of her own age, though each reflecting that the children were much better company in the long run.  The children themselves were playing games, with gusts of laughter and little shrieks and shouts of glee.  They had had “Horned Lady,” and Willy’s head was a forest of paper horns, skilfully twisted.  Hugh had just gone triumphantly through the whole list, “a sneezing elephant, a punch in the head, a rag, a tatter, a good report, a bad report, a cracked saucepan, a fuzzy tree-toad, a rat-catcher, a well-greaved Greek, etc., etc., etc.

“There are no thoughts in this game, beloved,” said the child when he had finished, turning to Hildegarde.  “My head turns round, but it is empty inside.”

“Good for Hugh!” cried Phil.  “Just the same with me, Hugh.  It makes me feel all fuzzy inside my head, like the tree-toad.”

“You are like a tree-toad!” said Gerald.  “That is the resemblance that has haunted me, and I could not make it out, because as a rule tree-toads are not fuzzy.  I thank thee, Jew—­I mean Hugh—­for teaching me that word.  My brother, the tree-toad!  Every one will know whom I mean.”

“Just as they know you as the ’one as is a little wantin’,” retorted Phil.  “Just think, Miss Hilda, Jerry and I spent a week together at a house at Pemaquid, and Jerry left his sponge behind him when he came away.  Well, and when the captain of the tug brought it over to the island where the rest of us were, he said one of the boys had left it, the one as was a little wantin’.  And he said it was a pity about him, and asked if there warn’t nothin’ they could do for his wits.”

“That was because he heard me reciting my Greek cram to the cow,” said Gerald.  “Most responsive animal I ever saw, that cow, and mooed in purest Attic every time I twisted her tail.  And how about the pitch-kettle, my gentle shepherd?  Was I ever seen, I ask the assembled family,—­was I ever seen with a pitch-kettle on my head instead of a hat?”

“Oh, Hilda!” exclaimed Bell; “you ought to have seen Phil.  He had been pitching the canoe,—­this was ever so long ago, of course,—­ and he thought it would be great fun to put the pitch-kettle on his head.  He thought it was quite dry, you see.  So he did, and went round with it for a little, so pleased and amused; and then he saw some ladies coming, and tried to take it off, and it wouldn’t come.  Oh dear! how we did laugh!”

“Yes, Miss Hilda, I should think they did!” cried Phil, indignantly.  “Sat there and chuckled like great apes, instead of helping a fellow.  And I had to crawl under barrels for about half a mile, so that those people wouldn’t see me.”

“Poor Phil!” cried compassionate Hildegarde.  “And did you get it off at last?”

“First we tried butter,” he said, “but that wouldn’t stir it.  Then they gave me a bath of sweet oil, and put flour in my hair, and hot water, and turtle soup, and I don’t know what not; and the more things they did, the faster the old thing stuck.  So at last we had to call the Mater, and she took the scissors and cut it off.”