"Won't you go on. Tell me about Brisken Brees," pleaded the little boy, with a quick glance at the kitchen door.

"Well," continued the Brisken Bree, "we are different from the fairies in this way -we 're not day-dreamers, for one thing. We get things done. We 're happiest when living among easy material things and easy material thoughts-things that you can put your finger on, do you understand? And we see the meaning of 'em too, which the fairies don't-only we can't express it so well; so there you are! We have no patience with their useless, swift flights through the night and their dreamy days, couched in a buttercup. We stretch out our arms, not with hungry longing to the stars, which is a way that the fairies have, but to the fire on the

hearth.

"A TERRIFIC THING CCCURRED!"

Cosy interiors, spaced off from wind and rain, where meals for hungry children are prepared, where hearths are swept and mending done, and a baby sleeps in his cradle in the corner-these are the surroundings that fill us with content; and it is a lucky housewife, I can tell you, boy, whose kitchen has been chosen by a Brisken Bree for his abode! Her cookies are spicy and delicious; her clothes wash gleaming white; her children are happy; and always there is an atmosphere of serenity and peace." "Oh!" breathed the little boy, with shining eyes, "I should like to live in a place like that. I should like," he continued dreamily, "to go fishing, barefooted, all day long, and then come home to a place like that."

"And be set to work at once, shelling peas, or picking over the raisins for the plum cake!" suggested the Brisken Bree.

"Yes, on the floor, by the fire. I would n't mind. I'd like it in that kind of a kitchen. Ours is so very gloomy and big."

"It certainly is," said the Brisken Bree, emphatically. "That is why I preferred to live out here under a carrot."

"I know," sighed the little boy; "I would, too. May I have my basket, please?"

The Brisken Bree hopped off the handle of the basket, and the little boy picked it up. "I'm sorry about your house. If you can wait until to-morrow, I 'll help you to build a new one."

"Oh, that 's all right," said the Brisken Bree. "Only where am I to sleep to-night? That's what I'm thinking about."

"You would n't come with me, would you?" suggested the little boy, timidly. "I'd love it, and there is plenty of room in my bed. I'll sleep on the floor if you 'd rather."

The Brisken Bree considered a minute, with puckered lips, his head on one side. "I might," he said, "if it was n't for old toothless Liz."

"She won't bother you," urged the little boy; "she won't know you are there. Please, please!"

"All right" he agreed. "You can carry me in your pocket."

"Oh, no! she looks in my pockets every night, because once I carried a lizard there. He was an awfully nice lizard, with little clingy hands, and his heart beat in his throat. You could feel it under your thumb. But Aunt Liz did n't like him at all. She whipped me and-and killed him. was then that I stopped being grateful to Aunt Liz. She says I ought to be grateful to her, and I was, before; but I could n't be grateful to her after she had killed my lizard."

"I should say not!" said the Brisken Bree, indignantly. "The old murderer! Here, put me under your sailor collar, but be careful of my cap. It's a bubble and boiling hot."

The little boy picked up the Brisken Bree, very carefully, and put him on his shoulder, where he felt him crawl under his sailor collar. Suddenly the cook's voice rent the stillness like jagged lightning in a quiet sky.

"Jeree," she called, "Jer-ee! What on earth are you doing? Planting them carrots and waiting for them to grow? Come here this minute!"

"Yes, Aunt Liz," answered Jerry. He seized the basket and ran swiftly to the back door, where his aunt stood, her hands on her

hips, waiting for him. She jerked the basket out of his hands and tumbled the carrots about, that Jerry had laid neatly side by side with all the green together, depreciat

"I'M AWFULLY SORRY, SIR,' SAID THE LITTLE BOY"

ingly. He looked up into her face with anxious eyes.

"Go on in now," she commanded, giving him a push. "Don't stand there mooning when we have all this work to do. We ain't never going to get through with it, as far as I can see. There's three gentlemen coming to lunch, and one of them 's a senator. Here, scrape those and be quick about it." She tossed the carrots to him, spilling them all over the floor, and darted to the stove. Jerry patiently gathered them together again. He wanted to ask what a senator was, but he did n't dare.

