Father explained the pictures in brief, and closed the book as quickly as possible, thinking the boy might be frightened in his dreams by the demons.  But no, Ian was fascinated, not frightened.  He would have liked the pygmies to come and play with him, and he turned to father with a sigh, saying, “They’re bully pullers, dranpop.  I guess if they and me pulled against Corney Delaney we could get him over the line all right,” one of the boys’ favourite pastimes being to play tug-of-war with the goat, the rope being fastened to its horns, but Corney was always conqueror.

Neither did Ian forget the imps quickly, as some children do their impressions, but strove to model them this morning, making round snow bodies, carrot horns, corncob legs, and funny celery tails; the result being positively startling and “overmuch like witch brats,” as Effie declared, with bulging eyes.

They unfortunately did not perish with the fort, for Richard doesn’t like them; but are now huddled in a group under the old Christmas tree, where Lark is barking at them.

* * * * *

I started to record our visit to Lavinia Dorman, but my “human documents,” printed on vellum, came between, and I would not miss a word they have to say for the “Mechlinia Albertus Magnus,” which father says is the rarest book in the world, though Evan disputes his preference, and Martin Cortright would doubtless prefer the first edition of Denton’s “New York.”

In past times, when we have visited Miss Lavinia, we have been fairly meek and decorous guests, following the programme that she planned with such infinite attention to detail that free will was impossible, and we often felt like paper dolls.

We had read her lament on the death of sociability and back yards with many a smile, and a sigh also, for to one born in the pool, every ripple that stirs it must be of importance, and it is impossible for outsiders to urge her to step out of the eddies altogether and begin anew, for New Yorkitis seems to be not only a rarely curable disease to those who have it, but an hereditary one as well.

As usual, Evan came to the rescue, as we sat in the den the night before our departure.  “Let us turn tables on Miss Lavinia this time and take her to see our New York,” he said, “since we are all quite tired of hers.  Do you remember the time when we went to town to buy the trappings for the boys’ first tree and were detained until Christmas morning by the delay of a cable I had to wait for?  After dinner Christmas Eve we coaxed Miss Lavinia out with us and bought half a bushel of jolly little toys from street fakirs to take home, and then boarded an elevated train and rode about the city until after midnight, in and out the downtown streets and along the outskirts, to see all the poor people’s Christmas trees in the second stories of tenements, cheap flats, and over little shops.  How she enjoyed it, and said that she never dreamed