This to Bud was the most beautiful spot in the world. He looked up into
the sapphire blue of the sky flecked with soft patches of white, then
down upon the waving grass latticed by sun and shade; he listened to the
soothing rustle of the poplar leaves, the soft flapping of linen in the
breeze, the birds in the tree tops, and felt his heart and throat
bursting with all the harmony and melody about him. Not always was Bud's
refrain one of joy. There were songs of sorrow on the damp days when the
washings must be dried within the house, and he could not venture forth
because he still was regarded as the delicate one of the family. There
were days, too, when the number of garments was not adequate to complete
the boundary to the park, and that meant less to eat and worry about the
rent and a harassed look in his mother's anxious eyes.

But there was no sob in Bud's song this afternoon. The clothes had been
hung out unusually early, and were nearly dry, so his mother had brought
out her little lean-back rocker and sat beside him for a few moments to
listen to his carol and to hark back to the days when his lusty-voiced
father had sung to her in the shadows of a vine clad porch.

It was not upon Amarilly, the sharer of her burdens, nor upon the baby
that Mrs. Jenkins lavished her tenderness. Bud crept closest because he
had been the one most dependent upon her care.

When the little singer ceased, the mother arose and unpinned the
garments, carrying them in armfuls to the huge basket in the middle of
the park. Bud watched her thin, fatigued hands as they performed their
accustomed task, and a sudden inspiration came to him. His future field
of labor had troubled him. Now his way seemed clear. He stepped nimbly
to the grass plot and gathered up the pieces spread thereon.