"Write a book," quoth the author of my being.

"Don't know enough, sir. First live, then write."

"Try teaching again," suggested my mother.

"No thank you, ma'am, ten years of that is enough."

"Take a husband like my Darby, and fulfill your mission,"
said sister Joan, home on a visit.

"Can't afford expensive luxuries, Mrs. Coobiddy."

"Turn actress, and immortalize your name," said sister
Vashti, striking an attitude.

"I won't."

"Go nurse the soldiers," said my young brother, Tom,
panting for "the tented field."

"I will!"

So far, very good. Here was the will--now for the way. At first
sight not a foot of it appeared, but that didn't matter, for the
Periwinkles are a hopeful race; their crest is an anchor, with
three cock-a-doodles crowing atop. They all wear rose-colored
spectacles, and are lineal descendants of the inventor of aerial
architecture. An hour's conversation on the subject set the whole