Those are as pretty pies as I'd wish to eat, if they bake well, and there's no reason why they shouldn't." "May I make some tarts or rabbits of these bits?
The boys like them, and I enjoy modelling this sort of thing," said Merry, who was trying to mould a bird, as she had seen Ralph do with clay to amuse Jill while the bust was going on.
"No, dear; there's no time for knick-knacks to-day.

The beets ought to be on this minute.

Run and get 'em, and be sure you scrape the carrots well." Poor Merry put away the delicate task she was just beginning to like, and taking a pan went down cellar, wishing vegetables could be grown without earth, for she hated to put her hands in dirty water.

A word of praise to Roxy made that grateful scrubber leave her work to poke about in the root-cellar, choosing "sech as was pretty much of a muchness, else they wouldn't bile even;" so Merry was spared that part of the job, and went up to scrape and wash without complaint, since it was for father.

She was repaid at noon by the relish with which he enjoyed his dinner, for Merry tried to make even a boiled dish pretty by arranging the beets, carrots, turnips, and potatoes in contrasting colors, with the beef hidden under the cabbage leaves.
"Now, I'll rest and read for an hour, then I'll rake my garden, or run down town to see Molly and get some seeds," she thought to herself, as she put away the spoons and glasses, which she liked to wash, that they might always be clear and bright.
"If you've done all your own mending, there's a heap of socks to be looked over.