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Updated: May 26, 2025
The cleared space to which Betty had referred demanded careful steering, and Frances Martin at the first glance relinquished the control of her sled. "I can't judge distances," she explained, touching her glasses, "and I'd be sure to steer straight for a tree. Libbie, you'll have to be the skipper."
"There'll be Bobby and Louise, of course; and Esther who is too young to go away to school, but who will want to do everything we do; Libbie Littell and another Vermont girl we don't know Frances Martin; you and I; and the five boys Mr. Littell wrote you about the Tucker twins, Timothy Derby, Sydney Cooke and Winifred Marion Brown. Twelve of us! Won't it be fun!
Do you want to learn to cook, Betty? Esther has a kitchen hobby and rides it almost to death." "I do not!" retorted Esther indignantly. "Do I, Louise? Mother loved to cook when she was a girl, and she says she likes to see me fussing in the kitchen." Betty was showing Libbie how to hold her crochet hook, and now she looked up from her pupil.
For she had puzzled out the place where Libbie was reading, and, with her finger under the line, was spelling out the words of consolation, piecing the syllables together aloud, with the earnest anxiety of comprehension with which a child first learns to read. So Libbie took the stool by her side, before she was aware that any one had entered the room. "What did she want you for?" asked Margaret.
Will it cure such a bad attack of poetry?" interrupted Bobby, drawing the attention of the others to Timothy Derby and Libbie who, with heads close together, were absorbed in a volume of verses the boy had brought with him from home. "It might help," said Bob. "It ought to be cold enough up there at Mountain Camp to freeze romance into an icicle." "I hope we all go then," Teddy Tucker agreed.
The game started merrily, and, forewarned by Libbie's story, the girls knew exactly where to find her when she hid from them and unerringly pulled her out of every chest into which she hopefully squeezed her plump self. "You never should have mentioned 'chest' to us," laughed Betty, when Libbie was "it" for the third time. "We know your line of reasoning now, you see."
Every one had brought skates from Fairfields, and the great expanse of blue ice no ice is so blue as that of a mountain lake was unmarked. Naturally skating was the very first pleasure that beckoned. "Oh, I'm just crazy to get on skates!" cried Bobby. "I think I'll be glad to do some skating myself," came from Libbie, who had been reading a book even before breakfast.
Yes, I'll bet a cookie a girl wrote it." "Ada Nansen or Ruth Gladys Royal might do it to plague Libbie," said Betty slowly. "They don't like any of our crowd, and Libbie is so good at French she turns Ada green with envy. The more I think of it, the surer I am it is Ada. Ruth doesn't dislike any one actively enough to exert herself." "Ada Nansen?" repeated Bob.
My husband takes milk and the boys like sugar, but I like the taste of the tea." At which, from Libbie Liberty: "Oh, Mis' Holcomb just says that to make out she's strong-minded. Plain tea an' plain coffee's regular woman's rights fare, Mis' Holcomb!" And then, after more laughter and Mis' Holcomb's blushes, they awaited: "Mrs. Sturgis?" "Not any at all, thank you.
"Ship ahoy!" shouted Bobby presently. Libbie jumped and looked ahead anxiously. "It's only the boys," she said dully. An eight-oared rowing shell shot down to them, and the freckled-faced coxswain, Gilbert Lane, one of the boys the girls had met at Bob and Tommy's "party," grinned cheerfully. "Where you going?" he asked, resting a friendly hand on the rowboat's rim.
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