She knew, somehow, that Mary McBirney had a great thing to say.
“This is the reason:” said Mrs. McBirney. And then she told them the whole story.
* * * * *
It had been rainy Sunday. The rain began before daylight; it wiped out the sunrise, and it turned what should have been a golden midsummer day into mere blankness and desolation. At least, a person could look at it that way if he wanted to.
Up at the McBirney house no one had thought of dressing for church.
“No one but a fish could get anywhere to-day,” said Jim.
“I feel just as if we were living under a waterfall,” declared Azalea. “What’ll we do to-day, Jim?”
“I don’t know—’less you tell me stories.”
“Piggy, I don’t want to do all the thinking. If I tell stories you’ve got to tell them too. It’s nice we’re going to have chicken for dinner, isn’t it?” She sniffed the air contentedly.
“You bet it is. And strawberries and ’lasses cake!”