and strain were over, I found myself also tucked into a hospital bed,
while a trained nurse watched over the children and Poppy. One morning a
frantic letter arrived. Poppy _had_ dried up! According to what lights
we had to guide us, it was far too soon, but reasoning did not alter the
fact. There was no milk for the boys, and the dairyman had always
declined to deliver milk on our hill, it was outside his route! Two
helpless persons flat on their backs in a hospital are at a disadvantage
in a crisis like that. However, one must always find a way. I think I
have expressed myself elsewhere as to the value of wheedling. It seemed
our only hope. I wrote a letter to the owner of that dairy, in which I
frankly recognized the fact that our hill was steep and the road bad,
that it was out of his way and probably he had no milk to spare, anyway,
but that Billie and Joe had to have milk, and that their parents were
both down and out, and that it was his golden opportunity to do, not a
stroke of business, but an act of kindness! It worked. He has been
serving us with milk ever since, and I'd like to testify that his heart
is in the right place.

Before I leave the subject of wheedling, I might add that if it is a
useful art in summer, in winter it is priceless. After a week of rain,
such as we know how to have in these parts, adobe becomes very slippery.
This hill is steep, and I have spent a week on its top in February,
feeling like the princess in the fairy tale, who lived on a glass hill
ready to marry the first suitor who reached the top; only in my case
there were no suitors at all; even the telegraph boy declined to try
his luck.

Speaking of telegrams, I think that as a source of interest we have been
a boon to this village. One departing friend telegraphed in Latin,
beginning "Salve atque vale." This was a poser. The operator tried to