“Wasn’t that right?” I cried, in
an agony of shame.
“Right!” but Felicity had already whisked
the turnips out, and was slicing them, while all the
others were laughing at me. I had added a tradition
on my own account to the family archives.
Uncle Roger roared when he heard it; and he roared
again at night over Peter’s account of Felix
attempting to milk a cow. Felix had previously
acquired the knack of extracting milk from the udder.
But he had never before tried to “milk a whole
cow.” He did not get on well; the cow
tramped on his foot, and finally upset the bucket.
“What are you to do when a cow won’t stand
straight?” spluttered Felix angrily.
“That’s the question,” said Uncle
Roger, shaking his head gravely.
Uncle Roger’s laughter was hard to bear, but
his gravity was harder.
Meanwhile, in the pantry the Story Girl, apron-enshrouded,
was being initiated into the mysteries of bread-making.
Under Felicity’s eyes she set the bread, and
on the morrow she was to bake it.
“The first thing you must do in the morning
is knead it well,” said Felicity, “and
the earlier it’s done the better—because
it’s such a warm night.”
With that we went to bed, and slept as soundly as
if tragedies of blue chests and turnips and crooked
cows had no place in the scheme of things at all.
It was half-past five when we boys got up the next
morning. We were joined on the stairs by Felicity,
yawning and rosy.
“Oh, dear me, I overslept myself. Uncle
Roger wanted breakfast at six. Well, I suppose
the fire is on anyhow, for the Story Girl is up.
I guess she got up early to knead the bread.
She couldn’t sleep all night for worrying over
it.”
The fire was on, and a flushed and triumphant Story
Girl was taking a loaf of bread from the oven.
“Just look,” she said proudly. “I
have every bit of the bread baked. I got up
at three, and it was lovely and light, so I just gave
it a right good kneading and popped it into the oven.
And it’s all done and out of the way.
But the loaves don’t seem quite as big as they
should be,” she added doubtfully.
“Sara Stanley!” Felicity flew across
the kitchen. “Do you mean that you put
the bread right into the oven after you kneaded it
without leaving it to rise a second time?”
The Story Girl turned quite pale.
“Yes, I did,” she faltered. “Oh,
Felicity, wasn’t it right?”
“You’ve ruined the bread,” said
Felicity flatly. “It’s as heavy
as a stone. I declare, Sara Stanley, I’d
rather have a little common sense than be a great
story teller.”
Bitter indeed was the poor Story Girl’s mortification.
“Don’t tell Uncle Roger,” she implored
humbly.
“Oh, I won’t tell him,” promised
Felicity amiably. “It’s lucky there’s
enough old bread to do to-day. This will go to
the hens. But it’s an awful waste of good
flour.”
