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what your brothers have said this summer, I feel fairly sure that they—and Jim—have also admitted to missing the two of you.”
    Trixie wrinkled her nose. “I doubt that,” she said. “If we could overhear that terrible trio, we’d probably hear them saying that they wish they could spend the rest of their lives at camp, away from chores and away from baby-sitting.”
    Mrs. Belden laughed. “You seem to forget, Trixie, that chores and baby-sitting are exactly what your brothers are doing at camp—and in much larger measure than any of you do here at home.”
    Trixie giggled. “You’re right, Moms. I always think of that camp as a vacation resort for the boys. I forget that they spend a lot of their time doing dishes, sweeping floors, and trying to keep oodles of energetic little boys out of patches of poison ivy.”
    Trixie and her mother started as the screen door slammed. Trixie hurried over to it and saw Bobby running down the driveway to the mailbox, where the mail carrier’s truck had just pulled up.
    Smiling, Trixie shook her head. “I don’t know how he does it, Moms,” she said. “Bobby can hear the mailman’s truck coming before it leaves downtown Sleepyside. And yet he never hears me ask him to get cleaned up before dinner.”
    “That talent for hearing only what they want to hear is one that all of my children seem to have,” Mrs. Belden teased.
    “That’s true,” Trixie admitted. “Why, just a few minutes ago, I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear Bobby ask me for a glass of water.” She giggled. “He said he needed it ‘bad,’ but he forgot all about it when he heard the mailman’s truck. There must be something exciting in the mail, because he’s running back up the driveway as fast as he can, waving an envelope over his head.”
    Before Bobby even reached the back step, his mother and sister heard him shout, “It’s a letter from Brian and Mart!”
    “Yippee!” Trixie yelled, as excited as her six-year-old brother. Then, remembering that Bobby’s reading was often questionable, she called, “Are you sure it’s from them, Bobby?”
    The screen door slammed as Bobby entered the kitchen. “ ‘Course I’m sure, Trixie,” he said, looking hurt. “I know my own name, and my own name is the same as Mart and Brian’s own name. At least, the last part is. See?” He pointed at the return address on the envelope, which was already crumpled from being clutched tightly in Bobby’s small hand. “This big letter is a B. And this little one is an e. And the tall skinny letter is an I, and—”
    “That’s very good, Bobby,” Trixie interrupted impatiently. “I had no idea you’d learned so many letters. But don’t you want to know what Brian and Mart have to say?”
    “Oh, yes,” Bobby said, remembering that the letter inside the envelope was even more interesting than the letters on the outside. “Will you read it to us, Moms?”
    “I will, indeed,” Mrs. Belden said, washing her hands at the kitchen sink and drying them before she took the letter from Bobby. She sat down at the kitchen table, and Trixie quickly sat down and pulled Bobby onto her lap.
    “The first part of the letter is in Brian’s handwriting,” Mrs. Belden said. “ ‘Dear Moms, Dad, Trixie, and Bobby:’ ” she read. “ ‘Greetings from your hardworking sons. We’ve been meaning to write for days, but by the time we’re really sure that all of our young monsters are asleep for the night, and not just pretending to be asleep so they can sneak out of the cottage later, we’re so tired that we just tumble into our own cots.
    “ ‘In other words, we’re working very hard, but we’re enjoying every minute of it. We took a two-day canoe trip this week, and Jim impressed everyone with his knowledge of woodlore, while Mart scared everyone—including me and Jim—half-silly with his ghost stories around the campfire.’ ”
    “Mart tells great stories!” Bobby exclaimed.
    “He