Then came the baking of the cake. For two days beforehand the fire was surrounded by a row of earthen jars in which the spicy compound was rising to the necessary lightness. At exactly the quivering instant for perfection each loaf was shoved into the little black door of the brick oven. At last all the wood-spell loaves came out victorious, while each helper merrily claimed merit for the baking. The frying of the doughnuts was also a matter of the greatest delicacy, requiring experience and the nicest art; but this also was a triumph. Catherine said, “Were I to tell how many loaves I have put in and taken out of the oven, and how many bushels of doughnuts I have boiled over the kitchen fire, I fear my credit for veracity would be endangered.” Finally all was finished. A mighty cheese was brought; every shelf in the closet and all the dressers of the kitchen were crowded with the abundance. The delicious stores of food were indeed a sight to behold, calling in admiring visitors, and Catherine’s success was a matter of universal congratulation. But may we not give Harriet some credit, too? For though her part may have been largely the care of the younger children, still, without her help, Catherine would not have been free to do the work. The auspicious day for the coming of the farmers arrived. It was a jewel of a morning, one of those sharp, clear, sunny, winter days when the sleds squeak over the flinty snow and the little icicles, falling from the trees, tingle along on the glittering crust. The breath of the slow-pacing oxen steamed up like a rosy cloud in the morning sun and then fell back condensed in globes of ice on every hair. All the children were astir early, full of life and vigor. The boys were at home for the day. There was a holiday at the Academy, for the teacher had been asked to come over to the minister’s to chat and tell stories with the farmers and give them high entertainment. There was enough work for all to do, for the three big boys and for the two sisters. Besides all the rest, there was little Henry Ward, aged three, and Charles, aged but one, to be cared for and kept out of mischief. Eager, lively, little Harriet could take care of herself, and do a great deal of helping besides. Pretty soon the first load came squeaking up the village street, and the boys clapped their hands and shouted, “Hurrah for Heber!” as his load of magnificent oak, well-bearded with gray moss, came scrunching into the yard. “Well, Mr. Atwood,” said the Doctor, “you must have had pretty hard work on that load; that’s no ordinary oak, I can tell you.”