"If you'd only join a peace tribunal as delegate-at-large," she said,
"you'd eliminate war. I meant to freeze you into going home. I do
wish I could stay indignant!"
"Don't," begged Philip humbly. "I'm so much happier when you're not.
"There _is_ another way of managing me," he said hopefully a little
later. "I meant to mention it before--"
"What is it?" implored Diane.
"Marry me!"
"Philip!" exclaimed the girl with delicate disdain, "the moon is on
your head--"
"Yes," admitted Philip, "it is. It does get me. No denying it.
Doesn't it ever get you?"
"No," said Diane. "Besides, I never bumped my brain--"
"That could be remedied," hinted Philip, "if you think it would alter
matters--"
Diane was quite sure it would not and later Philip departed for the
hay-camp in the best of spirits. In the morning Diane found a
conspicuous placard hung upon a tree. The placard bore a bombastic
ode, most clever in its trenchant satire, entitled--"To a Wild
Mosquito--by One who Knows!"
Since an ill-fated occasion when Mr. Poynter had found a neatly indited
ode to a wild geranium written in a flowing foreign hand, his literary
output had been prodigious. Dirges, odes, sonnets and elegies
frequently appeared in spectacular places about the camp and as Mr.
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