“If you’ll promise not to tell on us, Inger Johanne, you shall have some of the berries.” Both the boys had their hats half full.
Well, really, it is awfully mean to tattle, and the raspberries were so tempting, not one worm-eaten—and why should Peter and Karsten eat them all, I ask you? So we divided them equally and sat on one of the gravestones to eat them.
I had forgotten “Waldemar the Conqueror” that I had thrown down and left lying in the grass, and just think! When I went to get it, Dan was playing with it, and torn-out leaves were scattered all over the avenue.
“You bad, bad dog, let go, I say!”
At last I got it away from him, but he had torn out eight leaves, and crumpled and bitten several others. You may be sure I was disgusted with myself and my carelessness, but I said nothing about the book to any one. I always looked at it guiltily though, where it stood in the bookcase, knowing that Aunt Magda did not dream that anything was wrong with it. But she was always so very kind to us, that before I went away I was awfully sorry about “Waldemar the Conqueror” and those raspberries. Peter and Karsten weren’t the least bit sorry, they said, because the berries they picked were so near the ground that Great-Aunt, who is old and stout, couldn’t possibly have picked them or even have seen them; but I thought it was horrid of us, anyway.
At last I wrote a little bit of a note,—the paper wasn’t much more than an inch square,—which I gave to Aunt Magda asking her not to read it until after I had gone. In the note I told about the book and the raspberries and begged her not to be angry, as I was so sorry.
It was now towards the end of vacation. Soon there would be no more jumping in the haycocks or riding home on the big loads of hay, no more raspberries and cream for dessert at dinner, no more bonny-clabber at supper; and Saturday would be the last time that I could be Uncle’s driver this year.
When Uncle goes to the other parish church or to visit the sick, I am always allowed to drive him down to the shore. You see they have to go everywhere by boat from the Parsonage. Uncle has to ride in a funny way. He is so awfully stout that he has great difficulty in getting into a carriage, so he rides in a single sleigh, scraping over the road on wooden runners. I sit on the tiny high seat behind and crack the whip. We don’t go very fast on the road to the shore because Uncle is so heavy, but when I go back I sit in the sleigh and drive so fast that the sand spatters on my ears. It is great fun.
The day before we were to go home, one of the Cochin China hens was sick. It may have eaten some salt that had been spilled outside of the storehouse. At any rate, it was sick and ran round and round continually; it was horrid to see. The trouble must be in its head. I thought of putting a wet bandage on it, such as people use when they have headache, but to put a wet bandage on a hen that is spinning round and round would be a little difficult.