Peter and the yellow jackets

Isabel Ferguson

Peter was busy. He had a new red wagon, and in it he was loading bricks for the patio Dad was building. Dad was always building something, and Peter was glad when he could help.

The bricks were heavy. Peter had to hold each one with both hands. "Mind your fingers, Pete," Dad had said. Peter was careful, but every now and then a brick would slip and crash down on the others. When the wagon was full, Peter gave a pull, and obediently it followed behind him. Its black wheels spun over the bumpy ground and cracked twigs; its red sides shone, and inside the bricks jostled and scraped each other.

When he got to his dad, Peter parked. Dad was raking over the sand he had spread in the patio area. He picked up one of Peter's bricks and set it against a long board that stretched on one side of the sanded part. Then he took another, and another. If the brick didn't lie straight, Dad gave it a little tap with the handle of the trowel that he carried. Soon all Peter's bricks were lined up neatly on the sand. Peter ran off for more, his wagon bumping at his heels.

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