‘Yes, baking powder! B-A-K-I-N-G P-O-W-D-E-R! Do I make myself plain?’ ‘Oh, baking powder, to be sure. Well, now that you mention the matter, I do remember that Dicky called me away just as I was getting it; and now that I think of it, Elsie came just afterwards, and—and—’ ‘And that’s the whole of my story, O,’ sang Jack. ‘I recommend the criminal to the mercy of the court.’ ‘A case of too many cooks,’ laughed Dr. Winship. ‘Cheer up, girls; better fortune next time.’ ‘There are eight more of them burning on the griddles this moment, Polly,’ said Bell, scathingly; ‘and as they are yours, not mine, I advise you to throw them in the brook, with the rest of the batter, so that Hop Yet won’t know that there has been a failure.’ ‘Some people blight everything they touch,’ sighed Polly, gloomily, as she departed for the kitchen. ‘But when I lie in the green kirkyard— ‘Oh, Polly, dear,’ interrupted Margery, ‘that apology will not serve any longer; you’ve used it too often.’ ‘This is going to be entirely different,’ continued Polly, tragically. ‘But when I lie in the green kirkyard, With the mould upon my breast, Say not that she made flapjacks well, Only, she did her best.’ ‘We promise!’ cried Bell. CHAPTER VII POLLY’S BIRTHDAY: FIRST HALF IN WHICH SHE REJOICES AT THE MERE FACT OF HER EXISTENCE ‘“O frabjous day! Calooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy.’ POLLY’S birthday dawned auspiciously. At six o’clock she was kissed out of a sound sleep by Bell and Margery, and the three girls slipped on their wrappers, and prepared to run through the trees for a morning plunge in Mirror Pool. Although it was August there was still water enough in Minnehaha Brook to give one a refreshing dip. Mirror Pool was a quarter of a mile distant and well guarded with rocks and deep hidden in trees; but a little pathway had been made to the water’s edge, and thus the girls had easy access to what they called The Mermaid’s Bath. A bay-tree was adorned with a little redwood sign, which bore a picture of a mermaid, drawn by Margery, and below the name these lines in rustic letters:— ‘A hidden brook, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.’ Laura had not lived long enough in the woods to enjoy these cold plunges; and, as her ideal was a marble tub, with scented water, and a French maid to apply the same with a velvet sponge, it is not much wonder. She insisted that, though it was doubtless a very romantic proceeding, the bottom and sides of the natural tub were quite too rocky and rough for her taste, and that she should be in constant terror of snakes curling round her toes.