"The blackest cat you ever saw," said Aunt Polly. "And I think
probably the largest. He is so shiny, and not a white hair on him! He
belonged to the people on the next farm, but spent about half his time
with me; so when they sold and moved away last week Poots was given to
me to keep."

"Is that his name--Poots?" inquired Meg. "How funny!"

"Well, he's a funny cat," replied her aunt. "And now, children, if you
look sharp you'll see Brookside!"

She turned the car into a neat graveled roadway which parted a pretty
concrete wall exactly in half, while Twaddles was puzzling how those
things that looked to him like chickens could ever turn into big juicy
turkeys.

Eagerly the four little Blossoms tumbled out. They saw a compact,
modern house that looked even from the outside as if one might find
all sorts of unexpected corners within. A green lawn bordered each
side of the driveway, and in one direction was a red-tiled house with
smoke coming out of the chimney and in another a birdhouse perched on
a high pole near the gate the four little Blossoms had just come
through.

Bobby spied the other house and Meg saw the home for the birds, just
as people always see whatever they are most interested in first.

"Flowers!" said Dot.

She had seen the hollyhocks that stood up straight and tall against
the fence that shut off the back of Aunt Polly's house.

Peter Apgar had come up to take the car and perhaps to see the new
arrivals. The four little Blossoms liked him at once, and when he
spoke in a soft, lazy drawl that was good-nature itself they knew he
was going to be a good friend.

"Can't say you're lonesome now, Miss Polly," he chuckled pleasantly.
He always called her Miss Polly, never Mrs. Hayward. "And I guess Jud
is as good as useless to me the rest of the summer. What these
youngsters don't think up to do, he will," the farmer added, with a
broad grin.

CHAPTER VII

THE WRECK OF THE RAFT

Though all of the four little Blossoms protested that they were not
the least bit sleepy, it was not long after Mother and Aunt Polly had
helped them to delicious brown bread and honey and milk and baked
apples that they were stumbling up the stairs to baths and bed. Linda,
a girl about fifteen, who lived with Aunt Polly and went to school in
the winter and worked during the summer, had made the two pretty
bedrooms as dainty as possible and had left a vase of flowers on the
table in each room. It was Linda,