"You have a new car!" exclaimed Portia accusingly. She had been very fond of the old one, which she had known since her babyhood. "We had to," Uncle Jake said. "The other one got arthritis." "_Car_-thritis, you mean," corrected Julian, who was partial to puns. "Anyway, it's only new from our point of view, not from the dealer's," Uncle Jake said. "It was already three years old when we bought it." The station wagon proved to be very comfortable and more spacious than the old car. A pair of ice skates, a box of dog biscuit, one mitten, and some library books lent a homely air to the interior. "It _smells_ just like the old one," Foster remarked approvingly. "I mean it smells exciting." They drove through Creston and out into open country; then through the village of Attica, where Uncle Jake's newspaper, _The Attica Eagle_, was published; and on again through countryside: bare, leafless, neutral-colored. "Winter's never going to end." Portia sighed. "I have news for you: it's ended already," Julian told her. "Tonight you'll hear the peepers, and you'll know. And down near the brook the skunk cabbages are poking out their snouts already. Those things don't just kid around; they mean _spring_!" The road lay between woods; presently they came to a driveway marked by the Jarmans' mailbox, and they turned in. "Almost there!" cried Foster. "I'm hungry." Feeling happy often made him hungry; he had noticed it before. "Well, I had a sort of premonition," Aunt Hilda said. "So I made some peanut-butter cookies and a batch of brownies and an angel cake." "Man!" said Foster, from his heart. They rounded a bend in the drive, and there in the midst of its winter lawns was the Jarmans' pleasant house. It was wonderful to be there again, the Blakes thought. Indoors, a fire was snapping in the living-room fireplace. The dog Katy (who was Gulliver's mother) rushed to greet them, pleasure showing in her charcoal-colored face. Othello, another of her sons, took the cue from his mother and demonstrated his enthusiasm by a volley of friendly barks. Thistle, the family cat, was another story. He came into the room with a who-cares look on his face, strolled off under the piano, skirted the bookcase, disappeared under the couch for a while, and then, only inadvertently it seemed, fetched up by Portia, rubbing his sides against her legs and beginning to purr. "Oh, you old fraud," Portia scolded, and she picked up the big warm cat and cuddled him in her arms. "Oh, you old faker. Listen to him purr, Mother," she said. "He sounds just like the Frigidaire at home." Foster was hopping first on one foot, then on the other, in front of Aunt Hilda. It was his peculiar way of reminding her about the cookies and brownies; more polite, he thought, than asking right out loud. It worked, too. "Yes, of course," said Aunt Hilda, standing up. "Come along, everyone who's hungry. Refreshments in the kitchen!"