Winona meant to pique and inspire Wilbur to new endeavour with these tales, which, for a good purpose, she took the liberty of embellishing where they seemed to invite it—­as how the Whipples were often heard to wish that the other twin had been as good and well-mannered a boy as Merle—­who did not use tobacco in any form—­so they might have adopted him, too.  Winona was perhaps never to understand that Wilbur could not picture himself as despised and rejected.  His assertion that he had not wished to be adopted by any Whipples she put down to envious bravado.  Had he not from afar on more than one occasion beheld his brother riding the prophesied pony?  But he would have felt embarrassed at meeting his brother now face to face.  He liked to see him at a distance, on the wonderful pony, or being driven in the cart with other Whipples, and he felt a great pride that he should have been thus exalted.  But he was shyly determined to have no contact with this splendid being.

When school began in the fall he was again constrained to the halls of learning.  He would have preferred not to go to school, finding the free outer life of superior interest; but he couldn’t learn the good loose trade without improving his knowledge of the printed word—­though he had not been warned that printers must be informed about fractions, or even long division—­but Winona being his teacher it was impracticable to be absent on private affairs even for a day without annoying consequences.

During the long summer every day but Sunday had been a Saturday in all essentials; now, though the hillsides blazed with autumn colour, ripe nuts were dropping, the mornings sparkled a frosty invitation, and there was a provocative tang of brush fires in the keen air, he must earn his Saturdays, and might even of these earn but one in a long week.  Sunday, to be sure, had the advantage of no school, but it had the disadvantage of church attendance, where one fell sleepy while the minister scolded; and Sunday afternoon, even if one might fare abroad, was clouded by reminders of the imminent Monday morning.  It was rather a relief when snow came to shroud the affable woods, bringing such cold that one might as well be in a schoolroom as any place; when, as Winona put down in her journal, the vale of Newbern was “locked in winter’s icy embrace,” and poor old Judge Penniman was compelled to while away the long forenoons with his feet on a stock of wood in the kitchen oven.

From Dave Cowan came picture postcards addressed to his son, gay-coloured scenes of street life or public buildings, and on these Dave had written, “Having a good time, hope you are the same.”  One of them portrayed a scene of revelry by night, and was entitled Sans Souci Dance Hall, Denver, Colorado.  Winona bribed this away from the recipient with money.  She wished Dave would use better judgment—­choose the picture of some good church or a public library.