“But you don’t either of you know how to skate,” said Meg. “So how do you know you like it better than coasting?”
They argued about this the rest of the way home and were still at it when they trooped into the living-room, where Aunt Miranda and her knitting and Uncle Dave with his corncob pipe, sat before the fire.
“Have a good time?” Uncle Dave asked the four little Blossoms. “You did? That’s fine. I don’t suppose you looked in the oven as you came through the kitchen to see what we’re going to have for supper?”
Twaddles offered at once to go and see. Aunt Miranda was shocked at Uncle Dave and he sat there and laughed so much Meg and Dot had to laugh with him. Even Bobby smiled, though he was still serious.
“What ails Bobby, Mother?” asked Twaddles suddenly. “I guess he has something on his mind.”
Twaddles had heard some older person say this, but it was too near the truth to be comfortable for Bobby.
“Mother,” he said, trying to look over Twaddles’ head, “Mother, is there any place in this house where a person can think?”
“Just what I’ve often wondered, Son,” said Father Blossom, coming into the room. “If you find such a place, let me know.”
“Supper’s ready,” announced Mother Blossom, smiling, “and you’ll have to wait till afterward to think. I know you children are hungry, in spite of Christmas dinner, after all that coasting.”
Supper finished, Bobby forgot that he had wanted a quiet place in which to think, for they all gathered around the glowing fire and Uncle Dave and Aunt Miranda told stories of the Christmas days they remembered years and years ago, when they were little. Some of the stories were most exciting, and Twaddles’ eyes were as “large as saucers” Aunt Miranda said, when she told them of standing outside the house when she was a tiny girl and having a slide of snow from the roof strike her and bury her out of sight.