"Look, Ridgie, overhead, hundreds of them hanging from every tree. We can reach them quite easily."
There could be no doubt about the matter. Rosy apples ripened by the sun dangled in clusters overhead, and gently fell down at the very moment when any one felt disposed to eat them.
Within easy reach grew trailing brambles smothered with ripened patches of fragrant blackberries.
The Pleasant-Faced Lion lifted up his voice and inquired if the company present desired anything better, at the season they were now passing through, than unlimited apples, blackberries, and hay.
"No," came a simultaneous chorus from all the children.
"Good," replied the Lion. "After you have all eaten as many apples and blackberries as you want, the battle of the new-mown hay will start. I shall be the umpire. If Ridgwell and Christine can throw enough hay from their big cart to bury all the children around them, they will have won. If the other children can throw up enough hay to completely smother the cart, Ridgwell and Christine will have lost. Now start," laughed the Lion.
"Look here, Chris, we must get to work, so here goes."
Whereupon Ridgwell seized a big armful of loose hay and awaited the attack.
"We have the advantage of height," observed Christine, as she hastily gathered as much hay as she could hold, "and you know, Ridgie, it is much easier for us to throw down than it is for them to throw up."
"How about numbers?" objected Ridgwell; "why, it's two against hundreds, Chris."