“What do you want, Polly?” cried some of the girls, racing up to her.
“I want to get out my hamper,” said Polly, pointing to the tag sticking up “high and dry” amid a stack of baskets. “My tin botany case is in it; I must get the ferns I promised to bring home to Phronsie.”
“You stand away, all of ye.” The old man Kimball, his horses out of the shafts, and well taken care of, now drew near, and swept off with his ample hand the bunch of girls. “Which one is't? Oh, that ere one with the tag,” answering his own question. “Well, now, I'll git that for you jest as easy as rolling off a log. One—two—three—there she comes!”
And, one, two, three, and here she did come! And in a trice Polly had the cover up, and out flew the little green tin botany case; and within it being an iron spoon and little trowel, off flew Polly on happy feet to unearth the treasures that were to beautify Phronsie's little garden; a bunch of girls following to see the operation.
The magazine fell idly to the lap of Miss Salisbury. She sat dreamily back, resting her head against the boulder. “Sister,” she said softly, “this is a happy custom we have started. I trust nothing will ever prevent our holding our annual picnic.”
“Yes,” said Miss Anstice absently. She was very much interested in a story she had begun, and she hated to have Miss Salisbury say a word. Although she had on a stiff, immaculate white gown (for on such a festival as the annual picnic, she always dressed in white), still she was not in the same sweet temper that the principal was enjoying, and she held her thumb and finger in the place.
“Yes, the picnic is very good,” she said, feeling that something was expected of her, “if we didn't get worms and bugs crawling over the tablecloth.”
“Oh sister!” exclaimed Miss Salisbury, quite shocked; “it is no time to think of worms and bugs, I'm sure, on such a beautiful occasion as this.”
“Still, they are here,” said Miss Anstice; “there is one now,” looking down at the hem of her gown. “Ugh! go right away,” slapping her book at it. Then her thumb and finger flew out, and she lost her place, and the bug ran away, and she added somewhat tartly, “For my own taste, I should really prefer a festival in the schoolroom.”
When it came to spreading the feast, not one of the maids was allowed to serve. They could unpack the hampers, and hand the dishes and eatables to the girls, and run, and wait, and tend. But no one but the Salisbury girls must lay the snowy cloth, dress it up with flowers, with little knots at the corners, concealing the big stones that kept the tablecloth from flapping in any chance wind. And then they all took turns in setting the feast forth, and arranging all the goodies. And some one had to make the coffee, with a little coterie to help her. The crotched sticks were always there just as they had left them where they hung the kettle over the stone oven. And old man Kimball set one of the younger drivers to make the fire—and a rousing good one it was—where they roasted their corn and potatoes. And another one brought up the water from the spring that bubbled up clear and cold in the rocky ravine, so when all was ready it was a feast fit for a king, or rather the queen and her royal subjects.