whatever. There were no fairies, no giants, no soldiers left in the
boyhood world. The rail fence war horse refused to charge. The apple
tree ship was a wreck on the rocks of discontent. The hay had all been
cut and stored away in the barn. The excitement and fun of the grain
harvesting was over and the big stacks were waiting the threshers. It
was not time for fall apple picking and the cider mill, nor to gather
the corn, nor to go nutting. There was nothing, nothing, to do.

The boy's father was busy with some sort of work in the shop and told
his little son not to bother. The hired man was doing something to the
barnyard fence and told the boy to get out of the way. A carpenter was
repairing the roof of the house and the long ladder looked inviting
enough, but, the instant the boy's head appeared above the eaves, the
man shouted for him to get down and to run and play. Even the new red
calf refused to notice him but continued its selfish, absorbing,
occupation with wobbly legs braced wide and tail wagging supreme
indifference. His very dog had deserted him and had gone away
somewhere on business of his own, apparently forgetting the needs of
his master. And mother--mother too was busy, as busy as could be with
sweeping and dusting and baking and mending and no end of things that
must be done.

But somehow mother's work could always wait. At least it could wait
long enough for her to look lovingly down into the troubled,
discontented, little face while she listened to the plaintive whine:
"There's nothin' at all to do. Mamma, tell me--tell me something to
do."

Poor little boy in the Yesterdays! Quickly mother's arm went around
him. Lovingly she drew him close. And mother's work waited still as