The kitchen was hot and untidy, for Aunt Liz, even when there were not three gentlemen coming to lunch, never seemed to be able to make any headway against ever accumulating confusion.

His knees hunched up so as to better hold the big yellow bowl in his lap, his feet on the rungs of the chair, Jerry found it difficult to scrape the carrots properly. His knife would cut in too far, and he succeeded only in slicing big pieces off, so that there was little carrot left. He was struggling so hard that he had almost forgotten the Brisken Bree, until he heard him whisper in his ear: "That is n't the way! Let me help you."

Aunt Liz was in the next room. They could hear her clattering the dishes, so the

Brisken Bree climbed down Jerry's arm and sat on the handle of his knife.

"Now try," said he.

It was perfectly surprising to Jerry to see the difference it made. He scraped easily and quickly, the Brisken Bree gleefully riding the handle of the knife until the last one was finished. Then he slipped out of sight.

"Huh! that 's the first time you 've ever done anything decently," said Aunt Liz, snatching the bowl. "Now boil 'em, while I make the pudding."

The Brisken Bree whispered instructions in Jerry's ear as he dropped the carrots in a big iron pot and covered them with water. "Now," he said, when the water was boiling, "comes the fun. If I can hang over the pot without old Liz seeing me, and dip my bubble cap in the water-"

"Oh, it would burn you!" exclaimed Jerry. The Brisken Bree chuckled. "Not at all," he said. "It's the most delightful sensation in the world! And wait until you see what a difference it will make in the carrots!"

The Brisken Bree lowered himself, head downward, into the pot and hung there by his toes. Jerry, though he watched anxiously, could hardly see him because of the clouds of steam, but presently he heard him exclaim: "Oh, this is fine! This is fine! I have n't been so comfortable in many a day!"

Presently, Jerry heard Aunt Liz approaching, so he called the Brisken Bree, who scrambled out of the pot and under Jerry's collar again, losing his spectacles on the way. Jerry hardly had time to pick them up and put them in his pocket before she was upon them, scolding and grumbling about having to do the work of three people in a house where there was no "second girl." Such a grand luncheon as Mrs. Williamson

"'JEREE,' SHE CALLED, 'JER-EE!'"'

gave to the two gentlemen and the senator! Even Aunt Liz was enough impressed by the importance of it to consent to wear a black dress with white cap and apron while serving, and Jerry was intensely interested as he handed the dishes through the little window in the pantry. He could just see the back of Mrs. Williamson's hair, strangely corrugated in gleaming ridges, like Aunt Lizzie's wash-board, and the senator, who leaned back in his chair, his napkin tucked into his waistcoat. The two other gentlemen and Mr. Williamson said nothing; but the senator

"THE BRISKEN BREE GLEEFULLY RIDING THE HANDLE OF THE KNIFE"

talked, and slapped one plump palm frequently with the other fist. Jerry wondered, as he watched him, where the difference might be between a senator and a gentleman, and concluded that it must be a matter of size and strength of voice. "They call the big ones senators, I s'pose," he mused. would have liked to ask the Brisken Bree, about it, but that brownie was now finishing the nap that had been so rudely interrupted in his little house.

He

Mrs. Williamson had just told the senator that she came from one of the best Rhode Island families, to which the senator had replied that he had no use for ancestors, and if a man was a good friend of his and treated him right, he never asked him who his grandfather was, which set Jerry to wondering why any one should ask a man that,

when Liz passed the carrots. The senator took a heaping spoonful of them and clapped it on his plate.

"My favorite vegetable," he commented, as he plunged his fork into the golden mound. "I'm so glad that you like them, Senator," said Mrs. Williamson, sweetly. "They seem to me to be a rather plebian dish. I must say, I prefer artichokes. Those artichokes of France!" sighed Mrs. Williamson, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

Jerry saw the senator put down his fork, slowly. There was a look of dreamy ecstasy on his florid face. "Never," he said, "never in all the world have I tasted anything that was the equal of these!"

"Really, my dear Isabel," Mr. Williamson broke in from the head of the table, "the senator is right. They are quite remarkable. There is a something so-so unusual. I can't think

99

"Henry," admonished Mrs. Williamson, "one does n't praise one's own table, does one, Mr. Dunning?"

