in the stove the same day. I knew she was uneasy about the softwood
odds and ends, but I couldn't help that--she'd still be sentimental
about them if she had a stack of firewood as big as the house.
There's at least one thing that most folk hate to buy--mine's
boot-laces or bone studs, so long as I can make pins or inked string
do.

I put a bucket of water in the copper, started a fire under that sent
sparks out of the wash-house flue at an alarming rate, filled the
copper to the brim, and, in the absence of a lid, covered it with a
piece of flattened galvanized iron I had.

I tacked the side edge of a strip of canvas to the matchboard wall
along over the inner edge of the bath, fastened a short piece of
gas-pipe to the outer edge, with pieces of string through holes made
in it, and let it hang down over the bath, leaving a hole at the head
for my head and shoulders. I was going to have a long, comfortable,
and utterly lazy and drowsy hot water and steam bath, you know.

I fastened a piece of clothes-line round and over the head of the
bath, and twisted an old toilet-table cover and a towel round it where
it sagged into the bath, for a head rest-also to be soaped for where I
couldn't get at my back with my hands.

I went up to my room for some things, and it struck me to arrange two
chairs by the bed--candle and matches and tobacco on one side, and a
pile of Jack London, Kipling, and Yankee magazines on the other, with
the last _Lone Hand_ and _Bulletin_ on top.

Going down with pyjamas, towel, and soap, it struck me to have a