took my clay bird and molded it into a hen,
so that they would look at me whether they listened or not. Of course,
one of the big seven-year-old boys began to whisper and be restless,
but I handed him a large lump of clay and asked him to make a nest and
some eggs for my hen, and that soon absorbed his attention. They
listened so nicely,--you can hardly believe how nicely they listened!
When I finished I looked at the clock. It had been nine minutes, and I
could n't think what to do the other dreadful minutes till Miss Denison
should come back. At last my eye fell on the blackboard, and that gave
me an idea. I drew a hen's beak and then a duck's, a hen's foot and
then a duck's, to show them the difference. Just then Miss Denison
came in softly, and I confess I was bursting with pride and delight.
There was the blackboard with the sketches, not very good ones, it is
true, the clay hen and nest and eggs, and all the children sitting
quietly in their wee red chairs. And Miss Denison said, 'How charming
of you to carry out the idea of the morning so nicely! My dear little
girl, you were made for this sort of thing, did you know it?'"

"Well, I should n't think you had patience enough for any sort of
teaching," said Margery candidly.

"Neither did I suppose so myself, and I have n't any patience to spare,
that is, for boarders, or dishes, or beds; but I love children so
dearly that they never try my patience as other things do."

"You have had the play side of the kindergarten, Polly, while Miss
Denison had the care. There must be a work-a-day side to it; I'm sure
Miss Denison very often looks tired to death."

"Of course!" cried Polly. "I know it 's hard work; but who cares
whether a thing is hard or not, if one loves it? I don't mind work; I
only mind working at something I dislike and can never learn to like.
Why, Margery, at the Sunday-school picnics you go off in the broiling
sun and sit on a camp-chair and sketch, while I play Fox and Geese with
the children, and each of us pities the other and thinks she must be
dying with heat. It 's just the difference between us! You carry your
easel and stool and paint-boxes and umbrella up the steepest hill, and
never mind if your back aches; I bend over Miss Denison's children with
their drawing or building, and never think of my back-ache, do you see?"

"Yes; but I always keep up my spirits by thinking that though I may be
tired and discouraged, it is worth wh