hing sometimes, worked in gardens between times, did almost
anything, in fact, to bring in the needed dollars. And when he was
thirty-eight years old he made and sold his first "Cape Cod Winslow
windmill," the forerunner of the thousands to follow. That mill,
made in some of his rare idle moments and given to the child of a
wealthy summer visitor, made a hit. The child liked it and other
children wanted mills just like it. Then "grown-ups" among the
summer folk took up the craze. "Winslow mills" became the fad.
Jed built his little shop, or the first installment of it.

Mrs. Floretta Winslow died when her son was forty. A merciful
release, Captain Sam and the rest called it, but to Jed it was a
stunning shock. He had no one to take care of now except himself
and he did not know what to do. He moped about like a deserted
cat. Finally he decided that he could not live in the old house
where he was born and had lived all his life. He expressed his
feelings concerning that house to his nearest friend, practically
his sole confidant, Captain Sam.

"I can't somehow seem to stand it, Sam," he said, solemnly. "I
can't stay in that house alone any longer, it's--it's too
sociable."

The captain, who had expected almost anything but that, stared at
him.

"Sociable!" he repeated. "You're sailin' stern first, Jed.
Lonesome's what you mean, of course."

Jed shook his head.

"No-o," he drawled, "I mean sociable. There's too many boys in
there, for one thing."

"Boys!" Captain Sam was beginning to be really alarmed now.
"Boys! Say--say, Jed Winslow, you come along home to dinner with
me. I bet you've forgot to eat anything for the last day or so--
been inventin' some new kind of whirlagig or other--and your empty
stomach's gone to your head and made it dizzy. Boys! Gracious
king! Come on home with me."

Jed smiled his slow smile. "I don't mean real boys, Sam," he
explained. "I mean me--I'm the boys. Nights now when I'm walkin'
around in that house alone I meet myself comin' round every corner.
Me when I was five, comin' out of the buttery with a cooky in each
fist; and me when I was ten sittin' studyin' my lesson book in the
corner; and me when I was fifteen, just afore Father died, sittin'
all alone thinkin' what I'd do when I went to Boston Tech same as
he said he was cal'latin' to send me. Then--"

He paused and lapsed into one of his fits of musing. His friend
drew a breath of relief.

"Oh!"