high school-eighteen-and teaching in Paradise!

"Well you might as well get it out of your head right now. I've spent enough money on your galivantin' round to school. You've had a sight more education now than your mother or I had and I ain't figurin' on spending good money on booklarnin' that you'll just go and waste on some man. Times is too hard. Just remember there's others in the family besides you."

Cherril bit her lip hard, and did not answer. "Talking back" was the easiest way to kill all chances of going to school, she knew. And there were others six others who had as much right as herself to an education.

A horse, at the hitching bar stood in the muddy road in front of the Paradise General Co-operative Store, solemnly shook up a swarm of flies as they passed. There was no other life on the silent, dusty, sunny street. To stay here always-and be good and grave and dull like Agatha! Cherril's glowing, eager youth rebelled.

In the days when Cherril was younger, parents had warned their little girls to avoid "that red-haired tomboy of McPherson's," but the boys had accepted her on the baseball nine when there weren't enough fellows. And John Williams-who was ever so much older and grades ahead had valiantly taken the blame for the lizard she had put under the powder-puff in the teacher's pocket.

"He's probably married to a mousy, meek little wife now," Cherril smiled to herself as they passed his father's place, "and he's forgotten all about his girl' that he used to sneak allday-suckers to."

But early that afternoon a deep voice, over the telephone, challenged

her to guess who it was, and then declared despite her disbelief that it belonged to John Williams, and blurted out that the owner would be mighty pleased to see her to the dance if she hadn't made any other arrangements-honor of a returned missionary-ward-that night.

"Now you're in for it thick and heavy!" said Agatha when Cherril hung up. "Annabella Hanson's been writing to John all this year while he's been away at the A. C. She's spread it all over town that they're as good as engaged. And folks think you're stuck up anyway, Cherrilthey talk about the 'Royalty' coming to town-"

"Oh they do? Well I'll just show them this town needs some excitement anyway. I'll-well I'll think of something right dreadful and shocking to do!" "Cherril!"

Cherril kissed Agatha on her protesting frown, laughed and danced her into the kitchen.

"Well then I won't, but golly, Sis, I'm scared I'm going to be tempted awful hard!"

There was but six years difference between Cherril and Agatha, but the responsibility of the family since their mother's death had made Agatha far older and wiser. The children loved Agatha as a mother,

they welcomed Cherril as a comrade in mischief. Cherril adored Agatha-and constantly rebelled against her advice.

That afternoon Cherril re-discovered all the dear nooks of the farm. She climbed with the twins-Heber and Henry-to the barn loft where the pigeon's nest was crowded with big-mouthed, gaping babies; she helped Martha-the replica of herself at eleven-to christen the cunning new pink piggies. She waded

the creek with the twins and Jimmie -who had been just five when she left and who was rather afraid of her now. She ran into the field to tease "little Michael" who was twenty four inches taller than "big Michael," his father, and Michael lifted "little Carrots" and gave her a dry shave and carried her kicking and protesting to the creek for a ducking in punishment for the teasing. She found the seat in the old pear tree where she had cried and found comfort, had read fairy tales, and made doll clothes and dreamed of princes many, but of just one princess, a princess with charming grave and dainty foot and gorgeous appareland red hair. And she found a hundred treasures in the attic-old photographs of her mother, pressed flowers and grasses, an old copy book with pictures carelessly stuck up with flour paste, and dear Cymbeline Genevieve Gloriana, blind and leaking sawdust.

"It's kinda fun to be home!" Cherril confided to John that night, and she added to herself," even if home is in Paradise."

She had found a big, serious John, -with a line between his brows and a buring ambition. He told her a lengthy story of how his father had sent him to the A. C. but he really wanted to be a physician, because he could do so much good-Paradise needed a good doctor. He thought it was a noble profession and a great mission. And he wanted to go East to school this winter. He'd have to work his way up, he said and it would be hard, but he wouldn't be satis fied without.

