"Ach, you talk too much! Let me be, now, I got to boil apple butter."
Philip ran for several boxes and old chairs and put them under a
spreading cherry tree. "We take turns stirrin'," he explained, "so
those that don't stir can take it easy while they wait their turn.
Jiminy Christmas, guess we'll have a regular party to-day. All of us
are in it, and Aunt Rebecca's comin', and Lyman Mertzheimer, and I
guess Martin Landis, and mebbe some of the little Landis ones and the
whole Crow Hill will be here. Here comes Millie with the snitz!"
The pared apples were put into the kettle, then the stirring commenced.
A long wooden stirrer, with a handle ten feet long, was used, the big
handle permitting the stirrer to stand a comfortable distance from the
smoke and fire.
The boiling was well under way when Aunt Rebecca arrived.
"My goodness, Philip," she began as soon as she neared the fire, "you
just stir half! You must do it all around the bottom of the kettle or
the butter'll burn fast till it's done. Here, let me do it once." She
took the handle from his hands and began to stir vigorously.
"Good!" cried the boy. "Now we can roast apples. Here, comes Lyman up
the road, and Martin Landis and the baby. Now we'll have some fun!" He
pointed to the toad, where Martin Landis, a neighbor boy, drew near
with his two-year-old brother on his arm.
"But you keep away from the fire," ordered Aunt Rebecca.
The children ran off to the yard to greet the newcomers and soon came
back joined by Lyman and Martin and the ubiquitous baby.
"I told you," Lyman said with mocking smiles, "that Martin would have
to bring the baby along."
Martin Landis was fifteen, but hard work and much responsibility had
added to him wisdom and understanding beyond his years. His frank,
serious face could at times assume the look of a man of ripened
experience. At Lyman's words it burned scarlet. "Ach, go on," he said
quietly; "it'd do you good if you had a few to carry around; mebbe then
you wouldn't be such a dude."
That brought the laugh at the expense of the other boy, who turned
disdainfully away and walked to Aunt Rebecca with an offer to stir the
apple butter.
"No, I'll do it," she said in a determined voice.
"Give me the baby," said Mrs. Reist, "then you children can go play."
The little tot ran to her outstretched arms and was soon laughing at
her soft whispers about young chickens to feed and ducks to see.
"Now," Amanda cried happily, "since Mom keeps the baby we'll roast corn
and apples under the kettle."
In spite of Aunt Rebecca's protest, green corn and ripe apples were
soon encased in thick layers of mud and poked upon the glowing bed
under the kettle.