ow of draggled sparrows chirping
blithely on a fence across the muddy street. Then she remarked, "What a
lot of poetry you know! Seems 'sif I'd struck a poetic bunch since we
left Parker. Grandma and grandpa and Miss Edith and Frances, and now you
have taken to talking in rhymes--and they are mostly about sunshine,
too."

"'When the days are gloomy
Sing some happy song,'"

hummed Elizabeth, leaning suddenly forward and drawing out a drawer in
her desk close by. She rummaged through its contents for a moment, and
then laid a dainty brown and gold book in the girl's hands, saying,
"That reminds me. When I was a little girl not much older than you are
now, my mother was very ill for a long time, and my sister Esther and I
were sent away from home to live with a lame old aunt in a lonely little
house about a mile from the nearest neighbor's. Needless to say, we got
very homesick with no one to play with or amuse us, and the days were
often so long that we were glad when night came so we could sleep and
forget our childish troubles. Though Aunt Nancy was not accustomed to
children, she soon discovered our loneliness and set about to mend
matters as best she could. But the old house had very little in it for
us to play with, the books were all too old for us to understand, and
like you, we were not overly fond of sewing. So poor old auntie was at
her wit's end to know what to do with us when she happened to think of
her diary."

"Did she have many cows?"

"Cows?"

"In her diary."

"Oh, child, that is dairy you mean. A diary is a record of each day's
events--all the little things that happen from week to week--sort of a
written history of one's life."

"H'm, I shouldn't think that would be fun," Peace commented candidly,
still holding the unopened volume in her hand, thinking it was another
uninteresting story-book. "I don't like writing any better than I do
sewing."

"Neither did I, but Esther was rather fond of scribbling, and Aunt
Nancy's diary was one of the brightest, sprightliest histories of
common, everyday affairs that we ever read, and we were both greatly
amused over it. She had kept a faithful record for years--not every day,
or even every week, but just when she happened to feel like writing, so
it was no drudgery.

"She was quite given to making rhymes, as you call it, and we were
astonished to find several very beautiful little poems and stories that
she had written just for her own enjoyme