Carolyn May did not often play with little boys. She did not much approve of them. They often played roughly and it must be confessed that their hands almost always were grubby. But she rather pitied Amos Bartlett because he had been endowed with a nose so generous that the other children laughed at him and called him “Nosey.” He snuffled, and he talked nasally, which made Carolyn May shudder sometimes, but she was brave about it when in Amos’ company. The three were playing in Mr. Hiram Lardner’s shed, which was half storeroom and half workshop. Back in a corner the inquisitive Freda found a great cask filled with something very yellow and foamy and delicious to look at. “Oh, molasses, I do believe!” exclaimed Freda eagerly. “Don’t you s’pose it’s molasses, Car’lyn May? I just love molasses!” Carolyn May was fond of syrup, too; and this barrelful certainly looked like the kind Aunty Rose sometimes put on the table for the griddle cakes. The little girl liked it better than she did maple syrup. “I believe it is molasses,” she agreed. “Here’s a tin cup to drink it with,” put in Amos. “O-oh! Would you dare taste it, Car’lyn May?” cried Freda. “No. I’d rather not. Besides, it isn’t ours,” Carolyn May returned virtuously. “But there’s so much of it,” urged Freda. “I’m sure Mr. Lardner wouldn’t care—nor Mrs. Lardner, either.” “But—but maybe it isn’t molasses,” Carolyn May suggested. “I bet it is m’lasses,” declared Amos with a longing look. “You try it, Amos,” ordered Freda, handing him the cup. “Yes,” said Carolyn May coolly. “You’re a boy, and boys don’t mind messing into things. Just taste it, Amos.” “Go on, Amos,” added Freda. “I dare you. I double-double dare you!” Of course, Amos, boylike, could not take a dare, so he dipped the tin cup into the yellow, foamy mass and took a good big swallow. Then the trouble began. He dropped the cup into the barrel, where it immediately disappeared from sight, while Amos hopped about, sputtering, coughing, crying, and generally acting like a boy distracted. “Oh, I’m pizened! I’m pizened!” he bawled. “And you girls done it! I’m—I’m goin’ to tell my mother!” His shrieks brought Mrs. Lardner from her kitchen. “What under the sun are you children up to?” she demanded. “Amos Bartlett, behave yourself! What is it?” Amos could not tell her. All he could shriek was that he was “pizened.” He burst out of the shed, ran through the shop, and so home to his mother. Carolyn May was too frightened to speak, but Freda said shakingly: “We only got him to taste the molasses.” “What molasses?” demanded the blacksmith’s wife, startled. “Why—why—_that_,” said Freda, pointing. “My mercy me!” gasped the woman. “That soft soap that Hiram just made for me? I don’t know but the boy is poisoned.” Mrs. Lardner rushed after Amos, to see if she could help his mother. Carolyn May and Freda crept quietly home, two frightened little girls.