anything but Mammy and Byrd and the other stock, and places for all to
sleep and eat and keep warm. Now what are we going to do?"

"He wouldn't let us buy him anything, would he?" asked Sue,
thoughtfully.

"I know Sam better than that," said Edith.

"I'll tell you," I exclaimed, suddenly and radiantly. "Of course, we
can't give Sam anything, but I believe--I believe that if I asked him
very kindly he would let us make a kind of museum of affection of
Peter's room and take all the lovely things we can borrow from people to
put in the shack to help inspire him. Mother will let me start with
Grandmother Nelson's desk, though it is dearer than life to me; and I
know she'll crochet him a lamp-mat before he gets here--maybe several,
if she likes the pattern she starts on."

"Do you remember that mahogany table in my room?" exclaimed Julia,
several minutes lost in deep reflection. "It is real Chippendale, Aunt
Amanda says, and I'll send that out. Oh, to think of a poet laying his
pen down on it! Or does he use a pencil?"

And it is true that from very small beginnings great trees grow. In
this case it was Peter's roof-tree, or rather what was under it. I never
saw anything like Hayesboro when it takes generosity in its teeth and
runs away, as at the time when Mr. Stanton, the Methodist minister, had
thirty-five pounds of sausage sent him from different hog-killings just
because in prayer-meeting, when he publicly thanked the Lord for his
seventh child, he mentioned that it was welcome, though one more mouth
to feed. Of course, the baby didn't need the sausage any more than Peter