Right after dinner the four children started to hunt for the lost raft.
“It must have gone down the brook,” argued Bobby, as they walked along. “Jud says things always float with the current. So we’ll start on Mr. Simmond’s land and walk slow.”
They scrambled under the line fence, and Dot only tore one of the ruffles off her frock. They went on and on.
“We’re almost to the woods,” said Meg, as they dropped down under a ragged buttonwood tree to rest. “Where do you suppose the brook goes? Wouldn’t it be fun to follow it through the woods and see what’s on the other side!”
The four little Blossoms thought this would be great fun. They had not been in the woods yet, though Jud and Linda had promised to take them some day and Aunt Polly said it was the nicest kind of a place for picnics.
The children stood up, and shaded their eyes 87 their hands. They could just see the eaves of the barn and the chimneys of Aunt Polly’s house and the Apgar house. The brook twisted and turned so often, they had really walked further than they guessed.
“I’ll bet it’s dark in the woods,” said Twaddles, marching ahead. “Maybe there’s bears and things in there.”
“Now don’t begin and scare Dot,” admonished Bobby. “Let’s take hold of hands. My, isn’t it nice and cool!”
They stepped from the sunny glare of the brook pasture into the cool, dark, rustly stillness of the beautiful woods. A chipmunk ran across their path, and tall ferns grew higher than their heads on either side of the brook.
Almost unconsciously the children left the brook and struck off into a pretty path that was laid with stepping stones and led up a slight hill. They saw two rabbits and heard gray squirrels chattering in the trees overhead. One squirrel came down and stared gravely at them.
“Isn’t he pretty?” said Meg. “I wish he’d let me pat him.”
A shriek from Dot startled them all.
“I saw a snake!” she cried, running to Meg. “A horrid, nasty little green one. And now I’ve lost my flowers!”
Sure enough, the bouquet she had been picking was scattered in all directions.
“Don’t you care,” Meg comforted her. “It was only a baby water snake. Aunt Polly told Mother that’s the only kind that lives round here. Honestly, snakes are all right, Dot. Lots of people don’t mind ’em a bit.”
“Well, I do,” said Dot decidedly. “They wiggle so. Let’s go home anyway.”
“I think we’d better,” announced Bobby. “I don’t know what time it is, but I guess there’s no use looking for the raft any more.”
“The raft?” echoed Meg. “Oh Bobby, where is the brook?”
Bobby grinned a little sheepishly.
“We forgot about the raft, didn’t we?” he said. “Let’s see––we came down that path––the brook must be over there. Come on, Dot, we’re going home.”
Dot sat down on the ground and began to cry.
“I don’t want to be lost,” she wailed. “I’m hungry, and my feet hurt! And I’m so tired!”
Meg put her arms around her sister.
“Don’t cry,” she urged her bravely. “We’re not lost, are we, Bobby?”
Bobby and Meg, as the two older, felt that they must keep the twins from becoming discouraged.
“Course we’re not lost,” asserted Bobby stoutly.
“Course not,” echoed Meg. “I think the brook is right past those three big trees. Come on, Dot, let’s run and see who gets there first.”
Dot allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.
“I’ll count for you,” said Bobby, glad to see her stop crying. “One––two––three––go!”
Away went Meg and Dot. Meg had intended to let Dot win, because she was so much smaller she couldn’t be expected to run as well as her older sister. But Meg’s good intentions came to nothing. Dot had an unfortunate habit of shutting her eyes tight when she ran, and the woods, of all places, are where it pays to keep one’s eyes wide open. Poor Dot, running over 90 the uneven ground with her eyes closed, crashed headlong into a wild blackberry bush.
“Oh, ow!” she wailed shrilly. “Meg, Meg! Ow!”
Her face and hands were scratched and bleeding and her dress was badly torn by the time Meg and Bobby got her free from the prickly bush.
“I won’t go,” sobbed the unfortunate child, rubbing her smarting face. “I’ll lie down in the grass and the birds can cover me with leaves. Nasty old woods!”
“But you’ll have to come,” urged Bobby. “I don’t b’lieve it’s much further, Dot. Come on.”
“Then I’ll take of my shoes and stockings,” said Dot.
“Her feet are all puffed up,” said Meg, unbuttoning the little tan shoes. “Poor sister! But you can’t go barefoot through here––the Stones and things are too sharp.”
“They’ll cut you,” said Twaddles, who was watching anxiously.
