Attic games aren't so bad, though summer's not the proper time for
them, really. There is a long cornery sort of closet full of carpets
that runs back under the eaves in our attic, and if you strew
handfuls of beads and tin washers among the carpets and then dig for
them in the dark with a hockey-stick and a pocket flash-light, it's
not poor fun. Unfortunately, my head knocks against the highest part
of the roof now, yet I still do think it's fun. But Aunt Ailsa is
twenty-six and she likes it, so I suppose I needn't give up.
The day Aunt Ailsa really laughed was when Greg rigged himself up as
an Excavator. That is, he said he was an excavator, but I never saw
anything before that looked at all like him. He had the round Indian
basket from Mother's work-table on his head, and some automobile
goggles, and yards and yards of green braid wound over his jumper,
and Mother's carriage-boots, which came just below the tops of his
socks. In his hand he had what I think was a rake-handle--it was
much taller than he--and he had the queerest, glassy, goggling
expression under the basket.
He never will learn to fix proper clothes. He might have seen what
he should have done by looking at Jerry, who had an old felt hat
with a bit of candle-end (not lit) stuck in the ribbon, and a
bandana tied askew around his neck. But Aunt Ailsa laughed and
laughed, which was what we wanted her to do, so neither of us
remonstrated with Greg that time.
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