ted itself
and assumed an expression of expectancy for what was yet to come.

Leentje de Haas: "Admiral de Ruyter."

Pulling the rope with emotion,
To the top of the mast he came,
And then he went to the ocean,
And won for himself great fame.

And very much more he perfected,
Saleh he vanquished, too;
A hero he was then elected,
With nothing else to do.

The wig lifted itself, the curls applauding enthusiastically. It was
evidently pleased.

Grete Wauzer: "The Caterpillar."

The caterpillar, free from care,
Crawls on the tree just over there.

"Descriptive poetry. A daring idea--the caterpillar crawling on the
tree free from care."

Wig: Quiet.

Ah, the pleasure of a wig is short-lived! And how soon was this
one--but I will not anticipate. Soon, all too soon, the reader will
know the worst.

Walter Pieterse: "A Robber Song."

"Aha, what's this? And 'goodness'? But where has he written on
goodness?"

The teacher could scarcely believe his eyes. He turned the sheet of
paper over and examined the back side, hoping to discover there some
lines on goodness.

Then he saw that on Walter's sheet there was not a trace of "goodness."

Oh, wretched wig!

Yes, wretched wig! For after it had suffered as never wig had
suffered before, after it had been pulled at and tugged at
and martyred in a manner beyond even the imagination of the
Wilde family, Master Pennewip snatched it from his head,
twisted it convulsively in his hands, stammered a short
"Heaven-human-Christian-soul-good-gracious-my-life--how is it
possible!" slapped it on his head again, covered it with his venerable
cap and burst out the door like one possessed.

He was on his way to Walter's home, where we shall soon see him
arrive. As a conscientious historian, however, it will be my duty
first to give an account of the happenings there.

CHAPTER VIII

"Goodness, I'm glad to see you! And so early, too! Leetje, place a
chair over there and get the footstool, but be in a hurry, or I'd
rather do it myself. And how are you? Juffrouw Laps is coming too,
you know--Myntje, you'd better be thinking of your dough and stop
combing your head. That girl can't keep her hands off of her hair
when there's company. But do take a seat--no, not in the corner;
there's a draft there."

There was no more draft in this corner than is usual to corners;
but Mrs. Stotter was only a Vrou