riod, and some for the neighbors. I suppose
if we had left an outside hole for those bees they would have gone on
multiplying and eventually would have packed our floors and walls solid
full of honey, and we should have had, in truth, "the very sweetest
house in all the world."

I confess we felt sorry for those poor bees. A quantity of them refused
to leave the premises and persisted on squeezing into the house if a
door or window was left open. A clot of them formed on an old
fence-post--around their queen, perhaps--and would not go away, though
they knew quite well we had hardened our hearts against them and would
not relent. If I had it to do over again I would bring down an old hive
made from a hollow log, which we found up in the attic, and put into it
some honey and some comb and invite them to set up business again in a
small way. But my wounds were too fresh. They had daubed some of my new
paper, driven me nearly frantic with their commotion, and stung me in
several localities. The old fence-post was quite loose. In the evening I
softly lifted it out, carried it to a remote place, and left it, just as
any other heartless person would drop an unwelcome kitten. When I passed
that way the following spring they were gone.

A last word about our papering. To this day I am proud of the job and
don't wish to dismiss it in any casual way. I left our square "best"
room till the last; it made a dramatic ending.

I believe I have not mentioned before that I washed down the old plaster
with a solution of vinegar (a remnant from one of Uncle Joe's barrels)
in order to kill the lime, which, Westbury said, was bad for the
sticking qualities of the paste. Perhaps I made my solution a bit too
strong for the "best"-room walls, or it may be that the plaster there
was different--I don t know. I know that I worked till nearly midnight
to get done, Elizabeth holding a pair of lamps, and that when we came
down next morning to admire our beautiful green walls by daylight, they
were no longer green--at least, not solidly so, not definitely so. What
seemed to us at first a sorrowful mottled complaint in yellow had
every-where broken through, and I had the sickening feeling that my work
was wasted and must be done over. But presently Elizabeth said,
reflectively:

"It isn't so bad just as it is."

And I said, "Why, no! it's a kind of a pattern."

And then we both said, "Why, it's really artistic and beautiful."

And so it was. Ov