f thrift and work.

"Now if I cu'd git that Butts family," he mused, "I'd have something
to crow about when I got back to Kingsley to-night. He's got a little
farm an' is well to do an' is thrifty, an' if I cu'd only git that
class started in the mill an' contented to wuck there, it 'ud open up
a new class of people. There's that Archie B.--confound him, he cu'd
run ten machines at onct and never know it. I'd like to sweat that
bottled mischief out of him a year or two.

"Hello!"

Jud drew his horse up with a jerk. Above him, with legs locked, high
up around the body of a dead willow, his seat the stump of a broken
bough and fully twenty feet above the employment agent's head, sat
Archie B., a freckled-faced lad, with fiery red hair and a world of
fun in his blue eyes. He was one of the Butts twins and the very
object of the Whipper-in's thoughts. From his head to his feet he had
on but three garments--a small, battered, all-wool hat, a coarse
cotton shirt, wide open at the neck, and a pair of jeans pants which
came to his knees. But in the pockets of his pants were small samples
of everything of wood and field, from shells of rare bird eggs to a
small supply of Gypsy Juice.

His pockets were miniature museums of nature.

No one but a small boy, bent on fun, knows what Gypsy Juice is. No
adult has ever been able to procure its formula and no small boy in
the South cares, so long as he can get it.

"The thing that hit does," Archie B. explained to his timid and pious
twin brother, Ozzie B., "is ter make anything it touches that wears
hair git up and git."

Coons, possums, dogs, cats--with now and then a country horse or
mule, hitched to the town rack--with these, and a small vial of Gypsy
Juice, Archie B., as he expressed it, "had mo' fun to the square
inch than ole Barnum's show ever hilt in all its tents."

Jud stood a moment watching the boy. It was easy to see what Archie
B. was after. In the body of the dead tree a wood-pecker had chiseled
out a round hole.

"Hello, yo'se'f"--finally drawled Jud--"whatcher doin' up thar?"

"Why, I am goin' to see if this is a wood-pecker's nes' or a
fly-ketcher's."

Bonaparte caught his cue at once and ran to the foot of the tree
barking viciously, daring the tree-climber to come down. His vicious
eyes danced gleefully. He looked at his master between his snarls as
much as to say: "Well, this is great, to tree the real live son of
the all-conquering man!"

It madden