"That's just wonderful!" cried Cherril, "Of course you can do it." Cherril thrilled to his ambition, but when she tried to "kid" him, he wouldn't play with her he was

awkward and ill at ease and still serious.

"John's nice," she thought, "but wouldn't it be dreadfully dull to be married to him?"

At the dance Cherril was conscious of critical eyes, saw women whisper to each other. Her black satin dress, with silver and bright blue at the waist, was beautiful, but it showed considerably more of Cherril than was thought ladylike in Paradise. It hurt-but Cherril tossed her head defiantly, was pert and gay and saucy, and flirted demurely with all the men folks-even with "Bouncer," an old man with a wooden leg and a frown, so nicknamed because he assisted all improper couples off the floor.

"Gosh, kid, you can dance!" breathed Hi Brown, who modeled his appearance as nearly as possible on the collar ads, affecting varnished hair and eyebrows carefully moistened into shape. "I could dance to the moon with you. Lots of girls now" but Cherril was not even listening. A stranger-very goodlooking, Cherril thought, in white trousers-had interested her. She wondered who dared wear white trousers in Paradise-where it was considered the extreme of "sissiness."

"Who, him?" sneered Hi in response to Cherril's question, “he's a nut that's started a Hick paper up in Pleasantville-bought out Star. But nobody takes it-my gosh, who would when he writes poetry and rubbish all through it? And you should hear him talk! Says 'the fahthah we go' and "deah'-you'd think he sure was some punkins. 'Delighted to meet 'cha!' Huh!”

Cherril mentally decided that she must meet the "nut"-at least it would be a different experience.

The dance was precisely like the

ones Cherril had seen four years ago, only then she had been a spectator or danced awkwardly with little boys. There was the same group of married women who gossiped about the girls their husbands danced with. The same black mass of fellows at the door like some queer black monster sending out tentacles in all directions at the beginning of each dance and drawing them promptly back when the music ceased; the giggling groups of girls oggling expectantly for partners; the children strewn about on benches and window sills in various stages of stickiness from ice-cream cones and sleepiness that even a party could not prevent. The officers of the Relief Society served ice cream on the stage to loving couples whose conversation consisted chiefly of "hm?" or "Um-hm" in low, long

"What queer things you say," admired Cherril, “just like a book! But it isn't polite."

"Some day I'm going to write a book-and I'll put you in it and call you Cherry-so delicious."

His arm tightened an instant, a slight caress that set Cherril's heart beating faster.

As they walked in the funeral procession between encores, Creer complained of the hot, stuffy room.

"Let's get a breath outside."

"Oh, I can't-I promised Hi the

Outside he challenged her to a race to the scraggly tree, caught her and swung her round laughing and struggling.

"Oh, Cherry, Cherry! What a picture you'd make just like thatmoonlight on your face and your hair tossed back!"

They sat on the grassy bank and talked and were silent and watched the moon glide behind shifting soft gray clouds a mountain still white with its winter cap.

Cherril thrilled to the vastness and mystery and beauty of the night, and when they returned she walked with a keen happiness-a sort of exaltation.

But Annabella Hanson's drawl of feigned carelesness tumbled Cherril abruptly out of the clouds.

66

'Spose you've been to ice cream? It's real swell. John and I have just been up."

The accent on "John" was ever so slight-but Cherril didn't miss it. "John and I!" John had not taken her, his partner, "to ice cream." Cherril did not stop to think that she had not been there to take she was furious with the anger of a humored child.

As John came up to claim a dance with Cherril, Annabelle said sweetly, "See you later" and walked away.

"Say, Cherril, if I were you I wouldn't be too friendly with that Creer. He's an outsider and you don't know what kind of a fellow-"

"Is that so! Who gave you the right to choose my friends for me?" Cherril's eyes were bright with anger and her cheeks burned.

"I'm only telling you Cherril." And now he adopted this kindly tone and presumed to treat her like a child!