"I should think that, under the circumstances, it might be quite allowable," replied Mr. Dunning. "Do try them, Mrs. Williamson; you don't know what you are missing." Mrs. Williamson daintily speared a carrot with her fork and put it in her mouth.

"Why!" she exclaimed, "Lizzie has surpassed herself. She has never done anything like this before."

"You must be the fortunate possessor of a very wonderful cook, ma'am," said the senator, returning to his plate.

Mrs. Williamson pursed her lips. "No," she said, "I don't think that I could call Lizzie a good cook, and she is frightfully untidy." She lowered her voice. "I am, to tell the truth, going to get rid of her at the first opportunity."

The senator brought his fist down hard on the table. "Let her come to me, Mrs. Williamson," he said with decision. "I'm not much on fancy cooking and things done up French style. Give me plain food prepared right. It would be a grand thing for me to be able to set a dish of carrots like these before the foreign diplomats and show them what 's what!"

Just then Lizzie entered, looking very cross, with a carafe of water in her hand.

"Hush," warned Mrs. Williamson, significantly. Senator Morison looked at Lizzie with interest. "Is this the woman?" he demanded, in high spirits, ignoring Mrs. Williamson's dismay-and indeed, Jerry

thought, too, that his manners were pretty bad. "How would you like to come and cook for me in Washington, Lizzie?"

Lizzie folded her arms in her apron and looked coldly at Mrs. Williamson. "I would n't mind," she said, "if the wages suits. I was going to leave here the first of the month anyways."

"After luncheon, Lizzie, we will discuss the matter; not now," said Mrs. Williamson, very firmly. "You play bridge, of course, Mr. Dunning?"

Mr. Dunning did n't play, and that led to explanations; so the senator, though he looked longingly at Lizzie as she took away the plates, could say no more. She came into the kitchen and slammed her tray down on the table.

Jerry was worried. He did n't want to move away from the field next door and the apple-trees and the garden, especially since he had just found a friend there, the Brisken Bree. Washington sounded vague and very terrifying.

"When do we go, Aunt Liz?" he asked, timidly.

"We go!" snorted Aunt Liz. "Do you think I am going to have you trapesing after me in stylish places like that? There 'll be a new cook here, and you can stay on and help her with the dishes, though it 's a tall lot of helping you have ever given me!"

"That 's all right, Jerry," he heard the Brisken Bree whisper, to his great relief. "That 's fine! The best thing that could have happened."

On the first of the month, Aunt Liz, resplendent in a red-plush bonnet and laden with knobby, loosely tied packages of every size, left to take up important duties in Washington, as the newspapers might have expressed it, if they had n't forgotten to mention Aunt Liz' departure. Jerry felt very proud of her indeed, and he wondered what the conductor would have thought if he had known that the lady he was bundling up the steps of the train and telling to "step along," was going to be cook in the house of a senator.

That afternoon, Albertine arrived. She was a little, wiry, colored woman, who radiated good spirits and with whom Jerry made friends at once.

"My goodness, Honey Bunch!" she exclaimed, "if I'd 've known that I was going to have a nice little boy like you in my kitchen, you could n't 've kep' me from this place with a team o' horses."

When Jerry offered to help her with her work, she laughed and sent him out to play, saying, as she stuffed his pockets with cookies, "Go along, Sugar. A child like you had n't ought to know nothing about such things."

It was delightful to spend long hours climbing the apple-trees or lying on the tall grass in blissful contemplation of the green leaves overhead, with no fear of hearing Aunt Liz's shrill summons. When he came home that evening, he was surprised to see

"THE SENATOR WAS GOING TO MAKE A SPEECH
THAT NIGHT" (SEE PAGE 303)

the Brisken Bree completely out of hiding sitting on the edge of the table, in fact, while Albertine mixed a cake.

"Deed, darlin'," she cried happily, rushing to him, "I never did hear of such luck in my life! They's a Briskum Bree here, and he says he's a friend of yours. I ain't heard tell of a Briskum Bree since my grandma used to go on about how she had one in her cabin down south, and the white folks uster come to visit her and eat her corn-cake."

