“Nice,” furnished Randolph gravely. “That’s a good Boston word. Girls always say that the weather is nice, and ice cream is nice, and going to Europe is nice, and the sermon was nice, and—”
“O hear him, hear him!” interrupted Kittie. “I guess ‘nice’ is as good a word as ‘jolly.’ Boys all say that.”
“Many a nice time, yes, and jolly too,” said uncle Will, as he watched the swallows overhead, and listened with an amused smile to the children’s funning, “I’ve had in this barn, in old times.”
“Were there many fellows about here?” asked Tom.
“Not many, but perhaps we appreciated one another all the better. The district school was about a half a mile from the cross-roads, and we boys were always ready for a good time. Once, though, our sport came near turning out pretty seriously for me.”
“How was that, sir?” The rest looked up with interested faces, but kept on with their work.
“Why, it was on a Saturday afternoon, I remember, at about this time of year—no, it must have been later—in August, I think.
“There were seven of us, just out of school, and ready for anything in the shape of fun. It had been a clear race from the schoolhouse—we never could go anywhere without a run or a leap-frog, or something of the sort—till we reached the shade of an apple-tree, laughing, panting and eating apples. The ground was covered with small, juicy fruit, mellow on the upper side, and hard underneath. They were pretty sour, but we didn’t care.
“It was only half-past four, and we had two good hours before supper-time all to ourselves. So we lay there, filling our pockets with apples after we had eaten enough, and began to propose plans.
“‘Let’s go down to the mill and see ’em saw logs.’