"Well I don't know when our Church got a monopoly on nice men. Anyway he didn't leave his partner and take someone else to ice cream. I suppose maybe that is why he isn't to be trusted?"

"Cherril you weren't here, and Annabella said she'd like some

"Blame a girl! That's a gentle man's trait, I suppose! Anyway I don't care why you did it."

"Getting late, isn't it?" Creer smiled pleasantly and joined them. John glared. Cherril was silent, with set lips.

Suddenly the melody shifted to "Home Sweet Home."

"Come on, Cherril," John's tone was rough, commanding, "I guess this is ours."

"I guess it isn't!" flared Cherril, snatching her arm away.

"It is ours," smiled Creer.

Cherril had not counted on thisshe looked back at John just a bit regretfully, but she went on with Creer.

John stood dazed a moment, then very white, he turned and strode quickly to Annabella and finished the dance with her.

That night, when Creer had driven away in his funny little "bug" Cherril waited for the sound of her brother Michael's Ford as he came from taking his "girl" home. She met him just outside.

"Don't you dare tell Dad!"

"You're a fine one! You deserve all you get and you'd ought to be ashamed."

"If you dare tell—”

"Oh, shucks, I won't, but you know you can't keep anything like that in this town. He'll hear the whole tale and know everything you did the first time he goes to the post office."

"I don't care, John Williams thinks he is to smart. I'll show him he can't tell me what to do!"

"You've got a lot to learn, young lady!"

Michael strode away to bed without a sympathetic word.

Cherril was so mad at everybody, including herself, that she cried a big wet spot on the pillow. But as she dropped off to sleep she remembered that she must punish Annabella for that last triumphant smile. To be continued.

When the National Educational Association was convening at Boston July 1-8, 1922, literary and historical pilgrimages were taken by the Utah delegates; one was to Concord. Here lived such writers as Emerson, Hawthorne, the Alcotts, and Thoreau. We passed over the road of Paul Revere's ride. There was the Lexing ton Green. A bronze yeoman stands on a heap of rocks. Marking the line of the minute men is a boulder on which is inscribed "Stand your ground. Don't fire unless fired upon, but if they mean to have a war let it begin here." Just across the way is the house in which Hancock and Adams were sleeping when Paul Revere roused them to action. We drove to the Concord bridge. We seemed to be in hallowed ground Emerson wrote:

"By the rude bridge that arched the flood Their flag to April's breeze unfurled Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world."

We came to the old Manse where Emerson wrote his first book, and where Hawthorne had been happy. It seemed to have had magical influences for Emerson and Hawthorne. It is set back among the trees. A rounded hill covered with elms and maples and oaks is on one side. The quiet Concord river flows past. Emerson loved Concord. He wrote of it: "A sunset, a forest, a snowstorm, a certain river view, are more to me than many friends, and do ordinarily divide my day with my books. Wherever I go therefore I

guard and study my rambling propensities. Concord is one in a hundred places in which I could find these necessary objects."

After Emerson was married he set up house keeping at Concord. There he had his flower garden, vegetable garden, and study. His sunshiny home reflects the nature of Emerson. Here he was close to nature. He says: "The poet the orator bred in the woods, whose senses have been nourished by their fair and appeasing changes, without design and without heed, shall not lose their lesson altogether in the roar of cities or the broil of politics. At the call of a noble sentiment, again the woods wave, the pines murmur, the river rolls and shines, and the cattle low upon the mountains as he saw and heard them in his infancy, and with these forms the spells of persuasion, the keys of power are put in his hand."

Concord is little changed since the time of the writers. It is now just about as it was then. The white houses with their green shutters stand among the woods. We seemed to be far away from the city as we drove leisurely along in an old-fashioned coach. We easily imagined how Hawthorne and Emerson enjoyed returning from the Atlantic Club through the woods in Judge Hoar's carryall.

Half a mile away from Emerson's home is "The Wayside," Hawthorne's home. It is built close to the hillside. On top of the house is a tower which he built for a study. Here he had a view of the road lead