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“And Father’s got the big kettle all ready, and Saturday he’s going to butcher him.”

“Hi, Serjane, I’ve got the fish ready for the pan and there you set on the wagon tongue aletting the fire go out.” It was the querulous voice of the old man.

Sarah Jane hurried into the kitchen as Dan placed a fine mess of fish over the coals. We had just gotten well started to eating when the back door flew open with a bang and the little woman scudded toward us.

“Oh, I’m too late,” she cried breathlessly. “You’re already eating. Now why didn’t I ask you to eat with us before? Why? Why? Why?”

Each word was a tiny explosion.

“Just because I didn’t think! Didn’t think! That’s what ails the world. We don’t think, won’t think and can’t think. Now, which do you consider is the worst?”

“The won’t thinks are the worst to my mind,” I assured her gravely, “because the don’t thinks get waked up now and then, and after a while the can’t thinks will grow some more brains, so that there is a chance of them getting started right, but as for the fellow who just naturally refuses to think at all, there is not much hope for him.”