The next morning, when Lucy waked up, she found that it was very light. The curtains of the room were up, and she could see the sun shining brightly upon the trees and buildings out of doors, so that she supposed that it was pretty late. Besides, she saw that Miss Anne was not in the room; and she supposed that she had got up and gone out to breakfast.

Lucy thought that she would get up too. But then she recollected that she had been sick the night before, and that, perhaps, her mother would not be willing to have her get up.

Her next idea was, that she would call out for Miss Anne, or for her mother; but this, on reflection, she thought would make a great disturbance; for it was some distance from the room which she was in to the parlor, where she supposed they were taking breakfast.

She concluded, on the whole, to wait patiently until somebody should come; and having nothing else to do, she began to sing a little song, which Miss Anne had taught her. She knew only one verse, but she sang this verse two or three times over, louder and louder each time, and her voice resounded merrily through all that part of the house.

Some children cry when they wake up and find themselves alone; some call out aloud for somebody to come; and others sing. Thus there are three ways; and the singing is the best of all the three;—except, indeed, for very little children, who are not old enough to sing or to call, and who, therefore, cannot do anything but cry.

They heard Lucy’s singing in the parlor, and Miss Anne came immediately to see her. She gave her a picture-book to amuse herself with for a time, and went away again; but in about a quarter of an hour she came back, and helped her to get up and dress herself.

Her mother told her that she must not go out of doors that day, but that she might play about in any of the rooms, just as she pleased.

“But what shall I do for my breakfast?” said Lucy.

“O, I will give you some breakfast,” said Miss Anne. “How should you like to have it by yourself, upon your little table, in the kitchen?” “Well,” said Lucy, “if you will let me have my own cups and saucers.”

“Your cups won’t hold enough for you to drink,—will they?”

“O, I can fill them up two or three times.”

Miss Anne said she had no objection to this plan; and she told Lucy to go and get her table ready. So Lucy went and got her little table. It was just high enough for her to sit at. Her father had made it for her, by taking a small table in the house, which had been intended for a sort of a light-stand, and sawing off the legs, so as to make it just high enough for her.

Lucy brought this little table, and also her chair; and then Miss Anne handed her a napkin for a table-cloth, and told her that she might set her table,—and that, when it was all set, she would bring her something for breakfast; and so she left Lucy, for a time, to herself.

Lucy spread the napkin upon her table, and then went and got some of her cups and saucers, and put upon it. Joanna was ironing at the great kitchen table, and Lucy went to ask her how many cups and saucers she had better set.

“I should think it would take the whole set,” said Joanna, “to hold one good cup of tea.” “But I am going to fill up my cup three times, Joanna; and if that isn’t enough, I shall fill it up four times.”

“O, then,” said Joanna, “I would not have but one cup,—or at most two. I think I would have two, because you may possibly have some company.”

“I wish you would come and be my company, Joanna.”

“No, I must attend to my ironing.”

“Well,” said Lucy, as she went back to her table, “I will have two cups, at any rate, for I may have some company.”

She accordingly put on two cups and a tea-pot; also a sugar-bowl and creamer. She placed them in various ways upon the table; first trying one plan of arrangement, and then another; and when at last they were placed in the best way, she went and called Miss Anne, to tell her that she was ready for her breakfast.

Miss Anne came out, according to her promise, to give her what she was to have to eat. First, she put a little sugar in her sugar-bowl; then some milk in her cream-pitcher; then some water, pretty hot, in her tea-pot.

“Could not you let me have a little real tea?” said Lucy. “O, this will taste just as well,” said Miss Anne.

“I know it will taste just as well; but it will not look just right. Real tea is not white, like water.”

“Water is not white,” said Miss Anne; “milk is white; water is very different in appearance from milk.”

“What color is water, then?” said Lucy.

“It is not of any color,” said Miss Anne. “It is what we call colorless. Now, you want to have something in your tea-pot which is colored a little, like tea,—not perfectly colorless, like water.”

Lucy said yes, that that was exactly what she wanted. So Miss Anne took her tea-pot up, and went into the closet with it, and presently came out with it again, and put it upon the table. The reason why she took all this pains to please Lucy was, because she was so gentle and pleasant; and, although she often asked for things, she was not vexed or ill-humored when they could not be given to her.

Miss Anne then cut some thin slices of bread, and divided them into square pieces, so small that they could go on a small plate, which she brought from the closet. She also gave her a toasting-fork with a long handle, and told her that she might toast her own bread, and then spread it with butter. She gave her a little butter upon another plate.

When all these things were arranged, Miss Anne went away, telling Lucy that she had better make her breakfast last as long as she could, for she must remember that she could not go out at all that day; and that she must therefore economize her amusements.

“Economize? What do you mean by that, Miss Anne?” said Lucy.

“Why, use them carefully, and make them last as long as you can.”

Lucy followed Miss Anne’s advice in making the amusement of sitting at her own breakfast table last as long as possible. She toasted her little slices of bread with the toasting-fork, and poured out the tea from her tea-pot. She found that it had a slight tinge of the color of tea, which Miss Anne had given it by sweetening it a little, with brown sugar. Lucy enjoyed her breakfast very much.

While she was eating it, Joanna, who was much pleased with her for being so still, and so careful not to make her any trouble, asked her if she should not like a roasted apple. “Yes,” said Lucy, “very much indeed.”

“I will give you one,” said Joanna, “and show you how to roast it, if you will go and ask your mother, if she thinks it will not hurt you.”

Lucy accordingly went and asked her mother. She said it would not hurt her at all, and that she should be very glad to have Joanna get her an apple.

Joanna accordingly brought a large, rosy apple, with a stout stem. She tied a long string to the stem, and then held the apple up before the fire a minute, by means of the stem. Then she got a flat-iron, and tied the other end of the string to the flat-iron. The flat-iron she then placed upon the mantle shelf, and the string was just long enough to let the apple hang down exactly before the fire.

