“SHE FED THE GOLD-FISH, … SHE TRIED AMUSEMENTS
OF VARIOUS SORTS, BUT NONE SEEMED TO INTEREST HER.”
Busy Days.Page 144

MARJORIE’S
BUSY DAYS

by
CAROLYN WELLS

author of
THE “PATTY” BOOKS

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS     NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1906
By Dodd, Mead & Company
Published, October, 1908

CONTENTS

MARJORIE’S BUSY DAYS

CHAPTER I

A JOLLY GOOD GAME

“What do you say, King, railroad smash-up or
shipwreck?”

“I say shipwreck, with an awfully desert
island.”

“I say shipwreck, too,” said Kitty, “but I
don’t want to swim ashore.”

“All right,” agreed Marjorie, “shipwreck,
then. I’ll get the cocoanuts.”

“Me, too,” chimed in Rosy Posy. “Me tumble
in the wet water, too!”

The speakers in this somewhat enigmatical conversation
were the four Maynard children, and
they were deciding on their morning’s occupation.
It was a gorgeous day in early September. The
air, without being too cool, was just crisp enough[Pg 2]
to make one feel energetic, though indeed no special
atmospheric conditions were required to make
the four Maynards feel energetic. That was their
normal state, and if they were specially gay and
lively this morning, it was not because of the brisk,
breezy day, but because they were reunited after
their summer’s separation.

Though they had many friends among the
neighboring children, the Maynards were a congenial
quartette, and had equally good times playing
by themselves or with others. Their home
occupied a whole block in the prettiest residence
part of Rockwell, and the big square house sat
in the midst of about seven acres of lawn and
garden.

There were many fine old trees, grassy paths,
and informal flower-beds, and here the children
were allowed to do whatever they chose, but outside
the place, without permission, they must
not go.

There was a playground, a tennis court, and
a fountain, but better than these they liked the
corner full of fruit trees, called “the orchard,”
and another corner, where grapes grew on trellises,
called “the vineyard.” The barn and its sur[Pg 3]roundings,
too, often proved attractive, for the
Maynards’ idea of playing were by no means confined
to quiet or decorous games.

The house itself was surrounded by broad verandas,
and on the southern one of these, in the
morning sunshine, the four held conclave.

Kingdon, the eldest, was the only boy, and
oftener than not his will was law. But this was
usually because he had such splendid ideas about
games and how to play them, that his sisters
gladly fell in with his plans.

But Marjorie was not far behind her brother in
ingenuity, and when they all set to work, or rather,
set to play, the games often became very elaborate
and exciting. “Shipwreck” was always a favorite,
because it could develop in so many ways.
Once they were shipwrecked no rescue was possible,
unless help appeared from some unexpected
quarter. It might be a neighbor’s child coming
to see them, or it might be a servant, or one of
their own parents, but really rescued they must
be by actual outsiders. Unless, indeed, they could
build a raft and save themselves, but this they
had never accomplished.

The desert island was selected, and this time[Pg 4]
they chose a certain grassy knoll under an immense
old maple tree.

Marjorie disappeared in the direction of the
kitchen, and, after a time, came back with a small
basket, apparently well-filled.

With this she scampered away to the “desert
island,” and soon returned, swinging the empty
basket. Tossing this into the house, she announced
that she was ready.

Then the four went to the big, double, wooden
swing, and got in.

Kitty carried her doll, Arabella, from which
she was seldom separated, and Rosy Posy hugged
her big white Teddy Bear, who was named Boffin
and who accompanied the baby on all expeditions.

The swing, to-day, was an ocean steamer.

“Have your tickets ready!” called out Kingdon,
as his passengers swarmed up the gangplank,
which he had thoughtfully laid from the ground
to the low step of the swing.

Soon they were all on board, the gangplank
drawn in, and the ship started.

At first all went smoothly. The swing swayed
gently back and forth, and the passengers admired
the beautiful scenery on either side. The[Pg 5]
Captain had never crossed an ocean, and the nearest
he had come to it had been a sail up the Hudson
and a trip to Coney Island. His local color,
therefore, was a bit mixed, but his passengers
were none the wiser, or if they were, they didn’t
care.

“On the right, we see West Point!” the Captain
shouted, pointing to their own house. “That’s
where the soldiers come from. The noble soldiers
who fight for the land of the free and the home of
the brave.”

“Are you a soldier, sir?” asked Marjorie.

“Yes, madam; I am a veteran of the Civil War.
But as there’s no fighting to do now, I run this
steamer.”

“A fine ship it is,” observed Kitty.

“It is that! No finer craft sails the waves
than this.”

“What is that mountain in the distance?”
asked Marjorie, shading her eyes with her hand
as she looked across the street.

“That’s a—a peak of the Rockies, ma’am.
And now we are passing the famous statue of
‘Liberty Enlightening the World.'”

As the statue to which Kingdon pointed was[Pg 6]
really Mrs. Maynard, who had come out on the
veranda, and stood with her hand high against
a post, the children shouted with laughter.

But this was quickly suppressed, as part of
the fun of making-believe was to keep grave
about it.

“Is your daughter ill, madam?” asked Marjorie
of Kitty, whose doll hung over her arm in
a dejected way.

“No, indeed!” cried Kitty, righting poor Arabella.
“She is as well as anything. Only she’s a
little afraid of the ocean. It seems to be getting
rougher.”

It did seem so. The swing was not only going
more rapidly, but was joggling from side to
side.

“Don’t be alarmed, ladies,” said the gallant
Captain; “there’s no danger, I assure you.”

“I’m not afraid of the sea,” said Marjorie,
“as much as I am of that fearful wild bear. Will
he bite?”

“No,” said Kingdon, looking at Rosy Posy.
“That’s his trainer who is holding him. He’s a
wonderful man with wild beasts. He’s—he’s
Buffalo Bill. Speak up, Rosy Posy; you’re Buf[Pg 7]falo
Bill, and that’s a bear you’re taking home to
your show.”

“Ess,” said Rosamond, who was somewhat
versed in make-believe plays, “I’se Buffaro Bill;
an’ ‘is is my big, big bear.”

“Will he bite?” asked Kitty, shrinking away
in fear, and protecting Arabella with one arm.

“Ess! He bites awful!” Rosy Posy’s eyes
opened wide as she exploited her Bear’s ferocity,
and Boffin made mad dashes at Arabella, who
duly shrieked with fear.

But now the ship began to pitch and toss fearfully.
The Captain stood up in his excitement,
but that only seemed to make the motion
worse.

“Is there danger?” cried Marjorie, in tragic
tones, as she gripped the belt of King’s Norfolk
jacket. “Give me this life-preserver; I don’t see
any other.”

“They are under the seats!” shouted the Captain,
who was now greatly excited. “I cannot
deceive you! We are in great danger! We may
strike a rock any minute! Put on life-preservers,
all of you. They are under the seats.”

The other three scrambled for imaginary life-[Pg 8]preservers,
and vigorously put them on, when, with
a terrific yell, Kingdon cried out:

“We have struck! We’re on a rock! The ship
is settling; we must all be drowned. We are lost!
Launch the boats!”

This was a signal for shrieks and wails from the
others, and in a minute it was pandemonium. The
four screamed and groaned, the swing shook violently,
and then came almost to a standstill.

Kingdon fell out with a bounce and lay prone
on the ground. Marjorie sprang out, and as she
reached the ground, struck out like a swimmer in
the water.

Kitty daintily stepped out, remarking: “This is
a fine life-preserver. I can stand straight up in
the water.”

Baby Rosamond bundled out backward, dropping
Boffin as she did so.

“The bear, the bear!” screamed Kingdon, and
swimming a few strokes along the soft, green
grass, he grabbed the bear and waved him
aloft.

“What can we do!” stammered Marjorie, panting
for breath. “I’ve swum till I’m exhausted.
Must I drown!” With a wail, she turned on[Pg 9]
her eyes on the grass, and closing her eyes, prepared
to sink beneath the waves.

“Do not despair,” urged Kingdon, as he
grasped her arm. “Perhaps we can find a plank
or a raft. Or perhaps we can yet swim ashore.”

“How many survivors are we?” asked Marjorie,
sitting up in the water and looking
about.

“Four,” responded Kitty; “but I won’t swim.
It makes my dress all greeny, and stubs my shoes
out.”

Kitty was the only Maynard who was finicky
about her clothes. It called forth much derision
from her elder brother and sister, but she stood
firm. She would play their plays, until it came
to “swimming” across grass and earth, and there
she rebelled.

“All right,” said Kingdon, good-naturedly,
“you needn’t. There’s a raft,” pointing to what
had been the gangplank. “Cannot you and your
infant daughter manage to get ashore on that?
This other lady is an expert swimmer, and I think
she can reach land, while Buffalo Bill will, of
course, save himself.”

“Me save myself!” exclaimed Rosy Posy, glee[Pg 10]fully.
She had no objections to swimming on
land, and throwing her fat self down flat, kicked
vigorously, and assisted Boffin to swim by her
side.

Kitty and Arabella arranged themselves on the
raft, which Kitty propelled by a series of hitches.
The shipwrecked sufferers thus made their way
toward the desert island. There were several narrow
escapes from drowning, but they generously
assisted each other, and once when Kitty fell off
her raft, the noble Captain offered to take Arabella
on his own broad and stalwart back.

Buffalo Bill frequently forgot she was in the
tossing ocean, and walked upright on her own fat
legs.

But King said she was only “treading water,”
go that was all right.

At last they sighted land, and by a mighty
effort, and much encouraging of one another, they
managed to reach the shore of the island. Exhausted,
Marjorie threw herself on the beach, and
the half-drowned Captain also dragged himself up
on dry land. Kitty skilfully brought her raft
ashore, and stepped out, exclaiming: “Saved!
But to what a fate!”

This was one of their favorite lines, and Mar[Pg 11]jorie
weakly opened her eyes to respond:

“Methinks I shall not see to-morrow’s sun!”

“Hist!” whispered Kingdon, “say no word,
lady. There may be cannibals here!”

“Tannibals!” cried Buffalo Bill. “I ‘ike
Tannibals. Where is zey?”

Somewhat revived, Kingdon began to look
round the desert island to see what its nature
might be.

“We have escaped one terrible death!” he declared,
“only to meet another. We must starve!
This is a desert island exactly in the middle of the
Pacific Ocean. No steamers pass here; no sailing
vessels or ferryboats or,—or anything!”

“Oh! What shall we do?” moaned Kitty,
clasping her hands in despair. “My precious
Arabella! Already she is begging for food.”

“We must consider,” said Marjorie, sitting up,
and looking about her. “If there is nothing else,
we must kill the bear and eat him.”

“No, no!” screamed Rosy Posy. “No, no
eat my Boffin Bear.”

“I will explore,” said Kingdon. “Come, Buffalo
Bill, we are the men of this party, we will[Pg 12]
go all over the island and see what may be
found in the way of food. Perhaps we will find
cocoanuts.”

“Ess,” said Buffalo Bill, slipping her little hand
in her brother’s, “an’ we’ll take Boffin, so he won’t
get all killded.”

“And while you’re gone,” said Marjorie, “we
will dry our dripping garments and mend them.”

“Yes,” said Kitty, “with needles and thread
out of my bag. I brought a big bag of all sorts
of things, like Robinson Crusoe.”

“That wasn’t Robinson Crusoe,” said King,
“it was Mrs. Swiss Robinson.”

“Oh, so it was! Well, it doesn’t matter, I
brought the bag, anyway.”

The two brave men went away, and returned in
a surprisingly short time with a surprising amount
of food.

“These are cocoanuts,” announced Kingdon, as
he displayed four oranges. “I had to climb the
tall palm trees to reach them. But no hardships
or dangers are too great to assist fair ladies.”

The fair ladies expressed great delight at the
gallant Captain’s deed, and asked Buffalo Bill
what she had secured.

“Edds,” said Rosy Posy, triumphantly, and,[Pg 13]
sure enough, in her tiny skirt, which she held
gathered up before her, were three eggs and a
cracker.

The eggs were hard-boiled, and were promptly
appropriated by the three elder victims of the
shipwreck, while the cracker fell to the share of
Buffalo Bill, who was not yet of an age to eat
hard-boiled eggs.

“I, too, will make search!” cried Marjorie.
“Methinks there may yet be food which you
overlooked.”

As Marjorie had brought the food to the
desert island only an hour before, it was not
impossible that she might find some more, so
they let her go to make search. She returned
with a paper bag of crackers and another of
pears.

“These are bread fruit,” she announced, showing
the crackers; “and these are wild pears. This
is indeed a fruitful island, and we’re lucky to be
wrecked on such a good one.”

“Lucky, indeed!” agreed the Captain. “Why,
when I discovered those eggs on a rocky ledge, I
knew at once they were gulls’ eggs.”

“And how fortunate that they’re boiled,” said[Pg 14]
Kitty. “I can’t bear raw eggs.”

The shipwrecked sufferers then spread out their
food, and sat down to a pleasant meal, for the
Maynard children had convenient appetites, and
could eat at almost any hour of the day.

CHAPTER II

AN EXASPERATING GUEST

“Aren’t hard-boiled eggs the very best things to
eat in all the world?” said Marjorie, as she looked
lovingly at the golden sphere she had just extracted
from its ivory setting.

“They’re awful good,” agreed King, “but I
like oranges better.”

“Me eat lollunge,” piped up Rosy Posy. “Buffaro
Bill would ‘ike a lollunge.”

“So you shall, Baby. Brother’ll fix one for
you.”

And the shipwrecked Captain carefully prepared
an orange, and gave it bit by bit into the
eager, rosy fingers.

“Of all things in the world,” said Kitty, “I
like chocolate creams best.”

“Oh, so do I, if I’m not hungry!” said Marjorie.
“I think I like different things at different
times.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter much what you like[Pg 16]
now,” said King, as he gave the last section of
orange to Rosy Posy, “for everything is all eaten
up. Where’d you get those eggs, Mops? We
never hardly have them except on picnics.”

“I saw them in the pantry. Ellen had them
for a salad or something. So I just took them,
and told her she could boil some more.”

“You’re a good one, Mopsy,” said her brother,
looking at her in evident admiration. “The servants
never get mad at you. Now if I had hooked
those eggs, Ellen would have blown me up sky-high.”

“Oh, I just smiled at her,” said Marjorie, “and
then it was all right. Now, what are we going to
do next?”

“Hark!” said Kingdon, who was again the
shipwrecked mariner. “I hear a distant sound as
of fierce wild beasts growling and roaring.”

“My child, my child!” shrieked Kitty, snatching
up Arabella. “She will be torn by dreadful
lions and tigers!”

“We must protect ourselves,” declared Marjorie.
“Captain, can’t you build a barricade?
They always do that in books.”

“Ay, ay, ma’am. But also we must hoist a[Pg 17]
flag, a signal of distress. For should a ship come
by, they might stop and rescue us.”

“But we have no flag. What can we use
for one?”

“Give me your daughter’s petticoat,” said the
Captain to Kitty.

“Not so!” said Kitty, who was fond of dramatic
phrases. “Arabella’s petticoat is spandy
clean, and I won’t have it used to make a flag.”

“I’ll give you a flag,” said Marjorie. “Take
my hair-ribbon.” She began to pull off her red
ribbon, but Kingdon stopped her.

“No,” he said, “that won’t do. We’re not playing
Pirates. It must be a white flag. It’s for a
signal of distress.”

Marjorie thought a moment. There really
seemed to be no white flag available.

“All right!” she cried, in a moment. “I’ll give
you a piece of my petticoat. It’s an old one, and
the ruffle is torn anyhow.”

In a flash, impetuous Marjorie had torn a good-sized
bit out of her little white petticoat, and
the Captain fastened it to a long branch he had
broken from the maple tree.

This he managed, with the aid of some stones,[Pg 18]
to fasten in an upright position, and then they
sat down to watch for a passing sail.

“Buffaro Bill so s’eepy,” announced that small
person, and, with fat old Boffin for a pillow, Rosy
Posy calmly dropped off into a morning nap.

But the others suffered various dreadful vicissitudes.
They were attacked by wild beasts, which,
though entirely imaginary, required almost as
much killing as if they had been real.

Kitty shot or lassoed a great many, but she declined
to engage in the hand-to-hand encounters
with tigers and wolves, such as Marjorie and
Kingdon undertook, for fear she’d be thrown down
on the ground. And, indeed, her fears were well
founded, for the valiant fighters were often thrown
by their fierce adversaries, and rolled over and
over, only to pick themselves up and renew the
fray.

More exciting still was an attack from the natives
of the island. They were horrible savages,
with tomahawks, and they approached with blood-curdling
yells.

Needless to say that, after a fearful battle, the
natives were all slain or put to rout, and the con[Pg 19]querors,
exhausted but triumphant, sat round their
camp-fire and boasted of their valorous deeds.

As noontime drew near, the settlers on the island
began to grow hungry again, and, strange to say,
the imaginary birds they shot and ate were not
entirely satisfying.

Buffalo Bill, too, waked up, and demanded a
jink of water.

But none could leave the island and brave the
perils of the boundless ocean, unless in a rescuing
ship.

For a long time they waited. They waved their
white flag, and they even shouted for help.

But the “island” was at some distance from
the house or street and none came to rescue
them.

At last, they saw a huge, white-covered wagon
slowly moving along the back drive.

“A sail! A sail!” cried the Captain. “What,
ho! Help! Help!”

The other shipwrecked ones joined the cry, and
soon the wagon drew a little nearer, and then
stopped.

“Help! Help!” cried the children in chorus.

It was the butcher’s wagon, and they knew it[Pg 20]
well, but this season there was a new driver who
didn’t know the Maynard children.

“What’s the matther?” he cried, jumping from
his seat, and running across the grass to the
quartette.

“We’re shipwrecked!” cried Marjorie. “We
can’t get home. Oh, save us from a cruel fate!
Carry us back to our far-away fireside!”

“Help!” cried Kitty, faintly. “My child
is ill, and I can no longer survive!”

Dramatic Kitty sank in a heap on the ground,
and the butcher’s boy was more bewildered than
ever.

“Save me!” cried Rosy Posy, toddling straight
to him, and putting up her arms. “Save Buffaro
Bill first,—me an’ Boffin.”

This was more intelligible, and the butcher’s boy
picked up the smiling child, and with a few long
strides reached his cart, and deposited her therein.

“Me next! Me next!” screamed Marjorie.
“I’m fainting, too!” With a thud, she fell in a
heap beside Kitty.

“The saints presarve us!” exclaimed the
frightened Irishman. “Whativer is the matther
wid these childher? Is it pizened ye are?”

“No, only starving,” said Marjorie, but her[Pg 21]
faint voice was belied by the merry twinkle in her
eyes, which she couldn’t suppress at the sight
of the man’s consternation.

“Aha! It’s shammin’ ye are! I see now.”

“It’s a game,” explained Kingdon. “We’re
shipwrecked on a desert island, and you’re a passing
captain of a small sailing vessel. Will you
take us aboard?”

“Shure, sir,” said the other, his face aglow
with Irish wit and intelligence. “I persave yer
manin’. ‘Deed I will resky ye, but how will ye get
through the deep wathers to me ship forninst?”

“You wade over, and carry this lady,” said King,
pointing to Kitty, “and the rest of us will swim.”

“Thot’s a foine plan; come along, miss;” and
in a moment Kitty was swung up to the brave
rescuer’s shoulder, while King and Midget were
already “swimming” across the grass to the rescue
ship.

All clambered into the wagon, and the butcher
drove them in triumph to the back door. Here
they jumped out, and, after thanking their kind
rescuer, they scampered into the house.

“Such a fun!” said Rosy Posy, as her mother[Pg 22]
bathed her heated little face. “Us was all shipperecked,
an’ I was Buffaro Bill, an’ Boffin was
my big wild bear!”

“You two are sights!” said Mrs. Maynard;
laughing as she looked at the muddied, grass-stained,
and torn condition of Kingdon and Marjorie.
“I’m glad you had your play-clothes on,
but I don’t see why you always have to have such
rough-and-tumble plays.”

“‘Cause we’re a rough-and-tumble pair, Mothery,”
said King; “look at Kitty there! she kept
herself almost spick and span.”

“Well, I’m glad I have all sorts of children,”
said Mrs. Maynard. “Go and get into clean
clothes, and be ready for luncheon promptly on
time. I’m expecting Miss Larkin.”

“Larky! Oh!” groaned Kingdon. “I say,
Mothery, can’t we—us children, I mean—have
lunch in the playroom?” He had sidled up to his
mother and was caressing her cheek with his far-from-clean
little hands.

“No,” said Mrs. Maynard, smiling as she
kissed the brown fingers, “no, my boy, I want all
my olive-branches at my table to-day. So, run
along now and get civilized.”

“Come on, Mops,” said Kingdon, in a despair[Pg 23]ing
tone, and, with their arms about each other,
the two dawdled away.

Kitty had already gone to Nurse to be freshened
up. Kitty loved company, and was always
ready to put on her best manners.

But King and Midget had so much talking to
do, and so many plans to make, that they disliked
the restraint that company necessarily put
upon their own conversation.

“I do detest old Larky,” said the boy, as they
went away.

“I don’t mind her so much,” said Marjorie,
“except when she asks me questions.”

“She’s always doing that.”

“Yes, I know it. But I promised Mother I’d
be extra good to-day, and try to talk politely
to her. Of course, I can do it if I try.”

“So can I,” said King, with an air of pride in his
own powers. “All right, Mops, let’s be ‘specially
‘stremely good and treat Miss Larkin just lovely.”

Nearly an hour later the four shipwrecked unfortunates,
now transformed into clean, well-dressed
civilians, were grouped in the library to
await Miss Larkin’s arrival.

The lady was an old friend of Mrs. Maynard’s,[Pg 24]
and though by no means elderly, was yet far
from being as young as she tried to look and act.

She came tripping in, and after greeting her
hostess effusively, she turned to the children.

“My, my!” she said. “What a group of little
dears! How you have grown,—every one of you.
Kingdon, my dear boy, would you like to kiss
me?”

The request was far from acceptable to King,
but the simper that accompanied it so repelled
him that he almost forgot his determination to
be very cordial to the unwelcome guest. But
Midge gave him a warning pinch on his arm, and
with an unintelligible murmur of consent, he put
up his cheek for the lady’s salute.

“Oh, what a dear boy!” she gurgled. “I
really think I shall have to take you home with
me! And, now, here’s Marjorie. How are you,
my dear? Do you go to school now? And what
are you learning?”

Miss Larkin’s questions always irritated Marjorie,
but she answered politely, and then stepped
aside in Kitty’s favor.

“Sweet little Katharine,” said the visitor.[Pg 25]
“You are really an angel child. With your
golden hair and blue eyes, you’re a perfect
cherub; isn’t she, Mrs. Maynard?”

“She’s a dear little girl,” said her mother,
smiling, “but not always angelic. Here’s our
baby, our Rosamond.”

“No, I’se Buffaro Bill!” declared Rosy Posy,
assuming a valiant attitude, quite out of keeping
with her smiling baby face and chubby body.

“Oh, what delicious children! Dear Mrs. Maynard,
how good of you to let me come to see them.”

As Miss Larkin always invited herself, this
speech was literally true, but as she and Mrs.
Maynard had been schoolmates long ago, the latter
felt it her duty to give her friend such pleasure
as she could.

At the luncheon table, Miss Larkin kept up a
running fire of questions.

This, she seemed to think, was the only way to
entertain children.

“Do you like to read?” she asked of Marjorie.

“Yes, indeed,” said Midget, politely.

“And what books do you like best?”

“Fairy stories,” said Marjorie, promptly.

“Oh, tut, tut!” and Miss Larkin shook a play[Pg 26]ful
finger. “You should like history. Shouldn’t
she, now?” she asked, appealing to Kingdon.

“We like history, too,” said Kingdon. “At
least, we like it some; but we both like fairy
stories better.”

“Ah, well, children will be children. Do you
like summer or winter best?”

This was a poser. It had never occurred to
Marjorie to think which she liked best.

“I like them both alike,” she said, truthfully.

“Oh, come now; children should have some mind
of their own! Little Miss Kitty, I’m sure you
know whether you like summer or winter best.”

Kitty considered.

“I like winter best for Christmas, and summer
for Fourth of July,” she said at last, with the air
of one settling a weighty matter.

But Miss Larkin really cared nothing to know
about these things; it was only her idea of making
herself entertaining to her young audience.

“And you, Baby Rosamond,” she went on,
“what do you like best in all the world?”

“Boffin,” was the ready reply, “an’ Buffaro
Bill, ’cause I’m it.”

They all laughed at this, for in the Maynard[Pg 27]
family Rosy Posy’s high estimation of herself was
well known.

Although it seemed as if it never would, the
luncheon at last came to an end.

Mrs. Maynard told the children they might be
excused, and she and Miss Larkin would chat by
themselves.

Decorously enough, the four left the room, but
once outside the house, King gave a wild whoop of
joy and turned a double somersault.

Midget threw herself down on a veranda-seat,
but with a beaming face, she said:

“Well, we behaved all right, anyway; but I
was ‘most afraid I’d be saucy to her one time.
It’s such a temptation, when people talk like that.”

“She talked all the time,” said Kitty. “I
don’t see when she ate anything.”

“She didn’t,” said King. “I suppose she’d
rather talk than eat. She’s not a bit like us.”

“No,” said Marjorie, emphatically, “she’s not
a bit like us!”

CHAPTER III

PICNIC PLANS

One entire day out of each month Mr. Maynard
devoted to the entertainment of his children.

This was a long-established custom, and the
children looked forward eagerly to what they
called an Ourday.

The day chosen was always a Saturday, and
usually the first Saturday of the month, though
this was subject to the convenience of the elders.

The children were allowed to choose in turn
what the entertainment should be, and if possible
their wishes were complied with.

As there had been so much bustle and confusion
consequent upon their return from the summer
vacation, the September “Ourday” did not occur
until the second Saturday.

It was Marjorie’s turn to choose the sport, for,
as she had been away at Grandma Sherwood’s all
summer, she had missed three Ourdays.

So one morning, early in the week, the matter[Pg 29]
was discussed at the breakfast table.

“What shall it be, Midget?” asked her father.
“A balloon trip, or an Arctic expedition?”

Marjorie considered.

“I want something outdoorsy,” she said, at last,
“and I think I’d like a picnic best. A real picnic
in the woods, with lunch-baskets, and a fire, and
roasted potatoes.”

“That sounds all right to me,” said Mr. Maynard;
“do you want a lot of people, or just
ourselves?”

It was at the children’s pleasure on Ourdays
to invite their young friends or to have only the
family, as they chose. Sometimes, even, Mrs.
Maynard did not go with them, and Mr. Maynard
took his young brood off for a ramble in the woods,
or a day at the seashore or in the city. He often
declared that but for this plan he would never feel
really acquainted with his own children.

“I don’t want a lot of people,” said Marjorie,
decidedly; “but suppose we each invite one. That
makes a good-sized picnic.”

As it was Marjorie’s Ourday, her word was
law, and the others gladly agreed.

“I’ll ask Dick Fulton,” said Kingdon. “I[Pg 30]
haven’t seen much of him since I came home.”

“And I’ll ask Gladys Fulton, of course,” said
Midget. As Gladys was her most intimate friend
in Rockwell, no one was surprised at this.

“I’ll ask Dorothy Adams,” said Kitty; but
Rosy Posy announced: “I won’t ask nobody but
Boffin. He’s the nicest person I know, an’ him
an’ me can walk with Daddy.”

“Next, where shall the picnic be?” went on
Mr. Maynard.

“I don’t know whether I like Pike’s Woods best,
or the Mill Race,” said Marjorie, uncertainly.

“Oh, choose Pike’s Woods, Mops,” put in Kingdon.
“It’s lovely there, now, and it’s a lot better
place to build a fire and all that.”

“All right, Father; I choose Pike’s Woods. But
it’s too far to walk.”

“Of course it is, Mopsy. We’ll have a big
wagon that will hold us all. You may invite your
friends, and I’ll invite a comrade of my own.
Will you go, Mrs. Maynard?”

“I will, with pleasure. I adore picnics, and this
bids fair to be a delightful one. May I assist you
in planning the feast?”

“Indeed you may,” said Midget, smiling at her[Pg 31]
mother. “But we can choose, can’t we?”

“Of course, choose ahead.”

“Ice-cream,” said Marjorie, promptly.

“Little lemon tarts,” said Kitty.

“Candy,” said Rosy Posy.

“Cold chicken,” said Kingdon.

“That’s a fine bill of fare,” said Mr. Maynard,
“but I’ll add sandwiches and lemonade as my
suggestions, and anything we’ve omitted, I’m sure
will get into the baskets somehow.”

“Oh, won’t it be lovely!” exclaimed Marjorie.
“I haven’t been on a picnic with our
own family for so long. We had picnics at
Grandma’s, but nothing is as much fun as an
Ourday.”

“Let’s take the camera,” said Kingdon, “and
get some snapshots.”

“Yes, and let’s take fishlines, and fish in the
brook,” said Kitty.

“All right, chickabiddies; we’ll have a roomy
wagon to travel in, so take whatever you like. And
now I must be off. Little Mother, you’ll make a
list to-day, won’t you, of such things as I am
to get for this frolic?”

“Candy,” repeated Rosy Posy; “don’t fordet[Pg 32]
that.”

As the baby was not allowed much candy, she
always chose it for her Ourday treat.

Mr. Maynard went away to his business, and
the others remained at the breakfast table, talking
over the coming pleasure.

“We’ll have a great time!” said Kingdon.
“We’ll make father play Indians and shipwreck
and everything.”

“Don’t make me play Indians!” exclaimed his
mother, in mock dismay.

“No, indeedy! You couldn’t be an Indian.
You’re too white-folksy. But you can be a Captive
Princess.”

“Yes!” cried Marjorie; “in chains and shut
up in a dungeon.”

“No, no,” screamed Rosy Posy; “my muvver
not be shutted up in dunjin!”

“No, she shan’t, Baby,” said her brother, comfortingly;
“and, anyway, Mops, Indians don’t
put people in dungeons, you’re thinking of
Mediævals.”

“Well, I don’t care,” said Midget, happily;
“we’ll have a lovely time, whatever we play.[Pg 33]
I’m going over to ask Gladys now. May I,
Mother?”

“Yes, Midget, run along. Tell Mrs. Fulton
that Father and I are going, and that we’d be
glad to take Gladys and Dick.”

Away skipped Marjorie, hatless and coatless,
for it was a warm day, and Gladys lived only
across the street.

“It’s so nice to have you back again, Mopsy,”
said Gladys, after the invitation had been given
and accepted. “I was awful lonesome for you all
summer.”

“I missed you, too; but I did have a lovely
time. Oh, Gladys, I wish you could see my tree-house
at Grandma’s! Breezy Inn, its name is, and
we had such fun in it.”

“Why don’t you have one here? Won’t your
father make one for you?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose he would. But
it wouldn’t seem the same. It just belongs at
Grandma’s. And, anyway, I’m busy all the time
here. There’s so much to do. We play a lot,
you know. And then I have my practising every
day, and, oh dear, week after next school will
begin. I just hate school, don’t you, Gladys?”

“No, I love it; you know I do.”[Pg 34]

“Well, I don’t. I don’t mind the lessons, but
I hate to sit cooped up at a desk all day. I wish
they’d have schools out of doors.”

“Yes, I’d like that, too. I wonder if we can
sit together, this year, Mops?”