"Oh, yes," said the Brisken Bree, thoughtfully, his hands clasped around one knee, "I think that I remember hearing of your grandmother. grandmother. Nice little cabin she hadso sunny! She used to sing some very pretty songs, too. Do you know any of them?"

"Yes, sir," chuckled Albertine, with glee; "I knows, 'Keep Your Seat Miss Liza Jane and Hold on to That Sleigh,' and 'Autumn Leaves Falling,' and 'Mammy, Mammy, Cried Poor Little Baby-""

"Delightful!" encouraged the Brisken Bree. "I think that we are going to have very amusing times here, Jerry, with Albertine. I shall take up my abode, at once, behind the clock, which is the place of all places that I prefer."

"Uh-huh. I remember hearing about that," said Albertine, as she vigorously stirred the cake.

"I am only sorry," the Brisken Bree went on, "that you both are too big to try it and see what a delightful habitation it makes. To hear that continual tick, so regular and so soothing, to feel that things are going on all about one, and yet to be so delightfully aloof from them- It 's ideal! You need no longer carry me about under your sailor collar, Jerry."

"I liked it," said Jerry, "but it will be nicer to have you where we can see you and talk to you."

Albertine laid down her spoon. "Jes' listen to him," she cried admiringly, "talking so big. He's the knowingest little thing!"

This was very pleasant for Jerry, who had been so often told of his stupidity by Aunt Liz. "Be careful, Albertine," warned the Brisken Bree, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles, "don't spoil him.”

"That child!" replied Albertine. "I guess he can stand some spoiling. Ain't never had any, as far as I can make out."

The change in the Williamson's kitchen after the Brisken Bree took command there, was astonishing, although it would be impossible to explain wherein the difference lay. Was it the cleanliness of the place, its trim order? One would be inclined to think so, if one did not remember other kitchens just as clean, yet cheerless rooms indeed. This one possessed an undeniable air of importance-almost as if it breathed and were alive. Yes, that was it an air of importance that seemed to radiate from and be expressed by the solemn tick of the old clock.

And the meals that Albertine preparedher cakes, so light and delicate; her pies and puddings and rolls! The remarkable part of it was that if she did nothing more than put an apple before you on a plate, you seemed, somehow, as you looked at it, to see the significance of all apples, the wonder of them.

Mrs. Williamson soon began to lose her slim figure, of which she had been so proud, and Mr. Williamson, his worried, apologetic look. He often pushed open the kitchen door and, wistfully lingering, wished Albertine and Jerry a "very good evening." But it was Albertine herself who was most astonished at her work. She would bite into a cooky, tentatively, after she had taken them from the oven, then roll her eyes and cry: "Yum, yum, baby! I declare, I never did see such a difference in my life! Seems like we ought to tell them that I ain't got nothing to do with it. I just mixes things in the same old way, and they tastes just as if they came right out o' the Land of Canaan!"

"But you have a great deal to do with it, Albertine," the Brisken Bree would say from his seat near the clock. "I have to have sunny natures like yours to work with, just as an artist needs color, don't you see?"

"No, sir," Albertine would answer, "I don't know anything about them things, but I certainly am glad."

And Jerry-how happy he was! He felt almost as if he had never lived before. To be able to play ball all the morning, to run about or to sit motionless, pretending that he was some little woodland animal, to do anything that he chose, as long, of course, as he stayed "in the back."

Jerry's having been forbidden the front of the house was the only thing that made Albertine grumble. "What 's the matter with them folks," she would say to the Brisken Bree, "keeping that child hanging 'round this here hole? He's the knowingest little thing! I never did see a sweeter baby." Then she would cry to Jerry: "Come here, Honey Bunch, come to your Albertine. Ain't going to keep this child hanging 'round this here hole no longer!"

"I don't mind a bit, Albertine," Jerry would tell her; "I like it much better in here, honestly."

"Poor little Sugar Lamb! Come sit on your Albertine's lap and let her sing to you about the preacher and the bear.

'Preacher went out hunting;

'T was on a Sunday mornshe would croon, as she rocked him slowly; and Jerry, his cheek against the smooth, cool calico of her dress, felt a sense of security, a sleepy peace steal over him, while the clock kept time to the creak of the chair, the vegetables gently hissed as they boiled over the fire, and the Brisken Bree, looking on