Myra stood for a moment wondering where they had all gone; then she walked slowly across the camp to a hammock swung behind a clump of low-growing pines. Dropping into the hammock, she tucked a cushion under her head and, with a long sigh of delicious content and restfulness her eyes closed and in two minutes she was sound asleep—so sound asleep that when, an hour later, the girls came straggling back with pails and baskets full of big luscious berries, the gay cries and laughter and chatter of many voices did not arouse her.
The girls trooped over to the kitchen and delivered up their spoil to the cook.
“Now, Katie,” cried one, “you must make us some blueberry flapjacks for supper—lots and lots of ’em, too!”
“And blueberry gingerbread,” added another.
“And pies—fat juicy pies,” called a third.
“And rolypoly—blueberry rolypoly!” shouted yet another.
The cook, her arms on her hips, stood laughing into the sun-browned young faces before her.
“Sure ye’re not askin’ me to make all them things fer ye to-night!” she protested gaily.
“We-ell, not all maybe. We can wait till to-morrow for some of them. But heaps and heaps of flapjacks, Katie dear, if you love us, and you know you do,” coaxed Louise Johnson.
“Love ye? Love ye, did ye say?” laughed the cook. “Be off wid ye now an’ lave me in pace or ye’ll not get a smirch of a flapjack to yer supper. Shoo!” and she waved them off with her apron.