BREAD AND POLLIWOGS
Three days elapsed before Katy and Jane could settle down to the quiet, daily life of the ranch. If Gertie had found them disappointingly mute that first evening, she never had to complain again. They went over and over the thrilling events of the night and the picnic the next afternoon, till Gertie got sick of hearing what “Mamie said” and how he looked and how wonderful the serenade had been. Indeed, these events seemed to grow in importance the farther off they were. Gertie was seldom pettish, but Katy’s seventeenth repetition of what Grant Stowe’s cousin said to her while they were fishing left her cold.
“Shut up, Katy, I’m sick of hearing about it. I don’t care what he said and I just know he thought you were a silly little girl trying to seem grown up 162when you aren’t! You know Mother wouldn’t like you to act so, and I guess Mrs. Morton’d be ashamed of you, too, if she knew.”
“Gertie Halford, if you dare tell!”
“Thank you, I’m no tattle tale! I intend to forget all about it as soon as ever I can. But I know Sherm thought you were silly from something he said.”
Chicken Little related the most presentable of their doings to Marian. Marian didn’t say much at the time, but some days afterwards she told them tales of the adventures of her own early teens. She ended a little meaningly: “Do you know, I believe girls can be sillier from thirteen to sixteen than at any other age? They’re exactly like that little buff cochin rooster you laugh at, because he tries to crow and strut before he knows how. I hope you girls won’t be in a hurry to grow up. There are so many nice things you can do now that you will have to give up after a while.”
July was growing unpleasantly hot. The mornings were dewy and fresh, but by noon they were glad to hunt a shady place. The apple orchard was a favorite haunt, and the Weeping Willows when the wind was from the right direction. They took books and crochetting, sometimes the checker board or dominoes, and spent the long summer afternoons there, with Jilly tumbling over their feet and Huz 163and Buz dozing alongside or lazily snapping at the plaguing flies.
They had been picking blackberries mornings for Mrs. Morton’s preserving. The rescued litter of pigs was also taking much time. The mother pig had developed an appetite that was truly appalling. It seemed to take endless gallon pails of sour milk and baskets of fruit parings to satisfy her. Dr. Morton would not let them feed corn in summer.
“Dear me,” said Katy, “how big do little pigs have to be before they can be turned into the corral with the others?”
“Oh, six or eight weeks, I guess.”