When it was all arranged in this way, she took up the apple, and twisted the string for some time; and then, when she let the apple down again gently to its place, the weight of it began to untwist the string, and this made the apple itself turn round quite swiftly before the fire.

Joanna also put a plate under the apple, to catch any of the juice or pulp which might fall down, and then left Lucy to watch it while it was roasting. Lucy watched its revolutions for some time in silence. She observed that the apple would whirl very swiftly for a time, and then it would go slower, and slower, and slower, until, at length, she said,

“Joanna, Joanna, it is going to stop.”

But, instead of this, it happened that, just at the very instant when Lucy thought it was going to stop, all at once it began to turn the other way; and, instead of going slower and slower, it went faster and faster, until, at length, it was revolving as fast as it did before.

“O no,” said she to Joanna; “it has got a going again.”

It was indeed revolving very swiftly; but pretty soon it began to slacken its speed again;—and again Lucy thought that it was certainly going to stop. But at this time she witnessed the same phenomenon as before. It had nearly lost all its motion, and was turning around very slowly indeed, and just upon the point of stopping; and in fact it did seem to stop for an instant; but immediately it began to move in an opposite direction, very slowly at first, but afterwards faster and faster, until it was, at length, spinning around before the hot coals, as fast as ever before. Pretty soon, also, the apple began to sing; and Lucy concluded that it would never stop,—at least not before it would have time to be well roasted.

“It goes like Royal’s top,” said Lucy.

“Has Royal got a top?” said Joanna.

“Yes,” said Lucy, “a large humming-top. There is a hole in it. It spins very fast, only it does not go first one way and then the other, like this apple.”

“I never saw a top,” said Joanna.

“Never saw one!” exclaimed Lucy. “Did not the boys have tops when you were little?”

“No boys that I ever knew,” answered Joanna.

“Did you have a tea-set when you were a little girl?” asked Lucy.

“No,” said Joanna, “I never saw any such a tea-set, until I saw yours.”

“What kind of playthings did you have, then, when you were a little girl?”

“No playthings at all,” said Joanna; “I was a farmer’s daughter.”

“And don’t the farmers’ daughters ever have any playthings?”

“I never did, at any rate.”

“What did you do, then, for play?”

“O, I had plenty of play. When I was about as big as you, I used to build fires in the stumps.” “What stumps?” said Lucy.

“Why, the stumps in the field, pretty near my father’s house. I used to pick up chips and sticks, and build fires in the hollow places in the stumps, and call them my ovens. Then, when they were all heated, I used to put a potato in, and cover it up with sand, and let it roast.”

“I wish I had some stumps to build fires in,” said Lucy. “I should like to go to your house and see them.”

“O, they are all gone now,” said Joanna. “They have gradually got burnt up, and rotted out; and now it is all a smooth, green field.”

“O, what a pity!” said Lucy. “And an’t there any more stumps anywhere?”

“Yes, in the woods, and upon the new fields. You see, when they cut down trees, they leave the stumps in the ground; and pretty soon they begin to rot; and they rot more and more, until, at last, they tumble all to pieces; and then they pile up the pieces in heaps, and burn them. Then the ground is all smooth and clear. So I used to build fires in the stumps as long as they lasted. One day my hen laid her eggs in a stump.”

“Your hen?” said Lucy; “did you have a hen?”

“Yes,” replied Joanna; “when I was a little older than you are, my father gave me a little yellow chicken, that was peeping, with the rest, about the yard. I used to feed her, every day, with crumbs. After a time, she grew up to be a large hen, and laid eggs. My father said that I might have all the eggs too. I used to sell them, and save the money.”

“How much money did you get?” asked Lucy.

“O, considerable. After a time, you see, I let my hen sit, and hatch some chickens.”

“Sit?” said Lucy.

“Yes; you see, after hens have laid a good many eggs, they sit upon them, to keep them warm, for two or three weeks; and, while they keep them warm, a little chicken begins to grow in every egg, and at length, after they grow strong enough, they break through the eggs and come out. So I got eleven chickens from my hen, after a time.”

“Eleven?” repeated Lucy; “were there just eleven?”

“There were twelve, but one died,” replied Joanna. “And all these chickens were hatched in a stump.”

“How did that happen?” asked Lucy. “Why, the hens generally used to lay their eggs in the barn, and I used to go in, every day, to get the eggs. I carried a little basket, and I used to climb about upon the hay, and feel in the cribs; and I generally knew where all the nests were. But once I could not find my hen’s nest for several days; and at last I thought I would watch her, and see where she went. I did watch her, and I saw her go into a hollow place in a great black stump, in the corner of the yard. After she came out, I went and looked there, and I found four eggs.”

“What did you do then?” said Lucy.

“Why, I concluded, on the whole, to let them stay, and let my hen hatch her eggs there, if she would. And I told my brother, that, if he would make a coop for me, around that stump, I would give him one of the chickens.”

“A coop? What is a coop?”

“O, a small house for hens to live in. My brother made me a coop. He made it immediately after the hen had hatched her chickens. I will tell you how he made it. He drove stakes down all around the stump, and then put some short boards over the top, so as to cover it over. My hen staid there until her chickens got pretty well grown, and then we let her run about the yard.” “That is pretty much the way that Royal made his turtle-pen,” said Lucy; “but I should rather have a hen-coop, because of the chickens.”

“Yes, I had eleven. I gave my brother one, and then I had ten. These all grew up, and laid more eggs; and at last I got money enough from my eggs and poultry to buy me a new gown.”

“I wish I was a farmer’s daughter,” said Lucy.

“Farmers’ daughters have a very good time,” said Joanna, “I think myself.”