s my Mother who gave us the big sheet of brown paper to make our
sign. My brother Carol mixed the paint. I mixed the letters. It was a
nice sign. We nailed it on the barn where everybody who went by could
see it. It said:

"Carol and Ruthy.
Dealers in Dogs who
Can't Sleep."

Nobody dealt with us. We were pretty discouraged.

We asked the Grocer if he had a little dog who couldn't sleep. We asked
the Postman. We asked the Butcher. They hadn't.

We asked the old whiskery man who came every Spring to buy old bottles
and papers. HE HAD!

He brought the dog on a dungeon chain. He said if we'd give him fifty
cents for the dungeon chain we could have the dog for nothing.

It seemed like a very good bargain.

Our Father lent us the fifty cents.

He was a nice dog. We named him Tiger Lily. His hair was red and smooth
as Sunday all except his paws and ears. His paws and ears were sort of
rumpled. His eyes were gold and very sweet like keepsakes you must never
spend. He had a sad tail. He was a setter dog. He was meant to hunt. But
he couldn't hunt because he was so shy. It was guns that he was so shy
about.

Our Mother invited us to wash him. He washed very nicely.

We wrote our triumph to our Uncle Peter and asked him to send us the
fifty dollars.

Our Uncle Peter came instead in an automobile and took Tiger Lily and
Carol and me to the city.

"Of course he isn't exactly a 'little dog,'" we admitted. "But at least
he's a dog! And at least he 'can't sleep'!"

"Well--I wonder," said our Uncle Peter. He seemed very pleased to wonder
about it. He twisted his head on one side and looked at Tiger Lily.
"What do you mean,--'doesn't sleep'?" he said.

Because my brother Carol is dumb and never talks I always have to do the
explaining. It was easy to explain about Tiger Lily.

"Why when you're in bed and fast asleep," I explained, "he comes and
puts his nose in your neck! It feels wet! It's full of sighs and a cool
breeze! It makes you jump and want your Mother!--All the rest of the
time at night he's roaming! And prowling! And s'ploring!--Up the front
stairs and down the back--and up the front and down the back!--Every
window he comes to he stops and listens! And listens!--His toe-nails
have never been cut!--It sounds lonely!"

"What does he seem to be listening for?" said our Uncle Peter.

"Listening for gun-bangs," I explained.

"O--h," said our Uncle Peter.

The city was full of noises like gun-b