By the Roadside | Page 6

and just then
Marjorie noticed a little child standing on the curbing, it's hands
clasped and it's eyes fixed upon the bunch of roses.
Selecting the largest and most beautiful one, she placed it in the child's
hands,--and a little farther on she gave two to a weary-looking
woman,--and then a bud to an old man whose eyes moistened, and
whose fingers trembled as he placed it in his button-hole,--and then a
flower to a ragged, hard-featured boy, who held it awkwardly for a
moment, his face transfigured, and then dived into the door of a dismal
tenement. And all the way up the squalid street Marjorie distributed her
bright blossoms, and always with a cheery word and smile.
At last the houses began to be farther and farther apart, and the yards
larger, and presently they found themselves back in the open country
once more. The road was very much like the one by which they had
approached the town, pleasant and shady, and with a tiny brook
running along the side. Marjorie bent over the little stream to wash the
grime of the city from her hands, and then stopped for a moment to
splash the bright drops upon some thirsty flowers growing on the bank
and leaning as far over as they could. While she was doing this, she
heard the sound of a hammer close by, and, glancing around, she saw
that she was near a farm-house with a large barn and sheds, and that a
boy was busily nailing the pickets on to a fence, the frame of which
stood a little way back from the road. Marjorie watched him for a few
moments, admiring the evenness with which he placed the pickets, and
the sure, firm blows of the hammer; at last, however, she began to grow
uneasy. "Look," she said to the Dream, "see how close together he is
nailing them. That isn't the right way. Why do you suppose he does it
so? He's just spoiling the looks of his fence."
"Probably he does it that way because he wants it that way," said the
Dream carelessly.

"But they don't look well that way, and it takes more pickets and more
nails and a longer time."
The Dream looked at the boy and the fence, critically. "It's not such a
bad fence," he said, dryly; "and the boy looks fairly smart, doesn't
he?--and he handles his tools as if he had built fences before. Perhaps
he knows what he is about."
"Y-e-s, he looks smart enough," agreed Marjorie; "but he is certainly
making a mistake now, and I think I ought to tell him about it."
"All right," said the Dream. "Go ahead."
So Marjorie approached the boy, who stopped hammering and looked
up at her pleasantly. "I thought that I would better tell you--" began
Marjorie, somewhat embarrassed, "that--that--" she found it more
difficult than she had expected, "--well, you see, you are making a
mistake."
"What do you mean?" asked the boy glancing along the trim row of
palings.
"Why, you are putting the pickets too close together," said Marjorie.
"They don't look well that way, and they are too near the ground,
besides. I was just speaking to my friend about it, and I thought that I
ought to tell you, as well."
"Thank you," said the boy, gravely; and then:--"Do you know what I
am building this fence for?"
"No-o," said Marjorie. "I supposed it was just--just a fence."
"Well," said the boy, "a fence usually has some particular purpose; and,
as a general thing, the person building it knows that purpose better than
any one else, and just what sort of a fence is best in that especial case."
Marjorie said nothing, and the boy went on.
"I am fencing in a place for some white rabbits. Some of them are very

small, and so I had to put the pickets near together and close to the
ground. Do you see?"
"Oh," said Marjorie, "I didn't know what you were going to keep inside!
Of course you would have to build it this way for the little rabbits. If I
had known what it was for, I wouldn't have said anything."
"Was it necessary for you to know?" asked the boy. "It is my fence."
Marjorie flushed, "I don't think that you are very grateful," she said;
"and, anyway, the pickets don't look well so close together, even if you
do have to have it that way," and she turned and went back to the road.
"Well?" said the Dream, as she approached.
"He was disagreeable," said Marjorie, "and acted as if I had no right to
tell him of his mistake."
"But is he going to change the pickets?"
"No," said Marjorie, "he has to have them that