Let me think!" Slowly he wrote again: Parasols.
Fans.
Veils.
Hats.
"I never can get them! I think that will keep me busy for a few days," said the Harvester as he closed the door softly, and went to look at the pupae cases.

Then he carved on the vine of the candlestick for her dressing table; with one arm around Belshazzar, re-read the story of John Muir's dog, went into the lake, and to bed.

Just as he was becoming unconscious the beast lifted an inquiring head and gazed at the man.
"More 'fraid of cow," the Harvester was muttering in a sleepy chuckle..