Looking over the top of a granite bowlder a short distance away was a small boy. He was a very thin and delicate child about five years old, wearing a pair of faded khaki rompers and a shirt of the same material.
“Don’t you know any better than to sit under a hornets’ nest?” he exclaimed in disgust. “Do you want to get yourselves stung to death?”
The two girls raised their eyes. Partially concealed by the lower branches of the tree, a great cone of clay hung above them. From it and the insects flying about it came the buzzing sound.
“Crawl, Virginia, and don’t you dare make a noise,” whispered Helen.
From the top of the rock the infant witnessed the ignominious retreat from dangerous territory. “Come over here,” he urged. “Much hornets never come near me.”
Relying upon the superior judgment of the masculine mind, the girls turned and humbly crept towards this place of refuge.
“I guess you might stand up, now,” the boy told them. “If the hornets had wanted to sting you, they’d have done it before.”
They arose and forthwith began to dust their skirts.
“Stop!” commanded the child in a voice of alarm. “Haven’t you got any sense? Want to get me stung? If you make a noise the hornets will come sneaking over to see what is going on.” His manner changed to one of great politeness as he went on, “I have a house back here. You can come over there and dust yourselves if you want to.” He slid down back of the rock. When he reappeared around its corner, he made funny little skips and for the first time they noticed that he used a crutch. One of his legs was flexed by distorted muscles until he carried it a couple of inches above the ground. Notwithstanding this handicap, he moved rapidly along a pathway ahead of him. Where the grass of the meadow began at the edge of the woods, he waited for them and pointed with pride to a small opening in a clump of birches. “This is my house,” he told them.
Virginia dropped upon her knees and peeped in. “How lovely,” she cried.