ne's the wearin'est!
Seems though it just wouldn't give up. Look at the way it's held Mis'
Cobb's dye; it's about as brown's when it went int' the water."

"Dyed, but not a mite dead," grinned Abijah, who was somewhat celebrated
for his puns.

"And I declare," Miranda continued, "when you think o' the fuss they
make about ostriches, killin' em off by hundreds for the sake o' their
feathers that'll string out and spoil in one hard rainstorm,--an' all
the time lettin' useful porcupines run round with their quills on, why
I can't hardly understand it, without milliners have found out jest
how good they do last, an' so they won't use em for trimmin'. 'Bijah's
right; the hat ain't no more use, Rebecca, but you can buy you another
this mornin'--any color or shape you fancy--an' have Miss Morton sew
these brown quills on to it with some kind of a buckle or a bow, jest
to hide the roots. Then you'll be fixed for another season, thanks to
'Bijah."

Uncle Jerry and Aunt Sarah Cobb were made acquainted before very long
with the part that destiny, or Abijah Flagg, had played in Rebecca's
affairs, for, accompanied by the teacher, she walked to the old stage
driver's that same afternoon. Taking off her new hat with the venerable
trimming, she laid it somewhat ostentatiously upside down on the kitchen
table and left the room, dimpling a little more than usual.

Uncle Jerry rose from his seat, and, crossing the room, looked curiously
into the hat and found that a circular paper lining was neatly pinned
in the crown, and that it bore these lines, which were read aloud with
great effect by Miss Dearborn, and with her approval were copied in the
Thought Book for the benefit of posterity:

"It was the bristling porcupine, As he stood on his native heath, He
said, 'I'll pluck me some immortelles And make me up a wreath. For tho'
I may not live myself To more than a hundred and ten, My quills will
last till crack of doom, And maybe after then. They can be colored blue
or green Or orange, brown, or red, But often as they may be dyed They
never will be dead.' And so the bristling porcupine As he stood on his
native heath, Said, I think I'll pluck me some immmortelles And make me
up a wreath.'

"R.R.R."

Fifth Chronicle. THE SAVING OF THE COLORS

I

Even when Rebecca had left school, having attained the great age of
seventeen and therefore able to look back over a past incredibly long
and full, she still reckoned time not by