“Let’s make a chair with our hands and carry her,” suggested Bobby.
So Meg and Bobby joined hands and managed to start off comfortably, carrying Dot.
Twaddles looked at them anxiously.
“It’s getting dark,” he quavered.
It was, too, a shadowy gray dusk there in the woods.
“I guess it’s only ’cause there’s so many trees,” said Meg cheerfully. “It can’t be dark out in the fields yet. I don’t believe Jud has even started to milk.”
They took up Dot again and went ahead, but it grew more and more difficult to follow the path.
“Here’s where we were when you stopped to get your breath,” declared Twaddles positively as they came into an open space. “I ’member that rotten log on the ground.”
It was true. They had been walking in a circle!
“What’s that?” cried Meg, starting up in sudden fright.
The twins clung to her, hiding their faces in her skirt.
“I saw something move––over there in those bushes,” whispered Bobby.
“Is it––a––a bear?” asked Meg softly.
But Dot heard her.
“It’s a bear!” she shrieked. “Twaddles, Meg, Bobby, come quick! It’s a bear!”
Something bounded out of the bushes and leaped upon them with shrill, sharp barks.
“Spotty!” chorused the children. “You dear, darling old Spotty! Where did you come from?”
Spotty was apparently as glad to see them, and in his way tried to tell them so. He jumped up and down, barked excitedly and licked their hands and faces over and over.
“Say, I’ll bet you Spotty knows the way home!” Bobby jumped to his feet as this thought came to him. “Spotty, show us the way home, that’s a good dog. Home, Spotty!”
Spotty wagged his tail heartily and barked once. Then he rushed a little way ahead and turned to look at the children.
“Come on,” he seemed to say.
“He does know,” agreed Meg excitedly. 93 “Put your shoes on, Dot. All take hold of hands and hurry!”
They were in such haste they put the left shoe on Dot’s right foot and the right one on her left, but she never even noticed it. Taking hold of hands, the four little Blossoms scurried through the dark woods, for it was pitch dark now, after Spotty. The dog kept just a little way ahead, and now and then he barked as if to tell them that everything was all right.
It was not easy walking in the dark, and they tripped and stumbled over tree roots and unsuspected stones. But at last they came out into the open. The stars were shining overhead, and it was night.
“Where are we?” asked Meg in wonder. “This isn’t the brook pasture.”
“I see the gate light!” cried Bobby suddenly.
Sure enough, ahead of them twinkled the pretty ornamental light that Aunt Polly had lighted on dark nights to show where the driveway went through the gates.
“We’re in back of the house!” cried Meg. “See, that’s the kitchen window where the white curtain is. Don’t things look different at night?”
“Hello! Hello!” came Jud’s clear call. “Bobby, Meg, is that you?”
Then as Bobby answered him, they heard Jud shouting:
“All right, folks, they’ve come. I told you they were all right.”
Peter and Jud and a neighbor’s boy came running toward the children, swinging lanterns, and followed by Mrs. Peter Apgar and Aunt Polly and Linda. Such a time as there was, and such a hugging and kissing and explaining!
“When you didn’t come home to supper, I began 95 to worry,” said dear Aunt Polly, carrying Dot, big girl as she was. Peter had picked up Meg, and Jud had shouldered Twaddles, while Bobby kept running beside them.
“You must be starved,” was Linda’s greeting. “We’ve got fried chicken and currant jelly, too.”
And though it was late, Aunt Polly was sure that fried chicken would hurt no one, and while the hungry Blossoms ate, she sat by and listened to what had happened to them in the woods.
“Why, darlings,” she cried over and over, “Auntie will buy you other books and toys, but I couldn’t possibly buy your mother other children if anything happened to you. Look at Dot’s feet; the poor child must have walked miles. And her face and hands are terribly scratched.”
Directly after supper the tired children were ready for bed, and Linda and Aunt Polly undressed them and bathed the sore little feet and put soothing cold cream on sunburned, scratched little faces.
The summer weeks flew merrily by, and when 96 a rainy afternoon came and Aunt Polly suggested that the children should write to their father and mother, the Blossoms discovered that they really had a good deal to tell.
“I’ll begin, ’cause I’m the oldest and I can write in pencil,” said Bobby. “Then Meg can print, and I’ll write what Dot and Twaddles tell me to. I guess they will like that kind of letter.”
Aunt Polly thought so, too, and she gave Bobby her own pretty mahogany “secretary” that was ever so old a desk, to write at.
