Winning so many of the colonial competitions helped a lot. So did the colonial name tag I had pinned on my waistcoat. With secret satisfaction I looked down at it and read it to myself. There, in my best calligraphy, was the name Geordie.
My mother came hustling up to me, with Dad trailing along in her wake. “Good grief, Lars, that’s the third blue ribbon you’ve won today!” she exclaimed. “How did you learn to be so good at old stuff like that game with the funny name—huzzlecap? You got every penny—pardon me, I mean farthing, in that three-cornered hat,” Mom exclaimed.
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, thinking of the time I had spent pitching coins into Geordie’s tricorne.
Dad looked around at the mob of children and parents nearby spinning wool, making butter and paper, smithing tin. “This Colonial Day is certainly a good idea for you kids. I’m even learning a thing or two myself—like about that cider press. Will Hargreaves said he’d show me how to build one.”
“Or perry,” I said, hastily adding, “That is, er, very . . . very fun.”
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