Miss Margaret Schofield, reclining in a hammock upon the front porch, was beautiful in the eyes of a newly made senior, well favoured and in fair raiment, beside her.

A guitar rested lightly upon his knee, and he was trying to play--a matter of some difficulty, as the floor of the porch also seemed inclined to be musical.

From directly under his feet came a voice of song, shrill, loud, incredibly piercing and incredibly flat, dwelling upon each syllable with incomprehensible reluctance to leave it.
"I have lands and earthly pow-wur.
I'd give all for a now-wur, Whi-ilst setting at MY-Y-Y dear old mother's knee-ee, So-o-o rem-mem-bur whilst you're young----" Miss Schofield stamped heartily upon the musical floor.
"It's Penrod," she explained.

"The lattice at the end of the porch is loose, and he crawls under and comes out all bugs.

He's been having a dreadful singing fit lately--running away to picture shows and vaudeville, I suppose." Mr.Robert Williams looked upon her yearningly.