cordi redditur per venam ex sinistro ventriculo pro- deuntem, quam Galen arteriam venalem vocat. Interim in itinere contemperatur ab aere frigido inspirato in asperas arterias juxta venas et arterias, ut circulatione quadam sanguis perficiatur in naturam spiritus, prins in dextro ventriculo deinde in sinistro.


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 should be continued and pass out from the brain to the organs of sense; but nothing is seen to pass out of the brain but the nerves; the nerves, therefore, must be these numerous venules, col- lected, not into one common canal, but into a body composed of many and most minute canals. Therefore a nerve is divisible lengthways, for the venules terminate in straight fibres constituting the nerves." This Cesalpino says is Aristotle's doctrine, and he asks: What can be more clear than this dictum, for a nerve is nothing more than the extremities of the aorta-some taking the nature of nerves in the head, that is, in the brain; others about the lower parts, that is, in the limbs and joints of the whole body.'1

fissilis est nervus secundum longitudinem: nam venulæ in fibras rectas desinunt nervos constituentes'-p. 120 D.

1 'Quid potest hoe dicto clarius esse? nihil enim aliud est nervus quam extrema aortæ, alia quidem in capite, id est in cerebro naturam norvi accipientia, alia autem circa imas partes, id est circa crura et articulos totius corporis. . . . Sententia igitur est Aris- toteles ex aorta ad caput tendente oriri nervos cerebri Meatus igitur quos scribit Aristoteles ad oculos pervenire ex venulis que sunt circa cerebrum, quid aliud sunt quam nervi appellati vi- sorii? Stultum autem est credere non esse meatus, si quis amplum quemdam canalem in ipsis non percipiat. Ut enim capillum per- foratum esse seimus, non tamen visui ob parvitatem meatus apparet, sic nervos ex aliis signis fistulosos esse cognoscimus, visui tamen non sunt manifesti meatus '-120 E. F.


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 first revealed by Harvey, there would have been no need to resort to such a patchwork proceeding as this, which does no credit to its author, Dr. Del Vita, or to the orator, Dr. Maggiorani, who refers to the lecture with approval. It is mani- fest that by stringing together isolated words and sentences the doctrine of the circulation might be extracted from the Pentateuchi or from any other ancient writings.

At the risk, and, I almost fear, at the cost of being tedious, I have made these numerous quotations from Cesalpino's various writings, in order to prove by his ipsissima verba what was the amount of his knowledge with regard to the systemic circulation.

I think that I have shown conclusively that great and various as were his acquirements in different departments of natural science, more especially in botany, in which science he had the merit of great originality, as regards the physiology of the circulation his information was not in advance of that possessed by his immediate predecessors and contemporaries. It will have been seen that Professor Ceradini relies mainly upon three distinct pieces of evidence to establish