“Tan’t tum now—Trouble busy,” was the answer.
“Well, I’ll come and see what you’re busy about,” and with a laugh Jan ran up the stairs. As she entered the spare room she gave a gasping cry.
“Oh, Trouble!” she exclaimed.
“What’s the matter? Is he hurt?” called Grandma Martin.
“No, but—oh, Trouble! What have you done?”
Then Grandma Martin came, and so did Mother Martin and Ted. They saw Trouble on the floor, with an edge of the feather bed pulled down toward him, while he was cutting away at the ticking with the scissors, having made a big hole, while all about were feathers—feathers—feathers everywhere.
There were feathers on the floor, on the chairs, scattered over the carpet, and Trouble himself sat in a heap of them like some big, queer new bird, with feathers even in his hair.
“Oh, Trouble!” cried Grandma Martin. “Why did you cut my nice feather bed?”
“Trouble goin’ to make softy-softy cushion for lame boy to sit on,” was the baby’s answer as he went on snipping away with the scissors, scattering more feathers about the room.