SAMMIE’S STORY

They were playing on the lawn of Aunt Jo’s house—­the little Bunkers, six of them.  You could count them, if you wanted to, but it was rather hard work, as they ran about so—­like chickens, Mrs. Bunker was wont to say—­that it was hard to keep track of them.  So you might take my word for it, now, that there were six of them, and count them afterward, if you care to.

“Come on!” cried the eldest Bunker—­Russ, who was eight years old.  “Come on, Rose, let’s have some fun.”

“What’ll we do?” asked Rose, Russ’ sister, who was about a year younger.  “I’m not going to roll on the grass, ’cause I’ve got a clean dress on, and mother said I wasn’t to spoil it.”

“Pooh!  Clean grass like Aunt Jo’s won’t spoil any dress,” said Russ.  “Anyhow, I’m not going to roll much more.  Let’s get the pipes and see who can blow the biggest soap bubbles.”

“Oh, I want to do that!” cried Vi, or Violet, who was, you might say, the third little Bunker, being the third oldest, except Laddie, of course.  “What makes so many colors come in soap bubbles when you blow them?” she asked.

“The soap,” answered Russ, getting up after a roll on the grass, and brushing his clothes.  “It’s the soap that does it.”

“But soap isn’t that color when we wash ourselves with it,” went on Vi.  “And what makes bubbles burst when you blow ’em too big?”

“I don’t know,” answered Russ.  Like many an older person, he did not try to answer all Vi’s questions.  She asked too many of them.

“Let’s blow the bubbles,” suggested Rose.  “Then maybe we can see what makes ’em burst!”

“Come on, Margy and Mun Bun!” called Vi to two other and smaller Bunkers, a little boy and girl who were digging little holes in a sandy place in the yard of Aunt Jo’s home.  “Come on; we’re going to blow bubbles!”

These two little Bunkers left their play and hastened to join the others.  At the same time a boy with curly hair and gray eyes, who was Violet’s twin, dropped some pieces of wood, which he had been trying to make into some sort of toy, and came running along the path.

“I want to blow some bubbles, too!” he said.

“We’ll all blow them!” called Rose, who had a sort of “little mother” air about her when the smaller children were with her.  “We’ll have a soap-bubble party!”

“Shall we have things to eat?” asked Mun Bun.

“’Course we will,” cried Margy, the little girl who had been playing with him in the sand.  “We always has good things to eat at parties; don’t we, Rose?”

“Well, maybe we can get some cookies from Aunt Jo,” said Rose.  “You can run and ask her.”

Off started Margy, eager to get the good things to eat.  It would not seem like a party, even with soap bubbles, unless there were things to eat!  All the six little Bunkers felt this.

While Margy was running along the walk that led to the kitchen, where Aunt Jo’s good-natured cook might be expected to hand out cookies and cakes, another little Bunker, who was walking beside Violet, the one who had been trying to make something out of pieces of wood, called out: