"Maizie's in a bad humor today," said Mrs. Procter to Suzanna. "Maybe she feels bad today, mother, because it's Wednesday." "Well, what in the world has the day to do with it!" Mrs. Procter exclaimed. "Well, Wednesday you know is the shape of a big black bear. It's not like Thursday, that's the shape of a great snowy white ship on a sparkling sea. I don't like Wednesday myself, mother." "Well, I'm sorry," returned Mrs. Procter. "But it's not in my power to shape days to please you children," she spoke crisply. "Are you tired, mother?" asked Suzanna, after a pause. "I think I'm always tired these days," Mrs. Procter admitted, "but I'm particularly tired this morning. The baby was very restless last night." "If you were like Mrs. Martin on the other side of the town," said Suzanna as she rose from the table and began to gather up the dishes, while Peter escaped into the yard, "who has only one little girl, you wouldn't be kept awake." Suzanna's eyes were widely questioning. Did her mother regret owning so many children? Mrs. Procter stood up. She lifted the baby out of his high chair. "You're every one dear and wonderful to me," she said. "But we're all human, dear, and apt to grow tired." Suzanna walked into the kitchen and put the dishes down on the table. On her way back to the dining-room she glanced out of the window. The early September day had changed. Miraculously every dull gray cloud had scurried away, leaving a sky soft, yet brilliant. Birds flew about, carolling madly, as though some elixir in the air sent their spirits bounding. Suzanna's every fiber responded. The desire whipped her to plunge into the beauty of outdoors, to run madly about, to shout, to sing. But alas, she knew there was no chance to obey her ardent impulse, since Wednesday was cleaning day, a day rigid, inflexible, when all the Procter family were pressed into service; that is, all but Peter, belonging to a sex blessedly free from work during its young, upgrowing years. Mrs. Procter spoke: "Bring the high chair into the kitchen, Suzanna, near the window for the baby; then we'll start cleaning." Suzanna obeyed reluctantly. She turned from the window. "Mother," she said, "when I'm grown up I'll have no steady days for anything." "What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Procter. "Well, I won't wash on Monday, and iron on Tuesday, and clean on Wednesday, and bake on Thursday. I'll let every day be a surprise." "Yes," said Mrs. Procter, "and a nice mix-up there'd be. You must have set times for every task if you expect to accomplish anything." "But isn't it 'complishing anything if you're happy?" asked Suzanna, really puzzled. Mrs. Procter hesitated. "But you can be happy working, too." "But I know, mother, that I'd be happier today out in the sun." "But the truth remains, Suzanna, that if we don't wash on Monday we'd have to wash on Tuesday, and that ties up everything at the end of the week," said her mother.