she can never forget it and dreams of it quite
often. And Olga is not what you would call emotional. She told me, as
she dried her hands and hung up the dish-pan, that she can still see her
people staring down at what was left of that plate of poisoned death
cups, which had turned quite black, almost as black as the dead man she
saw them lift up on the dirty bed.

_Monday the Twelfth_

Yesterday was Sunday and Olga in her best bib and tucker sat out in the
sun with Dinky-Dink. She seemed perfectly happy merely to hold him. I
looked out, to make sure he was all right, for a few days before Olga
had nearly given me heart failure by balancing my boy on one huge hand,
as though he were a mutton-chop, so that the adoring Olie might see him
kick. As I stood watching Olga crooning above Buddy Boy, Percy rode up.
Then he came over and joined Olga, who carefully lifted up the veil
covering Dinky-Dink's face, and showed him off to the somewhat
intimidated Percy. Percy poked a finger at him, and made absurd noises,
and felt his legs as Olga directed and then sat down in front of Olga.

They talked there for a long time, quite oblivious of everything about
them. At least Percy talked, for Olga's replies seemed mostly
monosyllabic. But she kept bathing him in that mystic moonlight stare
of hers and sometimes she showed her teeth in a slow and wistful sort of
smile. Percy clattered on, quite unconscious that I was standing in the
doorway staring at him. They seemed to be great pals. And I've been
wondering what they talked about.

_Wednesday the Fourteenth_

To-day after dinner Dinky-Dunk took the Boy and held him up on Paddy's
back, where he looked like a bump on a log. And that started me thinking
that it wouldn't be so long before my little Snoozerette had a pony of
his own and would be cantering off across the prairie like a monkey on a
circus horse. For I want my boy to ride, and ride well. And then a
little later he would be cantering off to school. And then it wouldn't
be such a great while before he'd be hitting the trail side by side with
some clear-eyed prairie girl on a dappled pinto, and I'd be a
silvery-haired old lady wondering if that clear-eyed girl was good
enough for my son! And there I was, as usual, dreaming of the future!

All day long the fact that Dinky-Dunk is getting extravagant has been
hitting me just under the fifth rib. So I asked him if we could really
afford a six-cylinder car wit