It was nearly dinner-time in the Hedden cottage. Farmer Hedden sat in
the doorway, equipped in his hunting dress--for he usually spent
Saturday afternoons in the forest; and it was only at his wife's
solicitation that he had consented to wait and "take a bite of dinner"
before starting, Every now and then he raised his head from the almanac,
over which he was bending, to listen to the whirr of his wife's
spinning-wheel, and her merry song issuing from the cottage, or to cast
an impatient glance in the direction of the streamlet.

Within, all was neatness and cheerfulness; the clean deal table was
arranged with its row of yellow platters and shining pewter-mugs--even
the stools were standing round it, ready for the hungry household that
usually assembled at noon, eager for dinner.

"Father's" and "mother's" places were at either end of the table;
Rudolph's and Kitty's at one side (Kitty had a high chair made by
"father" out of young oak branches); Bessie's opposite; and, beside
hers, the prettiest plate; and the brightest mug for Big Tom--for, of
course, he must be asked to stay.

Everything was ready. Far back in the open fireplace the fagots were
blazing and snapping. Hanging above them, the great iron pot threw forth
a circle of noisy steam around the loosely fitted lid, while the
potatoes within were in a high state of commotion--little ones tumbling
pell-mell over big ones, and big ones rocking dolefully backward and
forward in the boiling water as though they felt sure their end was
approaching.