rambling, comfortable old house was almost outside the town limits. Father Blossom owned the big foundry on the other side of the railroad.
"I'll go in," said Bobby, when they reached the post-office. "You wait here."
He disappeared into the yellow wooden building that was the Oak Hill post-office, and the other Blossoms, seeing a stalled car, stopped to watch the troubles of the interurban motorman whose trolley-car was blocked by a dog that apparently wanted to be run over.
The motorman clanged his bell and a boy on the curbstone whistled shrilly, but the dog refused to budge. He only rolled over on his side.
"He's hurt," said Meg. "See, his foot drags. I'll get him off."
She dashed out into the street and bent over the poor animal. Meg was "just crazy," her brothers said, about animals, and she was never afraid of any four-footed creature. Now, as she leaned over the little dog, he began to lick her hand with his rough tongue.
"His leg's broken," Meg said pityingly to the
