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Page 5
And now we find the four little Blossoms, early in April, just as
glad to see the beautiful, shining green Spring as they had been
to see the first Winter snow. Sam Layton had gone away to Canada
to work on a farm soon after the weather grew pleasant, and the
four little Blossoms missed him very much. They suspected that
Norah missed him, too, though she said nothing. The children had
all promised to write to Sam, and Norah wrote every week.
This was the reason Father Blossom was driving the new car. As he
said, Sam was such an excellent driver there had really been no
need for him to drive; but with Sam away, if Father Blossom wanted
to reach his foundry on time every morning there was nothing for
him to do but to learn to drive the car himself.
"I'll go and see if I can persuade some farmer to come and pull us
out," he said to Mother Blossom, when he had tried without results
to back the car from the mass of bushes and saplings into which it
had driven. "You stay right here with Mother, children, and I'll
be back in fifteen or twenty minutes."
Twaddles wanted to go with his father, but when it was explained
to him that his mother and the girls needed his protection and
that of Bobby, he was quite willing to wait quietly in the bushes.
That is, as quietly as Twaddles ever waited anywhere.
"Perhaps we can find flowers," Meg suggested, as Father Blossom
disappeared, whistling. "Brush some of these leaves away, Dot, and
let's see what grows underneath."
"Oh, dear!" came with a big sigh from Dot, and they turned to see
her caught by a bush whose sharp spikes went right through her
firm serge frock and bloomers and held her fast.
"I'll get you," offered Twaddles gallantly, and he tried to
scramble over the intervening bushes, fortunately all low.
But though low, they were tightly woven, for no underbrush had
been cut from this section of the woods for years. In a moment
Twaddles was pinned as tightly as Dot, a narrow, string-like coil
of vine wrapping securely round his ankles and a sharp stake
thrusting itself slantwise through the sleeve of his sweater.
"Don't wriggle," implored Mother Blossom, as she and Meg and Bobby
came cautiously to the rescue. "I do want these clothes to last
you till it is time to buy Summer ones. Hold still, Dot. There!
Now come and sit in the car and I'll tell you a story till Daddy
comes back."
Bobby had managed to free Twaddles, and the four little Blossoms
climbed into the car and really sat very still--for them--while
Mother Blossom began the story of what she did when she was a
little girl and went away to boarding school for the first time.
The children loved "true" stories, and they listened intently till
Dot spied her father coming down the crooked little path and set
up a shout.
Father Blossom had found a farmer who lived near, and had arranged
with him to bring two strong horses and a heavy rope and see if he
could pull the car from the underbrush. The farmer was a tall,
silent man who seemed not to hear the excited questions of the
four little Blossoms, and never even spoke to Mother Blossom
beyond a quick jerk at his cap when he first saw her sitting in
the car.
But, although the farmer, whose name was Ellis, was "no talker"
(he himself said so), he was a quick worker, and in less than ten
minutes he had rigged up the rope to the car, fastened it to the
collars of his horses, and in another five minutes the car was out
in the road and clear of the bushes and saplings.
"Only scratched a mite," commented the farmer, pocketing the bill
Father Blossom gave him to pay for his time and trouble. "Lucky
not to have to have the whole thing scraped and re-varnished."
The Blossoms were home in time for supper, and of course Norah had
to hear about the drive. Bobby did not have much to say, for he
was busy thinking out a little plan that, he privately decided,
could best be tried out at school. Bobby's experience had been
that Twaddles and Dot always wanted a finger in his plans and that
too many fingers are as bad as too many cooks. And any one will
tell you that too many cooks are worse than none.
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