“Bully!” replied Philip. And not seeing the way to expand this topic any further, he suddenly said:
“Celia, the next time I go on our hill I'll get you lots of sassafras.”
“Oh, I love sassafras, and sweet-flag!”
“We can get that on the way home. I know a place.” And then there was a pause. “Celia, you didn't tell me what you are going to do when you grow up.”
“Go to college.”
“You? Why, girls do, don't they? I never thought of that.”
“Of course they do. I don't know whether I'll write or be a doctor. I know one thing—I won't teach school. It's the hatefulest thing there is! It's nice to be a doctor and have your own horse, and go round like a man. If it wasn't for seeing so many sick people! I guess I'll write stories and things.”
“So would I,” Philip confessed, “if I knew any.”
“Why, you make 'em up. Mamma says they are all made up. I can make 'em in my head any time when I'm alone.”
“I don't know,” Philip said, reflectively, “but I could make up a story about Murad Ault, and how he got to be a pirate and got in jail and was hanged.”