After a great deal of pleading, bringing to bear everything with which I was acquainted in the art of persuasion, I had succeeded in inducing Jean FranÇois to leave his happy caravan for a day and to become friends with our back yard. My family, be it understood, were dining in the country, leaving the premises to my undisputed control from early morning until late afternoon. Our pedler came with trepidation. He scented mischief of a kind which he did not find congenial. He had the greatest aversion to unexpectedly meeting people whom he did not know or did not like. Also he demanded room—the wide spaces of the open. To come about a house, or to enter an enclosure where escape would be fraught with embarrassment, was to him exceedingly painful. His apparent panic reminded me strongly of some timid, uncertainly tamed animal bravely trying to receive the caresses of human beings. Persistence prevailed, however, and he stole around the house, like someone bent upon a hopeless task, and seated himself upon the woodpile.

He looked about him with evident disapproval. Then, removing Pierrett from his mouth, he addressed her with elaborate politeness:

"Say, my sweet hussy, did you ever notice the personality of a crack in the fence? Have you ever given study to the sins of back yards?... Yes?... Just the other day I heard the old doctor say that you could tell the condition of a man's liver by the appearance of his back yard.... He's right about it."

In general esteem our back yard, if you choose to remember, was second only to the attic. The crack in the fence was its thorn in the flesh. Of course the kitchen opened onto it, or rather, it opened onto the kitchen, for this warm bread-scented producer of tarts is not to be compared in point of importance with this plot sacredly set apart for make-believers. Here, however, is a fitting place to state that for an inn the kitchen suited admirably, and Betty, though black-a-visaged as a pirate, made a very respectable Mine Host.

The right side was flanked by an impassable high board fence which Grown-ups, I have since learned, built to hide their back-yard sins from their neighbors, the Greens, who possessed a similar assortment. To us, however, it was a stockade erected by no less a personage than our comrade Daniel Boone, famous for his cigars, and served to protect us from the Indians who, in reality, were the half-dozen assorted little Greens, then on the summit of the stone age. These savages weren't at all neighborly, a thing for which we never ceased to be thankful. The really splendid part about it was that at any time, without other warning than a sudden whoop, rocks were likely to be thrown over the fence at our unsuspecting heads. Though once and a while producing a scalp wound upon our side, it was altogether a very harmless play, with just enough excitement to keep it alive. Besides, in the end, all of the stones the Greenlets ever threw away always found their way back to their side of the stockade. And what matter to any of us if it caused the mothers on either side to cease speaking except in company, and the fathers to have only a mere business bow?

In our back yard was the stable, two parts of which are worthy of mention. There was the hay-loft, reached by a steep and rickety ladder through a hole in the floor, a fine old place in which to hide from visiting dressed-up small boys whose presence was, on general principles, undesirable. Then there were great billows of hay, with sweet, breezy odors, on which one might be cast away on a pitchfork raft for days and days. Above, on the rafters, were drab-colored nests of mud-daubing martins, which easily became gulls, albatross, or distant sails, as the moment might demand.

The very best place of all, as you will hereinafter discover, was our buggy shed. The floor was nothing more than the good, hard earth. Here and there were little wallowing nests of dust made by some cheerful hen while engaged in an indolent sun-bath. On one side hung the harness, which might be pressed into service for circus purposes. Along the braces lay the monkey-wrench, hammer, nails, and delectable boxes of fascinating axle grease. The rancid smell of this yellowish-black article of lubrication is indissolubly associated with heaven-sent memories of the happiest days. True I never tried it, though I believe you once did with painful results; I always wanted to spread it on a white slice of bread and eat it. The axle grease was a cause for sin. More anon.

In the center stood our phaeton, which served from a coach and four to a low-raking revenue cutter. Behind it was the jolt wagon—so named because of a lack of springs. This caused very delightful sensations to those playing train within, when the vehicle was being driven at a trot over a rough road. Now one of the privileges to be bought, often at a high price, from the hired man, was the unalloyed joy of putting great daubs of grease upon the axles of the aforesaid phaeton and farm wagon. I have often done without my second piece of chocolate pie, gladly thrusting it surreptitiously down the throat of this previously mentioned man of many virtues, just to get to help at this task. Something second unto it was being allowed to spin the recently attended wheel before removing the jack from beneath it. All of this that you may know the charms of axle grease.... O, the memories of that day of many sins!

Nance, who lived just back of me, with an alley between, had a habit which was good or bad as it suited my purpose. It was to come through a gate in her back fence, which mine did not possess, and enter my domain through a crack in the fence. This entrance, which had been made long ago by the removal of a board, was a constant source of annoyance to me. Since her first appearance years ago, the crack had been worn smooth and glossy by much passing of girl frocks. She insisted upon being played with and the pity of her possessing neither father, mother, sisters, or brothers of her own was all that saved the crack being securely nailed. It was only when she attempted to force dolls upon me that I sternly rebelled. Of course it was only in the back yard and upon the common that she was allowed my comradeship. When we were fishing or swimming she could not come, though she shed many tears and entered various protests.

