found mysteriously murdered.  With keen interest he watched the authorities carry the hero to jail.  He was first in the audience at the trial, he drew a long breath when only circumstantial evidence could be brought out, his heart sank when the villain rushed into the court room and cried out that he had conclusive evidence, his hopes went down, a sharp pain assailed him in the shoulder, he thought the villain had grabbed him, he jumped up and—­in place of the court room, prisoner, judge, jury, witnesses, interested onlookers, etc., he saw his mother standing beside him and—­horrors—­a dozen or more hens blissfully digging in the loosened earth of the garden.

“Where did you get that book, Willie?”

“It was lent to me, ma, don’t tear it ma, don’t tear it, it ain’t mine, ma—­”

“That will do, Willie, it is not fit for you or any other boy to read, now you come in the house and go to bed.”

“But ma, it is only four o’clock and I’m hungry and I won’t let ’em in the garden again, ma, please can’t I stay out here, ma?”

“You do as I told you without further delay.”

All alone in his room, confined to his bed by the stern mandates of his mother, with everything out of doors calling him, Willie could not sleep and then when darkness fell hunger gnawed at his vitals and sleep refused to put an end to his misery.  He counted to a thousand then half drifted into the land of dreams.  A wicked little green imp whispered in his ear.  “Conclusive Evidence,” whispered it so loudly Willie awoke, then he thought, or tried to think of some plan of revenge on his heartless mother.  He could think of none that would not return to himself fourfold, then he reasoned that after all it was not so much his mother’s fault as the neighbors for keeping hens that would not stay at home.  Perhaps the little green imp came and whispered into his ear again, I don’t know, but how else account for Willie’s queer actions?

He slipped quietly out of bed, paused to listen at the door of his mother’s room but heard no sound.  Reassured, he crept noiselessly down the back stairs into the kitchen, out through the rough room into the shed where the corn was kept.  He filled the pockets with hen corn, the bright moonlight shining in through the window gave him all the light he needed, until his pajamas looked as though they had the bubonic plague.  Still moving with extreme caution, he went into the kitchen again, secured a pan into which he put his corn; he then proceeded to fill the pan nearly full of water.  He listened but all was quiet, so he ventured even into the pantry where his mother kept the cookie crock.  He again filled his pockets, this time with cookies.  His night work over he carried the pan containing the corn and water to his room, put the pan as far under the bed as possible to avoid discovery, then seated himself by the open window to enjoy his lunch.  His father, who never seemed to get around to things, had not mended the screen that belonged in Willie’s window so Willie sat with his head as far out of doors as the size of his body would permit and ate his cookies.  He was wise enough not to leave tell-tale crumbs.