“Of course I do!” said Poor Cecco.
“Then if you can write what house it is,” Jensina cried. “And if we’ve got three pennies, we’ll go back by R.F.D.”
Poor Cecco pricked up his ears.
“What's that?”
“It’s a man in a car,” said Jensina, “and he rides up and down the world all day taking things where they have to go. He’s got to take them. And whatever you write the name of the place on he’s got to take it there.”
“But why is he called R.F.D.?” Poor Cecco asked.
Jensina thought a moment. “R.F.D. means Rides For Dolls, of course,” she returned, very superior. “Every one knows that.”
“It might mean Rides for Dogs,” said Poor Cecco, who didn’t see why Jensina should have it all her own way.
Just then Bulka poked his head up through the long grass. “Who’s going to ride?” he asked.
“All of us!” said Jensina promptly. “Dear me, Bulka, you do look a sight! Brush all that grass-seed off you, do, and Poor Cecco find a clean piece of paper, and we’ll write the address.”
Bulka had been hunting huckleberries in the pasture. He hadn’t found one, but he had found a great many other things instead—hayseed and dried leaves and bits of twig and burrs—which were sticking all over him, and while he sat down obediently and began to pick them off, one by one, Poor Cecco found a clean bit of pasteboard, from
