“‘Oh, doctor, my son has swallowed a mouse,’ he cried. ‘What shall I do?’
“‘Tell him to swallow a cat,’ roared the poor doctor, and slammed his door.
“Now, if Uncle Roger has swallowed any needles, maybe it would make it all right if he swallowed a pincushion.”
We all laughed. But Felicity soon grew sober.
“It seems awful to think of eating a sawdust pudding. How on earth did you make such a mistake?”
“It looked just like cornmeal,” said the Story Girl, going from white to red in her shame. “Well, I’m going to give up trying to cook, and stick to things I can do. And if ever one of you mentions sawdust pudding to me I’ll never tell you another story as long as I live.”
The threat was effectual. Never did we mention that unholy pudding. But the Story Girl could not so impose silence on the grown-ups, especially Uncle Roger. He tormented her for the rest of the summer. Never a breakfast did he sit down to, without gravely inquiring if they were sure there was no sawdust in the porridge. Not a tweak of rheumatism did he feel but he vowed it was due to a needle, travelling about his body. And Aunt Olivia was warned to label all the pincushions in the house. “Contents, sawdust; not intended for puddings.”
CHAPTER XVIII. HOW KISSING WAS DISCOVERED
An August evening, calm, golden, dewless, can be very lovely. At sunset, Felicity, Cecily, and Sara Ray, Dan, Felix, and I were in the orchard, sitting on the cool grasses at the base of the Pulpit Stone. In the west was a field of crocus sky over which pale cloud blossoms were scattered.