“We thought you weren’t coming,” said Meg anxiously.

“Where did you find Dot?” asked Bobby and Twaddles in the same breath.

Dot smiled serenely.

“I came back myself,” she informed them. “The jitney man told me how.”

Mother Blossom sat down on a camp-stool and fanned herself with Twaddles’ blue sailor hat.

“See if we can’t get to Brookside without any more mishaps,” she commanded the children. “If we had missed the boat, think of the worry and trouble for Aunt Polly. Even if we telegraphed she wouldn’t get it before she started over to meet us.”

The four little Blossoms promised to be very good and to stay close together.

Lake Tobago was a small lake, very pretty, and for some minutes the children saw enough on the shores they were passing to keep them 57 contented and interested. In one place two little boys and their father were out fishing in a rowboat and the steamer passed so close to them that the four little Blossoms, leaning over the rail, could almost shake hands with them.

“There’s another wharf! Do we stop there? Yes, we do! Come on, Dot, let’s watch!” shouted Twaddles, as the steamer headed inshore toward a pier built out into the water.

“Keep away from the gangplank,” warned Mother Blossom. “You mustn’t get in people’s way, dear.”

The pier was something of a disappointment, because when the boat tied up there the children discovered that only freight was to be taken off and more boxes carried on. There was only one man at the wharf, and apparently no town for miles.

“Doesn’t anybody live here?” asked Twaddles, almost climbing over the rail in his eagerness to see everything.

“Sure! There’s a town back about half a mile,” explained the deck-hand who was carrying 58 on a crate of live chickens. “This is just where farmers drive in with their stuff.”

“Let me see the chickens,” cried Dot, climbing up beside her brother.

Her elbow knocked his hat, and because he hadn’t the elastic under his chin, it went sailing over on to the wharf. One of the men rolling a barrel toward the steamer did not see the hat and calmly rolled his barrel over it.

“Now you’ve done it!” scolded Meg, in her big-sister anxiety. “That’s a fine-looking hat to go to see Aunt Polly in. Hey, please, will you bring it back here with you?”

The man with the barrel heard and turned. He picked up the shapeless broken straw that had been Twaddles’ best new hat, and brought it to them, grinning. Several people who had been watching laughed.

“It does look funny, doesn’t it?” said Meg. “You’d better go and show it to Mother, Twaddles.”

Twaddles went back to Mother Blossom and dangled his hat before her sadly.

“Oh, Twaddles!” she sighed. “Is that your 59 hat? And we’re miles from a store. Here, let me straighten out the brim. What happened to it? Where did you go?”

Twaddles said truthfully enough that he hadn’t been anywhere, and explained what had happened to the hat. The boat was out in the lake again by this time and steaming on toward Little Havre.

“Where are the others?” asked Mother Blossom. “Tell them we get off in fifteen or twenty minutes, and I want them all to come and stay near me.”

Presently the boat scraped alongside a wide wharf and a number of people began to bustle off.

“Where are we going now?” asked Twaddles, his round eyes dancing with excitement. Twaddles certainly loved traveling.

“Don’t you ’member?” said Meg importantly. “We have to go to Four Crossways, and Aunt Polly will meet us. There’s a bus that says ‘Four Crossways,’ Mother.”

Mother Blossom had to see about the trunks and the kiddie-car, which, it seemed, were all 60 to go in a queer contrivance attached to the motor bus, a “trailer,” the driver called it.

“Isn’t that nice?” beamed Bobby, when he heard of this arrangement. “Our trunks will get there the same time we do.”

The children watched this trailer being loaded, and then all climbed into the bus and began the journey to Four Crossways. There were so many people on their way there that Bobby and Twaddles had to be squeezed into the front seat between the driver and the man who took the fares, and they liked this immensely.

“We’re going to Brookside,” volunteered Twaddles, who was sociably inclined, as soon as the driver seemed to have his engine fixed to suit him and the car was purring up the straight, wide road.

“To see Aunt Polly,” chimed in Bobby.

“There’s a lot of you, isn’t there?” said the driver, smiling.

When both boys said they had never been on a real farm, the driver, whose name, he told them, was Gus Rede, had so much to say about 61 the fun that awaited boys on a farm and especially such a fine place as Brookside that before Bobby and Twaddles knew it the bus had driven up to the post-office and there was dear Aunt Polly waiting to welcome them.

“Bless their hearts,” she said warmly, when she had kissed Mother and had hold of a child with either hand. “Are they all tired out, poor lambs? It’s a fearful place to get to, especially the first trip.”

Mother Blossom assured her sister that they were all right, and as glad to see her as she was to see them.

“I left the car around on a side street,” explained Aunt Polly, leading the way. “You see so many horses are still afraid of automobiles that we think it more thoughtful not to leave ’em standing on the main street. Yes, I drove over alone for you––either Peter or Jud will come over to-morrow for your trunks.”

This last was in response to a question Mother Blossom had asked.

Aunt Polly’s car was large enough to hold them all comfortably. Dot and Twaddles fell 62 into a little doze, leaning against Mother Blossom. They had had rather a long day. But Meg and Bobby sat up very straight and asked questions whenever Aunt Polly was not speaking to their mother.

“Who’s Peter and Jud?” Bobby wanted to know first.

“Peter Apgar is my tenant farmer and runs the farm for me,” said Aunt Polly, pulling over to one side of the road to let a huge load of hay go past. “Jud is his son. You’ll like Jud. They live in a house about a quarter of a mile from our house.”

“How is Spotty?” came from Meg. “I thought maybe you’d bring him with you.”

“Spotty is very lively and well,” answered Aunt Polly. “I like a farm dog to stay at home and watch things, so I’ve never trained him to ride in the car with me. By the way, Meg, we have a new addition to our animal family that I’m sure you’ll like.”

Meg was immediately curious––what was it?

“The blackest cat you ever saw,” said Aunt Polly. “And I think probably the largest. He 63 is so shiny, and not a white hair on him! He belonged to the people on the next farm, but spent about half his time with me; so when they sold and moved away last week Poots was given to me to keep.”

“Is that his name––Poots?” inquired Meg. “How funny!”

“Well, he’s a funny cat,” replied her aunt. “And now, children, if you look sharp you’ll see Brookside!”

She turned the car into a neat graveled roadway which parted a pretty concrete wall exactly in half, while Twaddles was puzzling how those things that looked to him like chickens could ever turn into big juicy turkeys.

Eagerly the four little Blossoms tumbled out. They saw a compact, modern house that looked even from the outside as if one might find all sorts of unexpected corners within. A green lawn bordered each side of the driveway, and in one direction was a red-tiled house with smoke coming out of the chimney and in another a birdhouse perched on a high pole near the gate the four little Blossoms had just come through.

Bobby spied the other house and Meg saw the home for the birds, just as people always see whatever they are most interested in first.

“Flowers!” said Dot.

She had seen the hollyhocks that stood up straight and tall against the fence that shut off the back of Aunt Polly’s house.

Peter Apgar had come up to take the car and perhaps to see the new arrivals. The four little Blossoms liked him at once, and when he spoke in a soft, lazy drawl that was good-nature itself they knew he was going to be a good friend.

“Can’t say you’re lonesome now, Miss Polly,” he chuckled pleasantly. He always called her Miss Polly, never Mrs. Hayward. “And I guess Jud is as good as useless to me the rest of the summer. What these youngsters don’t think up to do, he will,” the farmer added, with a broad grin.