“Oh, I hope so. Let’s ask Miss Lawrence that,
the very first thing. Why, I’d die if I had to sit
with any one but you.”

“So would I. But I’m sure Miss Lawrence will
let us be together.”

Gladys was a pretty little girl, though not at
all like Marjorie. She was about the same age,
but smaller, and with light hair and blue eyes.
She was more sedate than Midget, and more quiet
in her ways, but she had the same love of fun and
mischief, and more than once the two girls had
been separated in the schoolroom because of the
pranks they concocted when together.

Miss Lawrence, their teacher, was a gentle and
long-suffering lady, and she loved both little girls,
but she was sometimes at her wits’ end to know
how to tame their rollicking spirits.

Gladys was as pleased as Marjorie at the prospect
of the picnic. Often the Maynard children[Pg 35]
had their Ourdays without inviting other guests,
but when outsiders were invited they always remembered
the happy occasions.

All through the week preparations went on, and
on Friday Ellen, the cook, gave up most of the
day to the making of cakes and tarts and jellies.
The next morning she was to get up early
to fry the chicken and prepare the devilled
eggs.

Mr. Maynard brought home candies and fruit
from the city, and a huge can of ice-cream was
ordered from the caterer.

The start was to be made at nine o’clock Saturday
morning, for it was a long drive, and everybody
wanted a long day in the woods.

Friday evening was fair, with a beautiful sunset,
and everything boded well for beautiful
weather the next day.

Rosy Posy, after her bread-and-milk supper,
went happily off to bed, and dropped to sleep
while telling her beloved Boffin of the fun to come.
The other children dined with their parents, and
the conversation was exclusively on the one great
subject.

“I don’t think it could rain; do you, Father?”[Pg 36]
said Kitty, looking over her shoulder, at the fading
sunset tints.

“I think it could, my dear, but I don’t think
it will. All signs point to fair weather, and I
truly believe we’ll have a perfect Ourday and a
jolly good time.”

“We always do,” said Midge, happily. “I
wonder why all fathers don’t have Ourdays with
their children. Gladys’ father never gets home
till seven o’clock, and she has to go to bed at eight,
so she hardly sees him at all, except Sundays, and
of course they can’t play on Sundays.”

“They must meet as strangers,” said Mr. Maynard.
“I think our plan is better. I like to feel
chummy with my own family, and the only way to
do it is to keep acquainted with each other. I
wish I could have a whole day with you every
week, instead of only every month.”

“Can’t you, Father?” said Kitty, wistfully.

“No, daughter. I have too much business to
attend to, to allow me a holiday every week. But
perhaps some day I can manage it. Are you taking
a hammock to-morrow, King?”

“Yes, sir. I thought Mother might like an[Pg 37]
afternoon nap, and Rosy Posy always goes to
sleep in the morning.”

“Thoughtful boy. Take plenty of rope, but
you needn’t bother to take trees to swing it
from.”

“No, we’ll take the chance of finding some
there.”

“Yes, doubtless somebody will have left them
from the last picnic. Your young friends are
going?”

“Yes,” said Marjorie. “King and I asked the
two Fultons, and Kitty asked Dorothy Adams.
With all of us, and Nurse Nannie, that makes just
ten.”

“And the driver of the wagon makes eleven,”
said Mr. Maynard. “I suppose we’ve enough rations
for such an army?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Maynard, smiling.
“Enough for twenty, I think, but it’s well to be
on the safe side.”

The children went to bed rather earlier than
usual, in order to be up bright and early for the
picnic.

Their play-clothes, which were invariably of
blue and white striped seersucker, were laid out[Pg 38]
in readiness, and they fell asleep wishing it were
already morning.

But when the morning did come!

Marjorie wakened first, and before she opened
her eyes she heard an ominous sound that sent
a thrill of dismay to her heart.

She sprang out of bed, and ran to the window.

Yes, it was not only raining, it was simply
pouring.

One of those steady, determined storms that
show no sign of speedy clearing. The sky
was dark, leaden gray, and the rain came down
in what seemed to be a thick, solid volume of
water.

“Oh!” said Marjorie, with a groan of disappointment
from her very heart.

“Kitty,” she said, softly, wondering if her
sister were awake.

The girls had two beds on either side of a large
room, and Midget tiptoed across the floor, as she
spoke. Kitty opened her eyes sleepily. “What
is it, Midget? Time to get up? Oh, it’s picnic
day!”

As Kitty became broad awake, she smiled and
gaily hopped out of bed.

“What’s the matter?” she said, in alarm, for[Pg 39]
Marjorie’s face was anything but smiling.

For answer, Midget pointed out of the window,
toward which Kitty turned for the first time.

“Oh!” said she, dropping back on the edge of
the bed.

And, indeed, there seemed to be nothing else to
say. Both girls were so overwhelmed with disappointment
that they could only look at each other
with despondent faces.

Silently they began to draw on their stockings
and shoes, and though determined they
wouldn’t do anything so babyish as to cry, yet
it was no easy matter to keep the tears back.

“Up yet, chickabiddies?” called Mr. Maynard’s
cheery voice through the closed door.

“Yes, sir,” responded two doleful voices.

“Then skip along downstairs as soon as you’re
ready; it’s a lovely day for our picnic.”

Midge and Kitty looked at each other. This
seemed a heartless jest indeed! And it wasn’t a
bit like their father to tease them when they were
in trouble. And real trouble this surely was!

They heard Mr. Maynard tap at King’s door,
and call out some gay greeting to him, and then[Pg 40]
they heard King splashing about, as if making his
toilet in a great hurry. All this spurred the girls
to dress more quickly, and it was not long before
they were tying each other’s hair-ribbons and buttoning
each other’s frocks.

Then they fairly ran downstairs, and, seeing
Mr. Maynard standing by the dining-room window,
they both threw themselves into his arms,
crying out, “Oh, Father, isn’t it too bad?”

“What?” asked Mr. Maynard, quizzically.

“Now, Daddy,” said Midget, “don’t tease.
Our hearts are all broken because it’s raining, and
we can’t have our picnic.”

“Can’t have our picnic!” exclaimed Mr. Maynard,
in apparent excitement. “Can’t have our
picnic, indeed! Who says we can’t?”

“I say so!” exclaimed Kingdon, who had just
entered the room. “Nobody but ducks can have
a picnic to-day.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr. Maynard, looking crestfallen,
“if King says so that settles it. I think
it’s a beautiful picnic day, but far be it from me
to obtrude my own opinions.”

Just here Mrs. Maynard and Rosy Posy came
in. They were both smiling, and though no one[Pg 41]
expected the baby to take the disappointment very
seriously, yet it did seem as if Mother might have
been more sympathetic.

“I suppose we can eat the ice-cream in the
house,” said Marjorie, who was inclined to look
on the bright side if she could possibly find one.

“That’s the way to talk!” said her father, approvingly.
“Now you try, Kingdon, to meet the
situation as it should be met.”

“I will, sir. I’m just as disappointed as I can
be, but I suppose there’s no use crying over spilt
milk,—I mean spilt raindrops.”

“That’s good philosophy, my boy. Now, Kitty,
what have you to say by way of cheering us
all up?”

“I can’t see much fun in a day like this. But
I hope we can have the picnic on the next Ourday.”

“That’s a brave, cheerful spirit. Now, my
sad and disheartened crew, take your seats at the
breakfast table, and listen to your foolishly optimistic
old father.”

The children half-heartedly took their places,
but seemed to have no thought of eating breakfast.

“Wowly-wow-wow!” said Mr. Maynard, looking
around the table. “What a set of blue faces![Pg 42]
Would it brighten you up any if I should prophesy
that at dinner-time to-night you will all say it has
been the best Ourday we’ve ever had, and that
you’re glad it rained?”

“Oh, Father!” said Marjorie, in a tone of wondering
reproach, while Kitty and King looked
blankly incredulous, and Mrs. Maynard smiled
mysteriously.

CHAPTER IV

AN OURDAY

It was impossible to resist the infection of Mr.
Maynard’s gay good-nature, and by the time
breakfast was over, the children were in their
usual merry mood. Though an occasional glance
out of the window brought a shadow to one face
or another, it was quickly dispelled by the laughter
and gaiety within.

Marjorie was perhaps the most disappointed of
them all, for it was her day, and she had set her
heart on the picnic in the woods. But she tried
to make the best of it, remembering that, after
all, father would be at home all day, and that
was a treat of itself.

After breakfast, Mr. Maynard led the way to
the living-room, followed by his half-hopeful
brood. They all felt that something would be
done to make up for their lost pleasure, but it
didn’t seem as if it could be anything very nice.

Mr. Maynard looked out of the front window in[Pg 44]
silence for a moment, then suddenly he turned and
faced the children.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said; “do any
of you know the story of Mahomet and the
mountain?”

“No, sir,” was the answer of every one, and
Marjorie’s spirits sank. She liked to hear her
father tell stories sometimes, but it was a tame
entertainment to take the place of a picnic, and
Mahomet didn’t sound like an interesting subject,
anyway.

Mr. Maynard’s eyes twinkled.

“This is the story,” he began; “sit down while
I tell it to you.”

With a little sigh Marjorie sat down on the
sofa, and the others followed her example. Rosy
Posy, hugging Boffin, scrambled up into a big
armchair, and settled herself to listen.

“It is an old story,” went on Mr. Maynard,
“and the point of it is that if the mountain
wouldn’t come to Mahomet, Mahomet must needs
go to the mountain. But to-day I propose to
reverse the story, and since you four sad, forlorn-looking
Mahomets can’t go to the picnic, why[Pg 45]
then, the picnic must come to you. And here
it is!”

As Mr. Maynard spoke—indeed he timed his
words purposely—their own carriage drove up
to the front door, and, flying to the window, Marjorie
saw some children getting out of it. Though
bundled up in raincoats and caps, she soon recognized
Gladys and Dick Fulton and Dorothy
Adams.

In a moment they all met in the hall, and the
laughter and shouting effectually banished the
last trace of disappointment from the young
Maynards’ faces.

“Did you come for the picnic?” said Marjorie
to Gladys, in amazement.

“Yes; your father telephoned early this morning,—before
breakfast,—and he said the picnic
would be in the house instead of in the woods.
And he sent the carriage for us all.”

“Great! Isn’t it?” said Dick Fulton, as he
helped his sister off with her mackintosh. “I
thought there’d be no picnic, but here we
are.”

“Here we are, indeed!” said Mr. Maynard,
who was helping Dorothy Adams unwind an[Pg 46]
entangling veil, “and everybody as dry as a
bone.”

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “the storm is awful, but
in your close carriage, and with all these wraps,
I couldn’t get wet.”

“Oh, isn’t it fun!” cried Kitty, as she threw her
arms around her dear friend, Dorothy. “Are you
to stay all day?”

“Yes, until six o’clock. Mr. Maynard says
picnics always last until sundown.”

Back they all trooped to the big living-room,
which presented a cheerful aspect indeed. The
rainy morning being chilly, an open fire in the
ample fireplace threw out a cheerful blaze and
warmth. Mrs. Maynard’s pleasant face smiled
brightly, as she welcomed each little guest, and
afterward she excused herself, saying she had some
household matters to attend to and that Mr. Maynard
would take charge of the “picnic.”

“First of all,” said the host, as the children
turned expectant faces toward him, “nobody is
to say, ‘What a pity it rained!’ or anything like
that. Indeed, you are not to look out at the
storm at all, unless you say, ‘How fortunate we
are under cover!’ or words to that effect.”

“All right, sir,” said Dick Fulton, “I agree.[Pg 47]
And I think a picnic in the house will be dead loads
of fun.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said Mr. Maynard,
“and now the picnic will begin. The first part of
it will be a nutting-party.”

“Oho!” laughed Marjorie. “A nutting-party
in the house is ‘most too much! I don’t
see any trees;” and she looked around in mock
dismay.

“Do you usually pick the nuts off of trees?”
asked her father, quizzically. “You know you
don’t! You gather them after they have fallen.
Now nuts have fallen all over this house, in every
room, and all you have to do is to gather them.
Each may have a basket, and see who can find
the most. Scamper, now!”

While Mr. Maynard was talking, Sarah, the
waitress, had come in, bringing seven pretty
baskets of fancy wicker-ware. One was given
to each child, and off they ran in quest of
nuts.

“Every room, Father?” called back Marjorie,
over her shoulder.

“Every room,” he replied, “except the kitchen.[Pg 48]
You must not go out there to bother cook. She
has all she can attend to.”

This sounded pleasant, so Marjorie went on,
only pausing for one more question.

“What kind of nuts, Father?”

“Gather any kind you see, my child. There
was such a strong wind last night, I daresay it
blew down all sorts.”

And truly that seemed to be the case. Shrieks
of surprise and delight from the whole seven announced
the discoveries they made.

They found peanuts, English walnuts, pecan
nuts, hazelnuts, Brazil nuts, almonds, hickory
nuts, black walnuts, and some of which they didn’t
know the names.

The nuts were hidden in all sorts of places.
Stuffed down in the cushions of chairs and sofas,
on mantels and brackets, under rugs and footstools,
on window sills, on the floor, on the chandeliers,
they seemed to be everywhere. All over the
house the children scampered, filling their baskets
as they went.

Sometimes two would make a dash for the same
nut, and two bumped heads would ensue, but this
was looked upon as part of the fun.

The older children gathered their nuts from[Pg 49]
the highest places, leaving the low places for the
little ones to look into.

Rosy Posy found most of those on the floor, behind
the lace curtains or portières, as she toddled
about with her basket on one arm and Boffin in the
other.

At last the whole house had been pretty thoroughly
ransacked, and the nutting-party returned
in triumph with loaded baskets.

“Did you look under the sofa pillows on the
couch in this room?” said Mr. Maynard, gravely,
and seven pairs of legs scampered for the couch.

Under its pillows they found three big cocoanuts,
and Mr. Maynard declared that completed
the hunt.

Meantime, the big, round table in the middle of
the room had been cleared of its books and papers,
and the children were directed to empty their
baskets of nuts on the table, taking care that
none should roll off the edge. The seven basketsful
were tumbled out, and a goodly heap they made.

Then the seven sat round the table, and to each
one was given a tiny pair of candy tongs, such
as comes with the confectioner’s boxes.

“This is a new game,” explained Mr. Maynard,[Pg 50]
“and it’s called Jacknuts. It is played just
the same as Jackstraws. Each, in turn, must
take nuts from the heap with the tongs. If
you jar or jostle another nut than the one
you’re taking away, it is then the next player’s
turn.”

Of course they all knew how to play Jackstraws,
so they understood at once, but this was much
more fun.

“The first ones are so easy, let’s give Rosy Posy
the first chance,” said Dick Fulton, and Mr. Maynard,
with a nod of approval at the boy, agreed
to this plan. So Rosy Posy, her fat little hand
grasping the tiny tongs, succeeded in getting
nearly a dozen nuts into her basket.

As Dorothy Adams was not quite as old as
Kitty, she took her turn next, and then all followed
in accordance with their ages.

It was a fascinating game. Some of the little
hazelnuts or the slender peanuts were easy to nip
with the tongs, but the big English walnuts, or
queer-shaped Madeira nuts were very difficult.
Great delicacy of touch was necessary, and the
children found the new game enthralling.

After her first turn Rosy Posy ran away from[Pg 51]
the game, and Mr. Maynard took her place.

“Oho, Father,” laughed Kitty, “I thought
you’d get them all, but you’re no more successful
at it than we are.”

“No,” said Mr. Maynard, looking with chagrin
at his small heap of nuts, “my fingers are too old
and stiff, I think.”

“So are mine,” said Marjorie, laughing.

“You’re too fat, Dumpling,” said her father.
“Kitty’s slim little claws seem to do the best
work.”

“I think it’s a steady hand that counts,” said
Dick; “watch me now!”

With great care, and very slowly, he picked
off several nuts that were daintily balanced on the
other nuts, but at last he joggled one, and it
was King’s turn.

“I believe in going fast,” said King, and like a
whirlwind he picked off four nuts, one after the
other. But his last one sent several others flying,
and so left an easy chance for Gladys, who came
next.

“There’s a prize for this game,” announced Mr.
Maynard, after the table was entirely cleared, and[Pg 52]
the nuts were again all in the seven baskets. “In
fact there’s a prize apiece, all round. And the
prizes are nuts, of course. You may each have
one.”

“One nut!” cried Marjorie. “What a little
prize!”

“Not so very little,” said her father, smiling.

Then Sarah appeared with a plate of doughnuts,
and everybody gladly took a prize. A glass
of milk went with each of these nuts, and then
the children clamored to play the game all over
again.

“No, indeed!” said Mr. Maynard. “You can
play that any day in the year, but just now we’re
having a picnic, and the picnic must proceed with
its programme.”

“All right!” cried Marjorie. “What comes
next?”

“Crackers,” said her father. “Bring them in,
please, Sarah.”

“Crackers!” exclaimed King. “I don’t want
any after that big doughnut.”

“You must take one, though,” said his father,
“it’s part of the programme.”

Then Sarah came, and brought a big tray on[Pg 53]
which were three nutcrackers, some nutpicks, and
several bowls and plates.

“Take a cracker, King,” said Mr. Maynard,
and the boy promptly took the biggest nutcracker,
ready to do the hardest work.

The girls took nutpicks and bowls, and Mr.
Maynard and Dick Fulton took the other two nutcrackers,
and then work began in earnest. But
the work was really play, and they all enjoyed
cracking and picking out the nuts, though what
they were doing it for nobody knew. But with so
many at it, it was soon over, and the result was
several bowlsful of kernels. The shells were thrown
into the fire, and Mr. Maynard directed that the
seven empty baskets be set aside till later.

“We haven’t cracked the cocoanuts yet,” said
Dick. “They’re too big for these nutcrackers.”

“So they are,” said Mr. Maynard. “Well,
I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll take them to the
dining-room and continue our nut game out
there.”

So each carried a bowl of nuts, or a cocoanut,
and all went to the dining-room.

There the extension-table was spread out full
length, and contained a lot of things. On big[Pg 54]
sheets of white paper were piles of sifted sugar.
Large empty bowls there were, and big spoons, and
plates and dishes filled with figs and dates, and
oranges and all sorts of goodies.

“What’s it all for?” said Marjorie. “It’s too
early for lunch, and too late for breakfast.”

“It’s the rest of the nut game,” said Mr.
Maynard. “I am Professor Nuttall, or Know-it-all;
and I’m going to teach you children what I
hope will be a valuable accomplishment. Do any
of you like candy?”

Replies of “We do,” and “Yes, sir,” came so
emphatically that Mr. Maynard seemed satisfied
with the answers.

“Well, then, we’ll make some candy that shall
be just the best ever! How’s that?”

“Fine!” “Glorious!” “Goody, goody!”
“Great!” “Oh, Father!” and “Ah!” came
loudly from six young throats, and Mrs. Maynard
and Rosy Posy came to join the game.

Sarah came, too, bringing white aprons for
everybody, boys and all, and then Nurse Nannie
appeared, and marched them off, two by two, to
wash their hands for the candy-making process.

CHAPTER V

A NOVEL PICNIC

But at last they were all ready to begin.

Mr. Maynard, in his position of teacher, insisted
on absolute system and method, and everything
was arranged with care and regularity.

“The first thing to learn in candy-making,” he
said, “is neatness; and the second, accuracy.”

“Why, Father,” cried Dorothy, “I didn’t know
you knew how to make candy!”

“I know more than you’d believe, to look at me.
And now, if you four girls will each squeeze the
juice of an orange into a cup, we’ll begin.”

Marjorie and Kitty and Gladys and Dorothy
obeyed instructions exactly, and soon each was
carefully breaking an egg, and still more carefully
separating the white from the yolk.

Mrs. Maynard seemed to find plenty to do just
waiting on the workers, and it was largely owing
to her thoughtfulness that oranges and eggs and[Pg 56]
cups and spoons appeared when needed, almost as
if by magic.

Meantime the two boys were working rapidly
and carefully, too. They grated cocoanut and
chocolate; they cut up figs and seeded dates; they
chopped nuts and raisins; and they received admiring
compliments from Mrs. Maynard for the
satisfactory results of their work.

“Oh, isn’t it fun!” exclaimed Marjorie, as she
and Gladys were taught to mould the creamy,
white fondant they had made, into tiny balls.
Some of these white balls the smaller girls pressed
between two nut kernels, or into a split date; and
others were to be made into chocolate creams. This
last was a thrilling process, for it was not easy
at first to drop the white ball into the hot black
chocolate, and remove it daintily with a silver
fork, being most careful the while not to leave
untidy drippings.

Cocoanut balls were made, and nougat, which
was cut into cubes, and lovely, flat peanut sugar
cakes.

The boys did all these things quite as well as
the girls, and all, except Rosy Posy, worked with
a will and really accomplished wonders.

Each was allowed to eat five finished candies of[Pg 57]
any sort and at any time they chose, but they
were on their honor not to eat more than five.

“Oh,” sighed Marjorie, as she looked at the
shining rows of goodies on plates and tins, “I’d
like to eat a hundred!”

“You wouldn’t want any luncheon, then,” said
her father. “And as it’s now noon, and as our
candies are all done, I suggest that you all scamper
away to some place where soap and water
grow wild, and return as soon as possible, all tidy
and neat for our picnic luncheon.”

“Lunch time!” cried Gladys, in surprise. “It
can’t be! Why, we’ve only been here a little while.”

But it was half-past twelve, and for the first
time that whole morning the children looked out of
the windows.

“It’s still raining,” said King, “and I’m glad
of it. We’re having more fun than at an outdoor
picnic, I think.”

“So do I!” cried all the others, as they ran
away upstairs.

Shortly after, seven very spick-and-span-looking
children presented themselves in the lower hall.
Curls had been brushed, hair-ribbons freshly tied,[Pg 58]
and even Boffin had a new blue ribbon round his
neck.

“Now for the real picnic!” cried Mr. Maynard,
as he led the way into the living-room.

As Marjorie entered, she gave a shriek of delight,
and turned to rush into her father’s arms.

“Oh, Daddy!” she cried. “You do beat the
Dutch! What a lovely picnic! It’s a million
times better than going to the woods!”

“Especially on a day like this,” said her father.

The others, too, gave exclamations of joy, and
indeed that was small wonder.

The whole room had almost been turned into a
woodland glen.

On the floor were spread some old green muslin
curtains that had once been used for private theatricals
or something.

Round the walls stood all the palms and ferns
and plants that belonged in other parts of the
house, and these were enough to give quite an
outdoorsy look to the place.

To add to this, great branches of leaves were
thrust behind sofas or tables. Some leaves were
green and some had already turned to autumn
tints, so it was almost like a real wood.

Chairs and tables had been taken away, and[Pg 59]
to sit on, the children found some big logs of
wood, like trunks of fallen trees, and some large,
flat stones.

James, the coachman, and Thomas, the gardener,
had been working at the room all the time
the children were making candy, and even now
they were peeping in at the windows to see the
young people enjoying themselves.

In the middle of the room was what looked like
a big, flat rock. As it was covered with an old,
gray rubber waterproof, it was probably an artificial
rock, but it answered its purpose. Real
stones, twigs, leaves, and even clumps of moss were
all about on the green floor cloth, and overhead
were the children’s birds, which had been brought
down from the playroom, and which sang gaily
in honor of the occasion.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Dorothy Adams, a
little awed at the transformation scene; “how did
you do it, Mr. Maynard?”

“I told my children,” he replied, “that since
they couldn’t go to the picnic the picnic should
come to them, and here it is.”

Rosy Posy discovered a pile of hay in a corner,[Pg 60]
and plumped herself down upon it, still holding
tightly her beloved Boffin.

Then James and Thomas came in carrying big,
covered baskets.

“The picnic! The picnic!” cried Rosy Posy,
to whom a picnic meant chiefly the feast thereof.

After the baskets were deposited on the ground
near the flat rock, James and Thomas went away,
and none of the servants remained but Nurse Nannie,
who would have gone to the picnic in the wood,
and who was needed to look after little Rosamond.

“Now, my boys,” said Mr. Maynard, “we
must wait on ourselves, you know; and on the
ladies. This is a real picnic.”

Very willingly the boys fell upon the baskets,
and soon had their contents set out upon the big
rocks.

Such shouts of delight as went up at sight
of those contents!

And indeed it was fun!

No china dishes or linen napery, but wooden
plates and Japanese paper napkins in true picnic
style. Then while the girls set the viands in order,
the boys mended the fire in the big fireplace, and
put potatoes in to roast. Mrs. Maynard had[Pg 61]
thoughtfully selected small potatoes, and so they
were soon done, and with butter and pepper and
salt they tasted exactly as roast potatoes do in
the woods, and every one knows there is no better
taste than that!

While the potatoes were roasting, too, the lemonade
must be made. Mr. Maynard and Dick
Fulton squeezed the lemons, while Kingdon volunteered
to go down to the spring for water.

This made great fun, for they all knew he only
went to the kitchen, but he returned with a pail
of “cold spring water,” and then Mrs. Maynard
attended to the mixing of the lemonade.

The feast itself was found to include everything
that had been asked for beforehand.

Cold chicken, devilled eggs, sandwiches, lemon
tarts, all were there, besides lots of other good
things.

They all pretended, of course, that they were
really in the woods.

“How blue the sky is to-day,” said Mr. Maynard,
looking upward, as he sat on a log, with a
sandwich in one hand and a glass of lemonade in
the other.

As the ceiling was papered in a design of white[Pg 62]
and gold, it required some imagination to follow
his remark, but they were all equal to it.

“Yes,” said Marjorie, gazing intently skyward;
“it’s a beeyootiful day. But I see a slight
cloud, as if it might rain to-morrow.”

“We need rain,” said Mr. Maynard; “the
country is drying up for the lack of it.”

As it was still pouring steadily, this was very
funny, and of course they all giggled.

Then King went on.

“The sun is so bright it hurts my eyes. I wish
I had a pair of green glasses to protect them.”

“Or a parasol,” said Gladys. “I’m sorry I
left mine at home.”

“What are we going to do at the picnic this
afternoon, Father?” asked Kitty.

“I thought we’d fly kites,” said Mr. Maynard,
“but there isn’t a breath of air stirring, so we
can’t.”

The wind was blowing a perfect gale, so this
made them all laugh again, and Gladys said to
Marjorie, “I do think your father is the funniest
man!”

At last the more substantial part of the luncheon
was over, and it was time for the ice-cream.

The freezer was brought right into the picnic[Pg 63]
ground, and Kingdon and Dick were asked to dig
the ice-cream out with a big wooden spoon, just
as they always did at picnics. The heaps of pink
and white delight, on fresh pasteboard plates,
were passed around, and were eaten by those surprising
children with as much relish as if they
hadn’t just consumed several basketsful of other
things.

Then the candies were brought in, but,
strange to say, nobody cared much for any just
then.

So Mrs. Maynard had the seven pretty fancy
baskets, that they had gathered nuts in, brought
back, and each child was allowed to fill a basket
with the pretty candies.

These were set away until the picnic was over,
when they were to be taken home as souvenirs.

Luncheon over, Mr. Maynard decreed that the
picnickers needn’t do the cleaning away, as that
couldn’t be done by merely throwing away things
as they did in the woods.

So Sarah came in to tidy up the room, and Mr.
Maynard seated his whole party on the big logs
and stones, while he told them stories.

The stories were well worth listening to, and[Pg 64]
though Rosy Posy fell asleep, the others listened
breathlessly to the tales which were told in a truly
dramatic fashion. But after an hour or so of
this, Mr. Maynard suddenly declared that the
picnic was becoming too quiet.

“I wanted you all to sit still for a while after
your hearty luncheon,” he said, “but now you
need exercise. Shall we play ‘Still Pond’?”

A howl of glee greeted this suggestion, for Still
Pond in the house was usually a forbidden game.

As you probably know, it is like Blindman’s
Buff, only the ones who are not blinded may not
move.

Marjorie was “It” first, and after being carefully
blindfolded by her father, she stood still
in the middle of the floor and counted ten very
slowly. While she did this, the others placed
themselves behind tables or chairs, or wherever
they felt safe from the blindfolded pursuer.

“Ten!” cried Marjorie, at last. “Still Pond!
No moving!”

This was a signal for perfect quiet; any one
moving after that had to be “It” in turn.

No sound was heard, so Marjorie felt her way[Pg 65]
cautiously about until she should catch some one.
It was hard for the others not to laugh as she
narrowly escaped touching Kingdon’s head above
the back of the sofa, and almost caught Kitty’s
foot as it swung from a table. But at last she
caught her father, who was on the floor covered
up with an afghan, and so Mr. Maynard was
“It” in his turn.

It was a rollicking game, and a very exciting
one, and, as often was the case, it soon merged into
Blindman’s Buff. This was even more romping
and noisy, and soon the picnic sounded like Pandemonium
let loose.

“Good!” cried Mr. Maynard, as he looked at
the red, laughing faces, and moist, tumbled curls.
“You look just like a lot of healthy, happy
boys and girls should look, but that’s enough of
that. Now, we’ll sit down in a circle, and play
quiet games.”

Again the group occupied the logs and stones,
ottomans and sofa cushions if they preferred, and
they played guessing games selected by each in
turn.

When it was Mr. Maynard’s turn, he said he
would teach them the game of the Popular Picnic.[Pg 66]
He began by telling them they must each in turn
repeat what he himself should say.

Turning to Kingdon, he said, “To-day I have
been to the Popular Picnic.”

So Kingdon said to Dick, “To-day I have been
to the Popular Picnic.”

Then Dick said it to Marjorie, and Marjorie
to Gladys, and so on all round the circle.

Then Mr. Maynard said, gravely: “To-day I
have been to the Popular Picnic. Merry, madcap
Mopsy Midget was there.”

This was repeated all round, and then to the
lingo Mr. Maynard added, “Kicking, kinky-legged
Kingdon was there.”

This, after the other, was not so easy, but they
all repeated it.

Next came, “Dear, dainty, do-little Dorothy
was there.”

This made them laugh, but they said it safely
all round.

Then, “Delightful, dangerous, Deadwood Dick
was there.”

They had to help each other this time, but not
one of them would give up the game.

“Gay, gregarious, giggling Gladys was there.”

Gladys was indeed giggling, but so were all[Pg 67]
the others. Still they were a determined lot, and
each time round each one repeated all the sets of
names, amid the laughing of the others.

“Kind-hearted, Kindergarten Kitty,” was an
easy one, but when the list wound up with “Rollicking
Rufflecumtuffle Rosy Posy,” the game ended
in a gale of laughter.

But they remembered many of the funny
phrases, and often called each other by them
afterward.

“Now,” said Mr. Maynard, “we’ll play something
less wearing on the intellect. This is called
the motor-car game, and you must all sit in a row.
Kingdon, you’re the chauffeur, and when chauffeur
is mentioned, you must make a ‘chuff-chuff’
sound like starting the machine. Dick, you’re
the tire, and when tire is said, you must make
a fearful report like an explosion of a bursting
tire. Dorothy, you’re the number, and when number
is mentioned, you must say six-three-nine-nine-seven.”

“What am I, Father?” said impatient Kitty.

“Oh, you’re the man that they run over, and
you must groan and scream. Marjorie, you’re[Pg 68]
the speed limit, and you must cry, ‘Whiz! Zip!!
Whizz!!!‘ Gladys, you’re the dust. All you have
to do is to fly about and wave your arms and
hands, and sneeze. Rosy Posy, baby, you’re the
horn. Whenever father says horn, you must say
‘Toot, toot!’ Will you?”

