re as here, nor half so many things to do, simple,
healthful, homely, interesting things to do, as good for them as books
and food and sleep--these last things to be had here, too, in great
abundance.

What could take the place of the cow and hens in the city? The hens
are Mansie's (he is the oldest) and the cow is mine. But night after
night last winter I would climb the Hill to see the barn lighted, and
in the shadowy stall two little human figures--one squat on an upturned
bucket milking, his milk-pail, too large to be held between his knees,
lodged perilously under the cow upon a half-peck measure; the other
little human figure quietly holding the cow's tail.

No head is turned; not a squeeze is missed--this is _business_ here in
the stall,--but as the car stops behind the scene, Babe calls--

"Hello, Father!"

"Hello, Babe!"

"Three teats done," calls Mansie, his head down, butting into the old
cow's flank. "You go right in, we 'll be there. She has n't kicked
but once!"

Perhaps that is n't a good thing for those two little boys to
do--watering, feeding, brushing, milking the cow on a winter night in
order to save me--and loving to! Perhaps that is n't a good thing for
me to see them doing, as I get home from the city on a winter night!

But I am a sentimentalist and not proof at all against two little boys
milking, who are liable to fall into the pail.

Meantime the two middlers had shoveled out the road down to the
mail-box on the street so that I ran up on bare earth, the very wheels
of the car conscious of the love behind the shovels, of the speed and
energy it took to get the long job done before I should arrive.

"How did she come up?" calls Beebum as he opens the house door for me,
his cheeks still glowing with the cold and exercise.

"Did we give you wide enough swing at the bend?" cries Bitsie, seizing
the bag of bananas.

"Oh, we sailed up--took that curve like a bird--didn't need
chains--just like a boulevard right into the barn!"

"It's a fearful night out, is n't it?" she says, taking both of my
hands in hers, a touch of awe, a note of thankfulness in her voice.

"Bad night in Boston!" I exclaim. "Trains late, cars stalled--streets
blocked with snow. I 'm mighty glad to be out here a night like this."

"Woof! Woof!"--And Babe and Pup are at the kitchen door with the pail
of milk, shaking themselves free from snow.

"Where is Mansie?" his mother asks.

"He just ran down to h