"I never heard of Mrs. Marshall—who is she?" said Mrs. Williamson curiously.
"She owns the cows," Margy told her mother. "She gave Polly the box because Daddy came and told her the cows were eating the alfalfa."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Williamson. "But what is the matter with Artie?"
Artie still sat in the car, though every one else was glad to be sitting under the trees in the shade.
"I'm writing a poem," he announced. "I'll be through in a minute."
So the lunch was unpacked and it was discovered that nothing had been forgotten—the chicken sandwiches were there and the boiled eggs and even the salt—Mr. Marley said it was the first picnic he had really enjoyed in fifteen years, because usually some one forgot the salt.
"Artie!" called Mrs. Marley, when everything was ready. "If you do not come this minute, you can't have your share of Mrs. Marshall's box."
The poet hopped down quickly. He said his poem was finished anyway. But to tell the truth, he was anxious not to miss the picnic lunch. He said it made him hungry to write poems.
Mrs. Marshall had put six beautiful rhubarb saucer pies in her box, two dozen sugar cookies and half a chocolate layer cake. As the three mothers had counted on hearty appetites, they had packed generous boxes, too, and Mr. Larue said that they could probably live the rest of the summer on what was left over. But, to everyone's surprise, there was very little left.