I hastily consulted Ed Mason about it. No; we could not go, it must be postponed. Parts of the necessary tackle were missing, and there were reasons, connected with the approaching Fourth of July, why neither of us desired to make any avoidable expenditures just then. But there was another plan, into which I might be admitted,--if I could prove trustworthy. "You won't tell?" queried Ed Mason. "Course not!" "Cross your heart?" I crossed my heart and hoped I might die. But I could not know just then,--I must wait until next morning. It was fearful discipline for the soul, but I survived until after breakfast the next day. Then I presented myself at the Masons' side yard,--their house was within stone's throw of ours. Ed had, so I understood, some mysterious recipe,--some ceremony to perform that was not only extraordinary in itself, but it was to be rewarded in the most fascinating manner imaginable. He came out of the house with a serious face, led me down behind an apple tree, and there, after looking carefully about for eavesdroppers, unfolded the cryptic plot. CHAPTER III MAGIC You took rose-leaves--fresh rose-leaves--and mixed them with brown sugar. Then you wrapped them in a leaf from a grape-vine, and buried the whole business in the ground. You let them stay for three days. At the end of that time you dug them up and ate them; ate them with rapture known only to those who have eaten this particular delicacy. For to the natural fragrance of the rose-leaves and the nourishing and delicious properties of brown sugar, that interval of three days in the warm earth had added a new quality. A mysterious alchemy had been at work and transformed the mixture into something exquisite--a dish to be envied by great kings and sultans. It had about it odors of the East; savors of Araby the blest. So said Ed Mason's older brother, Billy. And he was nearly thirteen. He did not use all the words which I have used to describe the taste of the rose-leaf compound. He had merely said it was "bully." That was enough for us--that, and the charm of the operation itself. He had tried it many times in the far-off days of his youth; and now we set out to make some for ourselves. The rose-leaves were easy to get. We had only to climb over the fence and we were in Auntie Merrill's garden. Auntie Merrill was old, and she seldom came into the garden. She had no one with whom to share it; and the roses budded, bloomed, and dropped their petals unheeded to the path. From this path we gathered some; but it is likely that others were induced, with little effort, to leave the full-blown flowers a day or two in advance of their natural fall. Roses are beautiful things, even to boys of eight or nine, but æsthetic considerations must give way before the stern, practical demands of life.