Mrs. Horton smiled.
“I think the half hour has gone by,” she declared, closing the lid of Grandpa’s trunk. “Come, dear, we must go right down and not keep them waiting.”
“Are you going to eat your duck?” asked Grandpa, when they were seated at the dinner table.
“My, no!” answered Sunny Boy, shocked.
He never believed that the chickens and ducks they had for Sunday dinners were the same pretty feathered creatures he saw walking about the farm. Chickens and ducks one ate, thought Sunny Boy, were always the kind he remembered hanging up in the markets at home—without any feathers or heads. He was sure they grew that way, somewhere.
“He doesn’t have to eat his duck,” comforted Grandma. “I’m going to make something he likes this afternoon. If you and Olive are going to drive over to town, Sunny and I will be busy in the kitchen.”
“Saucer pies!” cried Sunny Boy. “I can help, can’t I, Grandma?”
If there was one thing Sunny Boy loved to do, it was to be allowed to watch his grandma bake pies. He could ask a hundred questions and always be sure of an answer, he could taste the contents of every one of the row of little brown spice boxes, and, best of all, there was a special little pie baked for him in a saucer that he could eat the minute it was baked and cool. No wonder Sunny Boy kissed Mother contentedly and watched her drive away with Grandpa for a little shopping in town. He, Sunny Boy, was going to help Grandma bake apple pies.
“Here’s your chair, and here’s a pound Sweeting for you,” Araminta greeted him as he trotted into the kitchen.
Sunny Boy scrambled into his place opposite Grandma at the white table.