Flossie and
Freddie looked up into his kindly, wrinkled face, the cheeks glowing red
like two rosy apples, and they knew they would be well taken care of.
Uncle Jack was a fine, honest man, and he was always kind to children,
who, often in the Summer, would gather flowers near his lonely log cabin.
In a little while Flossie and Freddie were seated in front of a stove, in
which crackled a hot fire, eating bread and milk, which was the best the
woodchopper could offer them. But they were so hungry that, as Freddie
said afterward, it tasted better than chicken and ice-cream.
"Haven't you got any little girl?" asked Flossie after a while.
"No, I haven't a chick or a child, I'm sorry to say."
"My father would give you a chicken if you wanted it," said Freddie. "And
some days _we_ could come and stay with you."
"That last part would be all right," said the old man with a smile; "but I
haven't any place to keep a chicken. It would get lonesome, I'm afraid,
while I'm off in the forest chopping wood. But I thank you just the same."
"Didn't you ever have any children?" asked Flossie, taking a second glass
of milk which the kindly old man gave her.
"Never a one. Though when I was a boy I lived in a place where there were
two children, I think. But it's all kind of hazy."
"Where was that?" asked Freddie, brushing up the last of the bread crumbs
from his plate.
"I don't remember much about my folks.
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