During that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to Horace Winslow's house. Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to sympathy,--he was being "brought up" with so much care. Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr. Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which are sometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot." And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud sometimes in our ears,--so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish." But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally, we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those of the other boys in the neighborhood. His mind was being improved,--that was all. It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,--not the lean air of the scholar. I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in the ground. We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles. "I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace. "Did they break the strings?" I asked. "No,--only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to put 'em all back in the pond." "What for?" "'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last." "Which one?" "That big one, with the yuller spots." "Did she mind?"