“Ess. Me play game booful, me an’ Boffin;
we say, ‘Toot, toot!'”

“Now,” went on Mr. Maynard, “I’ll tell the
story and when any of you are mentioned you
must do your part. Then if I say automobile,
you must all do your parts at once. Ready now:
Well, this morning I started out for a ride and
first thing I knew my tire burst.”

A fearful “Plop!” from Dick startled them
all, and then the game went on.

“I feared I was exceeding the speed-limit
[much puffing and whizzing from Marjorie], and
as I looked back through the dust [great cloud of
dust represented by Gladys’ pantomime] I saw
I had run over a man!”

The awful groans and wails from Kitty were
so realistic that Mr. Maynard himself shook with
laughter.

“I sounded my horn——”

“Tooty-toot-toot!” said Rosy Posy, after be[Pg 69]ing
prompted by Kingdon.

“But as I was my own chauffeur”—here Kingdon’s
representation of a starting motor quite
drowned the speaker’s voice—”I hastened on before
they could even get my number.”

“Eight-six-eleven-nine,” cried Dorothy, quite
forgetting the numbers she had been told.
But nobody minded it, for just then Mr.
Maynard said, “And so I went home with my
automobile.”

At this everybody turned up at once, and the
dust cloud flew about, and the man who was run
over groaned fearfully, and tires burst one after
another, and the horn tooted, until Mr. Maynard
was really obliged to cry for mercy, and the
game was at an end.

The afternoon, too, was nearly at an end, and
so quickly had it flown that nobody could believe
it was almost six o’clock!

But it was, and it was time for the picnic to
break up, and for the little guests to go home.
It had stopped raining, but was still dull and
wet, so the raincoats were donned again, and,
with their beautiful baskets of candies wrapped in[Pg 70]
protecting tissue papers, Gladys and Dorothy
and Dick clambered into Mr. Maynard’s carriage
and were driven to their homes.

“Good-bye!” they called, as they drove
away. “Good-bye, all! We’ve had a lovely
time!”

“Lovely? I should say so!” said Marjorie,
who was clinging to her father’s arm. “It’s
been the very best Ourday ever, and I’m so glad
it rained!”

“My prophecy has come true!” declared Mr.
Maynard, striking a dramatic attitude. “Only
this morning I prognosticated you’d say that, and
you——”

“And I didn’t see how it could be possible,”
agreed Marjorie, wagging her head, wisely. “I
know it. But you made it possible, you beautiful,
dear, smart, clever, sweet father, you, and I’ve
had just the elegantest time!”

“When it’s my turn, I shall choose a picnic in
the house,” said Kitty.

“Not unless it’s a rainy day,” said her father.
“I’ve enjoyed the day, too, but I can tell you it’s
no joke to get up this kind of a picnic. Why, I
was telephoning and sending errands for two[Pg 71]
hours before you kiddies were awake this
morning.”

“Dear Daddy,” said Marjorie, caressing his
hand in both her own, “you are so good to us;
and I do hope it will rain next Ourday!”

“So do I!” said all the others.

CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

At last schooldays began, and one Monday morning
the three Maynards started off.

The first day of school was a great occasion,
and much preparation had been made for it.

Mr. Maynard had brought each of the children
a fine new box, well stocked with pencils, pens, and
things of that sort. Kitty had a new slate, and
Midget and King had new blankbooks.

Also, they were all in a state of clean starchiness,
and the girls’ pretty gingham dresses and
King’s wide white collar were immaculate.

Marjorie didn’t look especially happy, but her
mother said:

“Now, Mopsy, dear, don’t go to school as if
it were penance. Try to enjoy it, and think of
the fun you’ll have playing with the other girls at
recess.”

“I know, Mother; but recess is so short, and[Pg 73]
school is so long.”

“Ho! Only till one o’clock,” said Kingdon.
“Then we can come home, have lunch, and then
there’s all the afternoon to play.”

“Yes, for you,” said Marjorie. “But I have
to practise a whole hour, and that leaves almost
no time at all, and there are so many things I
want to do.”

“Now, my little girl,” said Mrs. Maynard, very
seriously, “you must try to conquer that mood.
You know you have to go to school, so why not
make the best of it? You don’t really dislike it as
much as you think you do. So, cheer up, little
daughter, and run along, determined to see the
bright side, even of school.”

“I will try, Mother,” said Midget, smiling, as
she received her good-bye kiss, “but I’ll be glad
when it’s one o’clock.”

“I wiss me could go to school,” said Rosy Posy,
wistfully; “me an’ Boffin, we’d have fun in
school.”

“There it is,” said Mrs. Maynard, laughing.
“Little girls who can go to school don’t want to
go, and little girls who can’t go do want to!”

“You’ll go some day, Baby,” said King, “but[Pg 74]
they won’t let you take Boffin.”

“Den I won’t go!” declared Rosy Posy,
decidedly.

The three walked down the path to the gate,
and, soon after they reached the street, they were
joined by several others, also schoolward bound.

Marjorie’s spirits rose, as she chatted with the
merry young people; and as they passed the Fulton
house, and Dick and Gladys came out, Marjorie
was so glad to see her friend that she was
at once her own happy, merry little self again.

Miss Lawrence’s room was one of the pleasantest
in the big brick building. When Marjorie
and Gladys presented themselves at her desk, and
asked if they might sit together, the teacher hesitated.
She wanted to grant the request of the
little girls, but they had been in her class the year
before, and she well knew their propensities for
mischief.

“Oh, please, Miss Lawrence!” begged Marjorie;
and, “Oh, do say yes!” pleaded Gladys.

It was hard to resist the little coaxers, and Miss
Lawrence at last consented.

“But,” she said, “you may sit at the same[Pg 75]
desk only so long as you behave well. If you cut
up naughty pranks, I shall separate you for the
rest of the term.”

“We won’t!” “We will be good!” cried the two
children, and they ran happily away to their desk.

Each desk was arranged for two occupants,
and both Marjorie and Gladys enjoyed putting
their things away neatly, and keeping them in
good order. They never spilled ink, or kept their
papers helter-skelter, and but for their mischievous
ways, would have been model pupils indeed.

“Let’s be real good all the term, Gladys,” said
Midget, who was still under the influence of her
mother’s parting words. “Let’s try not to cut up
tricks, or do anything bad.”

“All right, Mopsy. But you mustn’t make me
laugh in school. It’s when you begin to do funny
things that I seem to follow on.”

“Well, I won’t. I’ll be as good as a little white
mouse. But if I’m a mouse, I’ll nibble your
things.”

Down went Marjorie’s curly head like a flash,
and when it came up again, Gladys’ new penholder
was between her teeth, and the “mouse”
was vigorously nibbling it.

“Stop that, Mops! I think you’re real mean![Pg 76]
That’s my new penholder, and now you’ve spoiled
it.”

“So I have! Honest, Gladys, I didn’t think the
dents would show so. I was just playing mouse,
you know. Here, I’ll change, and give you mine.
It’s new, too.”

“No, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will; you must. I’m awfully sorry
I chewed yours.”

Poor little Midget! She was always impulsively
getting into mischief, but she was always sorry,
and generously anxious to make amends.

So Gladys took Marjorie’s penholder, and
Mopsy had the nibbled one. She didn’t like it a
bit, for she liked to have her things in good order,
but she said to Gladys:

“Perhaps it will make me remember to be good
in school. Oh, s’pose I’d played mouse in school
hours!”

“Keep still,” said Gladys, “the bell has
rung.”

The morning passed pleasantly enough, for
there were no lessons on the first day of
school.

Books were distributed, and class records were[Pg 77]
made, and lessons given out for next day.

Marjorie was delighted with her new geography,
which was a larger book than the one she had
had the year before. Especially was she pleased
with a large map which was called the “Water
Hemisphere.” On the opposite page was the
“Land Hemisphere,” and this was a division of
the globe she had never seen before.

The Water Hemisphere pleased her best, and
she at once began to play games with it.

Talking was, of course, forbidden, but motioning
for Gladys to follow her example, she made a
tiny paper boat, and then another, and several
others. These she set afloat on the printed ocean
of the Water Hemisphere. Gladys, delighted with
the fun, quickly made some boats for herself, and
arranged them on her own geography. Other
pupils, seeing what was going on, followed the
example, and soon nearly all the geographies in
the room had little paper craft dotting their
oceans.

Next, Marjorie made some little men and women
to put in the boats. She had no scissors, but tore
them roughly out of paper which she took from[Pg 78]
her blankbook. Other leaves of this she obligingly
passed around, until all the boats in the
room were supplied with passengers.

Then Marjorie, still in her position of leader,
tore out a semblance of a fish. It seemed to be a
whale or shark, with wide-open jaws.

This awful creature came slowly up from the
Antarctic Ocean, toward the ships full of people.

Suddenly a boat upset, the passengers fell out,
and the whale made a dash for them.

This awful catastrophe was repeated in the
other oceans, and, needless to say, in a moment
the whole roomful of children were in peals of
laughter.

Miss Lawrence looked up from her writing, and
saw her class all giggling and shaking behind
their geographies. Instinctively she glanced toward
Marjorie, but that innocent damsel had
swept all her boats and whales into her pocket,
and was demurely studying her lessons.

Marjorie did not in the least mean to deceive
Miss Lawrence, but when the children all laughed,
she suddenly realized that she had been out of
order, and so she quickly stopped her play, and
resumed her task.

Observing the open geographies covered with[Pg 79]
scraps of paper, Miss Lawrence felt she must at
least inquire into the matter, and, though the children
did not want to “tell tales,” it soon transpired
that Marjorie Maynard had been ringleader
in the game.

“Why did you do it, Marjorie?” asked Miss
Lawrence, with a reproachful expression on her
face. As she had meant no harm, Marjorie felt
called upon to defend herself.

“Why, Miss Lawrence,” she said, rising in her
seat, “I didn’t think everybody would do it, just
because I did. And I didn’t think much about it
anyway. I s’pose that’s the trouble. I never
think! But I never had a jography before with
such a big ocean map, and it was such a lovely
place to sail boats, I just made a few. And then
I just thought I’d put some people in the boats,
and then it seemed as if such a big ocean ought
to have fish in it. So I made a whale,—and I was
going to make a lot of bluefish and shads and
things, but a boat upset, and the whale came after
the people, and then, first thing I knew, everybody
was laughing! I didn’t mean to do wrong.”

Marjorie looked so genuinely distressed that[Pg 80]
Miss Lawrence hadn’t the heart to scold her. But
she sighed as she thought of the days to come.

“No, Marjorie,” she said, “I don’t think you
did mean to do wrong, but you ought to know
better than to make paper toys to play with in
school.”

“But it isn’t exactly a schoolday, Miss
Lawrence.”

“No; and for that very reason I shall not punish
you this time. But remember, after this, that
playing games of any sort is out of place in the
schoolroom.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Marjorie, and she sat
down, feeling that she had been forgiven, and
firmly resolved to try harder than ever to be
good.

But half-suppressed chuckles now and then, in
different parts of the schoolroom, proved to the
watchful Miss Lawrence that some of the whales
were still lashing about the paper oceans in quest
of upturned boats.

The game so filled Marjorie’s thoughts that she
asked that Gladys and she might be allowed to
stay in the schoolroom at recess and play it.

“There’s surely no harm in playing games at[Pg 81]
recess, is there, Miss Lawrence?” she asked, as
she caressed her teacher’s hand.

Miss Lawrence hesitated. “No,” she said, at
last; “I can’t let you stay in the schoolroom.
I’m sorry, dearies, and I hate to be always saying
‘No,’ but I feel sure your parents want you
to run out in the fresh air at recess time, and they
wouldn’t like to have you stay indoors.”

“Oh, dear,” said Marjorie; “seems ‘sif we
can’t have any fun!” Then her face brightened,
and she added, “But mayn’t we take our jographies
out on the playground, and play out
there?”

There was a rule against taking schoolbooks
out of the classrooms, but Miss Lawrence so disliked
to say ‘No’ again that she made a special
dispensation, and said:

“Yes, do take your geographies out with
you. But be very careful not to soil or tear
them.”

And so the two girls danced away, and all
through the recess hour, boats upset and awful
sharks swallowed shrieking victims. But, as
might have been expected, most of the other children
came flying back to the schoolroom for their[Pg 82]
geographies, and again Miss Lawrence was in a
quandary.

“I never saw a child like Marjorie Maynard,”
she confided to another teacher. “She’s the dearest
little girl, but she gets up such crazy schemes,
and all the others follow in her footsteps.”

So, after recess, Miss Lawrence had to make a
rule that books could not be used as playthings,
even at recess times.

For the rest of the morning, Marjorie was a
model pupil.

She studied her lessons for the next day, and
though Miss Lawrence glanced at her from time
to time, she never saw anything amiss.

But when school was over at one o’clock, Marjorie
drew a long breath and fairly flew for
her hat.

“Good-bye, dearie,” said Miss Lawrence, as
Midge passed her when the long line filed out.

“Good-bye!” was the smiling response, and in
two minutes more Mopsy was skipping and jumping
across the playground.

“Hello, King!” she called. “Where’s Kitty?
Oh, here you are! Now we can all go home together.
What shall we do this afternoon? I[Pg 83]
want to do something jolly to take the taste of
school out of my mouth.”

“Come over to our house and play in the hay,”
said Dick Fulton.

“All right, we will. I’ll have my practising
done by three o’clock, and we’ll come then.”

A little later, and the three Maynards flew in
at their own gate, and found a warm welcome and
a specially good luncheon awaiting them.

“I got along pretty well, Mother,” said Marjorie,
as they all told their morning’s experiences.
“Only I couldn’t help playing paper boats.” She
told the whole story, and Mrs. Maynard smiled as
she said:

“Marjorie, you are incorrigible; but I fear you
will only learn by experience——”

“What is incorrigible?” asked Marjorie.

“It’s ‘most too big a word for you to understand,”
said her mother, “but it means you must
just keep on everlastingly trying to be good.”

“I will,” said Mops, heartily, and then she
turned her attention to the chicken pie before her.

CHAPTER VII

THE JINKS CLUB

Saturday was hailed with delight by the four
Maynards.

Now that school had begun, a whole playday
meant more than it did in vacation time, when
all days were playdays.

It was a glorious September day, and as it was
an early autumn, many leaves had fallen and lay
thick upon the ground.

“I know what to do,” said Marjorie, as directly
after breakfast they put on hats and coats for
outdoor play of some sort. “Let’s make leaf-houses.”

“All right,” said Kingdon, “and let’s telephone
for the others.”

“The others” always meant the two Fultons
and Kitty’s friend, Dorothy Adams.

Rosy Posy was too little to have a special chum,
so Boffin was her companion.

Leaf-houses was a favorite game with all of[Pg 85]
them, and soon the three guests came skipping
through the gate.

The leaves had been raked from the lawn, but
down in the orchard they were on the ground like
a thick carpet. The orchard had many maples
and elms, as well as fruit trees, so there were leaves
of all sorts.

“Isn’t it fun to scuffle through ’em!” said Marjorie,
as she led the way, shuffling along, almost
knee-deep in the brown, dry leaves.

“More fun to roll!” cried Dick, tumbling down
and floundering about.

Down went Rosy Posy in imitation of Dick’s
performance, and then they all fell into the leaves,
and burrowed about like rabbits.

Presently Marjorie’s head emerged like a
bright-eyed turtle poking out from its shell, and
shaking the dead leaves out of her curls, she said:
“Come on, let’s make houses. King, won’t you
and Dick get some rakes?”

The boys flew off to the toolhouse, and came
back with several rakes, both wood and iron ones.

“Here’s all we can find,” said King. “Some
of us can rake, and some can build things.”

They all set to work with a will, and soon two[Pg 86]
houses were in process of construction.

These houses were, of course, merely a ground
plan, and long, low piles of leaves divided the
rooms. Openings in these partitions made doors,
and the furniture was also formed of heaps of
leaves. A long heap was a sofa, and a smaller
heap a chair, while a round, flat heap was a table.

King, Gladys, and Dorothy were one family,
while Dick, Marjorie, and Kitty were the other.

Rosy Posy was supposed to be an orphan child,
who lived with one family or the other in turn, as
suited her somewhat fickle fancy.

In each family the children represented father,
mother, and daughter, and they were pleasantly
neighborly, or at odds with each other, as occasion
required.

To-day the spirit of adventure was strong in
Marjorie, and she decreed they should play
robbers.

This was always a good game, so they all
agreed.

“First, King’s family must be robbed,” said
Midget; “and then, after you catch us, you
rob us.”

The burglaries were thus amicably planned, and[Pg 87]
Kingdon and his family, lying on leaf-couches,
fell into a deep, but somewhat noisy slumber. Indeed,
their snoring was loud enough to frighten
away most robbers.

Rosy Posy didn’t count in this game, so she was
allowed to wander in and out of either house.

When the Kingdon family were very sound
asleep, the Dick family crept softly in through
the open doors, and endeavored to steal certain
valuable silver from the sideboard. This silver
was admirably represented by chips and sticks.

Dick and Marjorie had secured their booty and
were carefully sneaking away when King awoke,
and with a howl pounced upon Kitty, who was
still industriously stealing silver.

This, of course, was part of the game, and Dick
and Midget wrung their hands in despair as they
saw their daughter forcibly detained by the
master of the house.

Then Gladys and Dorothy were awakened by
the noise, and added their frightened screams to
the general hullaballoo.

Kitty was bound hand and foot in the very
dining-room where the silver had been, and King[Pg 88]
went valiantly out to hunt the other marauders.
Then the game was for King and his family to
try to catch Dick and Midget, or for Kitty’s
parents to release her from her bondage.

At last, as King and Gladys were both engaged
in chasing Dick, Marjorie found an opportunity
to free Kitty, and then the game began again,
the other way round.

At last they tired of hostilities and agreed to
rebuild their houses, combining them in one, and
calling it a big hotel.

“Or a clubhouse,” said King, who had recently
visited one with his father, and had been much
impressed.

“Clubhouses are grand,” he said. “They have
porches, and swimming-pools, and gyms, and
dining-rooms, and everything!”

So the architecture was changed, and soon a
fine clubhouse was outlined in leafy relief.

“Then if this is a clubhouse, we’re a club,” said
Kitty, thoughtfully.

“Oh, let’s be a club!” exclaimed Marjorie.
“Clubs are lots of fun. I mean children’s clubs—not
big ones like father’s.”

“What do clubs do?” asked Dorothy, who had[Pg 89]
a wholesome fear of some of the Maynards’
escapades.

“Why, we can do anything we want to, if
we’re a club,” said Dick. “I think it would be
fun. What shall we do?”

“Let’s cut up jinks,” said Marjorie, who was
especially energetic that day.

“And let’s call it the Jinks Club,” suggested
Gladys.

“Goody! Goody!!” cried Midge. “Just the
thing, Glad! And then we can cut up any jinks
we want to,—as long as they’re good jinks,”
she added, thoughtfully.

“What do you mean by that?” demanded
King.

“Well, you see, last summer at Grandma’s, she
told me there were good jinks and bad jinks. She
meant just plain fun, or real mischief. And I
promised I’d cut up only good jinks.”

“All right,” said Dick, “I’ll agree to that.
We just want to have fun, you know; not get into
mischief.”

So, as they were all agreed on this, the Jinks
Club was started.

“I’ll be president,” volunteered Marjorie.

“Does somebody have to be president?” asked[Pg 90]
Gladys. “And does the president have all the
say?”

“Let’s all be presidents,” said King. “I know
clubs usually have only one; but who cares?
We’ll be different.”

“All right,” said Marjorie. “And, anyway,
we won’t need a secretary and treasurer and such
things, so we’ll each be president. I think that
will be more fun, too.”

“Me be president,” announced Rosy Posy, “an’
Boffin be a president, too.”

“Yes,” said King, smiling at his baby sister,
“you and Boff and all the rest of us. Then,
you see, we can all make rules, if we want to.”

“We don’t need many rules,” said Dick. “Just
a few about meetings and things. When shall we
meet?”

“Every day after school, and every Saturday,”
said Marjorie, who was of a whole-souled nature.

“Oh, no!” said Gladys. “I know Mother
won’t let me come as often as that.”

“Don’t let’s have special times,” said King.
“Just whenever we’re all together, we’ll have a
meeting.”

This was agreed to, but Marjorie didn’t seem[Pg 91]
quite satisfied.

“It doesn’t seem like a real club,” she said,
“unless we have dues and badges and things like
that.”

“Huh, dues!” said King. “I want to spend
my money for other things besides dues to an
old club! What would we do with the dues,
anyway?”

“Oh, save them up in the treasury,” said Marjorie,
“until we had enough to go to the circus, or
something nice like that.”

This sounded attractive, and King reconsidered.

“Well, I don’t mind,” he said. “But I won’t
give all my money. I have fifty cents a week.
I’ll give ten.”

“So will I,” said Dick, and the others all
agreed to do the same.

Of course, Rosy Posy didn’t count, so this made
sixty cents a week, and furthermore it necessitated
a treasurer.

“Let’s each be treasurer,” said King, remembering
how well his presidential plan had
succeeded.

“No,” said Midget; “that’s silly. I’ll be[Pg 92]
treasurer, and I’ll keep all the money safely, until
we want to use it for something nice.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” said Gladys. “Mopsy’s
awfully careful about such things, and she’ll keep
the money better than any of us. I haven’t mine
here now; I’ll bring it over this afternoon.”

“I don’t care much about the money part,” said
King. “I want to cut up jinks. When do we
begin?”

“Right now!” said Marjorie, jumping up.
“The first jink is to bury King in leaves!”

The rest caught the idea, and in a moment the
luckless Kingdon was on his back and held down
by Dick, while the girls piled leaves all over him.
They left his face uncovered, so he could breathe,
but they heaped leaves over the rest of him, and
packed them down firmly, so he couldn’t move.

When he was thoroughly buried, Marjorie said:
“Now we’ll hide. Don’t start to hunt till you
count fifty, King.”

“One, two, three,” began the boy, and the
others flew off in all directions.

All except Rosy Posy. She remained, and, patting
King’s cheek with her fat little hand, said:
“Me’ll take care of you, Budder. Don’t ky.”

“All right, Baby,—thirty-six, thirty-seven,[Pg 93]
thirty-eight,—take that leaf out of my eye!
thirty-nine, forty—thank you, Posy.”

A minute more, and King shouted “Fifty!
Coming, ready or not!” and, shaking himself out
of his leaf-heap, he ran in search of the others.
Rosy Posy, used to being thus unceremoniously
left, tumbled herself and Boffin into the demolished
leaf-heap, and played there contentedly.

King hunted for some minutes without finding
anybody. Then a voice right over his head said,
“Oo-ee!”

He looked up quickly, but saw only a tree which
had not yet shed its foliage, and who was up there
he could not guess from the voice.

If he guessed wrong, he must be “It” over
again, so he peered cautiously up into the branches.

“Who are you?” he called.

“Oo-ee!” said a voice again, but this time it
sounded different.

“Here goes, then,” said King, and he swung
himself up into the lower branches, keeping sharp
watch lest his quarry elude him, and slip down the
other side.

But once fairly up in the tree, he found the[Pg 94]
whole five there awaiting him, and as they all
dropped quickly to the ground, and ran for
“home” he had to jump and follow, to get there
first himself.

The jolly game of Hide-and-Seek lasted the
rest of the morning, and then the little guests
went home, promising to come back in the afternoon
and bring their contributions to the treasury
of the “Jinks Club.”

The afternoon meeting found the Maynards in
spandy-clean clothes, sitting on the side veranda.

“Mother says we’re not to romp this afternoon,”
explained Marjorie. “She says we may
swing, or play in the hammock, or on the lawn,
but we can’t go to the orchard.”

“All right,” said good-natured Dick; “and,
say, I’ve been thinking over our club, and I think
we ought to be more like a real club. Why not
have regular meetings, and have programmes and
things?”

“Oh!” groaned King. “Speak pieces, do you
mean?”

“No; not that. We get enough of speaking
pieces, Friday afternoons, in school. I mean,—oh,
pshaw, I don’t know what I mean!”

“You mean read minutes, and things like that,”[Pg 95]
suggested Marjorie, helpfully.

“Yes,” said Dick, eagerly, “that’s just what
I mean.”

“All right,” said Marjorie, “I’ll be secretary,
and write them.”

“Now, look here, Midge,” said Kingdon, “you
can’t be everything! You want to be president
and treasurer and secretary and all. Perhaps
you’d like to be all the members!”

“Fiddlesticks, King!” said Marjorie; “nobody
else seems to want to be anything. Now, I’ll tell
you what, let’s have six things to be,—officers, you
know, and then we’ll each be one.”

“That’s a good way,” said Gladys. “You be
treasurer, Marjorie, ’cause you’re so good at
arithmetic, and you can take care of our
money. Dick can be secretary, ’cause he writes
so well.”

“I will,” said Dick, “if King will be president.
He’s best for that,—and then, Gladys, you can
be vice-president.”

“What can Dorothy and I be?” asked Kitty,
who didn’t see many offices left.

Marjorie considered. “You can be the com[Pg 96]mittee,”
she said, at last. “They always have a
committee to decide things.”

This sounded pleasing, and now all were
satisfied.

“Well, if I’m treasurer,” said Marjorie, “I’ll
take up the collection now.”

Promptly five dimes were handed to her, and,
adding one of her own, she put them all into a
little knitted silk purse she had brought for the
purpose.

“Is there any further business to come before
this meeting?” asked the President, rolling out
his words with great dignity, as befitted his
position.

“No, sir,” said Kitty; “I’m the committee to
decide things, and I say there isn’t any more business.
So what do we do next?”

“I’ll tell you!” cried Midget, in a sudden burst
of inspiration; “let’s go down to Mr. Simmons’
and all have ice-cream with our money in the
treasury. I’ll ask Mother if we may.”

“But, Mopsy!” cried King, in surprise. “I
thought we were to save that to go to the circus.”

“Oh, pshaw! Father’ll take us to the circus.
Or we can save next week’s money for that. But,[Pg 97]
truly, I feel like cutting up jinks, and we can’t
play in the orchard, and it would be lots of fun
to go for ice-cream, all together.”

“It would be fun,” said Dick; and then they
all agreed to Marjorie’s plan.

Mrs. Maynard listened with amusement to the
story, and then said they might go if they would
behave like little ladies and gentlemen and return
home inside of an hour.

Off they started, and a more decorous-looking
crowd than the Jinks Club one would not wish
to see!

Mr. Simmons’ Ice-Cream Garden was a most
attractive place.

It was a small grove, by the side of a small
stream, and the tables were in a sort of pavilion
that overlooked the water.

The children were welcomed by the good-natured
old proprietor, who had served his
ice-cream to their parents when they were
children.

“And what kind will you have?” asked Mr.
Simmons, after they were seated around a table.

This required thought, but each finally chose
a favorite mixture, and soon they were enjoying[Pg 98]
the pink or white pyramids that were brought
them.

“I do think the Jinks Club is lovely,” said
Kitty, as she gazed out over the water and contentedly
ate her ice-cream.

“So do I,” said Dorothy, who always agreed
with her adored chum, but was, moreover, happy
on her own account.

“I shall write all this up in the minutes!” declared
Dick. “And when shall we have our next
meeting?”

“Next Saturday,” said Kitty. “I’m the committee,
and I decide things.”

“So do I,” said Dorothy, and they all agreed
to meet the next Saturday morning.

CHAPTER VIII

SPELLING TROUBLES

“What is the matter, Midge?” said her father,
“You sigh as if you’d lost your last friend.”

The family were in the pleasant living-room one
evening, just after dinner.

All, that is, except Rosy Posy, who had gone
to bed long ago. Kingdon was reading, and Kitty
was idly playing with the kitten, while Marjorie,
her head bent over a book on the table, was abstractedly
moving her lips as if talking to herself.

“Oh, Father! it’s this horrid old spelling lesson.
I just can’t learn it, and that all there is about
it!”

“Can’t learn to spell? Bring me your book,
and let me have a look at it.”

Very willingly Marjorie flew to her father’s
side, and, big girl though she was, perched herself
on his knee while she showed him the page.

“Just look! There’s ‘deleble’ spelled with an[Pg 100]
e, and ‘indelible’ with an i! Why can’t they spell
them alike?”

“I think myself they might as well have done
so,” said Mr. Maynard, “but, since they didn’t,
we’ll have to learn them as they are. Where is
your lesson?”

“All that page. And they’re fearfully hard
words. And words I’ll never use anyway. Why
would I want to use ‘harassed’ and ‘daguerreotype’
and ‘macaroni’ and such words as those?”

Mr. Maynard smiled at the troubled little face.

“You may not want to use them, dearie, but it
is part of your education to learn to spell them.
Come, now, I’ll help you, and we’ll soon put them
through. Let’s pick out the very hardest one
first.”

“All right; ‘daguerreotype’ is the hardest.”

“Oh, pshaw, no! That’s one of the very easiest.
Just remember that it was a Frenchman named
Daguerre who invented the process; then you only
have to add ‘o’ and ‘type,’ and there you are!”

“Why, that is easy! I’ll never forget that.
‘Macaroni’ is a hard one, though.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because I always put two c’s or two r’s or[Pg 101]
two n’s in it.”

“Ho, that makes it easy, then. Just remember
that there isn’t a double letter in it, and then
spell it just as it sounds. Why, macaroni is so
long and thin that there isn’t room for a double
letter in it.”

“Oh, Father, you make it so easy. Of course
I’ll remember that, now.”

Down the long list they went, and Mr. Maynard,
with some little quip or quibble, made each
word of special interest, and so fixed it in Marjorie’s
memory. At the end of a half-hour she was
perfect in the lesson, and had thoroughly enjoyed
the learning of it.

“I wish you’d help me every night,” she said,
wistfully. “All this week, anyway. For there’s
to be a spelling-match on Friday, between our class
and Miss Bates’ class, and we want to win. But
I’m such a bad speller, nobody wants to choose
me on their side.”

“They don’t, don’t they? Well, I rather think
we’ll change all that. You and I will attack Mr.
Speller every evening, and see if we can’t vanquish
him.”

“I think we can,” said Marjorie, her eyes[Pg 102]
sparkling. “For it’s only some few of those
catchy words that I can’t seem to learn. But
after you help me they all seem easy.”

So every night that week Midge and her father
had a spelling-class of their own, and fine work
was accomplished.

The spelling-match was to be on Friday, and
Thursday night they were to have a grand review
of all the lessons. Marjorie brought home her
schoolbooks on Thursday, and left them in the
house while she went out to play. But when she
came in to get ready for dinner, her mother was
dressing to go out.

“Where are you going, Mother?” said Marjorie,
looking admiringly at her mother’s pretty
gown.

“We’re going to Mrs. Martin’s to dinner,
dearie. She invited us over the telephone this
morning. There’s a very nice dinner prepared
for you children, and you must have a good time
by yourselves, and not be lonesome. Go to bed
promptly at nine o’clock, as we shall be out late.”

“Is father going, too?” cried Marjorie,
aghast.

“Yes, of course. You may fasten my glove,[Pg 103]
Midget, dear.”

“But I want father to help me with my
spelling.”

“I thought about that, Mops,” said her father,
coming into the room. “And I’m sorry I have to
be away to-night. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do.
When is this great spelling-match,—to-morrow?”

“Yes, to-morrow afternoon.”

“Well, you study by yourself this evening, and
learn all you can. Then skip to bed a bit earlier
than usual, and then hop up early to-morrow
morning. You and I will have an early breakfast,
at about seven o’clock. Then from half-past
seven to half-past eight I’ll drill you in that
old speller till you can spell the cover right off
it.”

