Penelope's Postscripts

“Thank you, dear, but pull me up now.  It’s supper-time.”

Billy picked up the books and the rug and made preparations for the brief journey to the house.  I put my hair in order and smoothed my skirts.

“Will there be supper like ours in the other countries, mother?” he asked.  “And if we go in May time, when do we come back again?”

Himself rose from the ground with a luxurious stretch of his arms, looking with joy and pride at our home fields bathed in the afternoon midsummer sun.  He took the Sally-baby’s outstretched hands and lifted her, crowing, to his shoulder.

“Help sister over the stubble, my son.—We’ll come away from the other countries whenever mother says: ‘Come, children, it’s time for supper.’”

“We’ll be back for Thanksgiving,” I assured Billy, holding him by one hand and Francie by the other, as we walked toward the farmhouse.  “We won’t live in the other countries, because Daddy’s ‘sit-fast acres’ are here in New England.”

“But whenever and wherever we five are together, especially wherever mother is, it will always be home,” said Himself thankfully, under his breath.