"Play all the time," answered her father. "Play hard—and then play some more."
"He isn't a common little boy." Whereupon, satisfied, she returned to the blue bowl.
"And now," went on the Doctor, "as to directions." He held up other leaves from the pad. "First week (you'll have to go easy the first week), use the prescription each day as follows; When driving; also when lying on back watching birds in trees (and have a nap out of doors if you feel like it); also when lighting the fire at sundown. Nurse, here, will watch out for fingers."
At that, another pleased little chuckle.
"Second week:" (the Doctor coughed, importantly) "When riding your own fat pony, or chasing butterflies—assisted by one good-natured, common, ordinary, long-haired dog; or when fishing (stream or bath-tub, it doesn't matter!) or carrying kindling in to Cook—whether you're tired or not!"
"I love it!"
"Third week: When baking mudpies, or gathering ferns (but put 'em in water when you get home); when jaunting in old wagon to hay-field, orchard or vegetable-patch—this includes tomboy yelling. And go barefoot."
Gwendolyn's spoon, crouton-laden, wabbled in mid-air. "Go barefoot?" she repeated, small face flushing to a pleased pink. "Right away? Before I'm eight?"
"Um!" assented the Doctor. "And shin up trees (but don't disturb eggs if you find 'em). Also do barefoot gardening,—where there isn't a plant to hurt! And wade the creek."
Again the dimples came rushing to their places. "I like squashing," she declared, smiling round.