W. L. Spry, and I do believe the
"baste," as cook calls him, knows it just as well as the other
name,--any way, he answers to it just as readily. He _is_ pretty
spry when he gets started, but the thing is to start him.
[Illustration: "G. W. L. SPRY."]
Well, to go back, we were delighted at the prospect of getting away,
and we all worked like beavers helping to get ready. Miss Marston
and the girls and Phil packed,--his college closed ever so long
ago,--Fee directed things generally, and addressed and put on tags,
and we children ran errands. Almost everything was ready; in fact,
some of the furniture had gone,--there're such a lot of us that we
have to take a pile of stuff,--when two unexpected things happened
that just knocked the whole plan to pieces.
For a good while Max had been urging and urging papa to go to his place
in the Adirondacks; he said his mother was there, and she was first-rate
at taking care of sick people, and that she'd be awfully glad to see
Nannie, too, who, Max declared, needed the change as much as ever papa
did. But papa refused, and it was settled that we were all to go to the
Cottage, when suddenly Dr.
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