hazy, purplish gray toward the horizon and a flood of mellow sunlight over all. By occasionally changing his position when the edges of the planks pressed too fervently against him, Willard managed a whole page of his book, making many marginal notes in his very small and extremely neat writing. He was, though, getting somewhat drowsy when the sound of footsteps came to him and he looked up to find Felix McNatt approaching. McNatt had soiled hands and wore a triumphant expression, and both were explained when, having climbed to Willard’s side and seated himself there, he lifted the wooden lid of the grape basket he carried. “Agaricus pratensis,” he announced impressively. “The same to you,” answered Willard, “and many, many of them.” McNatt smiled humoringly. “I found them over near the farm. They are rather scarce about here.” Willard eyed the contents of the basket unenthusiastically. The five mushrooms made very little appeal to him and he hoped McNatt wasn’t going to ask him to help eat them. “Are they edible?” he asked anxiously. “Oh, yes, although my book says they’re not so tasty as many other sorts.” “They don’t look awfully appetizing,” murmured Willard. “Do you cook them or what?” “They’re excellent fried,” replied McNatt, gazing almost affectionately into the basket. “Or you can stew them in milk.” “No, thanks.” Willard shook his head. “I don’t like the smell of them. They--they smell as if they were dead!” “Of course they’re dead,” said McNatt a trifle impatiently. “Or I suppose they are. Possibly they continue to live for a certain time after they are picked: I must find out about that: it would be interesting to know.” “Very,” agreed Willard politely. “Are you going to eat them?” To his great relief, McNatt shook his head. “No, there aren’t enough to make a mess.” “Aren’t there? I should think those would make a mess all right, a beastly mess!” McNatt smiled, even chuckled. “I fancy you aren’t a mushroom lover,” he said. “You wait, though. Some time I’ll get a fine lot of puff-balls and we’ll have a feast. You’ll change your mind then.” “Maybe I’ll change more than that,” said Willard sadly. “Maybe I’ll change my habitation. Lots of folks have gone to heaven after eating mushrooms, haven’t they?” “No, not mushrooms,” said McNatt, “toadstools. There’s a difference.” He covered the basket again, set it carefully between his feet and gazed in silence for a moment across the field. Presently: “You are on the football team, aren’t you?” “Yes,” said Willard, “sort of. I’m a substitute half.” “What sort of a team have we got this year?” “Pretty fair, I think. Haven’t you seen them play?” “I saw part of the first game, but you can’t tell much about a team so early. I haven’t followed it very closely since then.”