hether a person is from
Massachusetts, or New York, or Illinois, or Kentucky, and so on, just
as you know Devonshire from Lancashire."

The wistaria arbour, which we soon reached, was like a fairy bower hung
with thousands of amethyst lamps, burning perfume instead of oil; and
the moment we sat down a troop of the fairy residents, cleverly
disguised as grey squirrels, with adorable little faces, began
excitedly to talk us over. With heads on one side, they criticised our
features, our dresses, our hats, and finally approved of them so far as
to decide that we were creatures they might know. They stole nearer, by
twos, by fours, then raced away again, grey and soft as undyed ostrich
feathers, blown by the sweet-smelling breeze, when they saw my brown
man coming back with Vivace.

I was afraid that Vivace would make a dash and frighten them, but he
evidently knows how to treat squirrels as equals, not as edibles, for
he behaved himself like the little brindled gentleman that he is.
Gravely he looked on as Mr. Brett produced six small, brown paper bags,
crammed full of the most extraordinary objects. They looked something
like wood carvings of unripe bean pods, but it appeared that they were
peanuts. They smelt good, rather like freshly-roasted coffee, and when
you shelled them out of their woody pods, they were large, fat beads,
covered with a thin brown skin. I couldn't help feeling as if I had
known Mr. Brett for a long time, as he sat by us on the bench under the
wistaria, helping Sally and me feed the squirrels, and shelling peanuts
for us to eat, too. I do believe there must be something special about
peanuts, which gives you a homey sort of feeling, if you share them
with people. They form a sort of bond of good fellowship, and I can't
fancy ever being prim with a man, after you had eaten peanuts with him.

Mr. Brett didn't tell us much about himself, but from the few things he
did tell, I gathered the impression that he has led an open-air,
adventurous sort of life. He showed that he knows a great deal about
horses, and I rather hope he has been a cowboy, like "The Virginian,"
in a delightful book I have found in Mrs. Ess Kay's library; indeed, I
imagine the hero of that story must have looked like Jim Brett. It is a
splendid type.

Sally and he talked about books; he spoke about some college in the
West where he had been, and I was glad that he was a University man;
though why I should care I don't know. Anywa