What's the use of tellin' how Mrs. Tiscott's stringy hair was bobbed up, or the kind of wrapper she had on? You wouldn't expect her to be sportin' a Sixth-ave. built pompadour, or a lingerie reception gown, would you? And where they don't have Swedish nursery governesses and porcelain tubs, the youngsters are apt not to be so----But maybe you'll relish your nut candy and walnut cake better if we skip some details about the state of the kids' hands. What's the odds where the contractors gets such work done, so long as they can shave their estimates? The really int'restin' exhibit in this fam'ly group, of course, is the bent shouldered, peaked faced girl who has humped herself almost double and is slappin' little pearl buttons on white goods at the rate of twenty a minute. And there's no deception about her being a fine case for Piny Crest. You don't even have to hear that bark of hers to know it. I stands there lookin' 'em over for a whole minute before anybody pays any attention to me. Then Mrs. Tiscott glances up and stops her machine. "Who's that?" she sings out. "What do you----Why! Well, of all things, Shorty McCabe, what brings you here?" "I'm playin' errand boy for the kind Miss Colliver," says I, holdin' up the basket. Is there a grand rush my way, and glad cries, and tears of joy? Nothing doing in the thankful hysterics line. "Oh!" says Mrs. Tiscott. "Well, let's see what it is this time." And she proceeds to dump out Miss Ann's contribution. There's a glass of gooseb'ry bar le duc, another of guava jelly, a little can of pate de foie gras, and half a dozen lady fingers. "Huh!" says she, shovin' the truck over on the window sill. As she's expressed my sentiments too, I lets it go at that. "Looks like one of your busy days," says I. "One of 'em!" says she with a snort, yankin' some more pieces out of the bundle and slippin' a fresh spool of cotton onto the machine. "What's the job?" says I. "Baby dresses," says she. "Good money in it?" says I. "Oh, sure!" says she. "Forty cents a dozen is good, ain't it?" "What noble merchant prince is so generous to you as all that?" says I. Mrs. Tiscott, she shoves over the sweater's shop tag so I can read for myself. Curious,--wa'n't it?--but it's the same firm whose name heads the Piny Crest subscription list. It's time to change the subject. "How's Annie?" says I, lookin' over at her. "Her cough don't seem to get any better," says Mrs. Tiscott. "She's had it since she had to quit work in the gas mantle shop. That's where she got it. The dust, you know." Yes, I knew. "How about Tony?" says I. "Tony!" says she, hard and bitter. "How do I know? He ain't been near us for a month past." "Sends in something of a Saturday, don't he?" says I. "Would I be lettin' the likes of her--that Miss Colliver--come here if he did," says she, "or workin' my eyes out like this?" "I thought Lizzie was in a store?" says I, noddin' towards the twelve-year-old girl at the nut pickin' table.