with that bit of gossip. No wonder he was happy; no wonder he
hurried along the main road like a battery galloping eagerly into
action.

He was on his way to the post office, always the gossip-
sharpshooters' first line trench, when, turning the corner where
Nickerson's Lane enters the main road, he saw something which
caused him to pause, alter his battle-mad walk to a slower one,
then to a saunter, and finally to a halt altogether. This
something was a toy windmill fastened to a white picket fence and
clattering cheerfully as its arms spun in the brisk, pleasant
summer breeze.

The little windmill was one of a dozen, all fastened to the top
rail of that fence and all whirling. Behind the fence, on posts,
were other and larger windmills; behind these, others larger still.
Interspersed among the mills were little wooden sailors swinging
paddles; weather vanes in the shapes of wooden whales, swordfish,
ducks, crows, seagulls; circles of little wooden profile sailboats,
made to chase each other 'round and 'round a central post. All of
these were painted in gay colors, or in black and white, and all
were in motion. The mills spun, the boats sailed 'round and
'round, the sailors did vigorous Indian club exercises with their
paddles. The grass in the little yard and the tall hollyhocks in
the beds at its sides swayed and bowed and nodded. Beyond, seen
over the edge of the bluff and stretching to the horizon, the blue
and white waves leaped and danced and sparkled. As a picture of
movement and color and joyful bustle the scene was inspiring;
children, viewing it for the first time, almost invariably danced
and waved their arms in sympathy. Summer visitors, loitering idly