The house was very much like the one they had lived in, in the Ute Pass, except that it was larger; there were three log-cabin barns, two of which were very large; and a queer-shaped log-house, bigger at the top than at the bottom, standing up quite a distance from the ground, on posts. This was for wheat. Then there were two dog-houses, and a great place built round with palings, to keep hens in; and one or two large open sheds where wagons and carts stood. Billy looked round on all these buildings with great pride. "I declare," said he, "there ain't such a ranch's this in all the valley. What a dumb fool that Wilson was to go 'n' leave it. He's put all he's worth, except this farm, into a mine up in Central; 'n' now he'll go 'n' put the money for this in too, and's like's not he'll never see a dollar on't again's long's he lives'. This minin' jest crazes folks." "Did ye ever see a puttier farm'n this, mum?" he asked, turning to Mrs. March. Mrs. March could not say that she had not. To her eye, accustomed to Massachusetts green yards, shaded by elms and maples, this little group of rough houses and sheds, standing up quite a distance from the ground, on posts, few tufts of coarse grass, and weeds growing around it, was very unsightly. But she did not want to say this; so she said:-- "It is much the nicest place I have seen in Colorado, Billy; and this valley is perfectly beautiful. But where is the creek?" "Right there, mum, just a few rods beyond that fence to the west,--where you see that line of bushes." "I don't see any water," said Nelly. "No, you can't till yer come right on it," said Billy; "'tain't very wide here, 'n' it jest slips along in the bushes 's if it was trying to hide itself." "Papa," whispered Nelly, "doesn't Billy say queer things about things, just as if every thing was alive, and had feelings as we do? I like it." Mr. March smiled, and took Nelly's hand in his. "Girlie," he said, "Billy's a little of a poet, in his rough way." "He doesn't make verses: does he?" asked Nelly, reverentially. To make verses had always been the height of Nelly's ambition, as many a little roll of scribbled paper in her desk would show. But there was one great trouble with Nelly's verses thus far: she never could find any words that rhymed; and now to hear Billy called a poet seemed very strange to her. "I never should have thought he could make verses," she continued. "Oh! making verses is the smallest part of being a poet, Nellie," said Mr. March. "You can't understand that yet; but you will some day." Then they all went into the house, and looked at room after room, thinking what they would do with each. The rooms were sunny and bright, but were so dirty that Mrs. March groaned. "Oh, how shall we ever get this place clean?"