y it was an absorbing
phenomenon. It never occurred to him to tell Momma.

Suddenly above him the cellar door slammed open, and Poppa came charging
down the stairs, narrowly missing the small figure, straight into the
rising waters, intent, though Oley couldn't know it, on reaching the
drain pipe in the far corner of the cellar to plug it before water from
the spring rains could back up farther and really flood the cellar out.

Halfway across the cellar, Poppa reached up and grasped the dangling
overhead light to turn it on, in order to see his way to the drain--and
suddenly came to frozen, rigid, gasping stop as his hand clamped firmly
over the socket.

Little Oley watched. There was juice in the cellar. Poppa had hold of an
electric. Was Poppa trying to make the shorts he needed?

Oley wasn't sure. He thought it probable. And from the superior
knowledge of his four years, Oley already knew a better way to make
shorts. Neatles make good shorts. Juice don't do so well.

Suddenly, Oley decided to prove his point: Nice neatles probably made
even better shorts than other neatles--and there was a big electric
running up the side of the stairs--an electric fat enough to make a real
good shorts. Maybe lots of shorts.

Raising his nice neatle, Oley took careful aim and plunged it through
the 220-volt stove feeder cable.

* * * * *

Oley woke up. The strange pretty lady in white was a new experience.
Somebody he hadn't seen before. And there seemed to be something wrong
with his hand, but Oley hadn't noticed it very much, yet.

"Well, my little Hero's awake! And how are you this morning? Your Momma
and Poppa will be in to see you in just a minute."

The pretty lady in white went away, and Oley gazed around the white room
with its funny shape, happily recorded the experience, and dozed off
again.

Then suddenly he was awakened again. Momma was there; and Poppa. And
Sven. But they all seemed different somehow this morning. Momma had been
crying, even though she was smiling bravely now. And Poppa seemed to
have a new softness that he'd seldom seen before. Sven was looking
puzzled.

"I still say, Pop, that he's a genius. He _must_ have known what he was
doing."

"Oley," Poppa's voice was husky--gruff, but kinder and softer than
usual. "I want you to answer me carefully. But understand that it's all
right either way. I just want you to tell me. Why did you put the ice
pick through the