“All right,” said Marjorie. “It’s really just
as well for me to study alone to-night, and then
you can help me a lot to-morrow morning. But
won’t it make you too late going to business?”

“No, I’ll take a half-hour off for your benefit.
If I leave here by half-past eight that will do
nicely, and that’s about the time you want to go
to school.”

So the matter was settled, and Mr. and Mrs.[Pg 104]
Maynard drove away, leaving the three children
to dine by themselves. The meal was a merry
one, for when thus left to themselves the children
always “pretended.”

“I’m a princess,” said Marjorie, as she seated
herself in her mother’s place. “These dishes are
all gold, and I’m eating birds of paradise with
nectarine sauce.”

Even as she spoke, Sarah brought her a plate
of soup, and Midge proceeded to eat it with an
exaggerated air of grandeur, which she thought
befitted a princess.

“I’m not a prince,” said Kingdon. “I’m an
Indian chief, and I’m eating wild boar steak, which
I shot with my own trusty bow and arrows.”

“I’m a queen in disguise,” said Kitty. “I’m
hiding from my pursuers, so I go around
in plain, dark garbs, and no one knows I’m a
queen.”

“How do we all happen to be dining at one
table?” asked Marjorie.

“It’s a public restaurant,” said King. “We all
came separately, and just chanced to sit at the
same table. May I ask your name, Madam?”

“I’m the Princess Seraphina,” said Marjorie,[Pg 105]
graciously. “My home is in the sunny climes
of Italy, and I’m travelling about to see the world.
And you, noble sir, what is your name?”

“I am Chief Opodeldoc, of the Bushwhack
Tribe. My tomahawk is in my belt, and whoever
offends me will add his scalp to my collection!”

“Oh, sir,” said Kitty, trembling; “I pray you
be not so fierce of manner! I am most mortal
timid.”

Kitty had a fine dramatic sense, and always
threw herself into her part with her whole soul.
The others would sometimes drop back into their
every-day speech, but Kitty was always consistent
in her assumed character.

“Is it so, fair Lady?” said King, looking
valiant. “Have no fear of me. Should aught
betide I will champion thy cause to the
limit.”

“And mine?” said Marjorie. “Can you
champion us both, Sir Opodeldoc?”

“Aye, that can I. But I trust this is a peaceful
hostelry. I see no sign of warfare.”

“Nay, nay, but war may break out apace.
Might I enquire your name, fair lady?”

“Hist!” said Kitty, her finger on her lip, and[Pg 106]
looking cautiously about, “I am, of a truth, the
Queen of—of Macedonia. But disguised as a
poor waif, I seek a hiding-place from my
tormentors.”

“Why do they torment you?”

“‘Tis a dark secret; ask me not. But tell
of yourself, Princess Seraphina. Dost travel
alone?”

“Yes; with but my suite of armed retainers.
Cavalrymen and infantry attend my way, and
twelve ladies-in-waiting wait on me.”

“A great princess, indeed,” said King, in admiration.
“We are well met!”

“Methinks I am discovered!” cried Kitty, as
Sarah approached her with a dish of pudding.
“This damsel! She is of my own household. Ha!
Doth she recognize me?”

Although used to the nonsense of the children,
Sarah couldn’t entirely repress a giggle as Kitty
glared at her.

“Eat your dinner, Miss Kitty,” she said, “an’
don’t be afther teasin’ me.”

“Safe!” exclaimed Kitty. “She knows me
not! ‘Kitty’ she calls me! Ha!”

The play went on all through the meal, for the[Pg 107]
Maynards never tired of this sort of fun.

“I’m going out for a few minutes,” said King,
as they at last rose from the table. “Father said
I might go down to Goodwin’s to get slides for my
camera. I won’t be gone long.”

“All right,” said Marjorie, “I’m going to
study my spelling. What are you going to do,
Kit?”

“I’m going up to the playroom. Nannie is going
to tell me stories while she sews.”

So Marjorie was alone in the living-room as she
took up her school-bag to get her spelling-book
from it. To her dismay it was not there! The
book which she had mistakenly brought for her
speller was her mental arithmetic; they were much
the same size, and she often mistook one for the
other.

But this time it was a serious matter. The
spelling-match was to be the next day, and
how could she review her lessons without her
book?

Her energetic mind began to plan what she
could do in the matter.

It was already after seven o’clock, quite too[Pg 108]
late to go to the schoolhouse after the missing
book. If King had been at home she would have
consulted him, but she had no one of whom to ask
advice.

She remembered what her father had said about
getting up early the next morning, and she wondered
if she couldn’t get up even earlier still, and
go to the schoolhouse for the book before breakfast.
She could get the key from the janitor,
who lived not far from her own home.

It seemed a fairly feasible plan, and, though
she would lose her evening’s study, she determined
to go to bed early, and rise at daybreak to go
for the book.

“I’ll write a note to mother,” she thought,
“telling her all about it, and I’ll leave it on her
dressing-table. Then, when she hears me prowling
out at six o’clock to-morrow morning, she’ll know
what I’m up to.”

The notion of an early morning adventure was
rather attractive, but suddenly Marjorie thought
that she might not be able to get the key from
the janitor so early as that.

“Perhaps Mr. Cobb doesn’t get up until seven
or later, and I can’t wait till then,” she pondered.[Pg 109]
“I’ve a good notion to go for that key to-night.
Then I can go to the schoolhouse as early
as I choose in the morning without bothering
anybody.”

She rose and went to the window. It was quite
dark, for, though the streets were lighted, the
lights were far apart, and there was no moon.

Of course, Marjorie never went out alone in the
evening, but this was such an exceptional occasion,
she felt sure her parents would not blame
her.

“If only King was here to go with me,” she
thought. But King was off on his own errand,
and she knew that when he returned he would
want to fix his camera, and, anyway, it would be
too late then.

Mr. Cobb’s house was only three blocks away,
and she could run down there and back in ten
minutes.

Deciding quickly that she must do it, Marjorie
put on her coat and hat and went softly out
at the front door. She felt sure that if she told
Nurse Nannie or Kitty of her errand, they would
raise objections, so she determined to steal off
alone. “And then,” she thought, “it will be fun[Pg 110]
to come home and ring the bell, and see
Sarah’s look of astonishment to find me at the
door!”

It was a pleasant night, though cool, and Marjorie
felt a thrill of excitement as she walked down
the dark path to the gate, and then along the
street alone.

In a few moments she reached Mr. Cobb’s house,
and rang the doorbell. Mr. Cobb was not at home,
but when Mrs. Cobb appeared at the door, Marjorie
made known her errand.

“Why, bless your heart, yes, little girl,” said
the kindly disposed woman. “I’ll let you take
the key, of course. Mr. Cobb, he always keeps it
hangin’ right here handy by. So you’re goin’ over
to the school at sun-up! Well, well, you’ve got
spunk, haven’t you, now? And don’t bother to
bring ‘t back. Mr. Cobb, he can stop at your
house for it, as he goes to the school at half-past
seven. Mebbe he’ll get there ‘fore you do,
after all. I dunno if you’ll find it so easy to wake
up at six o’clock as you think.”

“Oh, yes I will, Mrs. Cobb,” said Midget.
“I’m going to set an alarm clock. The only trouble
is that will awaken my sister, too. But I ‘spect[Pg 111]
she’ll go right to sleep again. You see it’s a very
important lesson, and I must have that book.”

“All right, little lady. Run along now and
get to bed early. Are you afraid? Shall I walk
home with you?”

“Oh, no, thank you. It’s only three blocks, and
I’ll run all the way. I’m ever so much obliged
for the key.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I’m glad to accommodate
you. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Mrs. Cobb,” said Marjorie, and
in another moment the gate clicked behind her.

As she reached the first turning toward her
own home, she looked off in the other direction,
where the schoolhouse stood. It was several blocks
away, and Marjorie was thinking how she would
run over there the next morning. And then a
crazy thought jumped into her brain. Why not
go now? Then she could study this evening, after
all. It was dark, to be sure, but it was not so
very late,—not eight o’clock yet.

The thought of entering the empty schoolhouse,
alone, and in utter darkness, gave her a thrill of
fear, but she said to herself:

“How foolish! There’s nothing to be afraid of[Pg 112]
in an empty schoolhouse. I can feel my way to
our classroom, and the street lights will shine
in some, anyway. Pooh, I guess I wouldn’t be
very brave if I was afraid of nothing! And just
to think of having that book to-night! I can get
it and be back home in twenty minutes. I believe
I’ll do it!”

Marjorie hesitated a moment at the corner.
Then she turned away from her home and toward
the schoolhouse, and took a few slow steps.

“Oh, pshaw!” she said to herself. “Don’t be
a coward, Marjorie Maynard! There’s nothing
to hurt you, and if you scoot fast, it won’t take
ten minutes to get that book.”

In a sudden accession of bravery, Marjorie
started off at a brisk pace.

As she went on, her courage ebbed a little, but
a dogged determination kept her from turning
back.

“I won’t be a baby, or a ‘fraid cat!” she said
angrily, to herself. “I’m not doing anything
wrong, and there’s no reason at all to be frightened.
But I do wish it wasn’t so dark.”

The part of town where the school stood was
less thickly settled than where Marjorie lived, and[Pg 113]
she passed several vacant lots. This made it seem
more lonely, and the far-apart street lights only
seemed to make darker the spaces between.

But Marjorie trudged on, grasping the key,
and roundly scolding herself for being timid.

CHAPTER IX

A REAL ADVENTURE

When at last she stood on the stone steps of the
schoolhouse, her courage returned, and, without
hesitation, she thrust the key in the lock of the
door.

It turned with a harsh, grating sound, and the
little girl’s heart beat rapidly as she pushed open
the heavy door. The hall was as black as a
dungeon, but by groping around she found the
banister rail, and so made her way upstairs.

Her resolution was undaunted, but the awful
silence of the empty, dark place struck a chill to
her heart. She ran up the stairs, and tried to
sing in order to break that oppressive silence. But
her voice sounded queer and trembly, and it made
echoes that were worse than no sound at all.

She had to go up two flights of stairs, and as
she reached the top of the second flight she was[Pg 115]
near her own classroom. As she turned the doorknob,
the street door, downstairs, which she had
left open, suddenly slammed shut with a loud bang.
The sound reverberated through the building, and
Midget stood still, shaking with an unconquerable
nervous dread. She didn’t know whether the door
blew shut or had been slammed to by some person.
She no longer pretended to herself that she was not
frightened, for she was.

“I know I’m silly,” she thought, as two big
tears rolled down her cheeks, “but if I can just get
that book, and get out of here, won’t I run for
home!”

Feeling her way, she stumbled into the classroom.
A faint light came in from the street,
but not enough to allow her to distinguish objects
clearly. Indeed, it cast such wavering, ghostly
shadows that the total darkness was preferable.

Counting the desks as she went along, she came
at last to her own, and felt around in it for her
speller.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, triumphantly,
as she clutched the book. And somehow the feeling
of the familiar volume took away some of the
loneliness.

But her trembling fingers let her desk-cover fall[Pg 116]
with another of those resounding, reëchoing slams
that no one can appreciate who has not heard them
under similar circumstances.

By this time Marjorie was thoroughly frightened,
though she herself could not have told what
she was afraid of. Grasping the precious speller,
she started, with but one idea in her mind,—to
get downstairs and out of that awful building
as quickly as possible.

She groped carefully for the newel-post, for
going down was more dangerous than coming up,
and she feared she might fall headlong.

Safely started, however, she almost ran downstairs,
and reached the ground floor, only to find
the front door had a spring-lock, which had fastened
itself when the door banged shut.

Marjorie’s heart sank within her when she
realized that she was locked in the schoolhouse.

She thought of the key, but she had stupidly
left that on the outside of the door.

“But anyway,” she thought, “I don’t believe
you have to have a key on the inside. You don’t
to our front door at home. You only have to pull
back a little brass knob.”

The thought of home made a lump come into[Pg 117]
poor Marjorie’s throat, and the tears came plentifully
as she fumbled vainly about the lock of the
door.

“Oh, dear,” she said to herself, “just s’pose I
have to stay here all night. I won’t go upstairs
again. I’ll sit on the steps and wait till
morning.”

But at last something gave way, the latch flew
up, and Marjorie swung the big door open, and
felt the cool night air on her face once more.

It was very dark, but she didn’t mind that, now
that she was released from her prison, and, after
making sure that the door was securely fastened,
she put the key safely in her pocket, and started
off toward home.

The church clock struck eight just as she
reached her own door, and she could hardly believe
she had made her whole trip in less than an hour.
It seemed as if she had spent a whole night alone
in the schoolhouse. She rang the bell, and in a moment
Sarah opened the door.

“Why, Miss Marjorie, wherever have you
been?” cried the astonished maid. “I thought
you was up in your own room.”

“I’ve been out on an errand, Sarah,” answered[Pg 118]
Midge, with great dignity.

“An errand, is it? At this time o’ night! I’m
surprised at ye, Miss Marjorie, cuttin’ up tricks
just because the folks is away.”

“Hello, Mopsy!” cried Kingdon, jumping
downstairs three at a time. “What have you been
up to now, I’d like to know.”

“Nothing much,” said Marjorie, gaily. Her
spirits had risen since she found herself once again
in her safe, warm, light home. “Don’t bother me
now, King; I want to study.”

“Mother’ll study you when she knows that
you’ve been out walking alone at night.”

“I don’t want you to tell her, King, because
I want to tell her myself.”

“All right, Midge. I know it’s all right, only I
think you might tell me.”

“Well, I will,” said Midget, in a sudden burst
of confidence.

Sarah had left the room, so Marjorie told King
all about her adventure.

The boy looked at her with mingled admiration
and amazement.

“You do beat all, Mopsy!” he said. “It was[Pg 119]
right down plucky of you, but you ought not to
have done it. Why didn’t you wait till I came
home, and I would have gone for you.”

“I didn’t mean to go, you know, at first. I
just went all of a sudden, after I had really
started to come home. I don’t think Mother’ll
mind, when I explain it to her.”

“You don’t, hey? Well, just you wait and
see!”

It was not easy to settle down to studying the
speller, after such an exciting adventure to get
it, but Marjorie determinedly set to work, and
studied diligently till nine o’clock, and then went
to bed.

Next morning her father awakened her at an
early hour, and a little before seven father and
daughter were seated at a cozy little tête-à-tête
breakfast.

At the table Marjorie gave her father a full
description of her experiences of the night before.

Mr. Maynard listened gravely to the whole
recital.

“My dear child,” he said, when she finished the
tale, “you did a very wrong thing, and I must
say I think you should have known better.”

“But I didn’t think it was wrong, Father.”[Pg 120]

“I know you didn’t, dearie; but you surely
know that you’re not allowed out alone at night.”

“Yes; but this was such a very unusual occasion,
I thought you’d excuse it. And, besides
King was out at night.”

“But he’s a boy, and he’s two years older than
you are, and then he had our permission to go.”

“That’s just it, Father. I felt sure if you
had known all about it, you would have given me
permission. I was going to telephone and ask
you if I might go to Mr. Cobb’s, and then I
thought it would interrupt the dinner party. And
I didn’t think you’d mind my running around to
Mr. Cobb’s. You know when I went there, I
never thought of going to the schoolhouse last
night.”

“How did you come to think of it?”

“Why, I wanted my speller so much, and when
I saw the schoolhouse roof sticking up above the
trees, it made me think I could just as well
run over there then, and so have my book at
once.”

“And you had no qualms of conscience that
made you feel you were doing something wrong?”

“No, Father,” said Marjorie, lifting her clear,[Pg 121]
honest eyes to his. “I thought I was cowardly
to be so afraid of the dark. But I knew it wasn’t
mischief, and I didn’t think it was wrong. Why
was it wrong?”

“I’m not sure I can explain, if you don’t see
it for yourself. But it is not right to go alone to
a place where there may be unseen or unknown
dangers.”

“But, Father, in our own schoolhouse? Where
we go every day? What harm could be
there?”

“My child, it is not right for any one to go
into an untenanted building, alone, in the dark.
And especially it is not right for a little girl of
twelve. Now, whether you understand this or not,
you must remember it, and never do such a thing
again.”

“Oh, Father, indeed I’ll never forget that old
speller again.”

“No; next time you’ll do some other ridiculous,
unexpected thing, and then say, ‘I didn’t know it
was wrong.’ Marjorie, you don’t seem to have
good common-sense about these things.”

“That’s what grandma used to say,” said[Pg 122]
Midge, cheerfully. “Perhaps I’ll learn, as I grow
up, Father.”

“I hope you will, my dear. And now, I’m not
going to punish you for this performance, for I
see you honestly meant no wrong, but I do positively
forbid you to go out alone after dark without
permission; no matter what may be the exceptional
occasion. Will you remember that?”

“Yes, indeed! That isn’t hard to remember.
And I’ve never wanted to before, and I don’t believe
I’ll ever want to again, until I’m grown up.
Do you?”

“You’re a funny child, Midget,” said her
father, looking at her quizzically. “But, do you
know, I rather like you; and I suppose you get
your spirit of adventure and daring from me.
Your Mother is most timid and conventional.
What do you s’pose she’ll say to all this, Mopsy
mine?”

“Why, as you think it was wrong, I s’pose
she’ll think so, too. I just can’t make it seem
wrong, myself, but as you say it was, why, of
course it must have been, and I promise never to
do it again. Now, if you’ve finished your coffee,
shall we begin to spell?”

“Yes, come on. Since you have the book, we[Pg 123]
must make the most of our time.”

An hour of hard work followed. Mr. Maynard
drilled Marjorie over and over on the most difficult
words, and reviewed the back lessons, until
he said he believed she could spell down Noah
Webster himself.

“And you must admit, Father,” said Marjorie,
as they closed the book at last, “that it’s a
good thing I did get my speller last night,
for I had a whole hour’s study on it, and besides
I didn’t have to go over there for it this
morning.”

“It would have been a better thing, my
child, if you had remembered it in the first
place.”

“Oh, yes, of course. But that was a mistake.
I suppose everybody makes mistakes sometimes.”

“I suppose they do. The proper thing is to
learn by our mistakes what is right and what
is wrong. Now the next time you are moved to do
anything as unusual as that, ask some one who
knows, whether you’d better do it or not. Now,
here’s Mother, we’ll put the case to her.”

In a few words, Mr. Maynard told his wife[Pg 124]
about Marjorie’s escapade.

“My little girl!” cried Mrs. Maynard, catching
Marjorie in her arms. “Why, Midget, darling,
how could you do such a dreadful thing?
Oh, thank Heaven, I have you safe at home
again!”

Marjorie stared. Here was a new view of the
case. Her mother seemed to think that she had
been in danger rather than in mischief.

“Oh,” went on Mrs. Maynard, still shuddering,
“my precious child, alone in that great empty
building!”

“Why, Mother,” said Marjorie, kissing her
tears away, “that was just it. An empty building
couldn’t hurt me! Do you think I was
naughty?”

“Oh, I don’t know whether you were naughty,
or not; I’m so glad to have you safe and sound
in my arms.”

“I’ll never do it again, Mother.”

“Do it again? Well, I rather think you
won’t! I shall never leave you alone again. I
felt all the time I oughtn’t to go off and leave
you children last night.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” said Mr. Maynard, “the[Pg 125]
children must be taught self-reliance. But we’ll
talk this matter over some other time. Marjorie,
you’ll be late to school if you’re not careful. And
listen to me, my child. I don’t want you to tell
any one of what you did last evening. It is something
that it is better to keep quiet about. Do
you understand? This is a positive command.
Don’t ask me why, just promise to say nothing
about it to your playmates or any one. No one
knows of it at present, but your mother, Kingdon,
and myself. I prefer that no one else should
know. Will you remember this?”

“Yes, Father; can’t I just tell Gladys?”

Mr. Maynard smiled.

“Marjorie, you are impossible!” he said.
“Now, listen! I said tell no one! Is Gladys any
one?”

“Yes, Father, she is.”

“Very well, then don’t tell her. Tell no one at
all. Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Midget, earnestly, and
then she kissed her parents and ran away to
school.

Kingdon had also been bidden not to tell of[Pg 126]
Marjorie’s escapade, and so it was never heard
of outside the family.

When it was time for the spelling-match, Marjorie
put away her books, and sat waiting, with
folded arms and a smiling face.

Miss Lawrence was surprised, for the child
usually was worried and anxious in spelling class.

Two captains were chosen, and these two selected
the pupils, one by one, to be their aids.

Marjorie was never chosen until toward the last,
for though everybody loved her, yet her inability
to spell was known by all, and she was not a desirable
assistant in a match.

But at last her name was called, and she demurely
took her place near the foot of the line on
one side.

Gladys was on the other side, near the head.
She was a good speller, and rarely made a mistake.

Miss Lawrence began to give out the words, and
the children spelled away blithely. Now and then
one would miss and another would go above.

To everybody’s surprise, Marjorie began to
work her way up toward the head of her line.
She spelled correctly words that the others missed,
and with a happy smile went along up the line.

At last the “spelling down” began. This[Pg 127]
meant that whoever missed a word must go to his
seat, leaving only those standing who did not miss
any word.

One by one the crestfallen unsuccessful ones
went to their seats, and, to the amazement of all,
Marjorie remained standing. At last, there were
but six left in the match.

“Macaroni,” said Miss Lawrence.

“M-a-c-c-a-r-o-n-i,” said Jack Norton, and regretfully
Miss Lawrence told him he must sit
down.

Three more spelled the word wrongly, and then
it was Marjorie’s turn:

“M-a-c-a-r-o-n-i,” said she, triumphantly, remembering
her father’s remark that there were
no double letters in it.

Miss Lawrence looked astounded. Now there
were left only Marjorie and Gladys, one on either
side of the room. It was an unfortunate situation,
for so fond were the girls of each other that each
would almost rather fail herself than to have her
friend fail.

On they went, spelling the words as fast as
Miss Lawrence could pronounce them.

Finally she gave Gladys the word “weird.”[Pg 128]

It was a hard word, and one often misspelled
by people much older and wiser than these
children.

“W-i-e-r-d,” said Gladys, in a confident
tone.

“Next,” said Miss Lawrence, with a sympathetic
look at Gladys.

“W-e-i-r-d,” said Marjorie, slowly. Her
father had drilled her carefully on this word,
bidding her remember that it began with two pronouns:
that is, we followed by I. Often by such
verbal tricks as this he fastened the letters in
Marjorie’s mind.

The match was over, and Marjorie had won,
for the first time in her life.

Gladys was truly pleased, for she would rather
have lost to Marjorie than any one else, and Miss
Lawrence was delighted, though mystified.

“I won! I won!” cried Marjorie, as she ran
into the house and found her mother. “Oh,
Mother, I won the spelling-match! Now, aren’t
you glad I went after my book?”

“I’m glad you won, dearie; but hereafter I
want you to stick to civilized behavior.”

“I will, Mother! I truly will. I’m so glad I[Pg 129]
won the match, I’ll stick to anything you say.”

“Well, my girlie, just try to do what you think
Mother wants you to, and try not to make
mistakes.”

CHAPTER X

IN INKY PLIGHT

“It’s perfectly fine, Glad; I think it will be the
most fun ever. How many are you going to
have?”

“About thirty, Mother says. I can’t ask Kitty,
and Dorothy Adams. All on the list are about as
old as we are.”

“Kitty’ll be sorry, of course; but I don’t believe
mother would let her go in the evening, anyway.
She’s only nine, you know.”

The two friends, Marjorie and Gladys, were on
their way to school, and Gladys was telling about
a Hallowe’en party she was to have the following
week. The party was to be in the evening,
from seven till nine, and, as it was unusual for
the girls to have evening parties, they looked forward
to this as a great occasion. Nearly all of
the children who were to be invited went to the
same school that Gladys did, so she carried the[Pg 131]
invitations with her, and gave them around before
school began.

The invitations were written on cards which bore
comical little pictures of witches, black cats, or
jack-o’-lanterns, and this was the wording:

Needless to say these cards caused great excitement
among the favored ones who received them.

Boys and girls chattered like magpies until the
school-bell rang, and then it was very hard to
turn their attention to lessons.

But Marjorie was trying in earnest to be good
in school, and not get into mischief, so she resolutely
put her card away in her desk, and studied diligently
at her lessons.

Indeed, so well did she study that her lesson was
learned before it was time to recite, and she had a
few moments’ leisure.

She took out her pretty card to admire it[Pg 132]
further, and she scrutinized closely the funny old
witch riding on a broomstick, after the approved
habit of witches.

The witch wore a high-peaked black hat, and
her nose and chin were long and pointed.

Suddenly the impulse seized Marjorie to make
for herself a witch’s hat.

She took from her desk a sheet of foolscap
paper. But she thought a white hat would be
absurd for a witch. It must be black. How to
make the paper black was the question, but her
ingenuity soon suggested a way.

She took her slate sponge, and dipping it in
the ink, smeared it over the white paper.

This produced a grayish smudge, but a second
and third application made a good black.

The process, however, of covering the whole
sheet of paper with ink was extremely messy, and
before it was finished, Marjorie’s fingers were
dyed black, and her desk was smudged from one
end to the other.

But so interested was she in making a sheet
of black paper that she paid no heed to the
untidiness.

Gladys, who had turned her back on Marjorie,[Pg 133]
in order to study her lesson without distraction,
turned round suddenly and gave an exclamation
of dismay. This startled Marjorie, and she
dropped her sponge full of ink on her white apron.

She straightened herself up, with a bewildered
air, aghast at the state of things, and as her
curls tumbled over her forehead, she brushed them
back with her inky hands.

This decorated her face with black fingermarks,
and several of the pupils, looking round at her,
burst into incontrollable laughter.

Midget was usually very dainty, and neatly
dressed, and this besmeared maiden was a shock
to all beholders.

Miss Lawrence turned sharply to see what the
commotion might be, and, when she saw the inky
child, she had hard work to control her own
merriment.

“What is that all over you, Marjorie?” she
said, in as stern tones as she could command.

“Ink, Miss Lawrence,” said Midget, demurely,
her simple straightforward gaze fixed on her
teacher’s face. This calm announcement of a fact
also struck Miss Lawrence ludicrously, but she
managed to preserve a grave countenance.

“Yes, I see it’s ink. But why do you put[Pg 134]
it on your face and hands and apron?”

“I don’t know, Miss Lawrence. You see, I was
using it, and somehow it put itself all over me.”

“What were you doing with it?” Miss
Lawrence was really stern now, for she had advanced
to Marjorie’s desk, and noted the sponge
and paper.

“Why, I was just making some white paper
black.”

“Marjorie, you have been extremely naughty.
What possessed you to ink that large sheet of
paper?”

“I wanted to be a witch,” said Marjorie, so
ruefully that Miss Lawrence had to laugh after all.

“You are one, my child. You needn’t ever make
any effort in that direction!”

“And so,” went on Midget, cheered by Miss
Lawrence’s laughing face, “I thought I’d make
me a witch’s hat, to wear at recess. Truly, I
wasn’t going to put it on in school. But I had
my lessons all done, and so——”

But by this time the whole class was in a gale.

The inky little girl, so earnestly explaining why
she was inky, was a funny sight, indeed. And, as[Pg 135]
they laughed at her, some big tears of mortification
rolled down her cheeks.

These she furtively wiped away with her hand,
and it is needless to say that this added the finishing
touch to the smudgy black and white
countenance.

Miss Lawrence gave up. She laughed until
the tears ran down her own cheeks, for Marjorie
was really crying now, and her little handkerchief
only served to spread the inky area around her
features.

“My dear child,” said the teacher, at last, “I
don’t know exactly what to do with you. I can’t
wash that ink from your face, because it won’t
come off with only cold water. You must go home,
and yet you can’t go through the streets that
way. But I have a brown veil I will lend you. It
is fairly thick, and will at least shield you from
observation.”

So Miss Lawrence took Marjorie to the cloak-room,
arrayed her in her own hat and her teacher’s
veil, and then went with the little girl downstairs
to the front door. On the way she talked to her
kindly, but she did not attempt to gloss over
her naughty deed.

“I am sending you home, Marjorie,” she said,[Pg 136]
“because you are not fit to stay here. If you
were, I should keep you in, and punish you. You
surely knew it was wrong to spill ink all over
everything. You have ruined your desk,
to say nothing of your clothes and your own
belongings.”

“I’m so sorry, Miss Lawrence,” said penitent
Midget. “I just tried to be good this morning.
But I happened to think what fun it would be
to have a big, high-peaked witch’s hat to prance
around in at recess; and I thought I could make
the paper black without such a fuss.”

“Well,” said Miss Lawrence, with a sigh, “I
don’t know what to say to you. Go home now,
and tell your mother all about it. I’ll leave the
matter of punishment in her hands. I’m sure
you didn’t mean to do wrong,—you never do,—but,
oh, Marjorie, it was wrong!”

“Yes, it was, Miss Lawrence, and I’m awful
sorry. I do hope Mother will punish me.”

Marjorie’s hope was so funny that Miss
Lawrence smiled, as she kissed the stained little
face through the sheltering veil, and then Midget
trudged off home, thinking that as Miss Lawrence[Pg 137]
had kissed her, she hadn’t been so very bad,
after all.

“What is the matter, child?” exclaimed Mrs.
Maynard, as Marjorie marched into her mother’s
room. “Why have you that thing on your head,
and why are you home from school at this hour?”

Midget couldn’t resist this dramatic situation.

“Guess,” she said, blithely. Her inky hands
were in her coat pockets, her apron was covered
by her outer garment, and her face was obscured
by the thick brown veil.

“I can’t guess just what’s the trouble,” said
her mother, “but I do guess you’ve been getting
into some mischief.”

Marjorie was disappointed.

“Oh,” she said, “I thought you’d guess that
I’ve broken out with smallpox or measles or
something!”

Mrs. Maynard was preoccupied with some intricate
sewing, and did not quite catch the first part
of Marjorie’s remark. But the last words sent
a shock to her mother-heart.

“What!” she cried. “What do you mean?
Smallpox! Measles! Has it broken out in the
school? Take off that veil!” As she spoke, Mrs.[Pg 138]
Maynard jumped up from her chair, and ran to
her daughter with outstretched arms.

This was more interesting, and Midget danced
about as she turned her back to her mother to
have the veil untied.

With trembling fingers Mrs. Maynard loosened
the knot Miss Lawrence had tied, and hastily
pulled off the veil. Meantime, Midget had thrown
off her coat, and stood revealed in all her dreadful
inkiness.

The saucy, blackened face was so roguishly smiling,
and Mrs. Maynard was so grateful not to
see a red, feverish countenance, that she sat down
in a chair and shook with laughter.

This was just what Marjorie wanted, and, running
to her mother’s side, she laughed, too.

“Get away from me, you disreputable individual,”
said Mrs. Maynard, drawing her
pretty morning dress away from possible contamination.

“Oh, Mothery, it’s all dry now; it can’t hurt
you a bit! But isn’t it awful?”

“Awful! You scamp, what does it mean?”

“Why, it’s ink, Mother, dear; and do you
s’pose it will ever come off?”

“No, I don’t! I think it’s there for the rest[Pg 139]
of your life. Is that what you wanted?”

“No. Not for my whole life. Oh, Mother,
can’t you get it off with milk, or something?”

Marjorie had seen her mother try to take ink-stains
out of white linen with milk, and, though
the operation was rarely entirely successful, she
hoped it would work better on her own skin.

