The station wagon proved to be very comfortable and more spacious than the old car. A pair of ice skates, a box of dog biscuit, one mitten, and some library books lent a homely air to the interior.
"It smells just like the old one," Foster remarked approvingly. "I mean it smells exciting."
They drove through Creston and out into open country; then through the village of Attica, where Uncle Jake's newspaper, The Attica Eagle, was published; and on again through countryside: bare, leafless, neutral-colored.
"Winter's never going to end." Portia sighed.
"I have news for you: it's ended already," Julian told her. "Tonight you'll hear the peepers, and you'll know. And down near the brook the skunk cabbages are poking out their snouts already. Those things don't just kid around; they mean spring!"
The road lay between woods; presently they came to a driveway marked by the Jarmans' mailbox, and they turned in.
"Almost there!" cried Foster. "I'm hungry." Feeling happy often made him hungry; he had noticed it before.
"Well, I had a sort of premonition," Aunt Hilda said. "So I made some peanut-butter cookies and a batch of brownies and an angel cake."
"Man!" said Foster, from his heart.
They rounded a bend in the drive, and there in the midst of its winter lawns was the Jarmans' pleasant house.