We would go home
and join our friends. It would not be necessary to say where we
had been.
It was hard for us to break up our camp. In many respects we had
enjoyed the novel experience, and we had fully expected, during the
next week, to make up for all our short-comings and mistakes. It
seemed like losing all our labor and expenditure, to break up now,
but there was no help for it. Our place was at home.
We did not wish to invite our friends to the camp. They would
certainly have come had they known we were there, but we had no
accommodations for them, neither had we any desire for even
transient visitors. Besides, we both thought that we would prefer
that our ex-boarder and his wife should not know that we were
encamped on that little peninsula.
We set to work to pack up and get ready for moving, but the
afternoon passed away without bringing old John. Between five and
six o'clock along came his oldest boy, with a bucket of water.
"I'm to go back after the milk," he said.
"Hold up!" I cried. "Where is your father and his wagon? We've
been waiting for him for hours."
"The horse is si-- I mean he's gone to Ballville for oats."
"And why didn't he send and tell me?" I asked.
"There wasn't nobody to send," answered the boy.
"You are not telling the truth," exclaimed Euphemia; "there is
always some one to send, in a family like yours."
To this the boy made no answer, but again said that he would go
after the milk.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130