“Milk! No, indeed. Pumice stone might do
it, but it would take your skin off, too. Tell
me all about it.”

So the inky little girl cuddled into her mother’s
arms, which somehow opened to receive the culprit,
and she told the whole dreadful story. Mrs. Maynard
was truly shocked.

“I don’t wonder Miss Lawrence didn’t know
what to do with you,” she said; “for I’m sure I
don’t, either. Marjorie, you must have known
you were doing wrong when you began that performance.
Now, listen! If somebody had told
you of another little girl who cut up just such a
prank, what would you have said?”

“I’d have said she ought to know better than
to fool with ink, anyway. It’s the most get-all-overy
stuff.”

“Well, why did you fool with it, then?”[Pg 140]

“Well, you see, Mother, I did know it was
awful messy, but that know was in the back of
my head, and somehow it slipped away from my
memory when the thought that I wanted a witch
hat came and pushed it out.”

“Now, you’re trying to be funny, and I want
you to talk sensibly.”

“Yes’m, I am sensible. Honest, the thought
about the witch hat was so quick it pushed everything
else out of my mind.”

“Even your sense of duty, and your determination
to be a good little girl.”

“Yes’m; they all flew away, and my whole head
was full of how to make the white paper black.
And that was the only way I could think of.”

“Well, have your thoughts that were pushed
out come back yet?”

“Oh, yes, Mother; they came back as soon as I
found myself all inky.”

“Then, if they’ve come back, you know you
did wrong?”

“Yes, I do know it now.”

“And you know that little girls who do wrong
have to be punished?”

“Ye-es; I s’pose I know that. How are you[Pg 141]
going to punish me?”

“We must discuss that. I think you deserve a
rather severe punishment, for this was really, truly
mischief. What do you think of staying home
from Gladys’ Hallowe’en party as a punishment?”

“Oh, Moth-er May-nard! You just can’t
mean that!”

“I’m not sure but I do. You must learn, somehow,
Midget, that if you do these awful things,
you must have awful punishments.”

“Yes, but to stay home from Gladys’ party!
Why, those horrid, cruel people in the history
book couldn’t get up a worse punishment than
that! Mother, say you don’t mean it!”

“I won’t decide just now; I’ll think it over.
Meantime, let’s see what we can do toward cleaning
you up.”

The process was an uncomfortable one, and,
after Marjorie’s poor little face and hands had
gone through a course of lemon juice, pumice
stone, and other ineffectual obliterators, she felt
as if she had had punishment enough.

And the final result was a grayish, smeared-[Pg 142]looking
complexion, very different from her own
usual healthy pink and white.

Greatly subdued, and fearful of the impending
punishment, Marjorie lay on a couch in her
mother’s room, resting after the strenuous exertions
of her scrubbing and scouring.

“I do think I’m the very worst child in the
whole world,” she said, at last. “Isn’t it surprising,
Mother, that I should be so bad, when
you’re so sweet and good? Do you think I take
after Father?”

Mrs. Maynard suppressed a smile.

“Wait till Father comes home, and ask him
that question,” she said.

CHAPTER XI

THE HALLOWE’EN PARTY

Mr. and Mrs. Maynard talked over Marjorie’s
latest prank, and concluded that it would indeed
be too great a punishment to keep her at home
from the Hallowe’en party.

So her punishment consisted in being kept at
home from the Saturday meeting of the Jinks
Club.

This was indeed a deprivation, as the members
of the club were to plan games for the party, but
still it was an easier fate to bear than absence
from the great event itself.

Marjorie was so sweet and patient as she sat
at home, while King and Kitty started off for the
Jinks Club, that Mrs. Maynard was tempted to
waive the punishment and send her along, too.

But the mother well knew that what she was
doing was for her child’s own good, and so she[Pg 144]
stifled her own desires, and let Marjorie stay at
home.

Midget was restless, though she tried hard not
to show it. She fed the gold-fish, she read in her
book of Fairy Tales, she tried amusements of
various sorts, but none seemed to interest her. In
imagination she could see the rest of the Jinks
Club seated in the bay at Dorothy Adams’, chattering
about the party.

“Oh, hum,” sighed Marjorie, as she stood looking
out of the playroom window, “I do believe I’ll
never be naughty again.”

“What’s ‘e matter, Middy?” said Rosy Posy,
coming along just then. “Don’t you feels dood?
Want to p’ay wiv my Boffin Bear?”

Marjorie took the soft, woolly bear, and somehow
he was a comforting old fellow.

“Let’s play something, Rosy Posy,” she said.

“Ess; p’ay house?”

“No; that’s no fun. Let’s play something
where we can bounce around. I feel awful
dull.”

“Ess,” said Rosy Posy, who was amiable, but
not suggestive.

“Let’s play I’m a hippopotamus, and you’re a[Pg 145]
little yellow chicken, and I’m trying to catch you
and eat you up.”

Down went Rosy Posy on all-fours, scrambling
across the floor, and saying, “Peep, peep”; and
down went Marjorie, and lumbered across the
floor after her sister, while she roared and growled
terrifically.

Mrs. Maynard heard the noise, but she only
smiled to think that Marjorie was working off her
disappointment that way instead of sulking.

Finally the hippopotamus caught the chicken,
and devoured it with fearful gnashing of teeth,
the chicken meanwhile giggling with delight at
the fun.

Then they played other games, in which Boffin
joined, and also Marjorie’s kitten, Puff. The
days, of late, had been such busy ones that Puff
had been more or less neglected, and as she was a
socially inclined little cat, she was glad to be restored
to public favor.

And so the long morning dragged itself away,
and at luncheon-time the Jinks Club sent its members
home.

The Maynards were always a warm-hearted,
generous-minded lot of little people, and, far from[Pg 146]
teasing Marjorie about her morning at home,
King and Kitty told her everything that had been
discussed and decided at the Jinks Club, and
brought her the money contributed by the members.

So graphic were their descriptions that Marjorie
felt almost as if she had been there herself;
and her spirits rose as she realized that her punishment
was over, and in the afternoon she could
go over to Gladys’, and really help in the preparations
for the party.

At last the night of the great occasion arrived.

Then it was Marjorie’s turn to feel sorry for
Kitty, because she was too young to go to evening
parties. But Mr. and Mrs. Maynard had
promised some special fun to Kitty at home, and
she watched Midget’s preparations with interest
quite untinged by envy.

Kingdon and Marjorie were to go alone at
seven o’clock, and Mr. Maynard was to come after
them at nine.

“But Gladys said, Mother,” said Midge, “that
she hoped we’d stay later than nine.”

“I hope you won’t,” said Mrs. Maynard.
“You’re really too young to go out at night
anyway, but as it’s just across the street, I trust[Pg 147]
you’ll get there safely. But you must come home
as soon as Father comes for you.”

“Yes, if he makes us,” said Marjorie, smiling at
her lenient father, who was greatly inclined to
indulge his children.

“If you’re not back as soon as I think you
ought to be, I shall telephone for you,” said Mrs.
Maynard; but Marjorie knew from her mother’s
smiling eyes that she was not deeply in earnest.

Midget had on a very pretty dress of thin
white muslin, with ruffles of embroidery. She wore
a broad pink sash, and her dark curls were clustered
into a big pink bow, which bobbed and
danced on top of her head. Pink silk stockings
and dainty pink slippers completed her costume,
and her father declared she looked good enough
to eat.

“Eat her up,” said Rosy Posy, who was ecstatically
gazing at her beautiful big sister. “Be
a hippottymus, Fader, an’ eat Mopsy all up!”

“Not till after she’s been to the party, Baby.
They’ll all be expecting her.”

Kingdon, quite resplendent in the glory of his
first Tuxedo jacket, also looked admiringly at his
pretty sister.

“You’ll do, Mops,” he said. “Come on, let’s[Pg 148]
go. It’s just seven.”

Mrs. Maynard put a lovely white, hooded cape
of her own round Marjorie, and carefully drew
the hood up over her curls.

“See that your bow is perked up after you
take this off,” said the mother, as a parting injunction,
and then the two children started off.

The parents watched them from the window,
as they crossed the street in the moonlight, and
Mrs. Maynard sighed as she said, “They’re already
beginning to grow up.”

“But we have some littler ones,” said her husband,
gaily, as he prepared for a game of romps
with Kitty and Rosy Posy.

When King and Marjorie rang the bell at
Gladys Fulton’s, the door opened very slowly,
and they could hear a low, sepulchral groan.

Midge clung to her brother’s arm, for though
she knew everything was to be as weird and grotesque
as possible, yet it was delightful to feel the
shudder of surprise.

As the door opened further, they could see that
the house was but dimly lighted, and the hall was
full of a deep red glow. This was caused by put[Pg 149]ting
red shades on the lights and standing a semi-transparent
red screen before the blazing wood-fire
in the big fireplace.

The groan was repeated, and then they realized
that it said, “Welcome, welcome!” but in such
a wailing voice that it seemed to add to the gloom.
The voice proceeded from a figure draped in a
white sheet.

“Hello, Ghost!” said King, who knew that
Dick Fulton himself was wrapped in the sheet.

“O-o-o-o-ugh!” groaned the ghost.

“You don’t seem to feel well,” said Marjorie,
giggling. “Poor Ghost, why don’t you go to
bed?”

But before the ghost could speak again, a
gorgeous witch came prancing up, carrying a
broomstick wound with red ribbons. The witch
was all in red, with a tall peaked hat of red,
covered with cabalistic designs cut from gilt
paper and pasted on. She groaned and wailed,
too, and then spoke in a rapid and unintelligible
jargon.

The Maynards knew that this witch was Gladys,
but some of the guests did not know it, and were
greatly mystified.

A few older persons, whom Mrs. Fulton had[Pg 150]
invited to help entertain the children, were stationed
in the various rooms. Dressed in queer costumes,
they played bits of weird music on the
piano, or struck occasional clanging notes from
muffled gongs.

All of this greatly pleased Marjorie, who loved
make-believe, and she fell into the spirit of the
occasion, and went about on tiptoe with a solemn,
awed face. Indeed she made the ghosts and
witches laugh in spite of their wish to be awesome.
The rooms were decorated to befit the day,
and great jack-o’-lanterns grinned from mantels
or brackets. Autumn leaves were in profusion,
and big black cats cut from paper adorned the
walls.

Soon the party were all assembled, and then the
games began.

First, all were led out to the kitchen, which was
decorated with ears of corn, sheaves of grain, and
other harvest trophies.

On a table were dishes of apples and nuts, not
for eating purposes, but to play the games
with.

There were several tubs half filled with water,[Pg 151]
and in these the young people were soon “bobbing
for apples.” On the apples were pinned papers
on which were written various names, and the
merry guests strove to grasp an apple with their
teeth, either by its stem or by biting into the fruit
itself. This proved to be more difficult than it
seemed, and it was soon abandoned for the game
of apple-parings. After an apple was pared in
one continuous strip, the paring was tossed three
times round the head, and then thrown to the
floor. The initial it formed there was said to represent
the initial of the fate of the one who
threw it.

“Pshaw!” said Marjorie, as she tried for the
third time, “it always makes E, and I don’t know
anybody who begins with E.”

“Perhaps you’ll meet some one later,” said
Mrs. Fulton, smiling. “You’re really too
young to consider these ‘fates’ entirely trustworthy.”

Then they all tried blowing out the candle.
This wasn’t a “Fate” game, but there were
prizes for the successful ones.

Each guest was blindfolded, led to a table where
stood a lighted candle, turned round three times,[Pg 152]
and ordered to blow it out. Only three attempts
were allowed, and not everybody won the little
witches, owls, black cats, bats, and tiny pumpkins
offered as prizes.

Marjorie, though securely blindfolded, was fortunate
enough to blow straight and hard, and
out went the candle-flame. Her prize was a gay
little chenille imp, which she stuck in her hair
with great glee.

Then they all went back to the drawing-room,
where a pretty game had been arranged during
their absence.

From the chandelier was suspended a large-sized
“hoople” that had been twisted with red
ribbon. From this at regular intervals hung, by
short ribbons, candies, cakes, apples, nuts, candle
ends, lemons, and sundry other things.

The children stood round in a circle, and the
hoop was twisted up tightly and then let to untwist
itself slowly. As it revolved, the children
were to catch the flying articles in their teeth.
Any one getting a lemon was out of the game.
Any one getting a candle end had to pay a forfeit,
but those who caught the goodies could eat
them.

Next, after being seated round the room, each[Pg 153]
child was given a spoon.

Then a dish of ice-cream was passed, of which
each took a spoonful and ate it. In the ice-cream
had previously been hidden a dime, a ring, a
thimble, a button, and a nutmeg. Whoever
chanced to get the ring was destined to be
married first. Whoever took the dime was destined
to become very wealthy. The thimble
denoted a thrifty housewife; the button, a life
of single blessedness; and the nutmeg, a good
cook.

Shouts of laughter arose, as they learned that
Kingdon would be an old bachelor, and doubts
were expressed when Gladys triumphantly exhibited
the nutmeg.

“You can’t ever learn to cook!” cried Dick.
“You’re too much of a butterfly.”

“Good cooks make the butter fly,” said Kingdon,
and then they all laughed again. Indeed,
they were quite ready to laugh at anything. For
a Hallowe’en party is provocative of much merriment,
and the most nonsensical speeches were
applauded.

They popped corn, and they melted lead, and[Pg 154]
they roasted chestnuts, and then some more difficult
experiments were tried.

Harry Frost and Marjorie were chosen to
“Thread the Needle.”

Each held a cupful of water in the left hand,
and in the right hand Harry held a good-sized
needle, while Marjorie held a length of thread.
She tried to get the thread through the needle,
and he tried to help, or at least not hinder
her; but all the time both must have a care
that no drop of water was spilled from their
cups.

The tradition was that if they succeeded in
threading the needle within a minute they were
destined for each other; but as they couldn’t do
it, Harry bade her a laughing farewell, and offered
the thread to Gladys. They were no more
successful, and the game was abandoned as being
too difficult.

Nutshell boats was a pretty game. The tiny
craft, made of English walnut shells, with paper
sails, had been prepared beforehand, and the
guests wrote their names on the sails, then loaded
each boat with a cargo of a wish written on a
slip of paper.

The boats were then set afloat in a tub of water,[Pg 155]
and by gently blowing on them their owners endeavored
to make them go ashore, or rather to
the side of the tub. As one hit the wood it was
taken out, and the owner joyfully announced that
his or her wish would come true, but many of
them stayed stubbornly in mid-ocean and refused
to land. The unfortunate owners condoled with
each other on their hard fate.

The merry games being over, all went to the
dining-room for the feast that was spread
there.

The children were paired off, and, while Mrs.
Fulton played stirring strains on the piano, they
marched around the rooms, and so out to the
dining-room.

The elaborately decorated table called forth
shouts of joy, and soon all were seated in chairs
round the room, enjoying the good things.

On the table were jack-o’-lanterns made not only
of pumpkins, but of squashes, turnips, and even
of big red or green apples.

Candles were burning in all of these, and standing
about the table were queer little gnomes and
witches, made of nuts, or of dried prunes. These[Pg 156]
little figures were souvenirs, and were distributed
to all the guests. The ice-cream was in the form
of little yellow pumpkins, and proved to taste
quite as good as it looked. There were also more
substantial viands, such as nut sandwiches, apple
salad, pumpkin pie, and grape jelly. Everything
had some reference to Hallowe’en or to Harvest
Home, and the children were not too young to
appreciate this.

Supper was just about over when Mr. Maynard
came after his children.

“Oh, Father,” cried Marjorie, “you said you
wouldn’t come till nine o’clock!”

“But it’s quarter-past nine now, my daughter.”

“It can’t be!” exclaimed Midge, greatly surprised;
and everybody said, “Is it, really?”

“But we must have one merry round game before
we part,” said Mrs. Fulton, and, though several
parents had arrived to take their little
ones home, they all agreed to wait ten minutes
more.

So they had a rollicking game of “Going to
Jerusalem,” and then the party was over.

Marjorie said good-night politely to Mrs. Fulton
and the other grown-ups who had entertained[Pg 157]
them, making her pretty little bobbing courtesy,
as she had been taught to do.

Kingdon said good-night in his frank, boyish
way, and then they went for their wraps.

“Oh, Father,” said Midget as they crossed the
street to their own home, “it was the very loveliest
party! Can’t I sit up for a while and tell
you every single thing that happened?”

“I’d love to have you do that, Mopsy Midget;
in fact, I can scarcely wait till morning to hear
about it all. But it is my duty as a stern parent
to order you off to bed at once. Little girls that
wheedle fond fathers into letting them go to evening
parties must be content to scoot for bed the
minute they get home.”

“All right, then, Father, but do get up early
in the morning to hear all about it, won’t
you?”

“I’ll guarantee to get up as early as you do,
Sleepyhead,” said Mr. Maynard, for Marjorie was
yawning as if the top of her head was about
to come off.

Mrs. Maynard accompanied the little girl to her
bedroom, but Midge was too tired to do more
than tell her mother that it was the most beautiful[Pg 158]
party in the world, and that next day she should
hear all about it.

“I can wait, little girl,” said Mrs. Maynard, as
she tucked Midget up and kissed her good-night,
but the exhausted child was already in the land
of dreams.

CHAPTER XII

TOTTY AND DOTTY

“Marjorie,” said her mother, one Saturday
morning, “I expect Mrs. Harrison to spend the
day. She will bring her little baby with her, and
I want you to stay at home, so that you can wheel
the baby about if she asks you to do so.”

“I will, Mother. The Jinks Club meets here
this afternoon anyway, and this morning I’ll stay
at home. Can’t I ask Gladys to come over? We’d
love to take care of the baby together.”

“Yes, have Gladys if you like. I don’t mind.”

Mrs. Maynard went off to look after housekeeping
affairs, and Marjorie ran over to ask
Gladys to come and spend the morning.

The two girls were sitting on a bench under
a tree on the front lawn, when they saw Mrs.
Harrison come in at the gate. She was wheeling
her baby-carriage, and Marjorie ran to meet her.

“How do you do, Mrs. Harrison?” she said.[Pg 160]
“Mother is expecting you. Come right on up to
the house. Mayn’t I wheel Baby for you?”

“I wish you would, my dear. I gave nurse a
holiday, but I didn’t realize how tiresome that
heavy carriage is, after wheeling it so many
blocks.”

Marjorie pushed the little coach, while Gladys
danced alongside, talking to the winsome baby.

“What’s her name, Mrs. Harrison?” she said.

“Oh!” replied the young mother, “she has the
dignified name of Katharine, but we never call
her that. I’m ashamed to say we call her Totty.”

“I think Totty is a lovely name,” said Midget.
“It makes me think of Dotty, a baby who lives
about a block away from us. She’s just the same
size as this baby.”

“Probably she’s older, then,” said Mrs. Harrison,
complacently; “Totty’s just a year old, but
she’s much larger than most children of that
age.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Midget, wagging her
head wisely, though she really knew little about the
comparative sizes of infants. Mrs. Maynard
awaited them at the front door, and the procession
arrived with a flourish.

“Here we are, Mother,” announced Marjorie,[Pg 161]
and she and Gladys lifted baby Totty out of her
nest of pillows and knit afghans.

“Why, how handy you are, child,” said Mrs.
Harrison. “But give her to me now, and I’ll
look after her.”

Marjorie handed the pretty burden over, and
said:

“But mayn’t we take her out for a ride, Mrs.
Harrison? I’m sure she ought to be out in the
fresh air this morning.”

“I’ll see about it later,” said Totty’s mother,
and then she went into the house with her hostess,
and the girls ran away to play.

But an hour later, Mrs. Maynard called Marjorie,
and said she might take the baby for a ride.

Gleefully, Marjorie and Gladys ran into the
house.

They helped arrange Miss Totty’s coat and
cap, and so merry were they that the baby laughed
and crowed, and made friends at once.

“How she takes to you!” said Mrs. Harrison.
“Sometimes she is afraid of strangers, but she
seems to love you.”

“‘Cause I love her,” said Midge; “she’s a sweet[Pg 162]
baby, and so good. Shall I bring her in if she
cries, Mrs. Harrison?”

“Yes; but she won’t cry. She’s more likely to
go to sleep.”

The little lady was tucked into her carriage;
white mittens on her tiny hands, and a white veil
over her rosy face.

“Does she need the veil?” asked Mrs. Maynard,
doubtfully. “It isn’t cold to-day.”

“No,” said Mrs. Harrison; “but the breeze is
brisk; and she’s used to a light veil. I think she’d
better wear it.”

“How far can we go?” asked Marjorie, as
the preparations were completed.

“Stay in the yard, mostly,” said her mother.
“If you go out in the street, don’t go more than
two blocks away.”

“All right, we won’t,” said Marjorie. “Come
on, Glad.” The two little girls started off with
the baby-carriage.

“She’s a careful child,” said Mrs. Harrison, as
she noticed Marjorie turn a corner with precision.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Maynard. “And she’s devoted
to children. You need have no fear of
Totty.”

“Oh, I haven’t,” said Mrs. Harrison, and then[Pg 163]
the two friends returned to the house, and sat down
for a long chat.

The girls had a fine time with the baby. They
rolled the carriage carefully, pausing now and
then to present their little guest with a bright
autumn leaf, or a big horse-chestnut, which they
picked up from the ground.

“Let’s pretend she’s an infant princess, and
we’re kidnapping her,” said Marjorie.

“All right; what’s her name?”

“Princess Petronella,” said Marjorie, promptly,
using a favorite name of hers.

“I don’t think much of that,” said Gladys;
“I like Ermyntrude.”

“Both, then,” said Marjorie; for this was a
way they often settled their differences. “Her
name is Princess Ermyntrude Petronella; and we
call her Ermyn Pet for short.”

“But we ought to call her Princess,” objected
Gladys.

“Well, we will. But remember we’re kidnapping
her for a great reward. Hist! Some one
cometh!”

They hustled the carriage behind a great [Pg 164]pine-tree,
in pretended fear of a pursuer, though no
one was in sight.

“How much shall we charge for ransom?”
asked Gladys, in the hollow voice that they always
used in their make-believe games.

“A thousand rubbles,” answered Marjorie;
“and unless the sum is forthcoming ere set of
sun, the Princess shall be,—shall be——”

Marjorie hesitated. It seemed dreadful to pronounce
fate, even in make-believe, on that dimpled,
smiling bit of humanity.

“Shall be imprisoned,” suggested Gladys.

“Yes, imprisoned in an enchanted castle.”

Totty crowed and gurgled, as if greatly pleased
with her destiny, and the girls wheeled her along
the path to the gate.

“She reminds me so much of Dotty Curtis,”
said Midget. “Let’s go down that way and see
if Dotty’s out. Mother said we could go two
blocks.”

On they went, crossing the curbs with great
care, and soon turned in at Mrs. Curtis’ house.

Sure enough, there was the nurse wheeling the
Curtis baby around the drive.

“Good-morning,” said Marjorie, who was[Pg 165]
friendly with Nurse Lisa. “How is Dotty
to-day?”

“She’s well, Miss Marjorie,” replied Lisa;
“and who’s the fine child with you?”

“This is little Totty Harrison; and I think she
looks like Dot. Let’s compare them.”

The veils were taken off the two children, and
sure enough they did look somewhat alike.

“They’re both darlings,” said Marjorie, as
she gently replaced Totty’s veil. “Lisa, won’t
you let Gladys wheel Dotty for awhile, and I’ll
wheel Totty. That would be fun.”

“I’ll willingly leave her with you for a bit,
Miss Gladys. I’ve some work to do in the house,
and if you’ll keep baby for a few minutes it would
be a great thing for me. Mrs. Curtis is out, but
I know she’d trust you with the child, if the other
lady does. But don’t go off the place.”

“No,” said Marjorie; “this place is so big
there’s room enough anyway. I promise you we
won’t go outside the gates, Lisa.”

“Isn’t this fun?” cried Marjorie, as Lisa went
away. “Now, we have two kidnapped princesses.
Or shall we play house with them?”

“No, let’s have them princesses. Now you can[Pg 166]
name yours Petronella, and I’ll name mine
Ermyntrude.”

This momentous question settled, the game went
on. They pretended that the princesses were
anxious to get back to their respective homes, and
that they must resort to bribery and strategy to
keep them contented.

“Nay, nay, Princess Petronella,” Marjorie
would say; “weep not for friends and family. I
will take you to a far better place, where flowers
grow and birds sing and—and——”

“And gold-fish swim,” went on Gladys, who always
followed Marjorie’s lead, “and roosters
crow—cock-a-doodle-doo!!”

This climax, accompanied as it was by Gladys’
flapping her arms and prancing about, greatly delighted
both princesses, and they laughed and
clamored for more.

“Aren’t they dears!” exclaimed Marjorie, as
she looked at the two pretty babies. “Methinks
no ransom is forthcoming. Must we resort to
our dire and dreadful doom?”

“Aye, aye!” said Gladys. “To the enchanted
castle with the fatal victims.”

So long as the girls used tragic-sounding words[Pg 167]
they didn’t always care whether they made sense
or not.

“On, on, then!” cried Midget. “On, on! To
victory, or defeat!”

Each pushing a carriage, they ran down the
long drive, across the wide lawn, and paused,
flushed and breathless, at a rustic summer-house.

Into the arbor they pushed the two coaches, and
then dropped, laughing, on the seats.

The babies laughed, too, and both Dotty and
Totty seemed to think that to be a captive
princess was a delightful fate. The girls sat still
for awhile to rest, but the game went on.

“Shall it be the donjon keep?”

“Nay, not for these, so young and fair,”
answered Gladys. “Let’s chain them with rose
garlands to a silken couch.”

“Huh!” said Marjorie, “that’s not a dire fate.
Let’s do something that’s more fun. Oh, Glad,
I’ll tell you what! Let’s exchange these babies!
That’s what they always do in tragedies. Listen!
We’ll put Dotty’s hood on Totty, and Totty’s cap
on Dotty. And change their coats, too!”

“Yes, and veils; oh, Mops! What fun! If we
change their coats quickly they won’t catch cold.”

“Cold, pooh! It’s as warm as summer.”[Pg 168]

It wasn’t quite that, but it was a lovely, sunshiny
day in early October, and, after running, it
seemed quite warm to the girls.

Following out their project, they quickly exchanged
the babies’ wraps.

By this time both little ones were growing sleepy,
and were in a quiet, tractable frame of mind.

“Their little white dresses are almost alike,
anyway,” said Gladys, as she took off Totty’s
coat.

“Oh, well, we wouldn’t think of changing their
dresses,” said Mopsy; “but let’s change their
little shoes. I’d like to see Totty in those cunning
ankle-ties.”

“And I’d like to see Dotty in those pretty blue
kid shoes.”

“Of course, we’ll change them right back, but
I just want to see how they look.”

Soon the transformation was complete. To all
outward appearance of costume, Dotty was Totty,
and Totty was Dotty. Even the veils were
changed, as one was of silk gauze, the other of
knitted zephyr.

Then, not in their own, but in each other’s car[Pg 169]riage,
the reversed princesses nodded and beamed
at their captors.

“Now, you push that carriage, and I’ll push
this,” said Marjorie, taking hold of the carriage
she had pushed all the time, though now it had
the other baby in it.

“All right,” said Gladys, “let’s go round by
the garden.”

Slowly now, the girls went round by the large
well-kept kitchen garden, and then through the
flower gardens back to the front lawn.

“Why,” said Marjorie, suddenly, “both these
children are asleep!”

“Mrs. Harrison said Totty would go to sleep,”
said Gladys. “I guess all babies go to sleep about
this time in the morning. It seems too bad to wake
them up to change their coats back again, but I
think we ought to take Totty back, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. Suppose we leave the coats and
caps as they are, and then afterward we can
bring back Dotty’s things and get Totty’s.”

“Here you are!” cried Lisa, coming to meet
them at the front door. “You’re good little girls
to mind the baby for me. I’ll take her now, and
I thank you much.”

As Lisa spoke, she took hold of the Curtis car[Pg 170]riage,
which contained the Harrison baby.

“Ah, she’s asleep, bless her heart!” she exclaimed,
looking at the closed eyes, almost hidden
by the white veil. “I’m glad she’s getting a fine
nap. Run along now with your own baby.”

Partly confused by Lisa’s quick and peremptory
dismissal, and partly impelled by a sudden mischievous
idea, Marjorie smiled a good-bye, and began
trundling the other carriage toward the gate.

“Why, Midge!” whispered Gladys, aghast.
“We’ve got the wrong baby! This is Dotty
Curtis!”

“Keep still!” whispered Marjorie. “I know
it. But it’s a good joke on that snippy
Lisa.”

“She wasn’t snippy.”

“Yes, she was; she said ‘Run along now, little
girls,’ after we’ve been helping her all the morning.
She’s going to let the baby stay asleep in
the carriage, and she won’t know it till she
wakes up.”

“Who won’t? The baby?”

“No, Lisa. And then she’ll be scared, and it
will serve her right.”

“But what about Mrs. Harrison? You don’t[Pg 171]
want to scare her.”

“That’s just the thing,” explained Marjorie.
“I want to see if she’ll know the difference in the
babies. They say mothers can always tell their
own children. Now we’ll see.”

“It’s a great joke,” said Gladys, giggling.
“But suppose they never find it out, and the children
live with their wrong mothers all their
lives!”

“Don’t be silly,” said Marjorie.

CHAPTER XIII

A FAIR EXCHANGE?

Mrs. Maynard opened the front door just as the
children approached with the baby-carriage.

“Come along, girlies!” she cried. “Marjorie,
wheel the carriage right into the hall.”

“The baby’s asleep, Mother,” said Midget, as
she and Gladys brought the carriage over the
door-sill.

“Oh, is she? Totty’s asleep, Mildred,” she
called, in a stage whisper, to Mrs. Harrison, who
was upstairs.

“I thought she would be,” responded that lady.
“Just throw back her veil, and leave her as she
is. She often takes her nap in her carriage, and
there’s no use waking her.”

Gently, Mrs. Maynard turned back the veil
from the little sleeping face, and, as she had no
thought of anything being wrong, she did not
notice any difference in the baby features.

“Gladys, we’d like to have you stay to lunc[Pg 173]heon,”
she said. “So you and Midge run upstairs
and tidy your curls at once.” With demure
steps, but with dancing eyes, the girls went
upstairs.

“I’m afraid it’s mischief,” whispered Gladys
to Marjorie, as she tied her hair-ribbon for her.

“No, it isn’t!” declared Midge, stoutly. “It’s
only a joke, and it can’t do any harm. Mother
didn’t know it was a different baby, and I don’t
believe Mrs. Harrison will know either.”

Trim and tidy once more the two friends went
downstairs.

As they were on the stairs they heard the sound
of the telephone bell.

Mrs. Maynard answered it, and in a moment
Gladys realized that her own mother was talking
at the other end of the wire.

After a short conversation, Mrs. Maynard hung
up the receiver, and said:

“Mrs. Fulton says that Mr. Fulton has come
home quite unexpectedly and that they are going
for an afternoon’s motor ride. She wants both
of you girls to go, but she says you must fly over
there at once, as they’re all ready to start. She[Pg 174]
tried to tell us sooner, but couldn’t get a connection
on the telephone.”

“But we haven’t had luncheon,” said Marjorie,
“and I’m fairly starving.”

“They’re taking luncheon with them,” explained
Mrs. Maynard. “And you must go at
once, not to keep Mr. Fulton waiting. Of course,
you needn’t go if you don’t want to, Midge.”

“Oh, I do! I’m crazy to go! And luncheon
in baskets is such fun! What shall I wear,
Mother?”

