“There is something here,” announced Hilda, joyfully, having climbed upon a chair to look in the little chimney-closet. After a moment she got down, soberly, and proclaimed the contents of the larder to be two dried herrings, a half loaf of stale bread, some doubtful-looking butter, and a piece of very dry cheese.
The children looked at each other in dismay. Luncheon to them seemed a very serious and pressing matter, especially as Mosina was still roaring, and they knew she was hungry.
“What shall we do?” said Cricket, mournfully; “I feel as hungry as a bear, myself. Oh, Hilda, those cookies!”
Hilda flew across the room for them, with her cap flopping.
Cricket popped a big piece of a cookie into Mosina’s open mouth, and put another in her hand.
“Sit down on the floor now, and be a good baby,” she said, putting her charge down. “It’s dry enough. Now, Hilda, what will we eat? I want something more than cookies.”
“I can’t eat dried herring,” said Hilda, decidedly, her fastidious nose going up in disgust.
“We might toast the bread, I suppose,” said Cricket. “Do you think they don’t ever have anything but dried herring? I’ve always wondered why mamma is always sending things to eat to poor people, and now I know.”
“Can’t they cook, do you suppose, or do they spend all their time washing?” wondered Hilda. “Don’t you think they ever have anything to eat except what people send them?” in an awe-struck tone.
“I don’t believe they do. Can you cut bread, Hilda?”