Now of all times this was one when a visit from her was not wanted. Jean FranÇois acted like she would be welcome, it is true. Just why he so fancied her was then a mystery to me. I'll leave it to you. I had prepared for a really wicked, good time all alone with the happy pedler. In the morning, after playing Indian with the Greens, I hoped we should be buccaneers in the hay until Aunt Bet began to get dinner. Then we were to slip into the house and slide down the banisters until time to eat. The whole afternoon was to be spent greasing the phaeton and the jolt wagon. There was a new box of axle grease, and a splendid pine paddle with which to apply it.... Suppose you had all of such a great day planned and a red-headed little jade, with a very white frock, taking her welcome for granted, squeezed through the crack of your fence.... Jean FranÇois says you can always count upon a woman making her appearance just when you are off on a particularly masculine jaunt.

Well, the Indians had to be postponed. She had once taken a rather awkward left-handed part in a battle and had gone bellowing through the fence, a most unbecoming woman. She wasn't any heroine. The scar, which her Aunt Barbara feels very sure will disappear, may be found in that blessed red hair to this day. So politeness forbade warfare. The hay proved better. It is true I noticed her eyes grow a bit wide with fear as she arose on the rickety ladder. This was fostered by Jean FranÇois following closely behind, playing sailor. We made believe that she was a respectable merchantman, while I was a pirate, and the pedler the man-of-war. I swooped down upon her only to be chased and hard put by the shot and shell of the larger vessel. I feel sure she got the worst of the fight. Then, in the storm, we covered her with hay until her weak little protest from somewhere beneath the billows made me uneasy for her ever again reaching port.

It was the banisters where she surprised all of us.

"I do it all the time at home," she informed us proudly. Just then I ceased to sympathize with her lack of a mother. I, too, wished for a G. F. who domineered a maiden aunt.

"You see," said she, "I never walk down stairs unless Aunt Barbara is around."

Then she illustrated her ability for us, to almost knocking the newel post from its dignified position at the bottom of the stair. We stood watching with awe and a trifle of envy. It was an unfortunate thing in some respects to have parents. Here, however, our joy was interrupted by a call demanding Nance to report for dinner. She departed, and I was left to dissipate on an old-fashioned circular baluster. Jean FranÇois became a spectator, saying that he drew the line at such amusements.

It was the afternoon which caused the telling of this story. History was made. We had the jack under the front wheel of the jolt wagon when she appeared. The umbrella man was unscrewing the nut while I worked the grease. Her frock was a new one. A trace of recent tears told of the folly of playing respectable merchantman upon a sea of hay. Here the wheel was lifted off, placed against the wall, and the glistening axle, already suffering from over attention, was liberally applied with lubricant. When we turned to replace the wheel, there was the jade sitting innocently against the hub. She stepped aside for us, only to expose a neat black ring printed upon a part of her frock which prophesied what awaited her within the immediate future. At first she was inclined to cry. Instead, upon our laughing at her, she became impudent. As each wheel came off, she promptly sat against it, regularly increasing the number of rings. Then she insisted on at least putting one paddle full on an axle. After that she must be allowed to attend one entire wheel by herself, of course, allowing one of us to remove it. This we did cheerfully. Were we not interested in getting her just as black as possible? Had she not grown exceedingly bold and saucy?... Next she decided to taste the grease. One little finger, on the tip of which was a bit of black tar, was stuck delicately on her outstretched tongue, while she made a face for our delectation.

Suddenly she turned upon us with the information that she was a circus.

"A whole circus?" asked Jean FranÇois derisively.

"A whole circus, and I'm going to perform," she informed us.

She then insisted that Jean FranÇois and I go away, as she was going to do her act on the horizontal bar. In fact, she commanded us to leave, but whatever we chose to do she nevertheless intended to do her trick. The pedler promptly turned his back and began the imitation of the kind of music played when the acrobats are out. As for me I stood my ground. She needed an audience, I insisted. Who ever heard of a circus without an audience? Then, quite to my astonishment, Nance proceeded to skin the cat. She sputtered something about getting even at her party—I remembered this afterward—as she heaved her legs between her hands, and a multitude of clothes obscured her features. I was somewhat awed by this bit of prowess. I respected her for it. Still, I, myself, fully intended, so soon as I became a man, to walk on the ceiling. Also I found myself wondering if the immortal Jean FranÇois numbered this among his accomplishments.

Just then the climax came, in the shape of her Aunt Barbara, who, silently and suddenly, like death, stood before us.

"Aunt Barbara," she explained as she dropped, a tearful little bundle of apologies, into the dust, "Aunt Barbara, I didn't want to do it before Charles. Really, I didn't, but I just couldn't get him to go away.... I hated to do it, really, but he simply would not leave."

Then to see her hurried through the crack in the fence with a sharp spank, as she stooped through the opening, almost convinced me that she was one thing on earth God had made without any purpose.

Jean FranÇois says there isn't any greater creative force in this world for pity than a very tearful, snuffy, turned-up, little girl-nose.