people in that home. A pleasant lady opened the door and invited me in.
"Who put up those bird houses?" I asked, the first thing.
"That's my boy," said the lady. "He just loves to tinker with his tools." She pointed with pride to a clock shelf which she said he had made for her birthday.
"And he made that big bird house, too?" I asked.
"He made every one," answered the lady, "and he is making more. He is learning it in the manual training school."
I told her I wanted to make some bird houses, but didn't know just how to go about it.
Then she led me into a tiny room off the kitchen. There by the window stood an old dry goods box that had been fitted up as a work bench, with a vise and a rack for small tools. Larger tools were hanging on the wall. On some shelves were wooden boxes and boards. On the work bench lay a bird house. I picked it up and looked at it.
"He says that's to be for wrens," explained the lady. From a chest she produced another bird house which she said was for bluebirds.
"He makes them out of these boxes that he gets from our grocer," she added, "and I save the starch boxes for him."
The lady had much to do, so I made ready to go. But she went on talking:
