"Is this going to be a comic-opera, and are we taking part as stage peasants, or really working?" demanded Basil, sternly, though he looked surprised, and his eyes danced.
Bruce threw up his hat in applause, and Bart stared open-mouthed.
"Rob is demented, but not dangerous," said Frances, who had known the boys some time.
"You know I warned you."
"Well, now at it," said Bruce.
"Be sure you don't kill any young ground sparrows," said Wythie, anxiously.
"Oh, let me go ahead and scare up the mothers if there are any nests, then we'll see where they fly up," cried Prue.
"Go ahead, Paula Revere; rouse the inhabitants," said Bartlemy.
[So the mowing began, Prue preceding], her cloud of yellow hair floating over her white gown as she scuffed her feet through the long grass, the boys in their white-flannel shirts, turned away at the necks, swinging their long scythes in their strong, long arms, and Oswyth, Frances, and Rob fluttering after them in their floating summer gowns, raking industriously. It was as pretty a picture as any figure in the cotillon and quite as much fun.