Saturday night had a cozy, comfortable feeling. A Saturday supper meant thick slices of brown bread on the plates beside the baked beans. It meant coffee for Mama and Papa instead of tea. And it meant three things in the middle of the dining-room table--the three members of what Charlotte privately thought of as "the Saturday family." There was the mother, a tall, delicately curved cruet of cider vinegar; the father, a squat redware molasses jug with a jaunty handle and a friendly chip on the rim; and between them, cradled in a glass dish, the butter baby.

Charlotte had never told anyone about the Saturday family--it was nice to have a secret all her own. Besides, her brothers would tease her about it. Twelve-year-old Lewis would tease because he was a teasing kind of person, and Tom, who was seven, would tease because he did everything Lewis did. Lydia never teased, but she would either be not at all interested in the secret, or much too interested, and she would take over the game and change it. Charlotte did not want it to be changed. Like Saturday night itself, the Saturday family was perfect just as it was.

Saturday night had a cozy, comfortable feeling. A Saturday supper meant thick slices of brown bread on the plates beside the baked beans. It meant coffee for Mama and Papa instead of tea. And it meant three things in the middle of the dining-room table--the three members of what Charlotte privately thought of as "the Saturday family." There was the mother, a tall, delicately curved cruet of cider vinegar; the father, a squat redware molasses jug with a jaunty handle and a friendly chip on the rim; and between them, cradled in a glass dish, the butter baby.

Charlotte had never told anyone about the Saturday family--it was nice to have a secret all her own. Besides, her brothers would tease her about it. Twelve-year-old Lewis would tease because he was a teasing kind of person, and Tom, who was seven, would tease because he did everything Lewis did. Lydia never teased, but she would either be not at all interested in the secret, or much too interested, and she would take over the game and change it. Charlotte did not want it to be changed. Like Saturday night itself, the Saturday family was perfect just as it was.

Saturday night had a cozy, comfortable feeling. A Saturday supper meant thick slices of brown bread on the plates beside the baked beans. It meant coffee for Mama and Papa instead of tea. And it meant three things in the middle of the dining-room table--the three members of what Charlotte privately thought of as "the Saturday family." There was the mother, a tall, delicately curved cruet of cider vinegar; the father, a squat redware molasses jug with a jaunty handle and a friendly chip on the rim; and between them, cradled in a glass dish, the butter baby.

Charlotte had never told anyone about the Saturday family--it was nice to have a secret all her own. Besides, her brothers would tease her about it. Twelve-year-old Lewis would tease because he was a teasing kind of person, and Tom, who was seven, would tease because he did everything Lewis did. Lydia never teased, but she would either be not at all interested in the secret, or much too interested, and she would take over the game and change it. Charlotte did not want it to be changed. Like Saturday night itself, the Saturday family was perfect just as it was.

Saturday night had a cozy, comfortable feeling. A Saturday supper meant thick slices of brown bread on the plates beside the baked beans. It meant coffee for Mama and Papa instead of tea. And it meant three things in the middle of the dining-room table--the three members of what Charlotte privately thought of as "the Saturday family." There was the mother, a tall, delicately curved cruet of cider vinegar; the father, a squat redware molasses jug with a jaunty handle and a friendly chip on the rim; and between them, cradled in a glass dish, the butter baby.

Charlotte had never told anyone about the Saturday family--it was nice to have a secret all her own. Besides, her brothers would tease her about it. Twelve-year-old Lewis would tease because he was a teasing kind of person, and Tom, who was seven, would tease because he did everything Lewis did. Lydia never teased, but she would either be not at all interested in the secret, or much too interested, and she would take over the game and change it. Charlotte did not want it to be changed. Like Saturday night itself, the Saturday family was perfect just as it was.

Saturday night had a cozy, comfortable feeling. A Saturday supper meant thick slices of brown bread on the plates beside the baked beans. It meant coffee for Mama and Papa instead of tea. And it meant three things in the middle of the dining-room table--the three members of what Charlotte privately thought of as "the Saturday family." There was the mother, a tall, delicately curved cruet of cider vinegar; the father, a squat redware molasses jug with a jaunty handle and a friendly chip on the rim; and between them, cradled in a glass dish, the butter baby.

Charlotte had never told anyone about the Saturday family--it was nice to have a secret all her own. Besides, her brothers would tease her about it. Twelve-year-old Lewis would tease because he was a teasing kind of person, and Tom, who was seven, would tease because he did everything Lewis did. Lydia never teased, but she would either be not at all interested in the secret, or much too interested, and she would take over the game and change it. Charlotte did not want it to be changed. Like Saturday night itself, the Saturday family was perfect just as it was.