Bobby put his tongue in his cheek and worked hard for fifteen minutes. Then he was ready to read aloud.
“‘Dear Daddy and Mother:’” he read. “‘We thought you would like to hear from us. Last week Peter was haying and Meg and I helped him make loads. Meg drove into the barn all by herself. It is fun to see them unload the hay, because they have a thing they call a hayfork that comes down and takes up big handfuls and carries it up to the mow. I can almost milk. 97 The twins are very good most of the time. Your loving son, Robert Hayward Blossom.’”
“Will they know that’s from you?” asked Meg doubtfully, slipping into the chair at the desk and taking up the pencil to print her letter. “You never call yourself Robert.”
“I guess I know how to write a letter,” Bobby informed her with dignity. “You always sign your real names to letters, don’t you, Aunt Polly?”
“Yes, indeed, dear,” said Aunt Polly, who was doing something to a pair of overalls.
Meg printed slowly and carefully, and soon her letter was ready to be read aloud.
“‘Dear Daddy and Mother,’” she began proudly. “‘We hope you are well. We are. Dot most wasn’t, but I took care of her. She went out to the barn to hunt for eggs, and the turkey gobbler saw her. He thought she was carrying corn in the basket. He chased her and she ran. I heard her crying and I ran down to the barn. She was backed up into a corner and he was making noises at her. He is awful big, 98 but I am not afraid of him. I grabbed the broom Jud keeps to sweep the barn floor with and I chased that old gobbler clear into the orchard. We are going to pick berries to-morrow.’”
The twins had kept still as long as they could, and now it was their turn.
“Tell Mother ’bout the snake I saw this morning,” said Twaddles. “Jud says it was a black snake after baby robins. It was on the grape arbor where there is a robin’s nest. Jud killed it.”
“Tell Daddy I weeded a whole onion row for Aunt Polly,” begged Dot.
“Wait a minute, I have to sign my name,” interrupted Meg.
And she signed it, “Margaret Alice Blossom,” right in among the words of the twins’ letters that Bobby was patiently writing.
The next day was very warm, and Aunt Polly thought they had better play in the orchard instead of picking berries, so they trooped out soon after breakfast, to find the orchard cool and shady.
“I wish I had my book that was drowned,” mourned Meg. “I love to sit up in a tree and read.”
“Well, I loved Geraldine better than Tottie-Fay,” said Dot, giving the old doll a shake as she spoke.
“No use fussing,” advised the sensible Bobby. “They’re lost, and we mustn’t let Aunt Polly hear us, ’cause she’ll think she ought to go right off and buy us some more. I’m going to climb this tree. Who wants a ripe apple?”
“I do,” and Meg jumped up. “Let me hold my apron and you throw ’em down, Bobby. Twaddles, stop teasing Spotty.”
“I aren’t teasing him,” declared Twaddles indignantly. “I’m going to teach him to carry bundles.”
Twaddles’ method of teaching the patient Spotty was to sit down on him with feet spread wide apart and wait for the dog to shake him off.
Dot sat down quietly in the grass and began to make a bouquet of wild-flowers. It was Dot who always helped Aunt Polly weed and water 100 her flower garden, and Dot who liked to see fresh flowers on the dining-room table.
When Meg had her apron full of apples she sat down near Dot, and the four ate as many sweet summer apples as four small people could who had eaten breakfast less than an hour before.
“There’s Poots,” said Meg suddenly, glancing up and seeing the black cat picking her way through the grass. “Do you suppose she is hunting birds?”
Poots blinked her green eyes innocently. If she were after birds, she had no intention of catching any before an audience. She sat down and began to wash her face.
A mischievous idea seized Twaddles.
“Rats, Spotty!” he shouted. “Rats!”
Now rats sounds pretty much like “cats,” and the excited and startled Spotty did not stop to question which word Twaddles had used. He jumped up, his ears pointing forward.
“Rats, sic ’em!” said bad little Twaddles. “Rats, Spotty!”
Spotty barked twice sharply. Poots arose, her fur bristling. Spotty leaped at her, barking 101 playfully. Away ran Poots, her black tail sticking straight up in the air. And after them raced the four little Blossoms, shouting and calling frantically.
Poots ran straight for the front wall and scrambled up it, leaving Spotty to bark wildly on the ground and make futile rushes at the solid wall he couldn’t hope to climb. Some of the masonry was loose, and Poots, digging with her sharp claws, sent down a shower of dust into the dog’s eyes. He whined, and dug at his eyes with both forepaws. Then he sneezed several times.
