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“Yes, I s’pose we can listen to you scramble up and down the piano keys all night, but if I do anything it’s another story.” Betty was thoroughly engrossed in her subject. Her story was entirely of birds and flowers and fairies. True, the pictures did not realize in their movements the lightning-like rapidity of “really truly” moving pictures, but they moved as fast as the young eyes that followed them could wish. “It looks jist as ef the sun had crept into that corner at larst,” she decided..

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“This,” said Betty, showing the picture of a robin, “is a wormivorious bird.” Henry, the rooster, from his vantage point on a beam crowed lustily, but Betty ignored his remark. A pretty little figger, “They’ll have to be done before vacation or not at all,” he answered, so seriously that May Nell wondered a little; wondered still more as the moments passed and the dark room grew very quiet. She did not know what purpose was growing in Billy’s mind, a purpose that largely concerned herself. “St. Elmo’s lost, Ma,” wailed Maria. “We can’t find him and he’s wandered down the creek.”.