ll. He drove over to
Baywater one Saturday to visit his uncle there and came home the next
afternoon, and although it was Sunday he brought a big bag of oatmeal in
the wagon with him. When he came to Carlisle church he saw that service
was going on there, and he concluded to stop and go in. But he didn't
like to leave his oatmeal outside for fear something would happen to it,
because there were always mischievous boys around, so he hoisted the bag
on his back and walked into church with it and right to the top of the
aisle to Grandfather King's pew. Grandfather King used to say he
would never forget it to his dying day. The minister was preaching and
everything was quiet and solemn when he heard a snicker behind him.
Grandfather King turned around with a terrible frown--for you know in
those days it was thought a dreadful thing to laugh in church--to rebuke
the offender; and what did he see but that great, hulking young Isaac
stalking up the aisle, bending a little forward under the weight of a
big bag of oatmeal? Grandfather King was so amazed he couldn't laugh,
but almost everyone else in the church was laughing, and grandfather
said he never blamed them, for no funnier sight was ever seen. Young
Isaac turned into grandfather's pew and thumped the bag of oatmeal down
on the seat with a thud that cracked it. Then he plumped down beside
it, took off his hat, wiped his face, and settled back to listen to the
sermon, just as if it was all a matter of course. When the service was
over he hoisted his bag up again, marched out of church, and drove home.
He could never understand why it made so much talk; but he was known by
the name of Oatmeal Frewen for years."

Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old orchard and
across the far, dim meadows. Felicity and Cecily went into the house
and Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but Peter decoyed me into the
granary to ask advice.

"You know Felicity has a birthday next week," he said, "and I want to
write her an ode."

"A--a what?" I gasped.

"An ode," repeated Peter, gravely. "It's poetry, you know. I'll put it
in Our Magazine."

"But you can't write poetry, Peter," I protested.

"I'm going to try," said Peter stoutly. "That is, if you think she won't
be offended at me."

"She ought to feel flattered," I replied.

"You never can tell how she'll take things," said Peter gloomily. "Of
course I ain't going to sign my name, and if she ain't pleased I w