Here were some
sheds and cart-houses, a fagot pile, various logs of timber, a
grindstone, and--that towards which all the eight children rushed
with whoops of ecstasy--a heap of smoking rubbish, chiefly dry
leaves, and peas and potato haulm, with a large allowance of cabbage
stumps--all extremely earthy, and looking as if the smouldering smoke
were a wonder from so mere a heap of dirt.
No matter! There were all the children round it, some on their
knees, some jumping; and voices were crying on all sides,
"O jolly, jolly!" "I'll get some potatoes!" "Oh, you must have some
sticks first, and make some ashes." "There's no flame--not a bit!"
"Get out of the way, can't you? I'll make a hot place." "We'll each
have our own oven, and roast our own potatoes!" "Don't, Sam; you're
pushing me into the smoke!"
This of course was from Elizabeth; and there followed, "Don't,
Bessie, you will tread upon Georgie.--Yes, Georgie, you SHALL have a
place."
"Sticks, sticks!" shouted Henry; while Sam was on his knees, poking
out a species of cavern in the fire, where some symptoms of red
embers appeared, which he diligently puffed with his mouth, feeding
it with leaves and smaller chips in a very well practised way.
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