“Go just as you are. That frock is quite clean.
Put on your hat and coat, and I’ll get a long veil
for you.”

Gladys had already run off home, and Marjorie
was soon equipped and ready to follow.

As she flew out of the door, she remembered the
joke about the babies.

“Oh, Mother, I’ve something to tell you!” she
cried.

“Never mind now,” said Mrs. Maynard, hurrying
her off. “It will keep till you get back.
And I hate to have you keep the Fultons waiting.
They’re in haste to start. So kiss me, and run
along.”

Even as she spoke, Dick Fulton appeared, say[Pg 175]ing
he had been sent to hurry Marjorie up; so
taking Dick’s hand, the two ran swiftly down the
path to the gate. Mrs. Maynard watched Marjorie’s
flying feet, and after she was out of sight
around the corner, the lady returned to the
house.

With a glance at the sleeping child, she turned
to Mrs. Harrison, who was just coming downstairs.

“Totty is sleeping sweetly,” she said, “so come
at once to luncheon, Mildred.”

“In a moment, Helen. I think I’ll take off her
cap and coat; she’ll be too warm.”

“You’ll waken her if you do.”

“Oh, well, she’ll drop right to sleep again;
she always does. And anyway, it’s time she had
a drink of milk.”

“Very well, Mildred. You take off her wraps,
and I’ll ask Sarah to warm some milk for her.”

Mrs. Maynard went to speak to Sarah, and
Mrs. Harrison lifted the sleeping baby from the
carriage.

She sat the blinking-eyed child on her knee while
she unfastened her coat. Then she took off the[Pg 176]
veil and cap, and then,—she stared at the baby,
and the baby stared at her.

Suddenly Mrs. Harrison gave a scream.

“Helen, Helen!” she called to her friend, and
Mrs. Maynard came running to her side.

“What is the matter, Mildred? Is Totty ill?”

By this time the baby too had begun to scream.
Always afraid of strangers, Miss Dotty Curtis
didn’t know what to make of the scenes in which
she found herself, nor of the strange lady who
held her.

“Mildred, dear, what is the matter? You look
horror-stricken! And what ails Totty?”

“This isn’t my child!” wailed Mrs. Harrison.

“Totty isn’t your child! What do you mean?”

“But this isn’t, Totty! It isn’t my baby! I
don’t know who it is.”

“Mildred, you’re crazy! Of course this is
Totty. These are her blue kid shoes. And this
is her coat and cap.”

“I don’t care if they are! It isn’t Totty at all.
Oh, where is my baby?”

Mrs. Harrison was on the verge of hysterics,
and Mrs. Maynard was genuinely alarmed.

“Behave yourself, Mildred!” she said, sternly.[Pg 177]
“Gather yourself together. Here, sip this glass
of water.”

“I’m perfectly sensible,” said Mrs. Harrison,
quieting down a little, as she noticed her friend’s
consternation. “But I tell you, Helen, this is not
my baby. Doesn’t a mother know her own child?
Totty’s hair is a little longer, and her eyes are
a little larger. I don’t know who this baby is, but
she isn’t mine.”

“I believe you’re right,” said Mrs. Maynard,
looking more closely at the screaming baby.

“There, there!” she said, taking the frightened
little one in her own arms.

“Ma-ma!” cried the baby.

“Hear her voice!” exclaimed Mrs. Harrison.
“That isn’t the way my Totty talks. Oh, Helen,
what has happened?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Maynard, her face
very white. “It doesn’t seem possible that any
marauder should have slipped into the house and
put this child in Totty’s place. Why, it was
only about a half-hour ago that the girls brought
Totty in. Mildred, are you sure this isn’t
Totty?”

“Am I sure! Yes, I am. Wouldn’t you know[Pg 178]
your own children from strangers? Helen, a
dreadful crime has been committed. Somehow this
baby has been substituted for mine. Oh, Totty,
where are you now?”

“What shall I do, Mildred? Shall I call up
Mr. Maynard on the telephone, or shall I ring up
the police station?”

“Yes, call the police. It’s dreadful, I know,
but how else can we find Totty?”

Meantime Sarah appeared with a cup of warm
milk.

The baby stretched out eager little hands, and
Mrs. Maynard carefully held the cup for her to
drink.

“She’s a nice little thing,” observed that lady.
“See how prettily she behaves.”

“Helen, you’ll drive me crazy. I don’t care
how she behaves, she isn’t Totty. Why, that isn’t
even Totty’s little dress. So you see the kidnapper
did change her shoes and wraps, but not her
frock.”

Mrs. Harrison showed signs of hysterics, and
Mrs. Maynard was at her wits’ end what to do.

“I suppose I’d better call the police,” she said.
“Here, Mildred, you hold this baby.”

Mrs. Harrison gingerly took the baby that[Pg 179]
wasn’t hers, and looked like a martyr as she
held her.

But comforted by the warm food, the baby
pleasantly cuddled up in Mrs. Harrison’s arms
and went to sleep.

Mrs. Maynard, greatly puzzled, went to the
telephone, but before she touched it there was a
furious peal at the front-door bell.

The moment the door was opened, in rushed a
pretty, but frantic and very angry, little lady,
carrying a child.

“Where’s my baby?” she demanded, as she
fairly stamped her foot at Mrs. Maynard.

“That’s my child!” she went on, turning to
Mrs. Harrison. “What are you doing with
her?”

“I don’t want her!” cried Mrs. Harrison.
“But what are you doing with my baby?”

Totty, in the visitor’s arms, held out her hands
to her mother, and gurgled with glee.

“Ma-ma!” said the other baby, waking up at
all this commotion and holding out her hands
also.

The exchange was made in a moment, and, still[Pg 180]
unpacified, Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Curtis glared
at each other.

Mrs. Maynard struggled to suppress her
laughter, for the scene was a funny one; but she
knew the two ladies were thoroughly horrified at
the mystery, and mirth would be quite out of place.

“Let me introduce you,” she said. “Mrs. Curtis,
this is my dear friend, Mrs. Harrison. Your
little ones are the same age, and look very much
alike.”

“Not a bit alike,” said both mothers, at once.

“I confess,” went on Mrs. Maynard, “that I
can’t understand it at all, but you certainly each
have your own babies now; so, my dear Mrs. Curtis,
won’t you tell me what you know about this
very strange affair?”

Mrs. Curtis had recovered her equilibrium, and,
as she sat comfortably holding Dotty, she smiled,
with a little embarrassment.

“Dear Mrs. Maynard,” she said, “I’m afraid I
understand it all better than you do; but I’m also
afraid, if I explain it to you, you will,—it will
make——”

Suddenly Mrs. Maynard saw a gleam of light.

“Marjorie!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Curtis; “I think it was due[Pg 181]
to Miss Mischief. When I returned home from
an errand, Lisa said that your Marjorie and
Gladys Fulton had had Dotty out in her carriage,
and had also another baby who was visiting you.
The girls had left Dotty—or rather, Lisa supposed
it was Dotty—asleep in her coach, and
Nurse let her stay there, asleep, until my return.
Then the child wakened—and it wasn’t Dotty at
all! The baby had on Dot’s slippers, cap, coat,
and veil, but the rest of her clothes I had never
seen before. I felt sure there had been foul play
of some sort, but Lisa was sure those girls had
exchanged the babies’ clothes on purpose. I hoped
Lisa was right, but I feared she wasn’t, so I picked
up the baby and ran over here to see.”

Mrs. Maynard was both grieved and chagrined.

“How could Marjorie do such a thing!” she
exclaimed.

“Oh, don’t be too hard on her, Mrs. Maynard,”
said Mrs. Curtis. “It’s all right, now, and you
know Marjorie and Gladys are a mischievous
pair.”

“But this is inexcusable,” went on Mrs. May[Pg 182]nard.
“Mrs. Harrison nearly went frantic, and
you were certainly greatly alarmed.”

Mrs. Curtis smiled pleasantly. “I was,” she
admitted, “but it was only for a few moments. I
was mystified rather than alarmed, for Lisa said
the carriage had not been out of her sight a moment,
except when the girls had it.”

Mrs. Curtis took her leave, and, carrying with
her her own baby, went away home.

Mrs. Maynard made sincere apologies to her
friend for naughty Marjorie’s mischief.

“Never mind, Helen,” said Mrs. Harrison. “I
can see now it was only a childish prank, and
doubtless Marjorie and Gladys expected a good
laugh over it; then they ran off unexpectedly and
forgot all about the babies.”

Mrs. Maynard remembered then that Midget
had said at the last moment that she had something
to tell her, but that she had hurried the
child off.

“Still,” she thought to herself, “that was
no excuse for Midge. She should have told
me.”

After a refreshing luncheon, Mrs. Harrison was
able to view the matter more calmly.

“Don’t punish Marjorie for this, Helen,” she[Pg 183]
said. “Children will be children, and I daresay
those girls thought it would be a fine joke on
me.”

“I certainly shall punish her, Mildred. She
is altogether too thoughtless, and too careless of
other people’s feelings. She never does wilful or
malicious wrong, but she tumbles into mischief
thoughtlessly. She will be honestly grieved when
she learns how frightened and upset you were, and
she’ll never do such a thing again. But, the trouble
is she’ll do some other thing that will be equally
naughty, but something that no one can foresee or
warn her against.”

“Well, just for my sake, Helen, don’t punish
her this time; at least, not much. I really
oughtn’t to have gone to pieces so; I ought to have
realized that it could all be easily explained.”

But Mrs. Maynard would not promise to condone
Midget’s fault entirely, and argued that she
really ought to be punished for what turned out
to be a troublesome affair.

Mrs. Harrison went home about four o’clock,
and it was five before Marjorie returned.

Her mother met her at the door.

“Did you have a pleasant time, Marjorie?” she[Pg 184]
said.

“Oh, yes, Mother; we had a lovely time. We
went clear to Ridge Park. Oh, I do love to ride
in an automobile.”

“Go and take off your things, my child, and
then come to me in my room.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Marjorie, and she danced
away to take off her hat.

“Here I am, Mother,” she announced, a little
later. “Now shall I tell you all about my
afternoon?”

“Not quite yet, dear. I’ll tell you all about
my afternoon first. Mrs. Harrison had a very
unhappy time, and of course that made me unhappy
also.”

“Why, Mother, what was the trouble about?”

Mrs. Maynard looked into the clear, honest
eyes of her daughter, and sighed as she realized
that Marjorie had no thought of what had made
the trouble.

“Why did you put Dotty Curtis’ cloak and hat
on Totty?”

Then the recollection came back to Marjorie.

“Oh, Mother!” she cried, as she burst into a[Pg 185]
ringing peal of laughter. “Wasn’t it a funny
joke! Did Mrs. Harrison laugh? Did she know
her own baby?”

“Marjorie, I’m ashamed of you. No, Mrs.
Harrison did not laugh. Of course she knew that
the child you left in the carriage was not her little
Totty, and as she didn’t know what had happened,
she had a very bad scare, and her nerves
were completely unstrung.”

“But why, Mother?” said Marjorie, looking
puzzled. “I thought she wouldn’t know the difference.
But if she did know right away it wasn’t
Totty, why didn’t she go over to Mrs. Curtis’ and
change them back again?”

“She didn’t know Totty was at Mrs. Curtis’.
Neither did I. We never dreamed that you
couldn’t be trusted to take a baby out to ride and
bring her home safely. She thought some dreadful
thing had happened to her child.”

“Oh, Mother, did she? I’m so sorry. I never
meant to tease her that way. I only thought it
would be a funny joke to see her think Dotty was
Totty.”

“But, my little girl, you ought to have realized
that it was a cruel and even a dangerous joke.[Pg 186]
You cannot carelessly dispose of little human beings
as if they were dolls, or other inanimate
things.”

“I never thought of that, Mother. And, anyway,
I started to tell you about it, just as I went
away, and you told me to run along, and tell you
what I had to tell after I came home.”

“I thought you’d say that; but of course I
thought you meant you wanted to tell me some
trifling incident, or something of little importance.
Can’t you understand that what you did was not
a trifle, but a grave piece of misbehavior?”

“Mischief, Mother?”

Mrs. Maynard bit her lip to keep from smiling
at Marjorie’s innocent request for information.

“It was mischief, I suppose. But it was more
than that. It was real wrong-doing. When little
girls are trusted to do anything, they ought to be
very careful to do it earnestly and thoroughly,
exactly as it is meant to be done. If you had
stopped to think, would you have thought either
of those mothers wanted you to exchange their
babies?”

Marjorie pondered.

“No,” she said, at last; “but, truly, if I had[Pg 187]
thought ever so hard I wouldn’t have thought
they’d mind it so much. Can’t they take a joke,
Mother?”

“Marjorie, dear, you have a fun-loving disposition,
but if it is to make you joy and not sorrow
all your life, you must learn what constitutes a
desirable ‘joke.’ To begin with, practical jokes
are rarely, if ever, desirable.”

“What is a practical joke?”

“It’s a little difficult to explain, my dear; but
it’s usually a well-laid plan to make somebody feel
foolish or angry, or appear ridiculous. I think
you hoped Mrs. Harrison would appear ridiculous
by petting another child while thinking it was her
own. And you meant to stand by and laugh
at her.”

This was putting it rather plainly, but Marjorie
could not deny the truth of her mother’s
statement.

“And so,” went on Mrs. Maynard, “that was
a very wrong intent, especially from a little girl to
a grown person. Practical jokes among your
playmates are bad enough, but this was far
worse.”

“I understand, Mother, now that you’ve ex[Pg 188]plained
it; but, truly, I didn’t mean to do anything
so awfully dreadful. How are you going to punish
me?”

“Mrs. Harrison was very forgiving, and
begged me not to punish you severely. But I think
you deserve a pretty hard penance; don’t you?”

“Why, the way you tell me about it, I think I
do. But the way I meant it, seems so different.”

“Well, I’ve thought it over, and I’ve decided
on this. You dislike to sew; don’t you?”

“Yes, I do!” said Marjorie, emphatically.

“I know you do. But I think you ought to
learn to sew, and, moreover, I think this would be
an appropriate thing to do. I want you to make
a little dress for Totty. I will do the more difficult
parts, such as putting it together, but you
must run the tucks, and hem it, and overhand
the seams. And it must be done very neatly, as all
babies’ dresses should be dainty and fine. You
may work half an hour on it every day, and, when
it is finished, it will be a pretty little gift for
Mrs. Harrison, and it will also teach you something
of an old-fashioned but useful art.”

Marjorie drew a deep sigh. “All right,
Mother. I’ll try to do it nicely; but oh, how I[Pg 189]
hate a thimble! I never again will mix up people’s
babies. But I didn’t think it was such an
awful, dreadful thing to do.”

“You’re a strange child, Midget,” said her
mother, looking at her thoughtfully. “I never
know what you’re going to do next.”

“I never know myself,” said Marjorie, cheerfully,
“but you can always punish me, you know.”

“But I don’t want to. I want you to behave
so you won’t need punishment.”

“I’ll try real hard,” said Midge, as she kissed
her mother, again and again.

CHAPTER XIV

A NOBLE SOCIETY

The Jinks Club was having its weekly meeting,
and all of the members were present.

“I think,” the President was saying, “that we
ought to do something that’s of some use. It’s all
very well to cut up jinks to have fun, and we did
have a lot of fun on the straw ride last week; but I
mean we ought to do some real good in the world.”

“But how could we, King?” said Marjorie,
looking at her brother in awe.

“There are lots of ways!” declared King.
“We might do something public-spirited or
charitable.”

“I think so, too,” said Dick Fulton. “My
father was talking last night about the selfishness
of citizens.”

“Goodness, Dick,” said his sister, “we’re not
citizens!”

“Yes, we are, Gladys. Why aren’t we? Every[Pg 191]body
born in America is a citizen, whether old or
young.”

“I never dreamed I was a citizen,” said Gladys,
giggling. “Did you, Kit?”

“No,” said Kitty; “but I’d just as lieve be.
Wouldn’t you, Dorothy?”

“Yes, indeed. It’s nice to be citizens. Sort
of patriotic, you know.”

“Well,” said Midget, “if we’re citizens, let’s
do citizens’ work. What do they do, King?”

“Oh, they vote, and——”

“But we can’t vote. Of course we girls never
can, but you boys can’t for years yet. Don’t be
silly.”

“Well, there are other things besides voting,”
said Dick. “Some citizens have big meetings and
make speeches.”

“Now you’re silly,” said Kingdon. “We can’t
make speeches any more than we can vote. But
there must be things that young folks can
do.”

“We could have a fair and make money for
the heathen,” volunteered Gladys.

“That’s too much like work,” said King. “Be[Pg 192]sides,
we’re all going to be in the Bazaar in December,
and we don’t want to copy that! And,
anyway, I mean something more—more political
than that.”

“I don’t know anything about politics,” declared
Marjorie, “and you don’t, either!”

“I do, too. Father told me all about the different
parties and platforms and everything.”

“Let’s have a platform,” said Kitty. “You
boys can build it.”

King laughed at this, but, as the others had
only a hazy idea of what a political platform was,
Kitty’s suggestion was not heeded.

“I’ll tell you,” said Dick. “When Father was
talking last night, he said if our citizens were
public-spirited, they’d form a Village Improvement
Society, and fix up the streets and beautify the
park and the common, and keep their lawns in
better order.”

“Now you’re talking!” cried King. “That’s
the sort of thing I mean. And we children could
be a little Village Improvement Society ourselves.
Of course we couldn’t do much, but we could make
a start, and then grown-up people might take the
notion and do it themselves.”

“I think it would be lovely,” said Marjorie.[Pg 193]
“We could plant flowers in the middle of the common,
and we’d all water them and weed them, and
keep them in lovely order.”

“We couldn’t plant flowers till next spring,”
said Gladys. “October’s no time to plant
flowers.”

“It’s not a very good time for such work, anyway,”
said Dick, “for most of the improvement is
planting things, and mowing grass, and like that.
But there are other things, ’cause Father said
that such a society could make all the people who
live here keep their sidewalks clean and not have
any ashes or rubbish anywhere about.”

“I think it’s great,” said King. “I move we
go right bang! into it, and that we first change
the name of the Jinks Club to the Village Improvement
Society. Then let’s keep just the same officers,
and everything, and go right ahead and
improve.”

“Yes,” said Marjorie, “and then whenever we
want to turn back again to the Jinks Club, why,
we can.”

“Oh, we won’t want to turn back,” said King,
confidently; “the other’ll be more fun.”

“All right,” said Dick. “I’m secretary, so I’ll[Pg 194]
make out a list of what we can do. How much
money is there in the treasury, Midget?”

“Sixty cents,” said Marjorie, promptly.

“Huh! Just what we paid in to-day.”

“Yes, you know we spent last week’s money
going on a trolley ride.”

“So we did. Well, we’ll have to have more cash,
if we’re going to improve this town much.”

“Then I can’t belong,” said Marjorie, decidedly.
“I’ve got to begin now to save money for
Christmas. I’d rather have it for that than plant
flower beds.”

“A nice citizen you are!” growled King.
“But,” he added, “I haven’t any extra money,
either. Christmas is coming, and that’s a
fact!”

“Father’ll give us Christmas money,” said
Kitty.

“Yes; but he likes to have us save some of our
allowance, too. He says it makes better gifts.”

“Well,” said Dick, “let’s do things that don’t
cost money, then. Father said the streets and
lanes ought to be kept in better order. Let’s go
around and pick up the old cans and things.”

“No, thank you,” said Marjorie, turning up[Pg 195]
her small nose. “I’m no ragpicker.”

“I wouldn’t do that, either,” said Gladys;
“that is, unless I had a horse and cart. A pony-cart,
I mean; not a dump-cart. But, Dick, I
heard Father talking last night, too; and he said
a society like that would send out letters to the
citizens, asking them to keep their yards in better
order.”

“That’s the ticket, Gladys!” cried Kingdon,
admiringly. “You’ve struck it now. Of course
that’s the way to accomplish what we are after,
in a dignified manner. Let’s write a lot of those
letters, and then when the people fix their places
all up, we’ll say that we started the movement.”

“All right,” said Dick, “I think that’s just
what Father meant. But he said ‘a circular letter.’
That means have it printed.”

“Oh, well, we can’t afford to have it printed.
Why, we can’t scrape up postage for very many
letters. Sixty cents; that would mail thirty
letters.”

“We can’t write more than that,” said Marjorie.
“That would be five apiece for all of[Pg 196]
us. And I don’t know as Kit and Dorothy write
well enough, anyway.”

“Dorothy does,” said Kitty, generously. “But
I write like hen’s tracks.”

“Well, you can write those that don’t matter
so much,” said Midge, kindly. “I’ll tell you,
Kitty, you can write the one to Father.”

“Pooh, Father doesn’t need any. Our place is
always in order.”

“So is ours!” cried Dick. “And ours!” piped
up Dorothy.

“But don’t the citizens all have to have letters?”
asked Gladys. “If you just pick out the
ones who don’t keep their lawns nice, they’ll be
mad.”

“No, they won’t,” said Dick; “or, if they are,
why, let ’em be mad.”

“I say so, too,” agreed King. “If we write to
the ones that need writing to, we’ll have all we
can do. Make out a list of ’em, Dick.”

“Put down Mr. Bolton first,” said Gladys.
“He hasn’t mowed his grass all summer. Father
says his place is a disgrace to the comminity.”

“Community, child,” corrected her brother.
“But old Bolton’s place is awful. So is Crane’s.”

“Let’s write their letters now, and see how they[Pg 197]
sound,” suggested King, who was always in favor
of quick action.

The club was meeting in the Maynards’ big
playroom, so paper and pencils were handy.

“It ought to be in ink, I s’pose,” said King,
“but I hardly ever use it, it spills about so.
Let’s take pencil this time.”

After many suggestions and corrections on the
part of each of the interested members the following
letter was achieved:

“That’s all right,” said Marjorie, as Dick
read it aloud. “Now, what do we sign it?”

“Just sign it ‘The Village Improvement Society,’
that’s all,” said Gladys.

“Wait a minute,” said King. “In all letters[Pg 198]
of this sort they always abbreviate some words;
it looks more business-like.”

“Mother hates abbreviations,” said Marjorie;
“she won’t let me say ‘phone for telephone, or
auto for motor-car.”

“That’s different,” said King. “She means
in polite society; talking, you know, or writing
notes to your friends.”

“Isn’t a Village Improvement Society a polite
society?” asked Kitty.

“Yes, of course, sister. But I don’t mean that.
I mean, in a business letter like this they always
abbreviate some words.”

“Well, abbreviate ‘community,’ that’s the longest
word,” suggested Dick.

“No, that isn’t the right kind of a word to
abbreviate. It ought to be something like acc’t
for account.”

“Oh, that kind? Well, perhaps we can use
that word in some other letter. But can’t we do
the abbreviating in the signature? That’s pretty
long.”

“So we can,” said King. “Let’s sign it, ‘The
Village Imp. Society.'”

This was adopted, as it didn’t occur to any of[Pg 199]
the children that the abbreviated word might convey
an unintended meaning.

Mr. Crane was attended to next, and, as they
warmed to their subject, his letter was a little
more peremptory. It ran:

“That’s fine!” exclaimed Gladys, as this effusion
was read out. “Now, let’s do two more,
and then we can each take one for a copy, and
make a lot of them, just put different names at
the top, you know.”

“Let’s make a more gentle one,” said Marjorie.
“Those are all right for men, but there’s old Mrs.
Hill, she ought to be told pleasantly to fix up her[Pg 200]
garden and keep her pigs and chickens shut up.
We almost ran over a lot of them the other
day.”

So a gentle petition was framed:

“That’s sweet,” said Marjorie; “I like that
‘Lovingly yours’; it shows we have no hard
feelings.”

One more was framed, with a special intent toward
the shopkeepers:

“That’s a good business one,” said Dick. “Sort
of ‘man to man,’ you know.”

“I don’t like it as well as some of the others,”
said Marjorie. “You copy that, Dick, and I’ll
copy the ‘lovingly’ one.”

Each took a model, and all set to work, except
Kitty and Dorothy, who were exempt, as their
penmanship was not very legible.

“I’m tired,” announced Dick, after an hour’s
work. “Let’s stop where we are.”

“All right,” said King. “We’ve enough for
the first week, I think. If these work pretty good,
we’ll do more next Saturday.”

They had sixteen letters altogether, addressed
to the best and worst citizens of Rockwell, and
in high glee they started to the post-office to buy
their stamps.

Mrs. Maynard willingly gave permission for[Pg 202]
them to go the short distance to the post-office,
and watched the six well-behaved children as they
walked off, two by two.

After the stamps were bought, and the letters
posted, they found they still had enough in the
treasury for soda water all round, lacking two
cents. King generously supplied the deficit, and
the six trooped into the drug store, and each
selected a favorite flavor.

The club meeting broke up after that, and the
children went to their homes, feeling that they had
greatly gained in importance since morning. And
indeed they had.

That same evening many of the Rockwell people
strolled down to the post-office for their mail.

In the small town there were no carriers, and
the short trip to the post-office was deemed a
pleasure by most.

When Mr. Maynard arrived he was surprised
to find men gathered into small groups, talking
in loud and almost angry voices.

The pretty little stone building was not large
enough to hold them all, and knots of people were
on the steps and on the small grass plot in front.

“It’s outrageous!” one man was saying. “I[Pg 203]
never heard of such impudence in a civilized
town!”

“Here comes Mr. Maynard now,” said another,
“let’s ask him.”

Mr. Maynard smiled pleasantly as the belligerent
ones approached him.

They were men whom he knew by name, but
they were not of his own social circle.

“Look here,” said John Kellogg, “I’ve just
got this ‘ere note, and some kid yonder says it’s
the handwritin’ of your son, and I want ter know
ef that’s so!”

“It certainly looks like my son’s writing,” said
Mr. Maynard, still smiling pleasantly, though his
heart sank as he wondered what those children had
been up to now.

CHAPTER XV

DISTURBED CITIZENS

“And I’ve got one that my boy says is in
Dick Fulton’s writin’!” declared another angry
citizen.

“Here comes Dick’s father now,” said Mr.
Maynard, as he advanced a step to meet Mr.
Fulton. “They tell me our sons have been writing
miscellaneous letters,” he said to Mr. Fulton, and,
though there was a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Fulton
saw at once that there was some serious matter
in hand.

“Not only your sons, but your girls, too,”
growled another man. “My kid says this is your
Marjorie’s fist.”

“Well, well, what are the letters all about?”
asked Mr. Fulton, who did not like the attitude of
the complainants.

“Read ’em, and see!” was the quick response,[Pg 205]
and half a dozen letters were thrust toward the
two gentlemen.

Mr. Fulton adjusted his glasses, and both he
and Mr. Maynard quickly scanned the notes that
were only too surely the work of their own
children.

“The signature is misleading,” said Mr. Fulton,
who was inwardly shaking with laughter at the
absurd epistles, but who preserved a serious
countenance; “but I feel sure it means ‘The
Village Improvement Society.’ I have often
thought such a society would be a good thing
for our town, but I didn’t know one had been
started.”

“But who is the society? A lot of youngsters?”
demanded John Kellogg.

“Ahem! These documents would lead one to
think so, wouldn’t they?” said Mr. Fulton,
suavely.

But the offended men were not to be so easily
placated.

“See here,” said one of them, assuming a
threatening tone, “these ‘ere letters is insults;
that’s what I call ’em!”

“And I!” “Me, too!” said several others.

“And as they is insults,” went on the first[Pg 206]
speaker, “we wants satisfaction; that’s what we
wants!”

“Yes, yes!” “We do!” chorused the crowd.

Mr. Fulton and Mr. Maynard were decidedly
nonplussed. It was difficult to take the matter
seriously, and yet, as these men were so incensed,
it might make an unpleasant publicity for the
two families, unless they placated the angry recipients
of those foolish letters.

Mr. Maynard was a quick thinker, and a man
of more even disposition and affable demeanor than
Mr. Fulton. So Mr. Maynard, with a nod at his
friend, jumped up on a chair and began to
address the crowd, as if he were on a public
platform.

“My friends and fellow-townsmen,” he said:
“in the first place, Mr. Fulton and I want to
admit that these letters which you have received
are without doubt the work of our own children.
They were written entirely without our knowledge
or consent, and they represent a childish endeavor
to do well, but they do not show experience, or
familiarity with grown people’s ways of dealing
with these matters. We, therefore, apologize to[Pg 207]
you for the offence our children have caused you,
and trust that, as most of you have children of
your own, you will appreciate the facts of the case,
and forgive the well-meaning, but ill-doing, little
scamps.”

Mr. Maynard’s pleasant voice and genial smile
went far to establish good-feeling, and many
voices murmured, “Aw, that’s all right,” or,
“Little scalawags, ain’t they?”

“And now,” Mr. Maynard went on, “since we
are gathered here, I would like to make a suggestion
that may lead to a good work. Several
of our prominent business men have thought that
a Village Improvement Society could do a great
and good work in our town. I, myself, have not
sufficient leisure to take this matter in charge, but
I wish that a committee of our citizens might be
appointed to consider ways and means, with a view
to organizing a society in the near future. Should
this be done, I stand ready to contribute one thousand
dollars to the general fund of the society,
and I’ve no doubt more will be subscribed by willing
hearts.”

Mr. Maynard stepped down from the chair, and
Mr. Fulton immediately mounted it.

“I, too, will gladly subscribe the same amount[Pg 208]
as Mr. Maynard,” he said; “this project has for
some time been in my mind, and I am pretty sure
that it was because of overhearing some of my
conversations on the subject that my young
people took it up, and earnestly, if in a
mistaken manner, endeavored to start such a
society.”

The sentiment of the meeting had entirely
changed. The men who had been most angry at
their letters were now enthusiastic in their desire
for the immediate formation of the society.

“Land sakes!” said old Mr. Bolton, “them
children didn’t mean nothin’ wrong. They jest
didn’t know no better.”

“That’s so,” said John Kellogg. “Like’s
not, some of our kids might ‘a’ done a heap
worse.”

After the election of a chairman for the provisional
committee, and a few more preliminary
moves in the matter, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Fulton
went away, leaving it all in the hands of their
fellow-townsmen.

“You did good work,” said Mr. Fulton, appreciatively.
“I confess I was afraid of an[Pg 209]
unpleasant turn of affairs. But you won their
hearts by your tact and genial manner.”

“That’s the best way to manage that sort of
an uprising,” returned Mr. Maynard. “Of
course we are, in a way, responsible for our children’s
deeds, and there’s a possibility that some of
those letters could make trouble for us. But I
think it’s all right now. The next thing is to
choke off the children before they go any further.
What do you suppose possessed them to cut up
such a trick?”

“What possesses them to get into one sort
of mischief after another, as fast as they can
go?”

“Well, this isn’t really mischief, is it? They
meant well, you know. But I’ll reserve judgment
until after I talk with my young hopefuls.”

The two men separated at the corner, and Mr.
Maynard went directly to his own home.

He found Mrs. Maynard and the three older
children in the living-room, variously engaged
with books or games.

“Well,” he said, as he entered the room. “I’d
like an immediate interview with The Village
Imps.”

Each of the three gave a start of surprise.[Pg 210]

“What do you mean, Father?” cried Marjorie.

“Why, if you belong to an Imp Society you
must be Imps; aren’t you?”

“Who told you about it?” asked Kitty, disappointedly.
“It was to be a secret, until all
the town was stirred up.”

