Over it we made a mound of all the snow we could find in the garden. Then we adjourned to the woodshed and sat on the sill and the sawbuck and the work-bench.
“What makes us give it away?” said Delia Dart, abruptly. “Why don’t we sell it? We’d ought to get fifteen cents a dish for it by June.”
We began a calculation, as rapid as might be. Each tin would hold at least six dishes.
“Why didn’t we bury more?” said Calista, raptly. “Why didn’t we bury a tubful?”
“It’d be an awful job to dig the hole,” I objected. “Besides, they’d miss the tub.”
The latter objection was insurmountable, so we went off to the garden to hunt pig-nuts. A tree of these delicacies grew in the midst of the potato patch, and some of the nuts were sure to have lain winter-long in the earth and to be seasoned and edible.
“Let’s all ask to go to the Rodmans’ this afternoon and tell Margaret Amelia and Betty about the snow,” Calista suggested.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got to go calling.”
They regarded me pityingly.
“Can’t you come over there afterwards?” they suggested.
