“Now, Mother,” he began hesitatingly, “I was real hungry, so I thought I’d eat a little piece of cake.  I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“I didn’t know we had any cake in the house,” said Mother Blossom, in surprise.

“We haven’t,” explained Twaddles hastily.  “So then I thought bread and jam would be nice.  But I never saw such funny jam; I can’t get it off.”

Then, as Norah had exclaimed, Mother Blossom cried:  “What in the world have you been into, Twaddles?”

She looked at his sticky fingers and then burst out laughing.

“My dear child,” she said seriously, “I’m afraid you’ve found Daddy’s pot of glue!”

And that is just what Twaddles had been into, and a fine time he and Mother had getting the sticky stuff off his fingers.  It took them so long, using hot water and sand soap, that Mother Blossom declared they could not toast marshmallows that afternoon, and then Twaddles was sorry he had not waited.

“Such a lot of fuss about a little glue,” he complained to himself, for Father Blossom scolded when he came home and found half of his glue wasted and he said that Twaddles should have no dessert for his supper; and Norah was very cross because she had to give her pantry an extra scrubbing, Twaddles having managed to track the floor with glue.  “I have bad luck all the time,” sighed poor Twaddles, blaming every one but the one small boy who was responsible for the bad luck.

“Daddy,” said Bobby that evening, “I’d like to earn some money.”

“Yes, Son?” answered Father Blossom encouragingly.  “What do you want money for?”

“I heard Miss Mason saying to Miss Wright to-day at noon that Mrs. Jordan and her son are having an awful hard winter,” explained Bobby.  “Folks want to send Paul to a home, but Mrs. Jordan won’t let ’em.  She wants to go out doing day’s work.  But she’s too old.  Miss Mason says old people are so heady.”

Father Blossom smiled.

“I think almost any mother, old or young, would fight to keep her son from being placed in a home,” he said gently.  “Do you want to earn money for the Jordans, Bobby?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Bobby sturdily.  “If you’d lend me the snow shovel, Daddy, Palmer Davis and I figured out we could earn a lot shoveling walks.”

“Oh, no, Daddy,” interposed Mother Blossom from the piano where she was helping Meg with her music lesson and yet listening to the conversation between Bobby and his father.  “He’s too little for that heavy work, isn’t he?”

“I can, too,” argued Bobby heatedly.  “Can’t I have the shovel, Daddy?  Mother’s always afraid I’m going to hurt myself.  I’m not a girl.”

“Well, Mother happens to be right,” said Father Blossom firmly.  “You and Palmer are altogether too little to try shoveling snow from walks; it’s packed now and is work for a grown boy or man.  If you had a shovel of your own, I shouldn’t consent to any such scheme for earning money.”