“Bobby and I have to speak a piece in school the day before Thanksgiving,” explained Meg, “and the twins always have to say poetry, too, when we practice. Mother hears us every night; don’t you, Mother?”
“What fun!” Aunt Polly clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t know when I’ve been to any school exercises. By all means have a rehearsal, Meg. Your father, mother and I will be the audience.”
The children went out of the room, and Bobby came back alone. He went to the center of the room, bowed a little stiffly and said his six-line verse rapidly. 135
“Of course it will sound better with six boys taking turns,” he explained, slipping into a chair near Aunt Polly to enjoy the rest of the entertainment. “My, I hope I don’t forget it that afternoon!”
Dot came next, walking composedly, and she gave them “Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” her old stand-by; that was one verse Dot was always sure of.
When Twaddles’ turn came he bowed, thought for a full minute, and then launched into the Mother Goose rhyme of “Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater.”
“Pumpkins are for Thanksgiving,” he assured Aunt Polly anxiously, in case she should think his selection strange.
“Of course they are!” she cried, drawing Twaddles into her lap and hugging him. “I suspect Jud is packing the largest he can find into a box now to send us for our pies.”
Meg had been upstairs and put on one of her summer white dresses, too short in the skirt and too tight in the sleeves, for Meg, as Mother Blossom had said, was growing very fast. 136
“You just ought to see the dress Miss Florence is making me, Aunt Polly,” Meg said, her blue eyes shining. “It has two tucks in the skirt, and puff sleeves–––”