“The town is pretty well stirred up now, my
girl. But I don’t want reports of my children’s
doings from other people. Tell me all about it,
yourselves.”

“We will, Father,” said Marjorie, evidently
glad of the chance. “You tell, King; you’re
president.”

Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave
a full account of their desire to do something that
would be a public benefit of some sort. He told
of Dick’s suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton’s
remarks about a Village Improvement Society. He
explained that they wrote letters because they
hadn’t money enough for any more expensive proceeding,
and he wound up by proudly stating that
they had mailed sixteen letters already, and hoped
to send more the following week.

So earnest was the boy in his description of[Pg 211]
the work, and so honest his pride in their
efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted
the necessity of changing his view of the
matter.

“Kingdon,” he said, “you’re fourteen years
old, and I think you’re old enough to know
that you ought not to engage in such important
affairs without getting the advice of older
people.”

“Oh, Father!” cried Marjorie. “Was this
wrong, too? Is everything mischief? Can’t we
do anything at all without we have to be punished
for it? We thought this was truly a good
work, and we thought we were doing our
duty!”

Like a little whirlwind, Marjorie flew across the
room, and threw herself, sobbing, into her father’s
arms.

“My dear child,” he said, kissing her hot little
brow, “wait a moment till I explain. We want
to talk over this matter, and get each other’s
ideas about it.”

“But you’re going to say it was wrong,—I
know you are! And I was trying so hard not[Pg 212]
to do naughty things. Oh, Father, how can I
tell what I can do, and what I can’t?”

“There, there, Midget, now stop crying.
You’re not going to be punished; you don’t deserve
to be. What you did was not wrong in
itself,—at least it would not have been for older
people. But you children are ignorant of the
ways of the grown-up world, and so you ought
not to have taken the responsibility of dictating
to or advising grown people. That was the wrong
part.”

“But we meant it for their good, sir, more
than for our own,” said King, by way of justification.

“That’s just it, Kingdon, my boy. You’re too
young yet to know what is for the good of grown
men and women who are old enough to be your
parents and grandparents. You wouldn’t think
of dictating to your mother or myself ‘for
our good,’ would you? And all grown people
ought to be equally free from your unasked
advice.”

“But, Father,” insisted King, “if you kept this
place looking like a rubbish-heap, wouldn’t I have
a right to ask you not to?”

“You’d have only the right of our relation[Pg 213]ship.
A child has many privileges with his parents
that he hasn’t with any one else in the world. But
to come right down to the facts: the letters
that you wrote were ill-advised, arrogant, and
impertinent.”

Kitty looked frankly bewildered at these big
Words, Marjorie buried her face on her father’s
shoulder in a renewed burst of tears, while Kingdon
flushed a deep red all over his honest, boyish
face.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he said; “we didn’t mean
them to be, and we didn’t think they were. We
thought they were straightforward and business-like.”

“That shows your ignorance, my son. Until
you have been in business, you cannot really know
what grown men and women consider business-like.
I can tell you John Kellogg and Tom Bolton
didn’t consider them masterpieces of business-like
literature.”

“How do you know?” said Marjorie, lifting
her wet face from its hiding-place.

“I saw them, dearie; both the men and the letters,
at the post-office to-night. There were many[Pg 214]
others,—a dozen or more,—and they were, one
and all, extremely angry at the letters they had
received. Mr. Fulton and I were both there, and,
when we were told that the letters were the
work of our children, we could scarcely believe
it.”

“And we thought you’d be so proud of us,” said
Kitty, in such a dejected voice that Mrs. Maynard
caught up the little girl and held her in her
arms.

Of course, this was the first Mrs. Maynard had
heard of the whole affair, but, as Mr. Maynard
was conducting the discussion, she said
little.

“What ought we to have done, Father?” said
King, who was beginning to see that they had
done wrong.

“When you first thought of the plan, my son,
you should have realized that it concerned grown
people entirely; and that, therefore, before you
children undertook its responsibilities you should
confer with your mother or me. Surely you see
that point?”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy.

“When your plans include only children, and[Pg 215]
are not disobedience to rules either actual and
implied, then you are usually free to do pretty
much as you like.”

“But we thought this would do the town
good.”

“That was a worthy sentiment, and a true one,
too. But the matter of a town improvement is not
a matter for children to attend to, unless they are
working under the direction of older people. Had
I advised you to write these letters, which, of
course, I never should have done, for you are
not the proper ones to write them, but had I done
so, I would have shown you how to word them
that they might not offend. Inexperienced
letter-writers cannot expect to write a sort of
letter which requires special delicacy, tact, and
graciousness.”

“Father,” said Marjorie, solemnly, “I’m never
going to do anything again, but go to school and
eat my meals and go to bed. Anything else I ever
do is wrong.”

“Now, Mopsy Midget, don’t talk nonsense.
You’re twelve years old. You’ve a lot to learn
before you’re a grown-up, and most of it must be
learned by experience. If you never do anything,[Pg 216]
you’ll never get any experience, and at twenty
you’ll only know as much as you did at twelve!
How would you like that?”

“Not much,” said Marjorie, whose spirits rose
as her father adopted a lighter tone.

“Then just go on and have your experiences.
Cut up jinks and have all the fun you can; but
try to learn as you go along to discriminate between
the things you ought to do and the things
you oughtn’t. You won’t always guess right, but
if you keep on living you can always guess
again.”

“What did those men say?” asked King,
who was brooding over the scene in the post-office.

“Oh! they were pretty mad at first, and I think
they were quite ready to come after you children
with tomahawks and war-whoops. But Mr. Fulton
and I patted them fondly on the shoulder,
and told them you were harmless lunatics and they
mustn’t mind you.”

“We’re not crazy, Father,” said Kitty, who
was inclined to be literal.

“No, Kitsie, you’re not; and I don’t want you
to drive me crazy, either. You’re three of the[Pg 217]
most delightful children I ever met, and whenever
I can pull you out of your scrapes I’m only too
glad to do so. I may as well tell you at once
that Mr. Fulton and I fixed up this Imp Society
matter very satisfactorily; and if you don’t start
in to lay a new asphalt road, or build a cathedral,
I think I can keep up with you.”

“How did you fix it, Father?” asked Marjorie,
brightening with renewed interest, as she learned
that the trouble was over.

“Oh! I told the gentlemen who were most interested
that if they didn’t like the way my children
improved this village that they’d better do
the improving themselves. And they said they
would.”

“Really, Father?”

“Really, King. So now you’re all well out
of it, and I want you to stay out. Unless they
ask for your assistance, later on; and I doubt if
they’ll do that, for between you and me they don’t
seem to approve of your methods.”

“I think it was dreadful for the children to
write those letters,” said Mrs. Maynard. “And
I don’t think, Ed, that you’ve quite explained to
them how very wrong it was.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Maynard, “but can’t[Pg 218]
we leave that part of the subject till some other
time? For my part, I’m quite exhausted scolding
these young reprobates, and I’d like a change
to smiles instead of tears. And somehow I have
a growing conviction that they’ll never do it again.
Will you, chickabiddies?”

“No, sir!” came in a hearty chorus.

“Of course they won’t,” said Mrs. Maynard,
laughing. “It will be some other ridiculous freak.
But I’ll be glad to drop the subject for the present,
too, and have a pleasant half-hour before it’s
bedtime for babes.”

“And aren’t we to be punished?” asked Marjorie,
in surprise.

“Not exactly punished,” said her father, smiling
at her. “I think I shall give you a severe
scolding every night for a week, and then see if
you’re not little paragons of perfection, every one
of you.”

“I’m not afraid of your scolding,” said Marjorie,
contentedly cuddling close to her father;
“but I thought maybe—perhaps—you’d want
us to apologize to those people who were so
angry.”

“I did that for you, dearie. What’s the use of[Pg 219]
having a father if he can’t get you out of a scrape
now and then? And now let’s roast some chestnuts,
and pop some corn, and have all sorts
of fun.”

CHAPTER XVI

ROSY POSY’S CHOICE

It was time to decide the momentous question of
where the next Ourday should be spent.

Already it was Wednesday, and on Saturday
the Maynards would have their November Ourday.
It was Rosy Posy’s turn to choose, but as her
selections were usually either vague or impossible,
the other children were not backward in offering
suggestions to help the little one out.

This time, however, Rosamond was quite positive
in her opinion.

When her father asked her where she wanted
to go for a day’s outing, she at once responded,
“To Bongzoo.”

“To Bongzoo!” exclaimed Mr. Maynard.
“Where in the world is that? Or what is it?
It sounds as though it might be either French
or Choctaw.”

“Ess,” said Rosy Posy, “we’ll all go to Bong[Pg 221]zoo;
me an’ muvver, an’ all of us, an’ Daddy,
too.”

“And how do we get there, Baby? Walk, ride,
or swim?”

“I don’ know,” said Rosy Posy. “But Marjorie
knows. She told me to say ‘Go to Bongzoo,’
so I said it.”

Then the laugh was on Marjorie.

“Oho!” said Mr. Maynard. “So Mopsy’s
been electioneering all right. Out with it, Midge.
What does Baby mean by Bongzoo?”

“She means the Bronx Zoo,” said Marjorie. “I
thought we’d all like to see the animals there.
But it isn’t my turn to choose, so I told Rosy Posy
to choose that.”

“An’ I do!” declared the child, stoutly. “I
choose Bongzoo, an’ I wants to go there.”

“I think it’s a fine place to go,” said Mr. Maynard.
“What made you think of it, Midge?”

“One of the girls at school went there some time
ago, and she told us all about it; and, oh, Father,
it’s beautiful! All lions and tigers and waterlilies
and Florida trees!”

“I doubt if the waterlilies are in bloom just[Pg 222]
now, but I’m sure the tigers are flourishing. Well,
I’m for the Zoo. Will you go, Mother?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Maynard; “I don’t
want to miss such a fine-sounding Ourday as
that.”

“I think it’s great!” declared King. “Bob
Carson says the birds are wonderful, and the
alligators walk around on the grass.”

“Oh!” cried Kitty, “then I don’t want to
go. I wouldn’t meet an alligator for anything!”

“They have their own grass plat, Kitsie,” said
her father. “They don’t trespass on the grass
reserved for visitors.”

So the Ourday was unanimously settled, and, as
that sort of a trip involved little preparation,
there was nothing to do but hope for pleasant
weather.

“Though if it rains,” said Marjorie, comfortably,
“Father will fix up something nice for
us in the house.”

But Saturday turned out to be a lovely day,
and the Maynard family took an early train for
New York City, in order to make their stay at
the Zoo as long as possible.

They did not invite any other guests, as Mr.[Pg 223]
and Mrs. Maynard thought their own four children
responsibility enough.

The young people greatly enjoyed the journey
in the train, and across the ferry, and then Rosy
Posy asked that they might go in what she called
the “Cellarway.” She meant the Subway, and, as
this was a quick way to reach Bronx Park, Mr.
Maynard consented. The children were of enthusiastic
natures, and inclined to be conversational,
but the noise of the Subway trains drowned their
voices, and, for once, they were obliged to be
silent. But when they reached their destination,
and entered the beautiful park, their tongues were
loosed again, and they kept up a running fire of
chatter.

Rosy Posy trotted along by her mother’s side,
King and Kitty walked together, and Midget pretended
to walk by her father’s side, but really
danced back and forth from one to another.
They visited the Botanical Park first, and as
the early November day was clear and cold,
they were not sorry to step into the warm greenhouses.

Marjorie specially liked the great jungles of[Pg 224]
Florida and other southern vegetation. The
banyan trees and giant palms reached up to the
high ceiling, and the luxuriant foliage and brilliant
blossoms made northern plants seem dwarfed beside
them. It was an instructive experience, as well
as an entertaining one, for Mr. Maynard called
the children’s attention to the printed names on
the plants, and, though they could not remember
all of them, they learned a great many.

“It’s fun to study botany this way,” said Marjorie,
as her father showed her the strange Mexican
cacti, and told her about the deserts where
they grow.

King nearly scared Kitty out of her wits by pretending
there was a great snake writhing among
the dark-leaved reeds, but almost immediately she
discovered it was only a rubber hose, and she
laughed with the rest.

There were many greenhouses, but after they
had been through most of them, Mr. Maynard
proposed that they have an early luncheon, and
then go to see the animals.

So they went to the picturesque restaurant, and
the six travellers suddenly discovered they were
both tired and hungry.

“But an hour’s rest and some good food will[Pg 225]
make us all over anew,” said Mr. Maynard, “and
then we’ll be quite ready to call on the lions and
the tigers.”

“Is this Bongzoo?” asked Rosy Posy, after
she had been comfortably placed in a high chair
almost like her own at home.

“Well, this is the place where they feed the
animals,” said her father, “and as you’re a little
kitten, I suppose you’ll have some milk?”

“Milk, an’ meat, an’ ‘tatoes, an’ pie, an’ evvyfing,”
announced Rosy Posy, folding her chubby
hands to await contentedly the filling of her comprehensive
order.

Being an Ourday the children were allowed
to select whatever they chose from the menu,
their parents, however, reserving the right of
veto.

“I want roast beef,” said Kitty, after scanning
the more elaborate, but unfamiliar,
names.

“Oh, pshaw, Kit,” said her brother, “you can
have that at home! Why don’t you take something
different? It’s more of a treat. I choose
Supreme of Chicken.”

“I don’t like soup,” said Kitty, innocently, and[Pg 226]
then they all laughed.

“I think I’ll have lobster salad,” announced
Marjorie, after long study.

“I think you won’t,” said her father,
promptly. “Nobody’s to be ill this afternoon,
and that’s a risky dish for little folks. Try
again, sister.”

Marjorie cheerfully made another perusal of the
bill of fare, and at last declared in favor of
chicken hash.

This was willingly allowed, and when Kitty decided
on an omelette with jelly, her choice was
also commended. Mrs. Maynard added a
few wise selections, which were for the good
of all concerned, and each chose a favorite ice-cream.

“Oh, what a good time we’re having!” said
Marjorie. “I do love to eat at a restaurant.”

“It is pleasant once in a while,” said her
father. “But for daily food, give me my own
family table.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Marjorie; “I wouldn’t
like to live in a restaurant.”

After luncheon they visited the great “rocking-[Pg 227]stone.”
The immense rock, weighing many tons,
was poised on a tiny base, and it almost seemed
as if Rosy Posy might push it over, so unstable
did it look.

But indeed she couldn’t, nor any of the others,
though it was said that a pressure of fifty
pounds could make the great stone rock on its
base.

“And now,” said Mr. Maynard, “we’re really
getting into the Zoo part of our day. This, Rosy
Posy, is your Bongzoo, and first of all here are the
bears.”

Delightedly all the children viewed the bears.
The great creatures seemed so mild and gentle,
and played with one another in such kittenish
fashion, that even Rosy Posy felt no fear
of them. There were various species, from
the big grizzlies to the little brown cinnamon
bears, and all waddled about in a state of comfortable
fatness, or lay in the sun and slept
peacefully.

The lions and tigers were far less placid. They
stalked up and down their small cages, and now
and then growled or roared as if very weary of
their long and solitary confinement.

“He wants to come out,” said Rosy Posy,[Pg 228]
of a particularly big and ferocious-looking lion.
“Let him out, Father, he wants to play wiv
us.”

“Oh! I think I’d better not, Baby. He might
run away and forget to come back.”

“No,” insisted the child; “I’ll put my arms
round him, an’ make him stay wiv me.”

“We won’t have time now, Rosy Posy,” said
King. “We’re going on now to see the panthers
and wolves. Come along with brother.”

So the child slipped her little hand in King’s,
and they led the family procession for a
while.

The monkeys were a great source of amusement,
and Rosy Posy thought some of the chimpanzees
were little old men, they chattered so glibly.

But the birds proved a delight to all.

“Oh!” cried Marjorie. “Will you look at
those red and blue parrots!”

“Parrakeets,” corrected Mr. Maynard. “And
fine ones, too. And how beautiful are the white
ones with yellow topknots.”

They studied, with some care, the names and
homes of the birds, and learned to distinguish the[Pg 229]
toucans and orioles and other beautiful, bright-colored
species.

Then on to the big, wise-eyed owls, who blinked
and winked at them in a sleepy sort of a
way.

The eagles came next, and all were proud of the
National bird, as they viewed the fine specimens on
exhibition. The bald eagle and the white eagle
were favorites, and the vultures and condors were
disliked by all.

An interesting structure was an immense cage,
which was larger than any house, and entirely
open to view. They walked round all four sides
of it, and were enchanted with its beautiful occupants
pants. Storks and flamingoes stood about, on one
leg, motionless, as if absorbed in deep contemplation.
Pelicans, with their strange bills, and ducks
of most brilliant plumage waddled around and
seemed to be entirely interested in their eager
audience.

In another enclosure, cranes and adjutant birds
flapped their great wings, and made long, hopping
jumps, and then stood still, as if posing for
their pictures.

Marjorie proved herself specially quick in pick[Pg 230]ing
out each bird, from its descriptive placard,
and she learned the names, both English and Latin,
of many of them.

“You don’t mind going to school this way, do
you. Midget?” asked her father.

“Not a bit! I love it. If I could learn all my
lessons out of doors, and with you to help teach me,
I’d be willing to study all the time.”

“Well, we must come here again some day,”
said Mr. Maynard, “and see if you remember all
these jawbreaker names. Now, let’s visit the
beavers.”

The beaver pond was a strange sight, indeed.
Originally there had been many tall trees standing
in the swampy enclosure, but now nearly all
of them lay flat in the water. The little busy
beavers had gnawed around and into the trunks,
near the ground, until the tree toppled and fell
over.

“Why do they do it, Father?” asked King,
greatly interested.

“They want to make bridges across the water,”
answered Mr. Maynard. “It shows a wonderful
sagacity, for they gnaw the trunk of the tree,
at first such a place, and in just such a way, that[Pg 231]
the tree will fall exactly in the direction they want
it to.”

“They must scamper to get out of the way
when a tree is about to fall,” observed Mrs.
Maynard.

“Indeed, they do,” said her husband. “They
are very clever, and most patient and untiring
workers. See, the trunks they have gnawed have
been protected by wire netting that visitors may
see them. And some of the standing trees are
protected near the ground by wire netting that
they may not be upset at present.”

“Now I know my beaver lesson,” said Marjorie;
“let’s go on. Father, I think I’ll change that
piece I spoke in school to ‘How doth the busy
little beaver,’ instead of bee!”

“They’re equally busy creatures, my dear. You
may take a lesson from either or both.”

“No, thank you. I don’t want to work all
the time. I’ll be a butterfly sometimes, ‘specially
on Ourdays.”

Marjorie jumped and fluttered about more like
a grasshopper than anything else, and, swinging
by her father’s hand, they passed on to the deer
ranges.

Here were all sorts of deer, and the gentle,[Pg 232]
timid-eyed creatures came tamely to the railings
or nettings and made friends with the
visitors.

“It would be fun to feed them,” said Mr. Maynard,
“but it’s strictly forbidden, so we can only
talk to them, and hope that they understand. And
now, my infants, the sun is travelling homeward,
and I think we’ll take our next lesson from him.
Would you rather have some sandwiches and ice-cream
now, or wait until you get home, to refresh
yourselves?”

“Now, now, now!” chorused the whole party.

“Do you know, I thought you’d say that,” said
Mr. Maynard. “So suppose we go into this
pleasant-looking tea-room, and have a social
hour.”

“This makes twice for ice-cream, to-day,” observed
Kitty, as she lovingly ate her favorite
dainty. “And do we have it to-night for dinner,
Mother?”

“Of course. Always on an Ourday night.”

“Oh, how lovely! Three times in one day.”

“Kitty,” said her mother, smiling, “I believe
your highest ambition is ice-cream.”

“Yes, it is,” said Kitty, complacently; “or else[Pg 233]
huckleberry pie.”

After the ice-cream, there was the trip home.
But the children were not tired, and enjoyed thoroughly
the ride, which was more of a treat to them
than to their parents.

The Subway was fun, the ferryboat ride a delight,
and after they were in the train on the New
Jersey side, they coaxed the conductor to turn
two seats to face each other. Then the quartette
occupied these, and chattered gaily over the events
of the day.

“Isn’t it lovely,” said Marjorie, as they at last
entered their own front door, “to think we’ve had
such a good time, and yet Ourday isn’t over yet?”

“I know it,” said Kitty. “And ’tis specially
lovely for me, ’cause I can stay up to dinner,
and dress up, and everything.”

Ourdays always wound up with an extra good
dinner, and a touch of gala costume in honor of
the occasion. Then after dinner the evening was
devoted to games or stories or fun of some sort, in
which Mr. Maynard was the ringleader. Other
evenings he was not to be disturbed, unless he
chose, but Ourday evenings he belonged to the[Pg 234]
children, and willingly did whatever they asked
him to.

But at nine o’clock the Ourday was over, and
the children trooped off to bed, invariably repeating
the same old story, “Now this has really been
the very best Ourday we ever had!”

CHAPTER XVII

A SUBSTITUTE GUEST

Thanksgiving Day came late that year. The red-lettered
Thursday on the calendar didn’t appear
until the last part of the month. But winter had
set in early, and already there was fine coasting
and skating.

Marjorie loved all out-of-door sports, and the
jolly afternoons spent on the hill or on the lake
sent her home with cheeks as rosy as a hard, sound,
winter apple.

The Thanksgiving season always meant festivity
of some sort. Sometimes they all went to
Grandma Sherwood’s in orthodox traditional fashion,
and sometimes they went to Grandma Maynard’s,
who lived in New York.

But this year Mr. and Mrs. Maynard expected
friends of their own, some grown-ups from the
city, to spend the holiday.

“No children!” exclaimed Marjorie, when she[Pg 236]
heard about it.

“No, Midge,” said her mother. “You must
help me entertain my guests this time, as I sometimes
help you entertain yours.”

“Indeed you do, you sweetest mother in all
the world!” cried impetuous Midget, as she flung
herself into her mother’s arms. Midget’s embraces
were of the strenuous order, and, though
Mrs. Maynard never warded them off, she was
often obliged to brace herself for the sudden
impact.

“And I’ll help you a heap,” went on Marjorie.
“What can I do? May I make Indian pudding
with raisins in it?”

Midge was just having a spell of learning to
cook, and good-natured Ellen had taught her a
few simple dishes, of which Indian pudding was
the favorite.

“No thank you, dearie. As it is a festival occasion,
I think we’ll have something a little more
elaborate than that. You can help me better
by trying to behave decorously, and by keeping
the other children quiet when they are in the drawing-room.
Mr. and Mrs. Crawford have never[Pg 237]
had any children, and they don’t like noise and
confusion.”

“You’re more used to it, aren’t you, Mother?”
said Marjorie, again springing to give her mother
one of her spasmodic embraces, and incidentally
upsetting that long-suffering lady’s work-basket.

“I have to be if I live with my whirlwind of an
eldest daughter,” said Mrs. Maynard, when she
could get her breath once more.

“Yes’m. And I’m awful sorry I upset your
basket, but now I’ll just dump it out entirely, and
clear it up from the beginning; shall I?”

“Yes, do; it always looks so nice after you put
it in order.”

And so it did, for Marjorie was methodical in
details, and she arranged the little reels of silk,
and put the needles tidily in their cushion, until
the basket was in fine order.

“There,” she said, admiring her own work,
“don’t you touch that, Mother, until after
Thanksgiving Day; and then it will be all in order
for Mrs. Crawford to see. When is she coming?”

“They’ll arrive Wednesday night and stay over
until Friday morning. You may help me make the
guest-rooms fresh and pretty for them.”

“Yes; I’ll stick pins in the cushions to make[Pg 238]
the letters of their names. Shall I?”

“Well, no; I don’t believe I care for that particular
fancy. But I’ll show you how I do like
the pins put in, and you may do it for me. Now,
run out and play, we’ll have ample time for our
housekeeping affairs later on.”

Away went Marjorie, after bestowing another
tumultuous bear-hug on her mother. She whisked
on her hat and coat, and with her mittens still
in her hand, flew out of the door, banging it
after her.

“Cold weather always goes to that child’s
muscles,” thought Mrs. Maynard, as she heard
the noise. “She never bangs doors in summer
time.”

“Wherever have you been?” cried the others,
as Marjorie joined them on the hill.

“Talking to Mother. I meant to come out
right away after school, but I forgot about it.”

Gladys Fulton looked at her curiously. She
wasn’t “intimate” with her mother, as Marjorie
was, and she didn’t quite understand the
relationship.

In another minute Midge was on her sled, and,[Pg 239]
with one red-mittened hand waving on high, was
whizzing down the hill.

King caught up to her, and the others followed,
and then they all walked back up the hill
together.

“Going to have fun, Thanksgiving Day?”
asked Dick Fulton, as they climbed along.

“No. We’re going to have a silly old Thanksgiving,”
said Marjorie. “Only grown-ups to visit
us, and that means we don’t have any good of
Father at all.”

“Aw, horrid!” said King. “Is that the programme?
I didn’t know it.”

“Yes!” went on Marjorie, “and I’ve promised
Mother to behave myself and to make all you
others behave, too.” Her own eyes danced, as she
said this, and King burst into laughter.

“That’s a good one!” he cried. “Why, it
will take the whole Maynard family to make you
behave yourself, let alone the rest of us.”

“No, truly, I’m going to be good, ’cause
Mother asked me most ‘specially.” Marjorie’s
earnest air was convincing, but King was
skeptical.

“You mean to be good, all right,” he said,[Pg 240]
“but at the party you’ll do some crazy thing
without thinking.”

“Very likely,” said Mopsy, cheerfully, and then
they all slid down hill again.

The day before Thanksgiving Day everything
was in readiness for the guests.

Mr. Maynard had come home early, and the
whole family were in the drawing-room to await
the arrival.

This, in itself, was depressing, for to be
dressed up and sitting in state at four o’clock
in the afternoon is unusual, and, therefore,
uncomfortable.

Marjorie had a new frock, of the material that
Kitty called “Alberta Ross.” It was very pretty,
being white, trimmed here and there with knots of
scarlet velvet, and Midget was greatly pleased
with it, though she looked longingly out of the
window, and thought of her red cloth play-dress
and her shining skates.

However, she had promised to be good, and she
looked as demure as St. Cecilia, as she sat quietly
on the sofa with an eye on the behavior of her
younger sisters.

Kitty and Rosy Posy, both in freshly-laundered,[Pg 241]
white muslin frocks, also sat demurely, with folded
hands, while King, rather restlessly, moved about
the room, now and then looking from the window.

“You children get on my nerves!” said Mr.
Maynard, at last. “I begin to think you’re not
my own brood at all. Is it necessary, Mother, to
have this solemn stillness, just because we expect
some friends to see us?”

Mrs. Maynard smiled.

“These children,” she said, “have no idea of
moderation. It isn’t necessary for them to sit like
wax-works, but if they didn’t they’d be turning
somersaults, or upsetting tables,—though, of
course, they wouldn’t mean to.”

“I daresay you’re right,” said Mr. Maynard,
with a sigh, “and I do want them to behave like
civilized beings, when our friends come.”

“There they are, now!” cried King, as the
doorbell was heard. “But I don’t see any carriage,”
he added, looking from the window. In a
moment Sarah appeared with a telegram for Mrs.
Maynard.

“They are delayed,” said that lady, prophetically,
“and won’t arrive till the next train.”
But this she said while she was opening the[Pg 242]
envelope. As she read the message, her face fell,
and she exclaimed, “Oh, they’re not coming
at all.”

“Not coming?” said Mr. Maynard, taking the
yellow paper.

“No; Mrs. Crawford’s sister is ill, and she can’t
leave her. Oh, I’m so disappointed!”

“It is too bad, my dear; I’m very sorry for
you. I wish they could have let you know sooner.”

“Yes, I wish so, too. Then we could have gone
out to Grandma Sherwood’s for the day.”

“Is it too late for that?” asked Marjorie,
eagerly. “Can’t we get ready, and fly off in a
hurry?”

“You could,” said her father, smiling. “And
probably we all could. But Grandma Sherwood
couldn’t get ready for six starving savages in
such short order. Moreover, I fancy Mother has
a larder full of good things here that must be
eaten by somebody. What shall we do, Helen?”

“I don’t know, Ed. I’ll leave it to you. Plan
anything you like.”

“Then I’ll leave it to the children. Speak up,
friends. Who would you like to ask to eat Thanksgiving
dinner with you?”

The children considered.[Pg 243]

“It ought to be somebody from out of town,”
said Marjorie. “That makes it seem more like
a special party.”

“I’ll tell you!” exclaimed Kitty. “Let’s ask
Molly Moss.”

“Just the one!” cried Marjorie. “How’d you
come to think of her, Kit? But I ‘most know her
people won’t let her come, and there isn’t time,
anyway.”

“There’s time enough,” said Mr. Maynard.
“I’ll call them up on the long-distance telephone
now. Then if Molly can come, they can put her
on the train to-morrow morning, and we’ll meet
her here. But I doubt if her mother will spare
her on Thanksgiving Day.”

However, to Mr. Maynard’s surprise, Mrs.
Moss consented to let Molly go, and as a neighbor
was going on the early morning train, and could
look after her, the matter was easily arranged.

Marjorie was in transports of glee.

“I’m truly sorry, Mother,” she said, “that you
can’t have your own company, but, as you can’t,
I’m so glad Molly is coming. Now, that fixes to-morrow,
but what can we do to-day to have fun?”

“I think it’s King’s turn,” said Mr. Maynard.[Pg 244]
“Let him invite somebody to dine with us to-night.”

“That’s easy,” said Kingdon. “I choose Dick
and Gladys. We can telephone for them right
away.”

“They don’t seem much like company,” said
Marjorie, “but I’d rather have them than anybody
else I know of.”

“Then it’s all right,” said Mrs. Maynard,
“and, as they’re not formal company, you’d better
all change those partified clothes for something
you can romp about in.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” said Kitty. “I can’t have
fun in dress-up things.”

And so it was an informal lot of children who
gathered about the dinner-table, instead of the
guests who had been expected.

But Mr. Maynard exerted himself quite as much
to be entertaining as if he had had grown-up
companions, and the party was a merry one indeed.

After dinner the young people were sent to the
playroom, as the elders were expecting callers.

“Tell me about Molly Moss,” said Gladys to
Marjorie. “What sort of a girl is she?”

“Crazy,” said Marjorie, promptly. “You[Pg 245]
never knew anybody, Glad, who could get up such
plays and games as she does. And she gets into
terrible mischief, too. She’s going to stay several
days, and we’ll have lots of fun while she’s here.
At Grandma’s last summer, we played together
nearly all the time. You’ll like her, I know. And
she’ll like you, of course. We’ll all have fun
together.”

Gladys was somewhat reassured, but she had a
touch of jealousy in her nature, and, as she was
really Marjorie’s most intimate friend, she resented
a little bit the coming of this stranger.

“She sounds fine,” was Dick’s comment, as he
heard about Molly. “We’ll give her the time
of her life. Can she skate, Mops?”

“Oh, I guess so. I only knew her last summer,
but I’m sure she can do anything.”

When Molly arrived the next morning, she flew
into the house like a small and well-wrapped-up
cyclone. She threw her muff in one direction, and
her gloves in another, and made a mad dash for
Marjorie.

Then, remembering her manners, she spoke politely
to Mrs. Maynard.

“How do you do?” she said; “it was very[Pg 246]
kind of you to invite me here, and I hope you
won’t make me any trouble. There! Mother told
me to say that, and I’ve been studying it all the
way, for fear I’d forget it.”