“You will chase me, will you?” Poots seemed to say, gazing down at him from her safe position. “The idea!”
“Well, we might as well pick up some of this stuff,” said Twaddles, knowing that the fun was over.
“It’s cooler––just feel that breeze!” exclaimed Meg. “Let’s ask Aunt Polly if we can’t go berrying after dinner.”
Aunt Polly obligingly said they could, and after dinner the four little Blossoms scrambled 102 into overalls Aunt Polly had bought and shortened to fit them.
“I wish your mother could see you,” she said, as she gave them each a bright tin pail. “No need to worry about your dress now, is there, Dot?”
“Going berrying?” asked Jud, as they passed him, clipping the green hedge around the kitchen garden. “Better keep out of the sun.”
The children walked down the road and turned into another field. They knew where the blackberry bushes grew, and they meant to fill their pails.
“Let’s start here by this fence,” suggested Bobby. “What’s that over in Mr. Simmond’s field?”
“It’s a bull,” answered Meg who knew all the animals at Brookside and on the neighboring farms by this time. “He’s as cross as can be, but he took three prizes at the last Fair.”
Twaddles ate the first dozen berries he picked and then he picked another dozen for Dot’s pail. He decided that larger and better berries grew on the other side of the fence. He crawled under 103 and his shout of delight brought the others.
“You never saw such big ones!” cried Twaddles gleefully. “Meg, look!”
“They are big,” agreed Meg. “Come on, Bobby, let’s go on the other side. Mr. Simmonds won’t care.”
Dot was already under the fence, and Meg and Bobby stooped down and crawled under after her.
The four little figures in blue overalls began to pick industriously. The berries were thick and juicy, and the bottoms of the tin pails were covered in a few minutes. Meg had just stopped to pull a briar from her thumb when she heard a bellow behind her.
There stood the bull, in the middle of the field, his head down between his knees, his feet pawing the ground, and his angry eyes glaring at the berry pickers.
“Oh, Bobby! The bull!” gasped Meg. “Run, Dot and Twaddles!”
Dot and Twaddles took one frightened look at the bellowing bull, and then dropped flat on the ground and began to squirm under the fence.
“Hurry, Meg,” urged Bobby. “Don’t stand there like that! Run!”
“I’m waiting for you,” quavered Meg.
“All right, hurry,” repeated Bobby.
He and Meg crawled under the fence and stood beside Twaddles and Dot. Then they looked over at the bull. He was not charging directly toward them, but at something else his angry red eyes had seen even before the children noticed it. Further down there was a gap in the fence where several rails were broken.
Meg shrieked in terror as she saw what the bull meant to do.
“Peter! Jud! Aunt Polly! Come quick!” she screamed, hardly knowing what she was crying.
“Coming!” called a big voice, and over the fence corner sprang Peter Apgar, a pitchfork in his hand. He had been gathering up the loose hay left along the edge of the field after the hayloader had gathered the main crop.
After Peter came Spotty, who met the bull just as that cross animal’s nose appeared at the gap in the fence. Indeed, Spotty met him so suddenly that both grunted.
“I’ll turn him. You stay back here out of sight,” commanded Peter, running past the four little Blossoms.
The children were very glad to stay huddled behind the bushes, but they couldn’t help peeping out now and then to see what Peter and Spotty were doing with the bull.
“Woof, woof!” barked Spotty.
“You will, will you?” shouted Peter.
He jabbed the bull with the pitchfork, and that surprised beast turned with a bellow. Holding the pitchfork so that it would not hurt him unless he tried to come at him, Peter forced the bull back through the fence, and then he and Spotty drove him across the field.
Presently Peter and the dog came back, a bit warm and breathless, and very glad the four little Blossoms were to see them.
“You can finish berrying in peace,” said Peter. “I drove the bull into Simmonds’ barnyard and told his man to keep him there. No farmer has a right to leave a cross bull at large.”
The children set to work at the berries again, and, as nothing further happened to disturb them, they filled all four pails before supper time. Bobby and Meg helped the twins a little, and maybe they weren’t proud to have berries of their own picking and cream, as Meg said, of their own milking, for their supper that night! And there were enough berries left over for four small turnovers. Aunt Polly made this pleasant announcement.
