“We can knit,” offered Polly, apologetically. “But none of us ever made a quilt. My grandmother did, when she was a little girl, though.”
“Ward speaking of the rat that frightened Margy, reminded me of a scare I had when I was a little girl,” said Mrs. Wicks.
“I had gone to visit my Aunt Deborah, of whom I was very fond. Aunt had a son, about sixteen—I was then eleven—and, dear me, what a tease Coburn was! He called me ‘Miss Prim’ and pulled my hair whenever he had a chance. I was supposed to sew on my patchwork every afternoon, even when visiting, and Coburn thought that a girl cousin who spent hours sewing wasn’t much fun to have around. He would have liked me to be a boy cousin and climb trees with him.”
“But we girls climb trees!” put in Jess. But Mrs. Wicks paid no attention to the remark, and went on with her story.
“Well, I was sitting quietly with my little sewing basket one afternoon, in the parlor window. Aunt Deborah kept the parlor tightly closed most of the time, and there must have been some special reason why I was allowed to sit there and sew, but I don’t recall it. Perhaps because I was company. The parlor window overlooked the road, and, girl-like, I was interested in the various teams that drove past. I liked to see what people were doing as much as any one. Coburn wasn’t anywhere around, and Aunt Deborah was still upstairs finishing her nap.
“A spic and span, shiny new buggy went past with a girl dressed in white driving, and I leaned forward to look, at the same time putting out my hand to take a spool of thread from the basket. I felt something move under my hand, but I thought it was the spool of thread rolling from my fingers. Unconsciously I took a firmer clutch, and something squeaked. I had picked up a little white mouse!”
“Ugh! How awful! Didn’t you scream?” asked Margy.
“Scream! I should think I did!” returned Mrs. Wicks, smiling at the recollection. “To my startled eyes that basket seemed alive with white mice, and I threw it across the room in one direction and my patchwork and thimble in another. Then I fled, still screaming.
“Aunt Deborah came downstairs on the run, and Coburn mysteriously appeared from some secret place. He caught me as I came rushing out of the door and, with some difficulty, calmed me. I think he was a little frightened, for I couldn’t stop crying at first and nothing would induce me to go into the parlor or touch my work basket again. Aunt Deborah made Coburn pick up the scattered spools and put the basket in order. As for his three pet mice, no one ever knew what became of them—they may have run off to live with their relations. Anyway, they never came back and Aunt Deborah declared it served Coburn right for playing such a trick.”
Margy said that she thought mice were the worst animals that ever lived, except rats, while Fred contended that mice were all right when you knew them. This started an argument that lasted till Mrs. Wicks suggested they go down to the mail-box and see if the postman had got through the drifts.