to bring up a
child in? The purpose of architecture is defeated, where there are no
children."

Uncle Israel, accompanied by Dick, hobbled into the room with the
clothes-line. Mrs. Holmes discreetly retired, followed by her offspring,
and, late in the afternoon, when Dorothy and Dick were well-nigh fagged
out, the structure was in place again. Tremulously the exhausted owner lay
down upon it, and asked that his supper be sent to his room.

By skilful manoeuvring with Mrs. Smithers, Dick compelled the
proud-spirited Willie to take up Uncle Israel's tray and wait for it.
"I'll tell my mother," whimpered the sorrowful one.

"I hope you will," replied Dick, significantly; but for some reason of his
own, Willie neglected to mention it.

At dinner-time, Mr. Perkins drew a rolled manuscript, tied with a black
ribbon, from his breast pocket, and, without preliminary, proceeded to
read as follows:

TO THE MEMORY OF EBENEEZER JUDSON

A face we loved has vanished,
A voice we adored is now still,
There is no longer any music
In the tinkling rill.

His hat is empty of his head,
His snuff-box has no sneezer,
His cane is idle in the hall
For gone is Ebeneezer.

Within the house we miss him,
Let fall the sorrowing tear,
Yet shall we gather as was our wont
Year after sunny year.

He took such joy in all his friends
That he would have it so;
He left his house to relatives
But none of us need go.

In fact, we're all related,
Sister, friend, and brother;
And in this hour of our grief
We must console each other.

He would not like to have us sad,
Our smiles were once his pleasure
And though we cannot smile at him,
His memory is our treasure.

When he had finished, there was a solemn silence, which was at last
relieved by Mrs. Dodd. "Poetry broke out in my first husband's family,"
she said, "but with sulphur an' molasses an' quinine an' plenty of
wet-sheet packs it was finally cured."

"You do not understand," said the poet, indulgently. "Your aura is not
harmonious with