“I intended to bake cookies to-morrow morning,” she said, smiling. “And I don’t know why I shouldn’t make turnovers, too, and maybe doughnuts. Perhaps some one would like to keep me company? Linda is going to spend the day with her mother in town, and like as not I shall be lonesome.”
“We’ll all keep you company,” promised Bobby gravely.
So the next morning every one was up early because Linda wanted to have breakfast cleared away before Jud drove her over to town. Soon after she was gone Aunt Polly put on a large white apron and the four children trooped into the pleasant kitchen after her.
“Let me see,” thought Aunt Polly out loud. “Meg should have an apron. Suppose I tie one of Linda’s around your neck, dear? Hers are shorter than mine.”
In a very short time Aunt Polly had rolled out the crust for the turnovers and filled them with berries and sugar.
“When they are done you can take them outdoors and eat them while they’re hot,” she said. “Make believe you’re having a picnic.”
“Can’t we have a picnic, a real picnic?” asked Bobby quickly.
“Why, of course,” agreed Aunt Polly. “I meant you should have a picnic weeks ago. Only time goes so fast. However, before vacation 108 is over we’ll have a real picnic with all kinds of good things to eat.”
Every one was very much interested in the first batch of cookies, and Aunt Polly gave each one a sample, which was pronounced delicious.
Then Aunt Polly put on her big kettle and started to fry some doughnuts.
Dot, when no one was looking, took Spotty out into the hall and gave him half a cookie. Then they both came back into the kitchen wearing such an innocent air that Aunt Polly had to laugh.
“Spotty has a sweet tooth, all right,” she declared. “Don’t let him tease all your cookies away from you, dear. Twaddles, look out!”
The warning came too late, for Twaddles, reaching across the bowl of freshly fried doughnuts to get something, caught his sleeve on the rim of the bowl and succeeded in turning the whole thing upside down over himself.
“I really think,” said patient, long-suffering Aunt Polly, when the doughnuts had been picked up and brushed off and Twaddles had explained how it happened, “I really think, that 109 four children and a dog are too many to have in the kitchen on baking day. Anyway, the turnovers are done. I’ll slip them on a plate and let Meg carry it out under the chestnut tree. Then you may have your picnic.” And so it was settled.
“I wish,” confided Meg, as she bit into a juicy bit of pie––Aunt Polly made wonderful berry pies––“I had my ‘Black Beauty’ book.”
“I’ll never have another doll like Geraldine!” sighed Dot. “Never! And what good are all her clothes? I haven’t any doll to fit ’em.”
“You might take a tuck in ’em for Totty-Fat,” suggested Bobby, using the disrespectful name he had invented for Dot’s old doll. “She’s a sight. Oh dear! I wish I had tried to fly my airplane just once before I lost it.”
“Well, there’s my bird,” mourned Twaddles. “Aunt Polly never heard it sing. And now she never will.”
“I dripped a little juice on my dress,” announced Dot doubtfully, after Meg had gone in to help her aunt wash dishes.
“I should think you had,” said Bobby, gazing 110 severely at the little girl. “I don’t believe blackberry juice comes out, either. Prob’ly that dress will always be spotted now.”
“Linda said when she was a little girl her mother made her wash her own dresses if she got too many dirty in one day,” Dot declared. “Maybe I could wash this.”
Twaddles and Bobby hadn’t a very clear idea of how to wash a dress, and because it was something they had not done before, the idea appealed to them.
“We’ll help you,” offered Bobby generously. “I saw a piece of soap out at the barn this morning. And the rain barrel’s full. Come on.”
They trotted down to the barn. Neither Peter nor Jud was anywhere in sight, which was just what the washers hoped for. Of course, they argued, it wasn’t naughty to wash a dress, but you never can tell what objections grown-ups are going to make. Sometimes they find fault with every single thing one wants to do.
“Let me rub the soap on,” begged Dot, as Bobby unbuttoned her frock for her and she 111 stepped out of it, a sturdy little figure in a brief white petticoat.
So Dot rubbed plenty of soap on the blackberry spots. It was harness soap, which Jud had been using for the leather harness, but the children thought it made a fine lather. Linda would have scolded had she seen them, for soap sets fruit juice stains so that it is almost impossible ever to get them out.
“Let’s put in our handkerchiefs, too,” suggested Bobby, pulling out a grimy square.
Twaddles had lost his, and Dot’s was in the pocket of her dress and already wet, but Bobby added his to the wash.
