Sunny Boy at the seashore

“Fall in!” said Sunny Boy sharply.

The army, six small boys distributed comfortably over the front steps, scrambled to obey. That is, all except one, who remained seated, a sea shell held over each ear.

“I said ‘Fall in,’” repeated Sunny Boy patiently, as a general should speak.

“I heard you the first time,” admitted the small soldier. “Did you know these shells made a noise, Sunny?”

“Of course,” answered Sunny Boy scornfully. “Any shell sounds like that if you hold it up to your ear. Come on, Bobbie, we’re going to parade.”

But Private Robert Henderson, it seemed, didn’t feel like parading just that minute.

“Let’s take this stuff out to the sand-box,” he suggested. “We can make a real beach, with shells and everything. Gee, you must have had fun at the seashore.”

“Did,” said Sunny Boy briefly.

He was exasperated. As general of his army he tried not to be cross, but Bobbie was famous for always spoiling other people’s plans. He never by any chance wanted to do what the other boys wanted to do.

“You can play with the sand-box after we parade,” announced Sunny Boy now. “Come on, Bobbie.”

Bobbie remained obstinately absorbed in the shells.

“Let me!” Down the steps tumbled a pink gingham frock and a fluff of yellow bobbed hair that proved to be four-year-old Ruth Baker. She lived next door to Sunny Boy, and her brother, Nelson, was already marking time with the waiting army.

“Let me march, Sunny Boy,” Ruth begged. “I can mark time, an’ everything!”

Sunny Boy decided swiftly.

“All right,” he assented. “I don’t think much of girls in an army, but I s’pose it’s better than being one short. Get in next to David.”

Ruth’s feelings were not easily hurt, and she didn’t mind if her enlistment was not accepted with enthusiasm as long as she was accepted. She slipped happily into line back of David Spellman, a freckle-faced boy with smiling dark eyes.

“Forward, march!” Sunny Boy beat a lively quick-step on his drum and the army moved down the quiet street, leaving Bobbie Henderson playing with the shells.

Sunny Boy’s drum, of all his toys, was probably his favorite. He had let it roll into the street once and a horse had nearly stepped on it, but his mother had mended it neatly with court-plaster, and it seemed good for many more days.

“Rub-a-dub, dub! Rub-a-dub, dub!” he pounded gaily now as he swung along at the head of his gallant forces.

“I don’t think generals play drums,” David Spellman had said doubtfully, when Sunny Boy first organized his army.

“Well, I’m going to play mine,” Sunny Boy had retorted firmly. “Daddy says when you’re short of help a man has to do two people’s work. I can play my drum and be general, too.”