After supper they put on sheepskin coats and mufflers, filled a bob-sleigh with pecks of potatoes, bags of apples, three small picnic hams, and some canned fruit. They sat in the deep straw covered with fur robes and went gayly down the road to the tumble-down Oleson shack.
"They're Svenskies," said Stud, "but they're better neighbors than some civilized people." He poked Gus in the ribs to emphasize the taunt.
"I'd rather be a Scandihoovian than a gol darn beef-eating Englishman," sniffed Gus.
It made Sarah sad to see how grateful Hilda Oleson was for the presents. Ole Oleson was sullen as usual.
"Ay t'ink next yar Ay vill gif you sometink to eat, ya?" He puffed vigorously at his corncob, and continued to carve his ship model.
The rosy Hilda, all aflutter, began to apologize for the state of her house which was as spotless as a new pan. She led them in on tiptoe to see young Ole, who would be a year old in a few months now. He lay with his small, plump arms thrown above his head, his lips working busily as he dreamed of Hilda's breast. The lamp light made a halo of his blond fuzz, shone upon his pink cheeks and his long eyelashes. The soft spot on his head beat rhythmically with his pulse. He stirred, made a lusty sucking noise with his mouth, opened his big blue eyes, and began to cry for his evening nursing.
Sarah, as always in the presence of a baby, mourned her age. Stud was frankly envious; Gus, embarrassed.
"It seems like yesterday you were this size," Sarah told the discomfited Peter.
Hilda put the baby in Sarah's arms, and he began to nuzzle at her shrunken breasts. Quick tears sprang to her eyes.