"There isn't a thing you can do about it, Father. Most of it does the boys more good than harm anyway. I talked to a West Pointer once about the hazing there. He said some of it was pretty annoying and at times decidedly rough, but that if a fellow behaved himself and took it good-naturedly they soon let him alone. He said it was the best training he had ever known for curing a growing boy of the big head. Don't worry--Ernest has sense--he's all right." To Chicken Little, Ernest confided, two weeks before Christmas, that he was getting confoundedly tired of having the same things to eat week after week. "Say, Sis, if you and Mother would cook me up a lot of goodies for Christmas, I'd like it better than anything you could do. Send lots, so I can treat--a turkey and fixings." This letter did more for Mrs. Morton's health than the doctor's tonic. She tied on her apron and set to making fruit cake and cookies and every delicious and indigestible compound she could think of that would stand packing and a four-days' journey. Chicken Little and Sherm spent their evenings making candy and picking out walnut meats to send. Dr. Morton made the nine-mile trip to town on the coldest day of the season to insure Ernest's getting the box on the very day before Christmas. The family at the ranch had a quiet holiday week. The day after New Year's, Jane was invited to come to town and stay over night to attend an amateur performance of Fatinitza, a light opera the young people had staged for the benefit of a struggling musical society. Chicken Little was excitedly eager to go. Mrs. Morton deliberated for some time before she gave her consent. Marian and Frank and Sherm all teased in her behalf, before it was won. Sherm drove her in, and Frank, having business in town the following day with a cattle buyer from Kansas City, volunteered to bring her home. Jane wore her Christmas present, a crimson cashmere with fine knife plaitings of crimson satin for its adorning. Frank lent her his sealskin cap and she felt very grand, and looked piquantly radiant, as she revolved for her mother's inspection before slipping into her big coat. Sherm, standing waiting, inspected her, too. "Scrumptious, Lady Jane, you look like that red bird I've been trying to catch out in the evergreen by the gate." Mrs. Morton shook her head disapprovingly. "No compliments, Sherm, Jane is just a little girl and she must remember that pretty is as pretty does. Don't forget, dear, to thank Mrs. Webb for her hospitality when you come away. Are you sure your ears are clean?" "Oh, Mother, I'm not a baby!" Chicken Little protested indignantly. "You talk as if I were about five years old." "My dear daughter, your mother will speak to you as she sees fit. Have you got the high overshoes? I think, perhaps, you'd better take Father's muffler. Sherm, have you both buffalo robes?" Chicken Little relieved her feelings by making a little moue at Sherm. He winked discreetly in return.