“Hello yourself!  I ain’t a little boy.”

She ignored the correction.  “What are you doing?”

“Weedin’ carrots.  Can’t you see?”

“What for?”

Bryce, highly incensed at having been designated a little boy by this superior damsel, saw his opportunity to silence her.  “Cat’s fur for kitten breeches,” he retorted—­without any evidence of originality, we must confess.  Whereat she stung him to the heart with a sweet smile and promptly sang for him this ancient ballad of childhood: 

     “What are little boys made of? 
      What are little boys made of? 
       Snakes and snails,
       And puppy dog’s tails,
      And that’s what little boys are made of.”

Bryce knew the second verse and shrivelled inwardly in anticipation of being informed that little girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.  Realizing that he had begun something which might not terminate with credit to himself, he hung his head and for the space of several minutes gave all his attention to his crop.  And presently the visitor spoke again.

“I like your hair, little boy.  It’s a pretty red.”

That settled the issue between them.  To be hailed as little boy was bad enough, but to be reminded of his crowning misfortune was adding insult to injury.  He rose and cautiously approached the fence with the intention of pinching the impudent stranger, suddenly and surreptitiously, and sending her away weeping.  As his hand crept between the palings on its wicked mission, the little miss looked at him in friendly fashion and queried: 

“What’s your name?”

Bryce’s hand hesitated.  “Bryce Cardigan,” he answered gruffly.

“I’m Shirley Sumner,” she ventured, “Let’s be friends.”

“When did you come to live in Sequoia?” he demanded.

“I don’t live here.  I’m just visiting here with my aunt and uncle.  We’re staying at the hotel, and there’s nobody to play with.  My uncle’s name is Pennington.  So’s my aunt’s.  He’s out here buying timber, and we live in Michigan.  Do you know the capital of Michigan?”

“Of course I do,” he answered.  “The capital of Michigan is Chicago.”

“Oh, you big stupid!  It isn’t.  It’s Detroit.”

“’Tain’t neither.  It’s Chicago.”

“I live there—­so I guess I ought to know.  So there!”

Bryce was vanquished, and an acute sense of his imperfections in matters geographical inclined him to end the argument.  “Well, maybe you’re right,” he admitted grudgingly.  “Anyhow, what difference does it make?”

She did not answer.  Evidently she was desirous of avoiding an argument if possible.  Her gaze wandered past Bryce to where his Indian pony stood with her head out the window of her box-stall contemplating her master.

“Oh, what a dear little horse!” Shirley Sumner exclaimed.  “Whose is he?”

“’Tain’t a he.  It’s a she.  And she belongs to me.”