“Hurry up, Twaddles!” he urged his small brother. “We can’t wait all night. Which do you want, Dot?”
“Blackberry jam,” said Dot, shutting her eyes and gulping as she always did when she had to make a choice.
“Children, dinner will be ready in a minute!” Mother Blossom called down to them.
“Now, you see,” scolded Bobby. “Take the pickles, Twaddles, and put them over there with the apples. I have to lock up the closet.”
Bobby took the jar of peach butter out of Twaddles’ hands and put it back on the shelf. Then he locked the door of the preserve closet and put the key in his pocket to give his mother.
Twaddles scowled.
“I didn’t want pickles,” he said. “You’re mean, Bobby Blossom. I hope the poor folks will throw away your old apples.”
Twaddles never could stay cross very long, though, and before dinner was over, he was teasing with Dot to be allowed to go to the school the next day with Meg and Bobby.
“Please, Daddy,” pleaded the twins. “We’re sending things for the poor people to eat and can’t we go and see them?”
“They won’t be there,” said Meg hastily. “The Charity Bureau comes and gets the stuff and gives it to the poor people; don’t they, Bobby?”