ad come through to link us up with civilization,
and the once promised town had sprung up like a mushroom-bed about our
still sad and solitary Casa Grande! But what's the use of repining,
Tabbie McKail? You've the second-best house within thirty miles of
Buckhorn, with glass door-knobs and a laundry-chute, and a brood to
rear, and a hard-working husband to cook for. And as the kiddies get
older, I imagine, I'll not be troubled by this terrible feeling of
loneliness which has been weighing like a plumb-bob on my heart for
the last few days. I wish Dinky-Dunk didn't have to be so much away
from home....

Old Whinstane Sandy, our hired man, has presented me with a hand-made
swing-box for Poppsy and Pee-Wee, a sort of suspended basket-bed that
can be hung up in the porch as soon as my two little snoozers are able
to sleep outdoors. Old Whinnie, by the way, was very funny when I
showed him the Twins. He solemnly acknowledged that they were nae sae
bad, conseederin'. I suppose he thought it would be treason to Dinkie
to praise the newcomers who threatened to put little Dinkie's nose out
of joint. And Whinnie, I imagine, will always be loyal to Dinkie. He
says little about it, but I know he loves that child. He loves him in
very much the same way that Bobs, our collie dog, loves me. It was
really Bobs' welcome, I think, across the cold prairie air, that took
the tragedy out of my homecoming. There were gladness and trust in
those deep-throated howls of greetings. He even licked the snow off my
overshoes and nested his head between my knees, with his bob-tail
thumping the floor like a flicker's beak. He sniffed at the Twins
rather disgustedly. But he'll learn to love them, I feel sure, as time
goes on. He's too intelligent a dog to do otherwise....

I'll be glad when spring comes, and takes the razor-edge out of this
northern air. We'll have half a month of mud first, I suppose. But
"there's never anything without something," as Mrs. Teetzel very
sagely announced the other day. That sour-apple philosopher, by the
way, is taking her departure to-morrow. And I'm not half so sorry as I
pretend to be. She's made me feel like an intruder in my own home. And
she's a soured and venomous old ignoramus, for she sneered openly at
my bath-thermometer and defies Poppsy and Pee-Wee to survive the
winter without a "comfort." After I'd announced my intention of
putting them outdoors to sleep, when they were four weeks old, she
lugubriously