"I could eat just everything," said Mary Jane ravenously, as they sat down to an appetizing-looking dinner. "Well, you won’t get everythin’," giggled John, "but Mother won’t let you be hungry, will you, Mother?" he added hospitably. And with all the good things before her, Mary Jane was sure she _wouldn’t_ be hungry—lovely fresh peas, browned potatoes, salad in such a pretty bowl. For the next few minutes the children were too busy to talk, but by dessert time, John was again telling the girls some of the funny things his chickens and lamb could do. "There now, John," said his mother interrupting, "I forgot the cream for the berries. Can you get it for me from the kitchen table? It’s in the blue bowl." John thought he could and he slipped down from his chair and hurried out to the kitchen. Coming back he didn’t hurry for in his hands, held tightly, he carried a large blue bowl filled nearly full with rich looking cream. "We always have our cream in a pitcher," remarked Mary Jane. "You couldn’t pour this cream out of a pitcher," explained Cousin Louise. "See?" She lifted a spoonful of the cream with a silver ladle and Mary Jane thought she had never seen anything so good looking. It was rich and creamy colored and almost as thick as soft gelatine. Alice was a bit worried lest it be sour, and she hated milk or cream that wasn’t every bit sweet. But when the girls tasted it they found it sweet as could be and oh, so good. "There are the queerest things around Boston," exclaimed Mary Jane as she smeared the thick cream over her berries ready to eat, "there are boats made like swans, and tides like in Florida, and a spring coming out of a pipe—that was in Plymouth—and cream that looks like pudding. Have you got plenty of it, Cousin Louise?" she added as she eyed the blue bowl. Cousin Louise assured her that there was still plenty in the bowl and a great plenty more in the milk cellar outside so she could eat all she wanted. But to tell the truth, Mary Jane found that one big bowlful of strawberries and such cream was all she could eat, and she was soon ready for the drive that Cousin Louise proposed. They drove through the marshes that much to the girls’ interest proved to be the place where cranberries are grown. "See?" said John’s father as he slowed up the car so they could see the bushes and could, perhaps, imagine the red cranberries with which the low bushes would be loaded after frost. "Next time you eat your Thanksgiving dinner, you just look hard at the cranberry sauce and see if it didn’t come from Marshfield." Mary Jane giggled at his funmaking and promised to ask each cranberry she met during the coming fall.