lions of them. It's terrible.

And when they get home things are just about as bad, except there aren't
so many people to see them. At the sight of eight Sunday and sixty-two
daily papers strewn over the front porch and lawn, there are loud
screams of imprecation at Daddy for having forgotten to order them
stopped. Daddy insists that he did order them stopped and that it is
that damn fool boy.

"I guess you weren't home much during July," says Mamma bitterly, "or
you would have noticed that something was wrong." (Daddy didn't join the
family until August.)

"There were no papers delivered during July," says Daddy very firmly and
quietly, "at least, I didn't see any." (Stepping on one dated July 19.)

The inside of the house resembles some place you might bet a man a
hundred dollars he daren't spend the night in. Dead men's feet seem to
be protruding from behind sofas and there is a damp smell as if the
rooms had been closed pending the arrival of the coroner.

Junior runs upstairs to see if his switching engine is where he left it
and comes falling down stairs panting with terror announcing that there
is Something in the guest-room. At that moment there is a sound of
someone leaving the house by the back door. Daddy is elected by popular
vote to go upstairs and see what has happened, although he insists that
he has to wait down stairs as the man with the trunks will be there at
any minute. After five minutes of cagey manoeuvering around in the hall
outside the guest-room door, he returns looking for Junior, saying that
it was simply a pile of things left on the bed covered with a sheet.
"Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Then comes the unpacking. It has been estimated that in the trunks of
returning vacationists, taking this section of the country as a whole,
the following articles will be pulled out during the next few weeks:

Sneakers, full of sand.

Bathing suits, still damp from the "one last swim."

Dead tennis balls.

Last month's magazines, bought for reading in the grove.

Shells and pretty stones picked up on the beach for decoration purposes,
for which there has suddenly become no use at all.

Horse-shoe crabs, salvaged by children who refused to leave them behind.

Lace scarfs and shawls, bought from itinerant Armenians.

Remnants of tubes formerly containing sunburn ointment, half-filled
bottles of citronella and white shoe-dressing.

White flannel trousers, ready for the cleaners.

Snap-shots, showing E