time after the long winter. Who knew what the fairies might not have done since any of them had been there to see?
“Which path shall we go in by?” asked Clover, at last.
“Suppose we vote,” said Katy. “I say by the Pilgrim’s Path and the Hill of Difficulty.”
“So do I!” chimed in Clover, who always agreed with Katy.
“The Path of Peace is nice,” suggested Cecy.
“No, no! We want to go by Sassafras Path!” cried John and Dorry.
However, Katy, as usual, had her way. It was agreed that they should first try Pilgrim’s Path, and afterward make a thorough exploration of the whole of their little kingdom, and see all that had happened since last they were there. So in they marched, Katy and Cecy heading the procession, and Dorry, with his great trailing bunch of boughs, bringing up the rear.
“Oh, there is the dear rosary, all safe!” cried the children, as they reached the top of the Hill of Difficulty, and came upon a tall stump, out of the middle of which waved a wild rose-bush, budded over with fresh green leaves. This “rosary” was a fascinating thing to their minds. They were always inventing stories about it, and were in constant terror lest some hungry cow should take a fancy to the rosebush and eat it up.
“Yes,” said Katy, stroking a leaf with her finger, “It was in great danger one night last winter, but it escaped.”
“Oh! how? Tell us about it!” cried the others, for Katy’s stories were famous in the family.
“It was Christmas Eve,” continued Katy, in a mysterious tone. “The fairy of the rosary was quite sick. She had taken a dreadful cold in her head, and the poplar-tree fairy, just over there, told her that sassafras tea is good for colds. So she made a large acorn-cup full, and then cuddled herself in where the wood looks so black and soft, and fell asleep. In the middle of the night, when she was snoring soundly, there was a noise in the forest, and a dreadful black bull with fiery eyes galloped up. He saw our poor Rosy Posy, and, opening his big mouth, he was just going to bite her in two; but at that minute a little fat man, with a wand in his hand, popped out from behind the stump. It was Santa Claus, of course. He gave the bull such a rap with his wand that he moo-ed dreadfully, and then put up his fore-paw, to see if his nose was on or not. He found it was, but it hurt him so that he moo-ed again, and galloped off as fast as he could into the woods. Then Santa Claus waked up the fairy, and told her that if she didn’t take better care of Rosy Posy he should put some other fairy into her place, and set her to keep guard over a prickly, scratchy, blackberry bush.”
“Is there really any fairy?” asked Dorry, who had listened to this narrative with open mouth.
“Of course,” answered Katy. Then bending down toward Dorry, she added in a voice intended to be of wonderful sweetness: “I am a fairy, Dorry!”
“Pshaw!” was Dorry’s reply; “you’re a giraffe—Pa said so!”
The Path of Peace got its name because of its darkness and coolness. High bushes almost met over it, and trees kept it shady, even in the middle of the day. A sort of white flower grew there, which the children called Pollypods, because they didn’t know the real name. They stayed a long while picking bunches of these flowers, and then John and Dorry had to grub up an armful of sassafras roots; so that before they had fairly gone through Toadstool Avenue, Rabbit Hollow, and the rest, the sun was just over their heads, and it was noon.
“I’m getting hungry,” said Dorry.
“Oh, no, Dorry, you mustn’t be hungry till the bower is ready!” cried the little girls, alarmed, for Dorry was apt to be disconsolate if he was kept waiting for his meals. So they made haste to build the bower. It did not take long, being composed of boughs hung over skipping-ropes, which were tied to the very poplar tree where the fairy lived who had recommended sassafras tea to the fairy of the rose.
When it was done they all cuddled in underneath. It was a very small bower—just big enough to hold them, and the baskets, and the kitten. I don’t think there would have been room for anybody else, not even another kitten. Katy, who sat in the middle, untied and lifted the lid of the largest basket, while all the rest peeped eagerly to see what was inside.
First came a great many ginger cakes. These were carefully laid on the grass to keep till wanted: buttered biscuit came next—three apiece, with slices of cold lamb laid in between; and last of all were a dozen hard-boiled eggs, and a layer of thick bread and butter sandwiched with corned-beef. Aunt Izzie had put up lunches for Paradise before, you see, and knew pretty well what to expect in the way of appetite.
Oh, how good everything tasted in that bower, with the fresh wind rustling the poplar leaves, sunshine and sweet wood-smells about them, and birds singing overhead! No grown-up dinner-party ever had half so much fun. Each mouthful was a pleasure; and when the last crumb had vanished, Katy produced the second basket, and there—oh, delightful surprise!—were seven little pies—molasses pies, baked in saucers—each with a brown top and crisp candified edge, which tasted like toffy and lemon-peel, and all sorts of good things mixed up together.
There was a general shout. Even demure Cecy was pleased, and Dorry and John kicked their heels on the ground in a tumult of joy. Seven pairs of hands were held out at once toward the basket; seven sets of teeth went to work without a moment’s delay. In an incredibly short time every vestige of pie had disappeared, and a blissful stickiness pervaded the party.
“What shall we do now?” asked Clover, while little Phil tipped the baskets upside down, as if to make sure there was nothing left that could possibly be eaten.
“I don’t know,” replied Katy dreamily. She had left her seat, and was half-sitting, half-lying on the low crooked bough of a butternut-tree, which hung almost over the children’s heads.
“Let’s play we’re grown up,” said Cecy, “and tell what we mean to do?”
“Well,” said Clover, “you begin. What do you mean to do?”
“I mean to have a black silk dress, and pink roses in my bonnet, and a white muslin long-shawl,” said Cecy; “and I mean to look exactly like Minerva Clark! I shall be very good, too; as good as Mrs. Bedell, only a great deal prettier. All the young gentlemen will want me to go and ride, but I shan’t notice them at all, because you know I shall always be teaching in Sunday-school, and visiting the poor. And some day, when I am bending over an old woman, and feeding her with currant jelly, a poet will come along and see me, and he’ll go home and write a poem about me,” concluded Cecy triumphantly.
“Pooh!” said Clover. “I don’t think that would be nice at all. I’m going to be a beautiful lady—the most beautiful lady in the world! And I’m going to live in a yellow castle, with yellow pillars to the portico, and a square thing on top, like Mr. Sawyer’s. My children are going to have a playhouse up there. There’s going to be a spy-glass in the window, to look out of. I shall wear gold dresses and silver dresses every day, and diamond rings, and have white satin aprons to tie on when I’m dusting, or doing anything dirty. In the middle of my backyard there will be a pond-full of scent, and whenever I want any I shall go just out and dip a bottle in. And I shan’t teach in Sunday-schools, like Cecy, because I don’t want to; but every Sunday I’ll go and stand by the gate, and when her scholars go by on their way home I’ll put some scent on their handkerchiefs.”
“I mean to have just the same,” cried Elsie, whose imagination was fired by this gorgeous vision, “only my pond will be the biggest. I shall be a great deal
