hing more than mere living because spring had come.

Upon the topmost tip of the taller of the twin poplars that flanked the
picket gate opening upon the Gwynnes' little garden sat a robin, his
head thrown back to give full throat to the song that was like to burst
his heart, monotonous, unceasing, rapturous. On the door step of the
Gwynnes' house, arrested on the threshold by the robin's song, stood the
Gwynne boy of ten years, his eager face uplifted, himself poised like a
bird for flight.

"Law-r-ence," clear as a bird call came the voice from within.

"Mo-th-er," rang the boy's voice in reply, high, joyous and shrill.

"Ear-ly! Remember!"

"Ri-ght a-way af-ter school. Good-bye, mo-ther, dear," called the boy.

"W-a-i-t," came the clear, birdlike call again, and in a moment the
mother came running, stood beside the boy, and followed his eye to the
robin on the poplar tree. "A brave little bird," she said. "That is
the way to meet the day, with a brave heart and a bright song. Goodbye,
boy." She kissed him as she spoke, giving him a slight pat on the
shoulder. "Away you go."

But the boy stood fascinated by the bird so gallantly facing his day.
His mother's words awoke in him a strange feeling. "A brave heart and a
bright song"--so the knights in the brave days of old, according to his
Stories of the Round Table, were wont to go forth. In imitation of the
bird, the boy threw back his head, and with another cheery good-bye to
his mother, sprang clear of the steps and ran down the grass edged path,
through the gate and out onto the village street. There he stood first
looking up the country road which in the village became a street. There
was nothing to be seen except that in the Martin orchard "Ol' Martin"
was working with his team under the trees which came in rows down to
the road. Finding nothing to interest him there, he turned toward the
village and his eyes searched the street. Opposite the Gwynnes' gate,
Dr. Bush's house stood back among the trees, but there was no sign of
life about it. Further down on the same side of the street, the Widow
Martin's cottage, with porch vine covered and windows bright with
flowers, hid itself under a great spreading maple. In front of the
cottage the Widow Martin herself was busy in the garden. He liked the
Widow Martin but found her not sufficiently exciting to hold him this
spring morning. A vacant lot or two and still on the same side came the
blacksmith's shop just at