“Oh, cat's foot!” he exclaimed one day, after hunting everywhere for his Sunday tie, and at length finding it in his bureau drawer. “I can't git used to this everlastin' spruced-up bus'ness. Way it used to be, this necktie was likely to be 'most anywheres 'round, and if I looked out in the kitchen or under the sofy, I was jest as likely to find it. But now everything's got a place and is in it.” “Well, that's the way it ought to be, ain't it?” said Eri. “Then all you've got to do is look in the place.” “Yes, and that's jest it, I'm always forgittin' the place. My shoes is sech a place; my hankerchers is sech a place; my pipe is sech a place; my terbacker is another place. When I want my pipe I look where my shoes is, and when I want my shoes I go and look where I found my pipe. How a feller's goin' to keep run of 'em is what _I_ can't see.” “You was the one that did most of the growlin' when things was the old way.” “Yes, but jest 'cause a man don't want to live in a pigpen it ain't no sign he wants to be put under a glass case.” Elsie's influence upon the house and its inmates had become almost as marked as Mrs. Snow's. The young lady was of an artistic bent, and the stiff ornaments in the shut-up parlor and the wonderful oil-paintings jarred upon her. Strange to say, even the wax-dipped wreath that hung in its circular black frame over the whatnot did not appeal to her. The captains considered that wreath--it had been the principal floral offering at the funeral of Captain Perez's sister, and there was a lock of her hair framed with it--the gem of the establishment. They could understand, to a certain degree, why Miss Preston objected to the prominence given the spatter-work “God bless our Home” motto, but her failure to enthuse over the wreath was inexplicable. But by degrees they became used to seeing the blinds open at the parlor windows the week through, and innovations like muslin curtains and vases filled with late wild flowers came to be at first tolerated and then liked. “Elsie's notions,” the captains called them. There were some great discussions on art, over the teacups after supper. Miss Preston painted very prettily in water-colors, and her sketches were received with enthusiastic praise by the captains and Mrs. Snow. But one day she painted a little picture of a fishing boat and, to her surprise, it came in for some rather sharp criticism. “That's a pretty picture, Elsie,” said Captain Eri, holding the sketch at arm's length and squinting at it with his head on one side, “but if that's Caleb Titcomb's boat, and I jedge 'tis, it seems to me she's carryin' too much sail. What do you think, Jerry?” Captain Jerry took the painting from his friend and critically examined it, also at arm's length. “Caleb's boat ain't got no sech sail as that,” was his deliberate comment. “She couldn't carry it and stand up that way. Besides, the way I look at it, she's down by the head more 'n she'd ought to be.”