It was a little procession of the Gowdy children round the corner of the house, Thomas junior in the lead, shouldering a spade and issuing bluff words of command; Florence came next, with a black silk petticoat, evidently borrowed from some much more mature wardrobe than her own, solemnly draped upon her; the twins were hauling the catafalque, that is, their Irish-Mail wagon, a shoe-box disposed upon it and covered with an unbelievably dirty towel; and Wilbur, straddling his kiddie-car, theoretically brought up the rear. In reality, he tooled along to suit himself, with erratic swoops and circles, carrying on an inarticulate, one-sided conversation the while. They halted, after some shrill disagreements, at one of the bare, hard-trodden spots occurring sporadically among the weeds of the parsonage back yard, and Tommie was about to attack it with the spade when all hands simultaneously became aware of the uninvited witnesses. There was an interval of silent staring broken by Wilbur, who, as has been seen, was a sociable soul, without sufficient field for the exercise of his gift. “‘O,’ady!” said he, steering up to the fence. “My, my, ain’t you little folks busy, though!” said Mrs. Shields genially. “Watch out, buddy, you’ll get a sticker in your eye. What’s he say?” “‘O,’ady!” cried Wilbur with vehemence. Tom authoritatively advised him to shut up. “‘Hello, lady!’ that’s what he’s trying to say. He can’t talk plain yet, he’s only two and a half. We’ve got to be after him the whole time. It’s fierce!” he explained gloomily. “Well, now, _I_ think that’s real nice, taking care of your little brother----” “Icky eye!” interrupted Wilbur urgently. “Icky _eye_!” Florence undertook the translation. “He’s saying the kitty died.” “Oh, ain’t that too bad! Poor kitty! What was the matter with her?” “I don’t know. She just died,” said Florence indifferently. “We’re having a funeral with her.” “You _are_? Well, I declare! And I s’pose Mommer’s singing that lovely hymn for you.” They eyed her in the wary fashion of children suspicious of the false interest of grown-ups. “No, she isn’t. She’s just singing.” Tom said curtly. “I don’t b’lieve she knows about the kitty even.” Here the auburn-haired twin precipitately entered the conversation with the information that the bird died, too. “It was a canary. It sang and sang, and then it stopped singing and died.” “Oh, my, you musta felt bad!” “Ho, that ain’t anything!” said the blue-eyed twin in a superior manner. “We’ve had lots of things die. Just lots!” He launched into large statements. “Everything we get dies! We had some white mice and _they_ died, and we had a dog and _it_ died, and we had----” “Aw, shut up, we didn’t any such thing!” “We did so! Don’t we, Flo, have everything die? Don’t we, Reddy?” “Aw, you’re lying! Shut up, I tell you!”