stay up there all the time."

"I thought you'd like that shelf. Now you have room for all the
thousand and one bits of rubbish that you accumulate through the
summer."

"'Tisn't rubbish!" exclaimed Marjorie, indignantly; "it's dear
little birds' nests, and queer kinds of rocks, and branches of
strange trees and grasses and things."

"Well, I only meant it sounds to me like rubbish," said Uncle
Steve, who loved to tease her about her enthusiasms.

But she only smiled good-naturedly, for she well knew that Uncle
Steve was the very one who would take her for long walks in the
woods, on purpose to gather this very "rubbish."

The next day Marjorie was up bright and early, quite ready for any
pleasure that might offer itself.

Her mother went back home that day, and though Marjorie felt a
little sad at parting, yet, after all, Grandma Sherwood's house
was like a second home, and there was too much novelty and
entertainment all about to allow time for feeling sad.

Moreover, Marjorie was of a merry, happy disposition. It was
natural to her to make the best of everything, and even had she
had reasons for being truly miserable, she would have tried to be
happy in spite of them.