“Why, of course! why didn’t we think of it before? A picnic in Wolcott’s Woods; why, it would be just scrumptious!” interrupted Doris, while irrepressible Sin seized an arm of each and whirled them round and round till all were laughing and out of breath.
“How about a week from Saturday?” “It’s nearly always fine, this time of year.” “How will you get us all out there?” “What shall you have to eat, Jibby?” Poor Stella was fairly buried under the rush of eager questions and exclamations.
When the great day came at last, a perfect afternoon in late September, Uncle Si’s springless farm wagon, cushioned with golden oat straw and drawn by a pair of sleek, black horses, rumbled merrily from door to door through the village, taking in some fifteen happy passengers. The first surprise came when it was found that not only shrinking little Milly, but every girl in the class was of the party. It had been Stella’s shy request to have the “undesirables” as her personal guests for the day, and that innocent little remark about “Christian white people” had somehow made it uncomfortable to refuse. The “B. N.’s” had yet to discover how much more satisfaction there is in getting people in than in merely keeping them out.
The democratic “straw ride,” a revival of an all but forgotten fashion, took exceedingly well, and it was a well-shaken-together crowd that tumbled out at Uncle’s “spring house,” where delicious, ice-cold buttermilk, sweet milk, or pure spring water was served to everybody. Of course, the girls’ throats were dry from much singing and shouting, so that nothing could have been better.
The next stop was at the big hay-barn, where all were invited to hunt for eggs in the clean, sweet-smelling mows. This was great fun; and when the eggs proved to be hard-boiled, the plan of this progressive picnic began to declare itself.
At the kitchen door, which stood invitingly open, stood a beaming neighbor woman with a bucket of steaming coffee and a basket of fried chickens, done to a turn, and these were quickly conveyed to the near-by apple orchard, where a few boards and sawhorses had been converted into a rustic table, fancifully decorated with ferns and autumn leaves in Cynthia’s original style.
But the nicest surprise of all was a blazing bonfire at a convenient distance, with—yes, it was actually Ethan, attired as an Indian brave and lavishly feathered, bending dutifully over it, flanked by a mammoth heap of late roasting ears.
After the substantials had been consumed, somebody offered a prize for the biggest apple, which was easily won by Cynthia, the best climber and biggest tom-boy in the crowd. Meanwhile, a huge, frosted cake had appeared upon the table, Doris’ mother’s contribution to the feast, and Ethan slyly suggested that treasure was sometimes found in woodpeckers’ nests, which led to another joyous scramble, and the discovery of handfuls of pop-corn balls and Shaker sweetmeats in tempting hollows of the old apple-trees.
By-and-by the whole company gathered in a circle around the dying bonfire, and Cynthia, with apparent unpremeditation, proposed an hour of story-telling.
Doris set the ball rolling with the very old tale of the Ash and the Elm, the father and mother of mankind, as told by the Abenakis, the Indians of New England. Both trees grew in Uncle’s door-yard; and her hearers, looking up, seemed to realize for the first time the graceful femininity of the drooping elm, and the sturdiness of the more robust and straight-limbed ash-tree.