"Yes, you will--not," said Sam, reaching for him as he skimmed and
dipped away. And then followed a lecture on floriculture, agriculture,
and horticulture that I immensely enjoyed.

"Yes," assented the fledgling, with the greatest intellectual
enthusiasm, "baby beets folds up jest that way," and he illustrated
after Sam, with his grubby little paddies, "same as chickens in eggs
and--"

"Come on, Betty, let's go select the spot for the cedar-log temple for
Peter's muses," Sam interrupted as he made a lightning grab for the Byrd
and tumbled him back into the loamy earth.

I realized then that up to a quarter of five o'clock on that
twenty-first-of-April day I had been really wretchedly uneasy about
Peter in every way, that I did and did not understand since that scene
at the tea-table in the Astor when I had assumed the responsibility of
him. But at that moment when Sam held back a tangle of blackberry-bushes
and low-sweeping dogwood boughs, and we stepped out on a moss-covered
rock-ledge that commanded a view of the Harpeth Valley, stretching away
and away in an iridescent shimmer of springiness and sunshine, it
completely vanished, for the time being, anyway.

"Oh," I said, with a great sigh of relief, "let's plant Peter here.
He--he can grow his dream in this place."

"Yes," answered Sam, quietly, "I'll log up and daub up a shack right
here, with a stone fireplace. It won't cost anything, for I'll use my
own logs and pick up my own stones. Thank God for shoulders and arms