Free Pinky Pye by Eleanor Estes Page A

patches, revealing here a cottage and there a tree and once the peppermint-striped twins playing house as though there wasn't any fog at all.
    On the way home the children stopped to pick up the mail. They felt grown-up and smart because no one had said, "Please pick up the mail on the way home." They just knew to do it.
    "Well, I'm four," said Uncle Bennie when they reached home and were praised for this thoughtfulness.

    "Br-r-r," said Mama when they came in. "I thought you'd never get back. I don't like you traipsing around in the fog and the cold. One thing I hate is a cold, wet summer at the beach."
    "Oh, Mama. That's what you always say at the least sign of a cloud. It's not going to be a cold, wet summer at the beach. It's going to be a nice summer," said Rachel comfortingly. "It
is
a nice summer already."
    Mama lighted the log fire in the fireplace.
    "Besides," Rachel added. "You know it rains once in a while even in Cranbury. Anyway, it's not raining. It's fogging."
    "It seems wetter when it rains or fogs at the beach than it does at home," said Mama, blowing on a log.
    "Well. We don't have to put on our winter underwear," said Uncle Bennie. "It's not that cold, is it? We don't need that, do we? That means it's hot, not cold, if we don't need that." And he said, "Phew!" in disgust, and sat down in a little red rocker in front of the fire with his crickets in their cage on his lap. "Sing, Sams," he said. And one sang.
    Uncle Bennie had three crickets now, and in the daytime he carried them around in a box that was like an apartment house, for he had put walls in to make rooms, a room apiece for each cricket. Why? Because (I'm sorry to have to say this, but it is true) many crickets cannot stand each other. They will begin to fight if they find another cricket trying to come into their house, and whoever wins will (I'm sorry to have to say this sad but true fact, too) eat up the one that he has beaten. Uncle Bennie had had this experience, and, in case you do not believe me, you may certainly believe him, for he
knew.
That is why he kept them separated.
    Papa was going over the mail. "What do you know!" he said. "Here's a card from Hiram Bish, mailed in Havana. 'Sightseeing here for a few hours,' it says. 'Owl liking boat trip. We are too.' It's signed, 'Myra, Hi, and Owlie.'"
    "Where do you suppose his boat is now?" asked Jerry.
    "Well..." said Papa. "It takes about twelve days from California to New York. He must be coming in today or tomorrow."
    "Unless he is lost in the fog," said Uncle Bennie forebodingly.
    All day foghorns had been sounding, and now and then it seemed as though the deep, insistent blast of an ocean liner could be heard. Papa said this was possible. Liners going to and coming from Europe, though not, of course, those from South America or the West Coast, could be seen by the Pyes. And if they could be seen by them, then they could probably be heard by them, too, in a fog.
    There was a sudden and swift and very strong gust of wind. Fog blew past the windows of The Eyrie like smoke. The fire flared up in the fireplace. The oil lamps sputtered and smoked. Papa rolled to the window in his wheelchair and looked out. (He was getting so fond of his wheelchair he rolled around the house whenever possible.)
    "Fog's lifting," he said. "Quite a wind has sprung up, and it will blow the fog right out to sea. So, Mama, it will probably be sunny tomorrow and you won't have your cold, wet summer at the beach."
    Mama smiled. She didn't care when people teased her. "If that's the case," she said, "we better have at least one nice hot supper in front of the open fire." And this they did.
    By the time supper was over the wind had reached a tremendous force. Papa let the fire go out, not to have any accident, and they all went to bed. How The Eyrie shook and creaked in the gale! There was no rain, just whistling wind. It didn't hail, and there was no thunder and lightning. "It is not a hurricane," said Papa. It was