t, and bound by the Philistines, my
little Samson was shorn.

_Saturday Afternoon._

Before breakfast I called Iry into my room. "How much muscle have you
got?" I inquired.

The "pure scholar" bared a small, skeleton arm, on which a creditable
knot of muscle rose as he flexed it.

"You are really a pretty good fighter, aren't you?" I asked.

"Paw he'd knock me in the head if I weren't."

"Very well. I told you once not to fight Jason Wyatt. I may have been
wrong in doing so. Next time he picks on you, fight him back."

Just before noon, Nucky ran into the cottage with bulging eyes. "That
'ere little Iry is a-giving Jason the best whupping down in the
stable-lot ever you seed. Jason he got to feisting around him ag'in, and
he just grabbed him unexpected, and laid him out, and now he's choking
the life out of him!"

[Illustration: "'That 'ere little Iry is a-giving Jason the best
whupping down in the stable-lot ever you seed.'"]

"Good!" I cried, hurrying back to see the combat. All the boys were
miraculously gathered, and the wash-girls also looked on with delight.
Jason tried all his tricks, but could not once free himself from the
relentless grasp. Both arms were pinioned, one by a leg, one by an arm
of Iry's, his head was held down by the dreadful hand at his throat;
only his legs were free, and they alas, were useless,--his toes passed
harmlessly over Iry's face and neck and ears!

Not until he had held out to the verge of suffocation did the conquered
conqueror at last gasp for mercy, and being let up, crawl off under the
corncrib to sob out his rage and shame in peace.

Doubtless this will do him much good.

XIII

AROUND THE FIRE

_Second Monday, October._

Though the days are still warm, the nights are getting cool, and for the
sake of bare toes we began last night having a fire in the sitting-room.
It was the one thing needed,--I see that with its glowing warmth to
gather around, our family life will henceforth be much more intimate and
cheerful. Sydney Lanier says that two things are necessary to the making
of a real home,--an open fire and music. We have both. The fire had
hardly begun to crackle before Absalom had the banjo out, and was
singing in the chimney corner,--not bloody, recent song-ballads this
time, but, to my joy, famous old English ones forgotten centuries ago by
the rest of the world but wonderfully preserved here in the mountain
country. "Barbara Allen" wa