"What town is this?" asked Marjorie, presently.
"Folkstown," answered the Dream: and Marjorie looked from one house to another, curiously. She noticed that, while they all seemed quite different at first glance, yet certain of them really resembled each other strongly, in small ways, and these were generally grouped together. Marjorie asked the Dream about this, and he replied, laconically:—
"'Birds of a feather—'"
"I don't see any birds," said Marjorie, glancing about.
"No," said the Dream, shortly, "you probably wouldn't," and somehow Marjorie felt snubbed, and walked along in silence again.
The houses were interesting; some of them were narrow and shapeless and ugly, while others were beautiful and white; but all had the same amount of ground, and in many places the yards were littered with great piles of all kinds of building material, waiting to be used.
"Does each one build his own house?" asked Marjorie, at last.
"Yes—and no," said the Dream. "Each
