Sugar Creek, though not sweet, was clear. Zene carried pails full of
it to fill the great copper kettle, and slung this over a fire. The
horses munched at their feed-box or cropped grass, wandering with
their heads tied to their forefeet to prevent their cantering off.
Grandma Padgett at the creek's brink, set up her tubs and buried
herself to the elbows in suds, and aunt Corinne with a matronly
countenance, assisted. All that day Robert went barelegged, and
splashed water, wading out far to dip up a gourdful; and he thought
it was fun to help stretch the clothes-line among saplings, and lift
the scalded linen on a paddle into the tub, losing himself in the
stream. Ordinary washdays as he remembered them, were rather disagreeable.
Everybody had to wake early, and a great deal of fine-split wood was
needed. The kitchen smelt of suds, and the school-lunch was scraps
left from Sunday instead of new cake, turnovers and gingerbread.
[Illustration: GRANDMA PADGETT'S WASHING-DAY IN THE WOODS.]
But this woods wash-day was an experience to delight in, like
sailing on a log in the water, and pretending you are a bold
navigator, or lashing the rocking-chair to a sled for a sleighride.
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