The Peon is so satisfactory! He never thought of laughing at me, but took in the situation at once. He said the best way to make sure of getting rid of the wretch was for him to carry Grumpy away when he went. He could put him in his suit-case—for Grumpy really is the tiniest creature imaginable to make all the trouble he does; and he could throw him out of the car window as they were crossing some deep gorge in the mountains where no human habitation had ever been. A blue devil can’t possibly live where there are no people; so there’d be an end of his mischief forever. Wasn’t that the cleverest scheme? We caught him together yesterday afternoon, and rammed him into the suit-case, good and tight. And I told the Peon, before he went, that if he did many more stunts like that, he’d be a very satisfactory playmate for me when the children are grown up and in their own house. And that is the end of Grumpy. * * * * * _August 23rd._ They have gone back, taking the plans for the house with them. Caro and David sketched them together, and he will have them worked out at home. I think Caro half envies him the pleasure of beginning the nest building, and wants to be there to see; but nobody is willing for me to go back before the first of October; and the child has a deal of shopping to do. I will wait here; and Caro will go to New York and visit Edith Mason, while she selects her bridal plumage. I find the birds most joyful company these days, and am planning to cultivate their acquaintance in a less formal manner; for I intend to get out of this chair. A wheeled-chair is really an exasperating place to study birds from: I wonder I never realized it before. This very day the trees are full of them—new birds, many of them, gathering for the fall migration. They have been playing hide-and-seek with me all the afternoon—a charming game if one can do one’s own part of it, and go seeking when the other hides; but if you can’t, it’s not so hilarious. They poke unknown heads through the leaves, and survey me coolly. They whisk tails I can’t even guess at from behind a limb, and are gone. They sing high overhead, with only a bit of their under feathers visible, or flirt a half-seen wing behind an opening in the leaves. Sorting heads, tails, and middles is a hopeless job when you haven’t an idea which belongs to which. If it were only a Chinese puzzle, you’d know when it was solved; but a tail with any other head would look as sweet! I’ve thought all summer that if a hyper-developed sense of touch can serve the blind for eyes, surely time and patience could do the work of feet for me; but I’m thinking patience may cease to be a virtue soon! * * * * *