as she was. Peter had picked up
Meg, and Jud had shouldered Twaddles, while Bobby kept running beside
them.

"You must be starved," was Linda's greeting. "We've got fried chicken
and currant jelly, too."

And though it was late, Aunt Polly was sure that fried chicken would
hurt no one, and while the hungry Blossoms ate, she sat by and
listened to what had happened to them in the woods.

"Why, darlings," she cried over and over, "Auntie will buy you other
books and toys, but I couldn't possibly buy your mother other children
if anything happened to you. Look at Dot's feet; the poor child must
have walked miles. And her face and hands are terribly scratched."

Directly after supper the tired children were ready for bed, and Linda
and Aunt Polly undressed them and bathed the sore little feet and put
soothing cold cream on sunburned, scratched little faces.

The summer weeks flew merrily by, and when a rainy afternoon came and
Aunt Polly suggested that the children should write to their father
and mother, the Blossoms discovered that they really had a good deal
to tell.

"I'll begin, 'cause I'm the oldest and I can write in pencil," said
Bobby. "Then Meg can print, and I'll write what Dot and Twaddles tell
me to. I guess they will like that kind of letter."

Aunt Polly thought so, too, and she gave Bobby her own pretty mahogany
"secretary" that was ever so old a desk, to write at.

Bobby put his tongue in his cheek and worked hard for fifteen minutes.
Then he was ready to read aloud.

"'Dear Daddy and Mother:'" he read. "'We thought you would like to
hear from us. Last week Peter was haying and Meg and I helped him make
loads. Meg drove into the barn all by herself. It is fun to see them
unload the hay, because they have a thing they call a hayfork that
comes down and takes up big handfuls and carries it up to the mow. I
can almost milk. The twins are very good most of the time. Your
loving son, Robert Hayward Blossom.'"

* * * * *

"Will they know that's from you?" asked Meg doubtfully, slipping into
the chair at the desk and taking up the pencil to print her letter.
"You never call yourself Robert."

"I guess I know how to write a letter," Bobby informed her with
dignity. "You always sign your real names to letters, don't you, Aunt
Polly?"

"Yes, indeed, dear," said Aunt Polly, who was doing something to a
pair of overalls.

Meg printed slowly and carefully, an