office. Do they call them officers because they
work in offices, Uncle Jed?"

After an hour's walking about they went back to the place where
they had left the boat and Jed set about making the chowder.
Barbara watched him build the fire and open the clams, but then,
growing tired of sitting still, she was seized with an idea.

"Uncle Jed," she asked, "can't you whittle me a shingle boat? You
know you did once at our beach at home. And there's the cunningest
little pond to sail it on. Mamma would let me sail it there, I
know, 'cause it isn't a bit deep. You come and see, Uncle Jed."

The "pond" was a puddle, perhaps twenty feet across, left by the
outgoing tide. Its greatest depth was not more than a foot. Jed
absent-mindedly declared the pond to be safe enough but that he
could not make a shingle boat, not having the necessary shingle.

"Would you if you had one?" persisted the young lady.

"Eh? . . . Oh, yes, sartin, I guess so."

"All right. Here is one. I picked it up on top of that little
hill. I guess it blew there. It's blowing ever so much harder up
there than it is here on the beach."

The shingle boat being hurriedly made, its owner begged for a paper
sail. "The other one you made me had a paper sail, Uncle Jed."

Jed pleaded that he had no paper. "There's some wrapped 'round the
lunch," he said, "but it's all butter and such. 'Twouldn't be any
good for a sail. Er--er--don't you think we'd better put off
makin' the sail till we get home or--or somewheres? This chowder
is sort of on my conscience this minute."

Babbie evidently did not think so. She went away on an exploring
expedition. In a few minutes she returned, a sheet of paper in her
hand.

"It was blowing around just where I found the shingle," she
declared. "It's a real nice place to find things, up on that hill
place, Uncle Jed."

Jed took the paper, looked at it absently--he had taken off his
coat during the fire-building and his glasses were presumably in
the coat pocket--and then hastily doubled it across, thrust the
mast of the "shingle boat" through it at top and bottom, and handed
the craft to his small companion.

"There!" he observed; "there she is, launched, rigged and all but
christened. Call her the--the 'Geranium'--the 'Sunflower'--what's
the name of that doll baby of yours? Oh, yes, the 'Petunia.' Call
her that and set her afloat."

But Barbara shook her head.

"I think," she said, "if you don't m