Paul begged for the sacred privilege of wearing his new boots to
bed, but compromised on having them beside his pillow. The boys
went to sleep at last, with all their treasures heaped about them.
Tom shortly rolled upon the little jumping-jack, that broke away
and butted him in the face with a loud squawk. It roused the boy,
who promptly set up a defence in which the stuffed hen lost her
tail-feathers and the jumping-jack was violently put out of bed.
When the mother came to see what had happened, order had been
restored--the boys were both sleeping.
It was an odd little room under bare shingles above stairs. Great
chests, filled with relics of another time and country, sat against
the walls. Here and there a bunch of herbs or a few ears of corn,
their husks braided, hung on the bare rafters. The aroma of the
summer fields--of peppermint, catnip, and lobelia--haunted it.
Chimney and stovepipe tempered the cold. A crack in the gable end
let in a sift of snow that had been heaping up a lonely little
drift on the bare floor. The widow covered the boys tenderly and
took their treasures off the bed, all save the little wooden
monkey, which, as if frightened by the melee, had hidden far under
the clothes.
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