Happy Island

as boys,” said Uncle William, sitting

it all, just as plain as you be—settin’ there—you and me and Benjy, racing to get to this rock first—and planning sut

id Uncle William contentedly.... “Now, this morning—” Uncle William moved his hand toward the horizon, “He’s gone over to his place, all kind o’ boilin’-like.

ee by the way his elbows act—kind o’ stiff so. I reckon that c

the breeze. “Feels good,” he said, nodding. He seated himself on the big rock. “Well—I’ve done it.”

s face beamed. “That’s go

ing to leave?

s stood all he can—and so have I.” He threw out his thin legs and looked at them. “I

o’ did,” said

him,” he said, “She was cal’-lating on the boa

ew out an i

’ll fix it up all right—He’s got to have somebody to build his hous

sat up, smi

said, “It’s like trying to build a house in heaven—

n’ally use the home-folks, roun

dn’t build a twenty-thousand dollar hou

ch different from any other house, fur as I see—just more

er?” Bodet’s

spell.” Uncle William’s eye followed the boats passing across the harbor. “An’ he’s a kind o’ mason, and a first-rate painter—I do’ ’no’s you could git a man knows more ’n George Manning does.... I n

on—Ordway and I—” He spread out the paper, holding it between his hands. Uncle William moved over a little toward

ased smile—“Comfy, ain’t it—Sort o’ makes a h

ong the rocks as if it belonged there—The architect got the idea all right—from photograp

. “Drops fo’-five fe

He took out a rough pencil sketch and held it at arm’s length. “He wants to run it out here in the

unny—don’t it, Andy?

ee,” said Andy, “I’ve seen a

he paper in his hand. “It’s a seaside cott

it for,” said Andy, “if ’tis a cottage an

ther. That’s why I fired him—’seaside cottage!’—” He fizze

mind. I’m a-thinkin’ about it,

e high, nervous features, when Uncle William’s voice spoke to it, “All right, William, I

, too,” said Uncle William,

ow, about Manning—We ’ll go talk things over with him..