rams. All I can say is that my congratulations are extended to Idaho and Chile.”

“Plant more acorns,” Paula laughed, her arms about her sisters, the three of them smilingly expectant of an inevitable antic.

“Oh, Dick, sing your acorn song,” Lute begged.

He shook his head solemnly.

“I’ve got a better one. It’s purest orthodoxy. It’s got Red Cloud and his acorn song skinned to death. Listen! This is the song of the little East-sider, on her first trip to the country under the auspices of her Sunday School. She’s quite young. Pay particular attention to her lisp.”

And then Dick chanted, lisping: