“I suppose they would,” replied Becky, thoughtfully. “Well, there’s one thing we might do—carry something nice to sick folks.”
“We ain’t got nothin’ nice, and don’t know any sick folks,” replied matter-of-fact Teddy, who failed to see anything time-shortening in Becky’s project.
“We know Mr. York, who’s got the consumption.”
“Well, we might go and catch some fish and take to him—only I’ve lost my line.”
“No; something better than that, Teddy. Now you run and get a basket. I know what to take.”
Teddy went into the wood-shed and soon returned with a very dilapidated basket.
“That will do nicely. Now let’s see what we can find to put into it,” said Becky, as she opened the door of the cupboard. “Here’s a bottle of currant wine; I guess that’s good for consumption; we’ll take that. And here’s a jar of preserves; they always give them to sick folks; we’ll take that. And here’s a box of sardines. I don’t know about that. Well, we’ll take it, any way.”
“Why, Becky, these things are what Mrs. Thompson sent to Aunt Hulda,” said Teddy, a little alarmed at Becky’s proceedings.
“So they are;” and Becky wavered a moment. “No matter; she’ll send her some more, I guess. Besides, Aunt Hulda won’t care, for we’re going to do good with them. There’s a pair of chickens, too; but I guess they’re most too hearty for sick folks. Now let’s be off.”
With the basket between them, they crept into the wood-shed, from there into a pasture behind the house, crossed that, climbed a fence, and struck into the Foxtown road. The Yorks lived upon this road, a good mile and a half from Mrs. Sleeper’s. The basket was a heavy, unwieldy affair, in which the “good things” bounced about in a very unsatisfactory manner; and the couple “changed hands” many times before they reached their destination.