them in the dark with a hockey-stick and a pocket flash-light, it's
not poor fun. Unfortunately, my head knocks against the highest part
of the roof now, yet I still do think it's fun. But Aunt Ailsa is
twenty-six and she likes it, so I suppose I needn't give up.

The day Aunt Ailsa really laughed was when Greg rigged himself up as
an Excavator. That is, he said he was an excavator, but I never saw
anything before that looked at all like him. He had the round Indian
basket from Mother's work-table on his head, and some automobile
goggles, and yards and yards of green braid wound over his jumper,
and Mother's carriage-boots, which came just below the tops of his
socks. In his hand he had what I think was a rake-handle--it was
much taller than he--and he had the queerest, glassy, goggling
expression under the basket.

He never will learn to fix proper clothes. He might have seen what
he should have done by looking at Jerry, who had an old felt hat
with a bit of candle-end (not lit) stuck in the ribbon, and a
bandana tied askew around his neck. But Aunt Ailsa laughed and
laughed, which was what we wanted her to do, so neither of us
remonstrated with Greg that time.

Father plays the 'cello,--that is, he does when he has time,--and he
found time to play it with Aunt, who does piano. I think she really
liked that better than the attic games, and we did, too, in a way.
The living-room of our house is quite low-ceilinged, and part of it
is under the roof, so that you can hear the rain on it. The boys lay
on the floor, and Mother and I sat on the couch, and we listened to
the rain on the roof and the sound--something like rain--of the
piano, and Father's 'cello booming along with it. They played a