ve him good-bye
before he goes to work."

"I'll hurry, Aunt Maria, honest I will," the child promised and began to
dress.

A little while later when she appeared in the big kitchen her father and
Aunt Maria were already eating breakfast. With her hair drawn back into
one uneven braid and a rusty brown dress upon her she seemed little like
the adorable figure of the looking-glass, but her father's face lighted
as he looked at her.

"So, Phoebe," he said, a teasing twinkle in his eyes, "I see you get up
early to go to school."

"But I ain't glad to go." She refused to smile at his words.

"Ach, yes," he coaxed, "you be a good girl and like your new teacher.
She's nice. I guess you'll like her when you know her once."

"Mebbe so," was the unpromising answer as she slipped the straps of a
blue checked apron over her shoulders, buttoned it in the back and took
her place at the table.

Breakfast at the Metz farm was no light meal. Between the early morning
meal and the twelve o'clock dinner much hard work was generally
accomplished and Maria Metz felt that a substantial foundation was
necessary. Accordingly, she carried to the big, square cherry table in
the kitchen an array of well-filled dishes. There was always a glass
dish of stewed prunes or seasonable fresh fruit; a plate piled high with
thick slices of home-made bread; several dishes of spreadings, as the
jellies, preserves or apple-butter of that community are called. There
was a generous square of home-made butter, a platter of home-cured ham
or sausage, a dish of fried or creamed potatoes, a smaller dish of
pickles or beets, and occasionally a dome of glistening cup cheese. The
meal would have been considered incomplete without a liberal supply of
cake or cookies, coffee in huge cups and yellow cream in an
old-fashioned blue pitcher.

That morning Aunt Maria had prepared an extra treat, a platter of golden
slices of fried mush.

The two older people partook heartily of the food before them but the
child ate listlessly. Her aunt soon exclaimed, "Now, Phoebe, you must
eat or you'll get hungry till recess. You know this is the first day of
school and you can't run for a cookie if you get hungry. You ain't
eatin'; you feel bad?"

"No, but I ain't hungry."

"Come now," urged her father, as he poured a liberal helping of molasses
on his sixth piece of mush, "you must eat. You surely don't feel that
bad about going to school!"

"Ach, pop," she burst out, "