“We must let ’em soak,” advised Dot, who had been in the kitchen on wash days. “Linda says that gets the dirt out.”
The three children balanced themselves on the edge of the rain barrel while they waited for their wash to soak.
“Well, for pity’s sake, what are you up to now?” It was Jud’s voice, and Jud came out of the barn so unexpectedly that he made them jump.
Twaddles tumbled to his knees, and Bobby stood up, but poor Dot lost her shaky balance and fell into the barrel with her dress and the handkerchief.
“There, there, sister, you’re not hurt,” soothed Jud, as he pulled the dripping child out and stood her on the grass. “For mercy’s sake don’t yell like that. Miss Polly will think you’re killed!”
Dot was frightened and wet, and she had no intention of smiling at such misfortune. She cried so loud that Aunt Polly heard her and came running down to the barn, Meg running behind her.
“Why, Baby!” Aunt Polly was surprised to see streams of water running off her small niece, and at first she did not notice that Dot had no dress on.
“Where’s your dress?” demanded Meg.
Aunt Polly picked up Dot, wet as she was, and started back to the house. Meg followed to help find clean dry clothes.
Jud looked at Twaddles and Bobby queerly.
“Just what were you doing?” he asked in a different 113 voice than they had ever heard from easygoing, good-natured Jud. “What’s that in the barrel?”
“We were helping Dot,” said Bobby. “She got juice all on her dress, and, honest, she’s worn eleven this week. So we thought we ought to wash this one.”
“I see,” replied Jud slowly. “Do you know you’ve spoiled a barrel of soft rain water that’s worth considerable? To say nothing of soap.”
“We used the green soap we found on the beam,” put in Twaddles.
“You perfect imps!” groaned poor Jud. “That’s my harness soap. I don’t see how your town gets along with all four of you the year around. Well, you can just help me bail out this water––that’s flat. Wring out that pesky wash and spread it on the grass to dry. Then each of you take one of those lard pails, and set to work.”
Two subdued little boys went in to dinner that noon. Afterward Aunt Polly announced that she was going over to town.
“I have to drive Nelly Bly,” she told them, “and as I couldn’t take but one, I don’t think it is fair to take any of you. As soon as the car is fixed, we’ll have a long drive.”
Jud had taken the automobile over to the one garage the week before and it was not ready yet.
“Now try to amuse yourselves and don’t get into mischief,” cautioned Aunt Polly, as Jud brought Nelly Bly and the buggy to the door. “I’m sorry I have to leave you when Linda is away, but you’ll be all right. Jud will be within call, and I’ll be back about five. I’m going to pick up Linda and bring her back.”
“What are you going to do, Jud?” asked Dot, as Aunt Polly drove out of the gate. Dot was in a clean dry dress and none the worse for her ducking.
“Can’t we help you?” asked Meg kindly.
“Now look here,” Jud said, in his pleasant, slow voice. “I’m going to be all-fired busy in the back garden. If anything frightens you, sing out and I’ll hear you. If you want to talk to any one, go down to the house, and Mother will listen to you. But please don’t bother me.”
“But what’ll we do?” persisted Bobby.
Jud pointed to the tent that had been Father Blossom’s surprise.
“Play Indians, why don’t you?” he suggested. “Don’t believe you’ve had those clothes on three times since you got ’em. If any one had sent me a tent when I was a kid, you couldn’t have kept me from playing with it.”
“We might as well play Indian,” said Meg, when Jud had gone off to his garden, whistling. “Dot and I’ll put on our suits and you and Twaddles wear yours. I wish I had a tomahawk.”
“Girl Indians don’t have ’em,” said Bobby flatly.
“Well, they ought to,” declared Meg. “Doesn’t Dot look cunning in her suit?”
“Heap big Injun chief,” announced Bobby, prancing about in his suit.
“Let’s get captives and hide them in the tent,” suggested Meg, who usually did most of the planning for their games.
“Where’ll we get ’em?” asked Bobby doubtfully. “Jud’s bigger than we are.”
“No, we can’t capture Jud,” agreed Meg.
“Wow! wow! Whoop!” shouted Twaddles, tumbling down the steps and giving his best Indian yell as he came.
“Ducks and chickens might be captives,” said Meg slowly, frowning at the interruption of Twaddles.
Ordinarily Meg was a good little girl and not given to mischief, but a spice of naughtiness seemed to be in all the four little Blossoms on this unfortunate day.
