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 and would call it the ‘Scare Box.’ I must fix it back in place.” Then the mother pushed the Jack, with his black beard and black hair, down, down into the box, and she shut and locked the lid.

Poor Squeaky, hidden under the queer man’s skirts, felt the springs close tightly about him and squeaked one shrill “Ee” of fright. The father said: “I never heard such a perfect squeak; it is wonderful the toys they make for children. Now in my day—” And his voice drifted off, as he turned out the lights and followed the mother upstairs to bed.

Poor little Squeaky. On all sides there seemed to be a big spring coiled and coiled about him. “I am in a trap,” he moaned, “and they didn’t even give me a mite of cheese to eat. But, then, nothing seems to