come and get our bread and milk.

A last arrow is shot into the farthest comer where some undiscovered
jungle beast may be prowling.

A last roll is given to the drum, and the army disbands.

A sudden fear seizes upon us as we realize that night has come and we
are in the attic, alone.

And with no need of further urging we scamper unceremoniously down the
stairs, slam the attic door, hurry into the kitchen where Maggie has our
table waiting . . . .

-


Eight o'clock - and we're all tucked away among the feathers again!

Aren't we glad we didn't go down to the river - it would have been a
cold, dismal day - and perhaps they weren't biting today, anyway - and
we should have gotten very wet.

It is still raining, raining hard - pattering unceasingly on the roof . . .
And the tin eave-troughs are singing their gentle lullaby of running
water trickling from the shingles . . . a lullaby so soothing that we do
not hear mother softly open the door . . . and come to our crib and
place the little bare arms under the covers and leave a kiss on the
yellow curls and a benediction in the room.