the dure" gave evidence of John's industry, notwithstanding
his dislike of the world's best literature.

Inside the floor was swept and the stove was clean, and
an air of comfort was over all, in spite of the evidence
of poverty. A great variety of calendars hung on the
wall. Every store in town it seems had sent one this
year, last year and the year before. A large poster of
the Winnipeg Industrial Exhibition hung in the parlour,
and a Massey-Harris self-binder, in full swing, propelled
by three maroon horses, swept through a waving field of
golden grain, driven by an adipose individual in blue
shirt and grass-green overalls. An enlarged picture of
John himself glared grimly from a very heavy frame, on
the opposite wall, the grimness of it somewhat relieved
by the row of Sunday-school "big cards" that were stuck
in around the frame.

On the afternoon that Mrs. Watson had received the
uplifting talk on motherhood, and Mrs. Francis had entered
it in the little red book, Pearlie Watson, aged twelve,
was keeping the house, as she did six days in the week.
The day was too cold for even Jimmy to be out, and so
all except the three eldest boys were in the kitchen
variously engaged. Danny under promise of a story was in
the high chair submitting to a thorough going over with
soap and water. Patsey, looking up from his self-appointed
task of brushing the legs of the stove with the hair-brush,
loudly demanded that the story should begin at once.