Of course he had another name, indeed, he had two--William John. But no one except his mother and father, and his aunts and uncles, and the minister, when he came to tea, ever called him anything but the Little Brown Boy. One night the Little Brown Boy lay in bed as wide awake as ever he could be. He had been so sleepy when his mother put him to bed that he couldn’t stand up straight to take off his clothes. But once tucked in bed and his mother gone downstairs, the Little Brown Boy’s eyes flew open and he felt as lively as if it were morning instead of his usual bed-time, seven o’clock. The Little Brown Boy looked from his bed out of the open window at the tree-tops that were tossing and nodding in a gay West Wind. Down from the trees whirled the Autumn leaves, red and yellow and russet-brown, flying and falling here and there, rustling where they fell. Bump! Bump! Bump! The Little Brown Boy knew what that sound meant. Nuts were blowing off the great walnut tree that stood over the way from the Little Brown Boy’s house. Whisk! Scrabble! Rush! That was a squirrel traveling over the roof, as the Little Brown Boy well knew. In the next room, through the half-open door, the Little Brown Boy could see his toys lying about on the floor. There was his Jack-in-the-Box, looking very uncomfortable, indeed, with his head hanging over the side of the box almost touching the ground. There was his Jumping Jack, tossed in a corner, arms and legs stretched out to jump, and a tired look upon his little painted face. A company of smart red-and-blue tin soldiers lay in an untidy heap, face down, their Captain buried underneath them all. You wouldn’t dream that they were soldiers if you didn’t see their uniforms and swords and guns. There was a gray horse and a scarlet wagon, both standing on their heads. There were fire-engines, topsy-turvy, scattered here and there. A Mother Goose picture-book lay under a chair, and if you had been close by you would have seen that Mother Goose on the cover did not seem at all pleased at finding herself in such a place. What was the matter with this play-room, that the toys lay scattered about on the floor? Why were they not put neatly away in closet and cupboard and drawer? I will tell you. _The Little Brown Boy never, never put away his toys!_ His mother talked and scolded and even shut him in the closet now and then. His father shook his head and said to his mother, ‘Well, I shall have to leave this to you.’ His pretty Aunt Jeannie said she would give him a present if only he would put away his toys every night. His tall Uncle Joe promised to take him to the circus if he would pick up his playthings for a week.