“But what a supper it will be when you do get it!” exclaimed Bobby. “Oh, girls! when I was at Eve’s house last week they had thirteen vegetables for supper, besides two kinds of cold meat, and preserves and pickles. Talk about the poor farmer! Why the sort of supper Eve’s folks have every night would cost city folks two dollars a plate.”
“I am afraid you are stretching your imagination, Bobby,” laughed Eve.
“Never! They’ve got bins and bins of vegetables—and rows and rows of ham in the meat house—and bar’ls and bar’ls of salt pork! Listen here,” cried the whimsical Bobby, who had a doggerel rhyme for every occasion. “This is just what Eve Sitz hears whenever she goes down into the cellar in the winter. She can’t deny it!” And she sang:
“Potato gazed with frightened eyes,
King corn lent mournful ear,
The beet a blushing red did turn,
The celery blanched with fear,
The bean hid trembling in its pod,
The trees began to bark,
And on the beaten turnpike road
The stones for warmth did spark,
The brooklet babbled in its sleep
Because the night was cold;
The onion weeps within its bed
Because the year is old.”
“You are so ridiculous,” said Eve. “Nobody believes the rigamaroles you say.”
“All right!” returned Bobby, highly offended. “But you’re bound to believe one thing—that’s sure.”
“What is that?” queried Nellie.
“That we’re up in this tower, with the door locked—and I believe that John, the janitor, goes home about this time to supper!”
“Oh, oh!” cried Nellie. “Don’t say that. However will we get away?”
“Let’s bang on the door!” exclaimed Jess.