of his health and his natural tendencies. It proved to all the world
that in Bud we had a real boy; an honest-to-goodness boy who could spill
ink--and _would_, if you didn't keep a close watch on him.

Then came the toy period of our development. The once tidy house became
a place where angels would have feared to tread in the dark. Building
blocks and trains of cars and fire engines and a rocking horse were
everywhere, to trip the feet of the unwary. Mother scolded about it, at
times; and I fear I myself have muttered harsh things when, late at
night, I have entered the house only to stumble against the tin sides of
an express wagon.

But I have come to see that toys in a house are its real adornments.
There is no pleasanter sight within the front door of any man's castle
than the strewn and disordered evidences that children there abide. The
house seems unfurnished without them.

This chaos still exists in our house to-day. Mother says I encourage it.
Perhaps I do. I know that I dread the coming day when the home shall
become neat and orderly and silent and precise. What is more, I live in
horror of the day when I shall have to sit down to a meal and not send a
certain little fellow away from the table to wash his hands. That has
become a part of the ceremonial of my life. When the evening comes that
he will appear for dinner, clean and immaculate, his shirt buttoned
properly and his hair nicely brushed, perhaps Mother will be proud of
him; but as for me, there will be a lump in my throat--for I shall know
that he has grown up.

Financially, we were progressing. We had a little more "to do with," as
Mother expressed it; but sorrow and grief and anxiety were not through