“Let’s get the ducks, first,” said Bobby. “That’s a great idea, Meg. Come on, Twaddles, we have to capture the ducks.”
They found the beautiful white birds swimming lazily about the artificial duck pond in the chicken yard, and they didn’t seem to want to 117 be captured at all. The children finally succeeded in driving them, twenty of them, that is, into the tent.
“Somebody will have to stay and see they don’t come out when we get the chickens,” said Meg. “Dot’s too little––she’ll let ’em out. I’ll do it, if you’ll stay when we get the chickens in, and let me capture the turkeys, Bobby.”
Bobby assented, and Meg stayed behind at the tent while Dot, Twaddles and Bobby went after the chickens.
If you have ever tried to drive a hen into a certain place, you will know how very stupid she can be. The children were hot and cross before they had twenty-eight white leghorn hens penned in the tent with the ducks.
“They make an awful lot of noise,” said Bobby nervously. “Jud will hear them.”
“As soon as they find it’s dark they’ll think it’s night,” answered Meg comfortably. “Now I’m going after turkeys.”
But the only turkey she could find was the lame one that lived in the chicken yard and was tame enough to allow herself to be picked up.
“Aren’t they good and quiet?” said Meg with satisfaction, as she poked the patient turkey hen through the tent flaps and heard the soft mutterings of the ducks and hens, who thought it was night and time to go to sleep.
Just as the Indians had the last captive snugly fastened in, Peter, with Terry harnessed to the “market wagon,” a light wagon that was used to take the butter and eggs over to town in, came down the drive from the barn.
“Whoa!” said Peter to Terry.
“Oh, Mr. Peter!” The four little Blossoms rushed out to greet him. “Where are you going? Can’t we go? Where’s Jerry?”
Peter surveyed the four Indians gravely.
“Well, as I’m going up in the mountain, I guess we won’t meet any one who’ll be scared to death,” he said slowly. “So I don’t know but perhaps you might hop in. Jerry? I left him in the stable. This wagon goes with one horse.”
As the children scrambled in, Peter thought of something.
“Like as not Miss Polly’ll be back before we 119 are,” he observed. “She might miss all four of you if no one’s about. Jud!”
“Here!” shouted Jud from the back garden.
He came to the gate in the hedge.
“Jud, if Miss Polly comes home and doesn’t find any children, just tell her they’re with me and that we’ll be home by six. I’m going up in the mountain.”
“All right,” said Jud.
“How do you go up in the mountain?” inquired Meg curiously, as they turned into the road.
She was sitting on the front seat with Peter, Twaddles was between them, and Dot was in her lap. Bobby stood up in the wagon behind them and looked over their shoulders.
“I guess I mean up on the mountain,” Peter corrected himself. “We’ve got kind of a habit round here of saying ‘in the mountain.’ Ever been up there?”
The four little Blossoms had never been there––indeed they did not know there was a mountain near by.
“Well, I suppose it’s more of a hill,” admitted 120 Peter. “But it’s the best mountain we have. Queer people live up there. They don’t see much of anybody, and some of ’em’s as timid as deer. The children, now, run when they see a stranger coming.”
“What are we going to get?” asked Bobby. He had been long enough on the farm to know that when one harnessed up a horse and wagon there was usually something to be fetched or carried.
“I’m going up to see if I can’t get a woman to come down next week and help Mrs. Peter do some cleaning,” explained Peter. “Help’s scarce in the town, and some of the mountain-folk like to earn a little money in the summer. Miss Polly taking the buggy, I had to get along with the market wagon. ’Sides, the thought came to me that I might meet some one who wanted a ride.”
Meg saw Peter’s eyes twinkling and she guessed that he had meant to ask them to go with him all the time.
Terry was going up a steep road now, narrow as well as steep, and the untrimmed trees lashed 121 against the curtained sides of the wagon as it passed.
“Here’s Mrs. Cook’s house,” said Peter at last.
The children saw a little unpainted house standing in a clearing of half-chopped tree-stumps. A line of washing was strung between the two posts that supported a narrow roof over the door. Skins of animals were tacked on the sides of the house, and a large hound dog chained to a tree watched them closely.
“Can we get out and see the dog?” asked Meg, as Peter tied Terry to a convenient tree.
“I don’t know as I’d touch the dog,” said Peter. “Better keep away from him. He’s a night hunter, and may be cross. There’s Mrs. Cook’s little girl––go and make friends with her If you want to.”
