Milder spirits may elect to search for “pretty flowers,” or “help mamma,” or play “Pussy Wants a Corner,” and “Ring Around a Rosie,” where solicitous eyes might fondly oversee; where busily labor and perspire the superintendent and assistants, hanging swings and hammocks, lifting, opening, and unpacking; where benignly moves the minister, diffusing unspoken blessings. But you and yours must have more strenuous recreation. So already, when word is transmitted that “they’re makin’ the lemonade,” your knickerbockers are torn from shinning up trees, your waist is limp from romping through the creek, and your face is red, and scratched, and streaming, and dirty.
You are having fun.
Lemonade! Two tubs of it, in the middle of each a lump of ice, about the ice floating disks of lemon, and a thirsty crowd encircling all.
“Be careful, children. Let the little girls drink first, boys. My, my! That’s not the way!” cautioned Mr. Jones, as, the supply of tin cups proving insufficient, some of you evinced a disposition to “get in all over.”
The little girls politely tripped off, wiping their mouths with their best handkerchiefs. You and Hen et al. lingered. Eventually the tubs were left unguarded. The moment seemed propitious for new diversion.
“Let’s see who can drink the most!” proposed Hen.
The idea was brilliant. To hear was to act.
It was plunge in your cup and gulp; and plunge it in and gulp; and fail not to throw the residue in your neighbor’s face. Fast and furious waxed the play, with Snoopie appearing to be sure winner.
“Aw, you ain’t drinkin’ it all! That ain’t fair!” you accused, and the other boys joined in.
“Shut up! I am, too!” replied Snoopie, angrily; and proceeded with his count: “Fourteen.”