st roared
at him and told him to go home that instant, and Jimsy went out, but
when the doctor got to his house he wasn't there, and he had to wait
about half an hour for him, and he was _furious_--he's got a terrible
temper but he's the dearest old thing, really. Pretty soon Jimsy came
wandering in with his arms full of books and games and puzzles and
things he'd got to amuse himself while he was laid up! Of course the
doctor expected him to keep perfectly still in bed, but he found he
could make a sort of a raft of two table extension boards and slide
downstairs to his meals. He had an awful time getting up again, but he
didn't care. The first day he was laid up he had exactly nineteen people
to see him, and he took the bandages off the leg and all the boys and
teachers wrote their autographs and sentiments on the cast. He called it
his Social Register and his Guest Book!" Honor was too happily deep in
her reminiscences to see that her new friend was a little bored.

He got suddenly to his feet. "Yes. He must be an unusual fellow. But I'd
like to hear you sing. Won't you come into the house and sing something
for me?"

"All right," said Honor. "I love to sing, but I haven't studied very
much yet, and I haven't any decent songs. Why doesn't somebody write
some?--Songs _about_ something? Not just maudling along about 'heart'
and 'part' and that kind of stuff! Come on! There's Stepper at the piano
now. He'll play for me."

It was mellow in the long living-room after the brazen afternoon sun
outside, a livable, lovable room. Stephen Lorimer had an open book on
the music rack and he was thumping some rather stirring chords.

"Stepper," said Honor, "here's Carter Van Meter, and he wants me to sing
for him, and I was just saying how I hated all these mushy old songs.
Can't you find me something different?"

"I have," said her stepfather. "I've got the words here and I'm messing
about for some music to go with them."

Honor looked out as she passed the window on her way to the piano. "Wait
a minute! Here's Jimsy! I'll call him!" She sped to the door and hailed
him, and he came swiftly in. "Hello! How was practice?"

"Fair. Burke was better. Tried him on the end. 'Lo, Mr. Lorimer. 'Lo,
Carter!"

"I've got a poem here you'll all like," said Stephen Lorimer. "No, you
needn't shuffle your feet, Jimsy. It's your kind. Sit down, all of you.
I'll read it."

"So long as it hasn't got any 'whate'ers' and yestereves' and
'b