Peter went up to the house door and knocked, and Meg walked over to a little girl seated on a tree stump.
The child was barefooted and wore a ragged dress, but her skin was a beautiful clear brown and her eyes were as blue as Meg’s. She had lovely long brown hair, too.
“Hello!” said Meg.
Apparently the little girl had not heard her coming, for she jumped when Meg spoke and turned swiftly. Then she shrieked loudly and dashed for the house. Peter came out at once.
“Guess you frightened her,” he said. “And Christopher Columbus, I don’t wonder. You look like a band of Indians let loose.”
“My! we forgot these clothes,” said Bobby. “Meg didn’t mean to frighten her. Look at Twaddles––she scared him pretty near stiff yelling like that.”
Mrs. Cook came out to the wagon presently, to tell Peter that she would come the next week. She was a little thin, brown-faced woman, and she was even shyer than Dot, who usually shrank out of sight when there were any strangers around.
“These Miss Polly’s ’lations?” asked Mrs. Cook, twisting her apron nervously.
“Every one of ’em,” announced Peter. “These, ma’am, are the four little Blossoms!”
“We didn’t mean to scare your little girl,” said Meg bravely. “I guess she thought we were Indians. These are just play clothes.”
“Emma Louise scares easy,” said Mrs. Cook. “All my children do.”
“How many have you?” asked Twaddles, meaning to be polite.
“Nine,” replied Mrs. Cook serenely. “Four boys and five girls.”
“We have to be going, if we get back in time for supper,” hinted Peter, gathering up the reins. “I’ll tell the Missus you’ll walk down Tuesday morning, then, and I’ll drive you home at night.”
“Wait a minute,” begged Dot, as Peter was about to turn Terry. It was the first word she 124 had spoken since they had reached the Cook house. “Give these to the little girl.”
It was the chain of gay-colored beads Dot wore around her neck with the Indian dress, and Mrs. Cook’s face wrinkled into a smile of delight.
“Emma Louise will love ’em,” she declared brightly. “I’m much obliged.”
Dot was too shy to say anything, but she blushed and smiled and inwardly wished that Peter would drive on. Soon they were going down the mountain again.
“Aunt Polly’s at home!” shouted Dot, as they turned into the drive and she saw a white figure rocking in the porch swing.
Aunt Polly was very glad to see them, and she had not been worried because Jud had told her where the children had gone. The milking was done, she said, and everything fed, so if they would get washed and dressed right away for supper, Linda would put it on the table while they were upstairs.
“Linda looked as if she’d been crying,” said Meg, slipping off the Indian dress and pulling 125 on a clean white piqué. “Her eyes were all red.”
“Maybe she was bad and her mother scolded her,” said Dot.
At the supper table Aunt Polly listened to the story of the afternoon’s drive, and heard about Mrs. Cook and the queer little house, but all the time she seemed to be thinking of something else. And there was certainly something seriously wrong with Linda. She scarcely ate any supper, and her eyes were red, as Meg said. Twaddles was sure she had the toothache. When he went out into the kitchen after supper he found her crying over the dishes, and she was cross to him and told him to get out of her kitchen.
“I guess Linda has the measles,” reported the astonished Twaddles to the rest of the family, who were on the front porch.
“Yes, I guess she’s sick,” remarked Bobby. “She didn’t want any cold chicken.”
“Was she bad, Aunt Polly?” questioned Dot “Did her mother punish her?”
“Well, Linda and I had decided not to bother 126 you with our troubles,” said Aunt Polly, “but I see we can’t hide a thing from your sharp eyes. I have bad news to tell you. While you were away with Peter this afternoon, and while Linda and I were in town, a miserable chicken thief got into the chicken yard and stole ever so many chickens. We don’t know yet how many. And they took nearly every one of Linda’s ducks. She has the ducks for her own, you know, and she uses the money for her school clothes. So that’s why she’s crying.”
The four little Blossoms sat and stared at Aunt Polly. They had completely forgotten the chickens and ducks and the one lame turkey shut into the tent till this minute.
“Aunt Polly!” gasped Meg, in a very little voice. “Aunt Polly––please, we were just playing, and––and–––” Meg could not go on.
“We were playing Indians,” said Bobby, coming to the rescue of his sister, “and we had to have some captives. So––so–––”
“We took the chickens and the ducks,” went on the twins in concert.
“And the lame turkey,” put in Meg.