one, maybe," said Russ. "And this is only a make-believe wheel. It's the nearest like a steamboat paddle-wheel I could find,"

   and he gave the footstool a little kick. "But all kinds of wheels go around, Laddie."

   "No, they don't," exclaimed the little fellow. "That's a riddle! What kind of a wheel doesn't go 'round?"

   "Oh, let's give it up," proposed Rose. "Tell us, Laddie, and then we'll get in the make-believe steamboat Russ has made, and we'll have a ride. What kind of a wheel doesn't go around?"

   "A wheelbarrow doesn't go 'round!" laughed Laddie.

   "Oh, it does

    so

   !" cried Rose. "The

    wheel

   goes around."

   "But the

    barrow

   doesn't—that's the part you put things in," went on Laddie. "

    That

   doesn't go 'round. You have to push it."

   "All right. That's a pretty good riddle," said Russ with a laugh. "Now let's get on the steamboat and we'll have a ride," and he began to whistle a little bit of a new song, something about down on a river where the cotton blossoms grow.

   "Where is steamboat?" asked Margy, aged five, whose real name was Margaret, but who, as yet, seemed too little to have all those let

   ters for herself. So she was just called Margy. "Where is steamboat?" she asked. "Is it in the kitchen on the stove?" and she opened 

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