kiddie car
and continued to smile pleasantly.

The four Blossoms trudged briskly along. If you had ever lived in Oak
Hill you would have known them. The whole town knew Meg and Bobby and
Dot and Twaddles, and the children knew nearly every one, having lived
in that one place all their short lives.

Bobby was the oldest. He was seven, and was remarkably like his sister
Meg in looks. Both had fair hair and blue eyes. Meg's real name was
Margaret Alice Blossom, and she was named for her mother. Bobby's full
name was Robert Hayward Blossom. He was just a year older than Meg.

The twins were the funniest and dearest little couple, four years old
and as roly-poly, happy-go-lucky a pair of youngsters as ever tumbled
into one scrape after another and out again. They were known as Dot
and Twaddles to all their friends, but, of course, they had "real"
names like other children. Dot was named for an aunt, Dorothy Anna
Blossom, and Twaddles was Arthur Gifford Blossom, if you please. Only
no one ever called him that.

The Blossom children lived at the very tip end of the long straggling
street that divided Oak Hill into two sections; in fact the Blossoms'
rambling, comfortable old house was almost outside the town limits.
Father Blossom owned the big foundry on the other side of the
railroad.

"I'll go in," said Bobby, when they reached the post-office. "You wait
here."

He disappeared into the yellow wooden building that was the Oak Hill
post-office, and the other Blossoms, seeing a stalled car, stopped to
watch the troubles of the interurban motorman whose trolley-car was
blocked by a dog that apparently wanted to be run over.

The motorman clanged his bell and a boy on the curbstone whistled
shrilly, but the dog refused to budge. He only rolled over on his
side.

"He's hurt," said Meg. "See, his foot drags. I'll get him off."

She dashed out into the street and bent over the poor animal. Meg was
"just crazy," her brothers said, about animals, and she was never
afraid of any four-footed creature. Now, as she leaned over the little
dog, he began to lick her hand with his rough tongue.

"His leg's broken," Meg said pityingly to the conductor and the
motorman who had joined her. "Oh, the poor doggie! But Doctor Maynard
will fix it."

There was a crowd now gathered on the car tracks, and Bobby, who had
come out of the post-office and heard from the twins what was going
on, pushed his way through to his sister.

"You h