“A bear as old as that?” gasped Janice.
“’Twarn’t very old,” said Walky, his eyes twinkling; “but it didn’t have no head, neither.”
“A dead bear!” shrieked Marty.
“Nop. ’Twas a buffaler robe of ’Linus Webster’s that he throwed in there, and Job wrapped himself up in it and slept as warm as toast all night long,” and Walky broke into one of his loud guffaws over the way in which he had fooled them all.
But they beat him playing parchesi, and it was a happy if rather noisy evening spent in the old Day house sitting-room. By and by Aunt ’Mira brought on the unfailing doughnuts and cheese, and Uncle Jason went down to the cellar in his thick woolen socks, which he had been steaming on the footrail of the stove while he nodded in his chair, and brought up a jug of cider that had been kept sweet by some secret method, and also a milk-pan of baldwin apples.
Janice and Marty got out the popper and the corn. Nelson made his fingers sore shelling the sharp-pointed kernels from the cobs, while Marty shook the popper over the fire in the kitchen range. Janice skimmed two pans of milk—each skimming, a “blanket” of thick, pale yellow lusciousness.
With bowls of cream and hot popcorn and the other goodies, they “managed to make out” a supper, as Aunt ’Mira depreciatingly said. The storm howled outside and when Walky was sped as the parting guest, it was into a world of swirling, raging snow that almost smothered the light of his lantern. He did not bother with the gate, but walked out of the yard over the fence into Hillside Avenue.
“A good night to be in-doors,” said Uncle Jason, coming back to the fire. “I’m glad the critters air all well housed.”
“One sure thing, Broxton Day hasn’t got it as bad as this down there where he is, Janice,” said her aunt, consolingly. “It’s most always summer there, ain’t it?”
“I guess they have some bad weather where Daddy is,” confessed Janice. “I—I wish he were here.”