"He'd be splendid in uniform," said Rose, "he's so tall."
"Too tall," said the mother with a sigh. "Magnus grows altogether too fast. Perhaps West Point would be just the thing for him, and make him spread out a little. You know, girls, what big fellows some of those army men are, in papa's book of officers?"
"Yes," said Violet doubtfully, "big enough. But then Magnus never could be as broad as he is long, so we needn't worry."
A cheery whistle, strong and sweet and clear, pierced through the summer air outside; and with one consent the three talkers hurried to the window to look out. It was a back window, commanding easily a woodshed, a small garden, and a barn.
In the woodshed, hard at work upon a somewhat elaborate dog-house, stood the young future victim of mathematics and wave motion. Coat off, hat tossed down, hands busily chiselling out some bit of ornamentation; the head with its shock of brown curls bent low over his work. And very appropriately just then, for the thoughts that filled the air, Magnus was whistling "Yankee Doodle": his limber young tones going with great force and discernment into all the ups and downs of that delightful old melody. Do not mistake me and think the words ironical; I am extremely fond of "Yankee Doodle," myself.
"How queer he should be whistling that!" said Rose. "Oh, Magnus!"
"Hello!"
"Come up here. We were just talking about you."
"Talk away."
"But mother and all!"