The new sailboat was anchored at the wharf near the bath-house. "Father has promised to teach Erik how to sail this summer," said Sigrid. They were clinging to the wharf railing, so that they could get a glimpse of the little cabin, with its two bunks and red cushions. "I am glad you learned to swim last summer, for now we can have such sport when Karin and Elsa get here." Sigrid had learned to swim when she was very small. Look in your geography and you will see that almost one-tenth of the whole surface of Sweden is covered with lakes and rivers. There is water, water everywhere. Just fancy how miserable a Swedish mother would be if her little daughter could not swim! The door of the storehouse stood open when the children climbed the hill from the lake, so they slipped in after Svea. On the outside, it was just a mound of grassy earth, with a door cut in the grass, but no windows. "Isn't it cool in here!" exclaimed Anders. "Svea, aren't you going to skim the milk?" "Later in the day, Anders," said the maid, who held her lantern up over her head while she hunted for the sausages. From above, hung long strings of sausages, smoked hams, and fish. In the dim light of the lantern, the children could see the big round cheeses and the bins of potatoes. The pans of milk were set to cool in another room of this queer storehouse. "I wish you would give us some lingon jam," said Sigrid. "The kind we had last year, Svea." "Wait till I open a new jar. Now, run ahead, for I want to lock the door," replied Svea. She had not forgotten how the children had teased her the summer before for their favourite jam of red Swedish berries. "Next week will be the time for washing. Perhaps mother will let us ride down to the lake when the clothes are carried there," said Sigrid. She tried to lift herself up on the window-sill to look into the wash-house, where the huge copper kettle was ready to boil the clothes, but she was not tall enough. "Never mind," she said. "We can get into the bake-house, I am sure. Sometime, Svea says, I may help her bake bread. It must be almost time now, for she hasn't made any for several months." In the city, Sigrid's mother bought her rye bread from a baker, but grandmother had her bread baked three or four times a year in this little house. Most of the room was filled by the huge stone fireplace, which was heated to a high temperature. Then the coals were raked off and the rye bread cooked on the hot stones. "What does she do with this flat round piece of wood with a short handle?" asked Anders, who was exploring. "Oh," said Sigrid, "it is a great lark to watch her. She rolls out the batter quite thin, and slips that wooden shovel beneath each cake. Then she takes this other wooden spade with a long handle, shakes the cake from the little spade to that one, and thrusts it on the hot stones. Svea does it very quickly, but she laughed when I asked if it was hard, so I don't believe it is as easy as it looks."