ust plodded along, and did
what Pop said. He was laughing, and joking, and flourishing his cane;
but, oh, how tired we were! How our hands and our feet and our hearts
ached, and how sickening it all was! The most sickening of anything was
to hear Pop laugh and carry on all the time, as if this was the cream of
the joke. I tell you, we were all mad enough; and when we got to old
Jake Van Couter's, we just rebelled. We all hated Jake, anyhow; and Tom
Jones he stood right out in the road, and said Jake was a mean old
curmudgeon; and then Pop got hold of Tom before we knew it, and down
came his cane with a whack.

"Now, boys," says Pop, "fun's fun, and I'm as fond of it as anybody, but
I don't see any use of spoiling a good time in this kind of way. Jake
couldn't put that gate back, to save his life, and it goes to my heart
to hear hard words against the poor old man. He's bent double with
rheumatism, he's old and he's poor, and he's no subject for your fun.
Take a fellow like me if you want fun. I don't mind it. Do what you like
to me, but spare poor old _Jake_."

Well, we just looked at one another in mute disgust, but we didn't care
to dispute any further with Pop. We plunked along that nasty old
freezing road, and we yanked Uncle Jake's gate out of the mud, and
carried it half a mile, our nails hanging off, and tears of rage and
mortification rolling down our cheeks, with Pop laughing like a good one
all the while, declaring that he didn't see how anybody _could_ be so
hard on boys; they _would_ have their fun, and for his part he thought
it did them good, and it took him back to his youth again; he hadn't had
such a spree for many a year.

We groaned and looked at each other, and each of us dropped off silently
and gloomily at our separate doors. A whole month has gone by without a
proposition for fun of any kind, and I'll leave it to anybody if it
ain't enough to disgust a fellow to have Pop winking at me behind his
hand, and telling me to count him in for the next racket.

ALMOST TIME!

Almost time for the pretty white daisies
Out of their sleep to awaken at last,
And over the meadows, with grasses and clover,
To bud and to blossom, and grow so fast.
Almost time for the buttercups yellow,
The ferns and the flowers, the roses and all,
To waken from slumber, and merrily hasten
To gladden our hearts at the spring's first call.

Almost time for the skies to grow bluer,
And