oung robins pushed out of the nest--instead of standing
here with a sadness on your face."

The mother tried to smile through her tears.

"Pearlie, my dear, you're a queer girl--you never seem to think of
what might happen. It may be six weeks before you can get home--with
the roads breaking up--and a lot can happen in that time. Sure--I
might not be here myself," she said, with a fresh burst of tears.

"Ma, you're funny," laughed Pearl, "I wish you could see how funny
you are. Every Christmas ever since I can remember, that's what you
said--you might never live to see another, and it used to nearly break
my heart when I was little, and until I made up my mind that you were
a poor guesser. You said it last Christmas just the same, and here
you are with your ears back and your neck bowed, heading up well for
another year. You're quite right in saying you may not be here, but if
you are not you'll be in a better place. Sure, things may happen, but
it's better to have things happen than to be scared all the time that
they may happen. The young lads may take the measles and then the
mumps, and the whooping-cough to finish up on--and the rosey-posey is
going around too. But even if they do--it's most likely they will get
over it--they always have. Up to the present, the past has taken care
of the future. Maybe it always will."

"O yes, I know there's always a chance things will go wrong--I know
it, Ma--" Pearl's eyes dimmed a little, and she held her lips tighter;
"there's always a chance. The cows may all choke to death seeing
which of them can swallow the biggest turnip--the cats may all have
fits--the chickens may break into the hen-house and steal a bag of
salt, eat it and die. But I don't believe they will. You just have to
trust them--and you'll have to trust me the same way. Just look, Ma--"

She took a five-dollar bill from her purse and spread it on the
ironing-board before her mother. "Fifteen o' them every month! See
the pictures that's on it, of the two grand old men. See the fine
chin-whiskers on His Nibs here! Ain't it a pity he can't write his
name, Ma, and him President of the Bank, and just has to make a bluff
at it like this. Sure, and isn't that enough to drive any girl out to
teach school, to see to it that bank presidents get a chance to learn
to write. Bank presidents always come from the country; I'll be having
a row of them at Purple Springs--I'm sure. They will be able to tell
in after years at