“What is it, Billy?”

[Illustration:  “We sit in the same row,” said Mabel.]

“Tell us, Billy.”

“It’s—­somebody that’s come there—­”

“What for?”

“To stay, I guess.  Acts that way.”

“Friends of the folks?”

“No, we’ve never seen ’em before.”

“Do you mean some kind of a tramp?”

“What’s he doing?”

“Seems to be building a house.”

“A house?  Well, that sounds queer.”

“Whereabouts?”

“In my father’s back yard.”

“Billy, you’re joking.”

“It’s as true as I stand here.”

“Well, go on and tell more about it.  Did he skulk ’round as if he was afraid?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“Did he see you?”

“Well,” Billy hesitated a little.  “I didn’t go so very near him.”

“That’s best for you,” one of the boys shook his head wisely.  “You never can tell what these tramp fellows may be up to.”

“How do you mean—­building?”

“Just what I say.  He was picking up things in the yard to build with.  Stuff to begin with.”

“Your father’s stuff?”

“Yes.”

“What does your father think of it?”

“I don’t believe he’s seen him.  Father goes to work early.”

“Of course he’ll drive him off.”

“Another one came and helped him,” said Billy.  “They were both working hard when I came to school.”

“Billy, you’re fooling us.”

“You can come and see for yourselves,” said Billy.  “You can see if it isn’t exactly as I’ve said.”

“Let’s do it.”

It was agreed, and after school a number of small boys took with him the road leading to Billy’s home.  As they went in by the shady back yard, Billy held up his hand, saying: 

“S-h-h-h-h—­don’t scare ’em!  Now—­come this way—­look up there!”

Billy led the way into a corner and pointed up into an oak tree.

“There—­right above that branch—­see?  They’ve got their sticks for the foundation, and now they’re finishing up.  Quick—­see that flash of blue just where the sun shines!  Look! look! they’re pulling at that bit of red yarn—­I put it up there.  My mother always hangs bits of string about for ’em.  My mother likes blue-birds.”—­Written for Dew Drops by Sydney Dare.

* * * * *

When anyone speaks to us in anger, we should remember that it takes two to make a quarrel, and determine not to become one of the two.

* * * * *

ENID’S FLOWERS

[Illustration]

BY MARY E. Q. BRUSH

The first robin had come, so had the first bluebird and the first hand-organ man; caterpillars were beginning to crawl along the sunny side of the fence rails and everybody was housecleaning, so it was quite certain that spring was here.