“And then,” Arthur went on with the argument, “geography is so dull in school. You never learn about the places you’d like to know about—like Gibraltar and the Desert of Sahara and the North Pole and the jungles of Africa and the Great Wall of China, and the Mammoth Cave and the Grand Cañon. Or history. Now I’d like to study about Richard Cœur de Lion and Robert Bruce and William Tell and Thermopylæ and the Alamo and the Battle of Hastings and Waterloo and Gettysburg. But you never get anything about them.”
“Gracious!” Rosie commented, “I don’t even know what those are.”
“Sometimes I like school,” Dicky said hesitatingly.
“That’s because you have only gone to school one year,” Laura declared scornfully.
“Well I’d rather be with you in a school that wasn’t very interesting,” Maida persisted, “than not be with you at all. Now next summer in the Little House—”
“Next summer!” Rosie interrupted. “Oh Maida, is there going to be a next summer?”
“Is there going to be a next summer?” Maida repeated. She stared about the circle of faces; all very intent; all waiting almost with hushed breath, for her reply. “Of course there’s going to be a next summer. What made you think there wasn’t?”
“You never said once there was going to be a next summer,” Dicky accused her out of the hubbub which succeeded this statement. “Oh I could jump up and down!”
“I shall jump up and down,” Rosie announced—and did until the glass pendants to the candelabra tinkled.