Mrs. Maynard smiled, for Molly was entirely
unaware of the mistake she had made in her
mother’s message, and the other children had not
noticed it, either.

“We’re glad to have you with us, my dear,”
Mrs. Maynard replied; “and I hope you’ll enjoy
yourself and have a real good time.”

“Yes’m,” said Molly, “I always do.”

Then the children ran away to play out-of-doors
until dinner-time.

“It’s so queer to be here,” said Molly, who had
never before been away from home alone.

“It’s queer to have you, but it’s nice,” said
Marjorie. “Which do you like best, summer or
winter?”

“Both!” declared Molly. “Whichever one it
is, I like that one; don’t you?”

“Yes, I s’pose so. But I like winter best.
There’s so much to do. Why, Molly, I’m busy
every minute. Of course, school takes most of the[Pg 247]
time, so I have to crowd all the fun into the afternoons
and Saturdays.”

“Oh, is this your hill?” exclaimed Molly, as
they reached their favorite coasting-ground.
“What a little one! Why, the hills at home are
twice as long as this.”

“I know it,” said Mopsy, apologetically; “but
this is the longest one here. Won’t it do?”

“Oh, yes,” said Molly, who did not mean to
be unpleasantly critical, but who was merely surprised.
“But you have to be going up and down
all the time.”

“We do,” agreed King. “But it’s fun. And,
anyway, you have to go up and down all the
time if it’s a longer hill, don’t you?”

“So you do,” admitted Molly, “but it seems
different.”

However, after a few journeys up and down,
she declared the hill was a first-rate coaster, and
she liked it better than a long one, because it was
easier to walk up.

They all liked Molly. Gladys concluded she
was a welcome addition to their crowd, and both
Kingdon and Dick thought her a jolly girl.

She was daring,—sometimes a little too much[Pg 248]
so,—but she was good-natured, and very kind and
pleasant.

“Don’t you ever hitch on?” she asked, as they
all trudged up hill.

“What’s that mean?” asked Gladys.

“Why, hitch on behind sleighs. Or big wagon-sleds.”

“With horses?”

“Yes, of course. It’s lots of fun. Come on,
let’s try it.”

Out to the road they went, and waited for a
passing sleigh. Soon Mr. Abercrombie’s turnout
came by.

This gentleman was one of the richest men in
Rockwell, and very dignified and exclusive. Indeed,
he was a bit surly, and not very well liked
by his fellow townsmen. But he had a fine sleigh
and a magnificent pair of horses, which were driven
by a coachman in a brave livery and fur cape.

“Please give us a hitch,” called out Molly,
as the glittering equipage drew near.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Abercrombie,
as he looked at the child.

Molly was always elf-like in appearance, but the
wind had reddened her cheeks, and blown wisps[Pg 249]
of her straight black hair about her face, until
she looked crazier than ever.

The big sleigh had stopped, and Mr. Abercrombie
glared at the group of children.

“What did you say?” he demanded, and Molly
repeated her request.

Marjorie was a little shocked at the performance,
but she thought loyalty to her guest required
that she should stand by her, so she stepped
to Molly’s side and took hold of her hand.

The two surprised boys were about to enter a
protest, when Mr. Abercrombie smiled a little
grimly, and said:

“Yes, indeed. That’s what I’m out for. Martin,
fasten these sleds on behind somehow.”

The obedient footman left his place, and, though
the order must have been an unusual one, he
showed no sign of surprise.

“Yes, sir,” he said, touching his hat. “Beg
pardon, sir, but what shall I fasten them to, sir?”

“I said fasten them to this sleigh! If there
isn’t any way to do it, invent one. Fasten one
sled, and then that can hold the next one, all the
way along. Blockhead!”

“Yes, sir; very good, sir.” And, touching his[Pg 250]
hat again, the unperturbed footman went to work.
How he did it, they never knew, for the sleigh had
not been constructed for the purpose of “giving a
hitch” to children’s sleds, but somehow the ingenious
Martin attached a sled securely to the
back of the big sleigh. Molly took her seat
thereon, and then another sled was easily fastened
to the back of hers. And so on, until all were
arranged.

Then the footman calmly returned to his own
place, the coachman touched up the horses, the
bells jingled gaily, and they were off!

Such a ride as they had! It was ever so much
more fun than riding in the sleigh, and though
the boys, who were at the end of the line of sleds,
fell off occasionally, they floundered on again,
and were all right until they turned another sharp
corner.

“Thank you, very much, mister,” said Molly,
heartily, as they neared the Maynard home;
“we’re going to leave you now.”

Again the sleigh stopped, the dignified footman
came and released the sleds, and, after a chorus
of thanks from the merry children, Mr. Abercrombie
drove away in his solitary splendor.

“You beat the Dutch, Molly!” cried King.[Pg 251]
“I never should have dreamed of asking Lord
Abercrombie, as people call him, to give us a
ride.”

“I think he liked it as well as we did,” said
Molly.

“I think so, too,” said Marjorie, “and I hope
some day he’ll take us again.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THANKSGIVING DAY

The Thanksgiving Dinner was a jollification.

The Maynard children were always a merry
crowd, but the added element of Molly’s gaiety
gave a new zest to the fun.

The pretty table decorations, planned for the
expected guests, were modified better to suit the
children’s tastes, and when dinner was announced
and they all went out to the dining-room, a general
shout of applause was raised.

In the middle of the table was a large “horn
of plenty,” fashioned of gilded pasteboard. From
its capacious mouth were tumbling oranges, apples,
bananas, grapes, nuts, figs, and raisins. The
horn itself was beautifully decorated, and seemed
to be suspended from the chandelier above by red
ribbons.

Also, red ribbons, starting from the horn itself,[Pg 253]
led to each person’s plate, and at the end of each
ribbon was a name-card.

Gleefully the children took their places, and
laughed merrily at the funny little souvenirs that
stood at their plates.

Kingdon had a jolly pig, made of a lemon, with
wooden toothpicks stuck in for legs, a curly tail
made of a bit of celery, and two black-headed pins
for eyes.

Marjorie had a horse made of a carrot, which
looked like a very frisky steed, indeed.

“It should have been made of a horse-radish,”
said Mr. Maynard, who was the originator of
these toys, “but I feared that would make you
weep instead of laugh.”

Molly had a gay-looking figure, whose head was
a fig, his body a potato, and his legs and arms
bunches of raisins. He wore a red fez with a
feather in it, and a red tunic tied with gold
braid.

Kitty had a nut doll, whose head was a hazelnut,
and its body an English walnut. Its feet and
hands were peanuts, stuck on the ends of matches.

Rosy Posy had a card on which were several
white mice. These were made of blanched almonds,[Pg 254]
fastened to the card by stitches of thread, which
looked like tiny legs and tails.

Mrs. Maynard found at her place a tiny figure
of a dancing girl. The head was a small white
grape, and the body and ruffled skirts were merely
a large carnation turned upside down.

And Mr. Maynard’s own souvenir was a funny
old fat man, whose body was an apple, and his
head a hickory nut.

Molly had never seen such toys before, and
she was enraptured with them, declaring she
should learn to make them for her friends at
home.

“You can do it, if you try,” said Marjorie,
sagely; “but they aren’t easy to make. Father
does them so beautifully, because he is patient
and careful. But you and I, Molly, are too slapdash.
We’d never take pains to make them so
neatly.”

“Yes, I would,” declared Molly, positively;
“because I see how nice they look when they’re
done well! I don’t want any broken-legged pigs,
or tumble-to-pieces dolls.”

“That’s the way to talk,” said Mr. Maynard,
approvingly; “I foresee, Molly, we shall be great[Pg 255]
friends, and I’ll teach you the noble art of what
I call ‘pantry sculpture.'”

After the turkey and other substantial dishes
had been disposed of, dessert was brought, and,
to the great delight of the children, it comprised
many and various confections.

First, there was placed at each plate a dear
little mince pie, hot, and covered with a drift of
powdered sugar. In the middle of each pie stood
a lighted candle.

“Oh, ho, it’s somebody’s birthday!” cried King,
as he saw the candles.

“Somebody’s only one year old, then,” said
Molly.

“These aren’t birthday candles exactly,” said
Mr. Maynard. “They’re just candles to keep
the pies hot. But as I want to eat my pie, I’ll
just eat the candle first, and get it out of the
way.”

So saying, he calmly blew out the flame, and
in a moment had eaten the candle, wick and
all!

“Oh, Father!” cried Marjorie. “How could
you do that? Do you like wax candles?”

“These candles aren’t exactly wax,” said her[Pg 256]
father, “and I must say mine tasted very
good.”

Molly’s bright black eyes snapped.

“If Mr. Maynard can eat candles, so can I!”
she declared, and, blowing out the flame, she bit
off the end of her own candle.

“It is good,” she said, as she munched it. “I
like candles, too.”

So then they all tried eating candles. Marjorie
tasted hers carefully, and then took a larger
bite.

“Why, it’s apple!” she cried. And so it was.
The “candles” had been cut with an apple-corer,
and the “wicks” were bits of almond cut the right
shape and stuck in the top of the candle. The
oil in the nut causes it to burn for a few moments,
and the whole affair looks just like a real candle.

The mince pies were followed by ice-cream, and
that by fruits and candies, and then the feast was
over, but every one carried away the jolly little
souvenirs to keep as mementoes of the occasion.
Skating was the order of the afternoon.

Mr. Maynard went with the older children, while
Mrs. Maynard and Rosy Posy amused themselves
at home.

Kitty couldn’t skate very well, but all the others[Pg 257]
were fairly good skaters, and soon they were gliding
over the ice, while Mr. Maynard pushed Kitty
in a sliding chair. She thought she had the most
fun of all, but the others preferred their own feet
to a chair, and skated tirelessly around the lake,
not at all dismayed by somewhat frequent upsets
and tumbledowns.

The Fultons joined them, and several others,
and Molly soon made acquaintance with many of
the Maynards’ friends.

Molly was such a daring child that Mr. Maynard
carefully warned her about going near the
thin places in the ice, and she promised to avoid
them. But it was with some uneasiness he watched
the young skaters, when, at Molly’s suggestion,
they played “Snap the Whip.”

This meant to join hands in a long row, and,
after skating rapidly, the one at the end stood
still and swung the others round like the lash of a
whip. No trouble was likely to occur if they held
hands firmly. But to separate meant that the
end ones would be whirled away, and might get a
bad fall.

As the boys were strong and sturdy, and the[Pg 258]
girls had promised to hold on tightly and carefully,
Mr. Maynard let them play this game,
though he had always thought it a dangerous
sport.

“Just once more,” begged Marjorie, when at
last he told them he would rather they’d play
something else—and permission was given for one
more “Snap the Whip,” on condition that it
should be the last. And it was.

Marjorie was on one end, and Molly was next
to her.

Kingdon was at the other end, and, after a few
vigorous strokes, he pulled the line about so suddenly
that Molly, who was not expecting it so
soon, was jerked away from her next neighbor.

She and Marjorie were flung with force across
the ice, but they were quite alert, kept their balance
perfectly, and would have been skating back
again in a minute, but they chanced upon a thin
place in the ice, and it broke through, and in they
went!

Many of the children screamed, but Molly’s
voice rang out clear above the rest:

“Don’t yell so! We’re all right, only it’s
awful cold. Just get us out as quick as you can.”

Relieved to learn that they hadn’t gone under[Pg 259]
the water, Mr. Maynard soon found a fence-rail,
and, with the boys’ assistance, it was not long before
the dripping girls were once more outside
the lake, instead of inside.

“No harm done, if you obey my orders,” said
Mr. Maynard, cheerily, for the two white faces
looked more scared than they had at first. He
hurriedly took off their skates, and then said,
“Now, run for home, just as fast as you can go,
and the one who gets there first shall have a
prize.”

A little bewildered by this order, but quite ready
to obey, Marjorie started at once and fairly flew
over the hard ground. Molly followed, and in a
moment had overtaken and passed Midget. But
spurred by this, Midget ran faster, and at last,
quite out of breath, and also quite warm, they
reached the Maynard house at almost exactly the
same time.

Exhausted, they tumbled in at the door, and
Mrs. Maynard met them in the hall.

“What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “Where
have you been?”

“Skating,” said Marjorie, hurriedly, “and we[Pg 260]
fell in, and Father said to run home quick and
get dry shoes and things and he’d give us a prize.”

“A prize!” said Mrs. Maynard, laughing.
“You deserve a prize, indeed! A hot bath is
what you’ll get, and a drink of hot milk.”

“All right,” said Mopsy, cheerfully, “I don’t
mind; and, while we’re about it, we may as well
dress for afternoon.”

The programme was carried out as arranged,
and not very long after two spick-and-span little
girls were sitting by the library fire, sipping hot
milk with nutmeg in it.

“Well, upon my word!” said Mr. Maynard,
coming in with King and Kitty. “I must have
been mistaken! Only a short time ago I saw two
children floundering in the lake, and I thought—I
truly did—that they were Midge and Molly!
How could I have made such a foolish mistake?”

“It was strange, indeed!” said Molly, with
twinkling eyes. “Have you been skating, Mr.
Maynard?”

“Part of the time. But the rest of the time I
was organizing and assisting a rescue party to
save those foolish children I was just telling
you of.”

“We were foolish!” cried Marjorie, jumping[Pg 261]
up and running to her father’s arms. “I’ll never
do it again, Daddy, dear.”

“Indeed you won’t, my lady. I hereby issue a
mandamus, a fiat, a writ,—and if you don’t know
what those things are, I’ll say a plain every-day
rule that is not to be broken,—that you are never
to play ‘Snap the Whip’ again. This is a rule
for Marjorie, and to you, Molly, it’s a piece of
advice.”

“I’ll take it,” said Molly, so meekly that Mr.
Maynard smiled, and said:

“Now that incident is closed, and we needn’t
mention it again. I don’t believe you’ll even take
cold from your sudden plunge, for you both ran
home like killdeer. And, by the way, who won
the prize?”

“We came in almost exactly together,” said
Marjorie. “I was a little bit ahead at the door,
but Molly was first at the gate, so isn’t that
even?”

“It surely is, and so you must both have prizes.
I haven’t them with me at the moment, but
I’ll engage to supply them before Molly goes
home.”

Thanksgiving evening was given over to games[Pg 262]
and quiet frolics.

Mrs. Maynard said the children had had
enough excitement for one day, and they must
play only sitting-still games, and then go to bed
early. So Mr. Maynard proposed a game in
which all could join, and when it was finished it
would be bedtime for young people.

He produced a large spool, through which had
been run a number of different colored and very
narrow ribbons. Mr. Maynard held the spool,
with the short ends of the ribbons hanging out
toward himself, while the long ends of the ribbons,
which reached across the room were apportioned
one to each child.

They were allowed to select their own colors,
and Marjorie took red, and Molly pink. Kitty
had the blue one, and King a yellow one. Mrs.
Maynard held a white one, and as Rosamond had
gone to bed, no more ribbons were used, though
there were others in the spool.

“Now,” said Mr. Maynard, “I’ll begin to tell
a story, make it up as I go along, you know, and
then when I stop I’ll pull one of these ends. I
won’t look to see which one I pull, but whoever[Pg 263]
holds the other end of the same ribbon, must take
up the story and go on with it. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said all the children at once; so Mr.
Maynard began:

“Once on a time there was a Princess who
hadn’t any name. The reason for this sad state
of affairs was that no one could think of a name
good enough for her. She was so beautiful and
so lovely and sweet-tempered that every name
seemed commonplace, and the King and Queen
who were her parents offered a great reward to
any one who would suggest a name that seemed
appropriate. But, though they proposed every
name that was known, and made up a great many
more, none seemed to suit, and so the Princess
grew up without any name at all. But one day
her grandmother gave her a lovely little writing-desk
for a birthday present. The Princess was
delighted, and immediately she learned to write
letters. But, strange to say, she never received
any answers to the letters she sent. Days passed,
and weeks passed, but nobody answered the letters.
She went to the Court Wise Man, and said
to him:

“‘Prithee, tell me, oh, Seer, why do my friends[Pg 264]
not answer the letters I have sent them?’

“‘Oh, Princess!’ said the Court Wise Man,
‘it is because you have no name, and, though they
have already written letters to you, they know not
how to address them. For how can one address
a letter to a nameless person?’

“‘How, indeed!’ cried the Princess. ‘But I
will have a name. I will choose one for myself.’

“So she sat down, and thought deeply for a long
time, and then she jumped up, saying:

“‘I have chosen a name! I shall henceforth
be called——'”

Mr. Maynard made a dramatic pause, and then
pulled quickly on one of the ends of ribbon that
hung from his side of the spool.

CHAPTER XIX

A SPOOL OF YARNS

Mr. Maynard pulled the ribbon of which Kitty
held the other end, and the little girl jumped as
she felt the ribbon move in her hand. But Kitty
was usually ready for an emergency.

“Violetta Evangeline,” she said. “The Princess
thought that was the most beautiful name
in the world, and I think so, too. Well, then,
her father, the King, had the news sent all
through the kingdom that his daughter was named
at last, and then everybody sent her letters. She
had bags and bags full of mail every day, and
they had to put on an extra postman. And she
had valentines in the mail, and catalogues, and
birthday presents, and samples of dresses, and
seeds for flowers, and,—and magazines, and,—and,—and
one day a little live kitten came to her
in the mail, and she was so pleased. So she named
the kitten Toodle-Doo, and wherever she went she[Pg 266]
took the kitten with her. And one day she went
off on a long journey, and of course Toodle-Doo
went with her. And as they went along,—and
went along——”

Just here Mr. Maynard pulled another ribbon,
and Molly gave a startled jump.

So Kitty stopped, and Molly took up the story:

“They went along,” said she, dropping her
voice to a tragic whisper, “on a dark and lonely
road. And a great pirate jumped out at them,
and cried, ‘What, ho! The password?’ And
Violetta Evangeline didn’t know the password,
but she guessed at it, and she guessed, ‘Crackers
and Cheese,’ and, as it happened, she guessed just
right, and they let her go through.”

“Through what?” asked King, greatly interested.

“Oh! I don’t know,” returned Molly, carelessly;
“through the gate, I s’pose, into the enchanted
garden. So she went in, and everything enchanted
happened all at once. She was turned into a
fairy, and the kitten was turned into a canary
bird, and he roosted on the fairy’s shoulder, and
then he began to sing. And then the enchantment
turned him into a music-box, and so Violetta[Pg 267]
Evangeline didn’t have any kitten or any bird or
anybody to play with. But just then the Fairy
Prince came along, and he said he’d play with her.
And he said she could play with his toys. So she
went to see them, and they were all made of gold
and jewels. His tops were of gold, and his kites
were of gold all set with rubies and diamonds.”

“Huh,” said King, “they couldn’t fly!”

“These kites could,” said Molly, quite undisturbed,
“because they were enchanted kites, and
that made the diamonds as light as feathers.”

But just then Marjorie’s ribbon twitched. She
had been waiting for it, and she picked up the
story where Molly left off.

“The kites were so very light,” said Midge,
“that one of them flew away entirely. And as
Violetta Angeline was hanging on to its string,
she was carried along with it, and in a jiffy she
was over the wall and outside of the enchanted
garden, so then she wasn’t enchanted any more,
but she was just a Princess again. So she walked
forth, and sought adventures. And her first adventure
was with a dragon. He was an awful big
dragon, and flames of fire came out of his mouth
and his ears and his toes. But the Princess wasn’t[Pg 268]
afraid of him, and as there was a big hydrant
near by, she turned it on him and put the flames
out. Then he wailed, and wept, and he said: ‘Oh,
Violetta Angelina, I have a woe! Oh, oh, I have
a woe!’ And as she was a kind Princess, she said,
‘Tell me what your woe is, and perhaps I can help
you.’ So the Dragon said——”

Here Kingdon’s ribbon pulled, and, though
taken somewhat unawares, the boy tried to jump
right into the story-telling, and he said:

“‘Yes, yes, my dear,’ said the Dragon, ‘I have
a woe, and it’s this: everybody laughs at me because
I cannot climb a tree!’ ‘Is that all?’ asked
the Princess, in surprise; ‘why, I will teach you to
climb a tree.’ ‘Oh, if you only would!’ exclaimed
the Dragon. So the Princess taught him to climb
a tree, and they all lived happy ever after.”

King brought his story to an abrupt close, because
his mother had begun to look at the clock,
and to intimate by sundry nods and gestures that
it was bedtime.

“But Mother hasn’t told any of the story yet,”
said Kitty, who was herself so sleepy she could
scarcely listen even to the tale of her own Violetta
Evangeline.

“Mother’s story must wait till some other[Pg 269]
time,” said Mrs. Maynard. “This is the time
for everybody of fourteen years or less to skip-hop
up to bed.”

So away trooped the children, glad to have
learned a new game, and carefully putting
away for future use the spool with the ribbons
through it.

“But the ribbons don’t really make any difference,”
said Molly, as they went upstairs. “You
could just as well say whose turn comes next.”

“But it’s so much prettier,” argued Marjorie;
“and it makes it seem so much more like a game.”

“What’s the name of the game?”

“I don’t know; let’s make up one.”

“All right; Spool Stories,—no, Spool Yarn.”

“A Spool of Yarns!” cried Marjorie, clapping
her hands. “That’s the very thing!”

And so “A Spool of Yarns” became one of
their favorite games, and was often played in the
evenings or on stormy days.

The rest of Molly’s visit passed all too quickly,
and Marjorie was sad indeed the day her friend
returned home.

But Mrs. Maynard bore the blow bravely.

“She’s a dear little girl,” she said, after Molly[Pg 270]
had gone; “but she is a lively one. In fact, she’s
a regular Maynard, and four young Maynards
are just about all I can stand in the house
permanently.”

“Weren’t we good, Mother?” asked Marjorie,
anxiously.

“Yes, dear, you were good enough. Really,
you didn’t get into much mischief; but I suppose
you’ve no idea how much noise you made.”

“No’m, I haven’t,” said Marjorie. “And now
I guess I’ll go skating.”

“Very well, Midge; but remember what Father
told you about ‘Snap the Whip.'”

“Oh, yes, indeed, Mother. I can never forget
that, ’cause I have my prize, you know.”

True to his word to give them both prizes, Mr.
Maynard had brought the girls each a dainty
silver bangle, from which hung a tiny pair of
skates. This, he said, was to remind them of the
dangerous game, and of their really narrow escape
on Thanksgiving Day.

Later that afternoon Marjorie came home from
her skating in a great state of excitement.

“Oh, Mother,” she said; “Miss Merington has[Pg 271]
asked me to be at her table at the Bazaar! Won’t
that be lovely?”

“Miss Merington! What does she want of a
little girl like you?”

“Oh, she wants me to help her! Just afternoons,
you know; not evenings. She’s going to
have two or three girls to help her. Miss Frost
asked Gladys to be with her. You see, it’s this
way. Haven’t you heard about the Alphabet of
Booths?”

“No; what does that mean?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. You see, the whole big
Bazaar is going to be divided up into twenty-six
booths. Each one is a letter—A, B, C, you know.
Then everybody who takes charge of the booth
begins with that letter, and sells those things.”

“What things?”

“Why, Mother, like this. The A booth is in
charge of Mrs. Andrews, and she sells apples
and andirons, and,—and anything that begins
with A.”

“Then I should think she could sell ‘anything,'”
said Mrs. Maynard, laughing.

“Oh, Mother, that’s lovely and witty. I’ll
tell Mrs. Andrews that. Well, and then Mrs.[Pg 272]
Burns has the B booth, and she sells beads and
books and baskets and whatever begins with B.”

“Oh, yes, I understand. And it’s very clever.
And so Miss Merington invited you to help
her?”

“Yes, and Miss Frost invited Gladys, because
Fulton begins with F. But, Mother, I can’t think
of a thing to sell that begins with M. Something
that I can make, I mean. I can only think of
melons and mantelpieces.”

“How about mats?”

“Oh, yes, I can make mats. Crochet them, you
mean? Will you show me how?”

“Yes, and mops, too; you can make mops, or
buy them, either. I suppose they expect you to
contribute some articles to be sold. I’ll make
some for you, too. I’ll make you a lovely big,
soft melon cushion, a head rest, you know. And,
oh, Mopsy! I’ll give you some mixed pickles, some
of those good ones that Ellen puts up. They’ll
sell well, I know.”

“Oh, goody, Mother; I’ll have a lot of things
to give them, won’t I? And Miss Merington will
be so pleased. She’s a lovely lady.”

“Yes, she’s a charming girl, and I’m glad to[Pg 273]
have you help her. Perhaps Father can think
up some things for you that begin with M.”

This was a good suggestion, and that very
evening Midget put the question:

“Father, what begins with M that you could
sell?”

“Why, Mopsy Midget Maynard, I could sell
you, but I doubt if I could get a big enough price.
You’re a pretty valuable piece of property.”

“Yes, but don’t joke, Daddy. I mean really,
in earnest, for the Bazaar, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about that wonderful
Bazaar. Well, let me see. Are you allowed to
have any sort of wares if they begin with the
right letter?”

“Yes, I think so. Mother thought of mats and
mops.”

“That’s a good start. How are you to get
these things? Do you donate them all to the
Bazaar?”

“Yes; or Miss Merington said we could ask
people to give us things, but I don’t like to do
that.”

“No; not from strangers, of course. But I’m
sure Mr. Gordon will be glad to give you some[Pg 274]
toys or notions out of his store. He’s such an
old friend of mine, I wouldn’t mind your asking
him. And then I think Uncle Steve would send
you a few trinkets, or Grandma Sherwood might.
But most of your contributions I think we’ll get up
here at home. Now, let’s be methodical, because
that begins with M, and first we’ll make some
lists.”

Marjorie was greatly interested, and flew for a
pad and pencil, and then waited for her father
to make his lists.

“I declare, Midget,” he said, at last, “this is
harder than I thought. I can’t think of a thing
but mahogany bureaus and marble mantles.”

“How about marbles, Father? I mean the kind
you play marbles with.”

“That’s good, Midge. Mr. Gordon will give
you those. I don’t want you to ask any one else,
but Tom Gordon told me he would give a lot of
things to the Bazaar, and he said for you to go
down there and pick out what you want.”

“Oh, that will be lovely! Now, let’s think what
else he has.”

“Yes, that’s the way to get at it. In a shop
like his, with all sorts of stationery and toys and[Pg 275]
knick-knacks, there ought to be lots of M’s. Well,
doubtless he’ll give you some music,—sheet-music,
you know; and perhaps some magazines. Oh, and
memorandum-books. You can always sell those to
business men. Then he has maps, too; pocket-maps,
or even larger ones. And I think that’s all
you ought to expect from him.”

“Yes, that’s enough. Now, what can I make
myself?”

“I daresay Mother finished the list when she
said mats and mops. I don’t know of anything
else, unless it’s mantillas.”

“What are they?”

“Don’t you know? Well, it is an old-fashioned
word. They’re ladies’ cloaks, mantles, you know.”

“Oh, Father, I could make some for dolls!”

“Yes, that’s good; if you can sew well enough.”

“Mother will help me with the hard parts.
But, really, they will be lovely. All the little
girls will buy them. Now, can’t I make something
else?”

“Why, yes; make candy! Marshmallows,—I’ll
teach you how; you know I’m a famous candy-maker.
But I don’t know any other sort,—unless
we say mint-drops. Would that do?”

“Oh, yes. And I can make mottoes. Any kind[Pg 276]
of candy, you know, done up in motto-papers.”

“That’s a fine idea! We’ll all make a lot of
home-made candy, and help you wrap it the night
before the show. Then your nice, fresh mottoes
will go off like hot cakes.”

“Yes, indeed. And Ellen is going to give me
some jars of her good mixed pickles.”

“Oh, Ellen can help you a lot. Ask her to
make you some mince pies and marmalade, and
macaroons.”

“Goody! Goody! I can have a regular food
sale, all of M’s! Why, it’s a lovely letter, after
all. I’m glad it’s mine.”

“How are they going to manage the Q and X
and Z?”

“I think they’re going to leave out X and Z.
But Q is to be a table full of queer things. Indian
curiosities, and such things. Miss Merington
told me about it. Gladys is going to be with
Miss Frost. She’s going to make fudge, and
paper fairies. And her father is going to give
her a lot of fans,—Japanese ones,—and Dick is
going to cut her out some fretwork things with his
scroll-saw.”

“Well, I think the ladies will have very helpful[Pg 277]
little assistants. I’ll bring you a budget of things
from the city, and we’ll all have a bee to make
candy for you.”

The bee was great fun. The day before the
Bazaar, Mr. Maynard brought home all sorts of
goodies to make the candies with. He came home
early that they might begin in the afternoon.

All the Maynard family went to work, and Ellen
and Sarah helped some, too.

They made all sorts of candies that could be
formed with the right shape and size for mottoes.

Rosy Posy, who loved to cut paper, snipped
away at the sheets of printed verses, and really
helped by cutting the couplets apart, all ready
to be tucked into the papers with the candies.

The result of their labors was a big box of
lovely-looking “mottoes,” all neatly twisted into
fringed or scalloped papers of bright colors.

King proposed that Midget should have a restaurant
at the Bazaar, and serve macaroni, and
mackerel, muskmelons, and milk.

But Mr. Maynard said he feared that would
necessitate medicine and medical attendance.

CHAPTER XX

THE CHARITY BAZAAR

The Bazaar opened Thursday afternoon, and was
to continue the rest of the week. As it was for
a public charity, the whole town was interested,
and the Town Hall, where the Bazaar was held,
was gaily decorated for the occasion.

Marjorie was allowed to stay home from school,
and in the morning she went over to the hall to
take her contributions and to help Miss Merington
arrange the booth.

Uncle Steve had responded nobly to Marjorie’s
letter asking him to send her some M things. A
box came to her by express, and in it were some
Indian beaded moccasins that were unique and
beautiful. Then there were several pocket mirrors
and hand mirrors; half a dozen mousetraps; a
package of matches; some funny masks, and a
plaster cast of “Mercury.”

There was also a large wicker thing shaped like[Pg 279]
the arc of a circle. At first Marjorie didn’t know
the name of this, though she had seen them used
to protect carriage wheels.

“Why, it’s a mudguard!” cried Mr. Maynard.
“How clever of old Steve!”

Also in the box were some mufflers, which
Grandma Sherwood had made by neatly hemming
large squares of silk.

Mr. Maynard had brought Marjorie some inexpensive
pieces of jewelry, which, he told her,
were Florentine mosaics, and so, with all her
M’s, the little girl had a fine lot of wares to
contribute.

James took them over to the hall for her, and
Miss Merington was greatly pleased.

“You’re a worth-while assistant,” said the
young lady, as she bustled about, arranging her
pretty booth.

True to the spirit of the plan, Miss Merington
had made her booth of mauve-colored tissue-paper,
and decorated it with morning-glories, also made
of paper, of delicate violet shades.

It was one of the prettiest booths in the room,
and Marjorie was glad she belonged to it.

“Now, Moppet,” said Miss Merington, “what[Pg 280]
are you going to wear this afternoon? I have
a beautiful mauve costume, but I suppose you
haven’t. And as I don’t want you to be a jarring
note, I’m going to ask you not to wear any red
or blue. Can’t you wear all white?”

“My frock is white, Miss Merington,” said
Marjorie; and then she added, laughing, “and
it’s muslin, so I suppose that’s all right. And
Mother bought me a mauve sash and hair-ribbon
and silk stockings, all to match. And I’ve white
slippers. Will that do?”

“Do! I should think it would. You’ll be
sweet in mauve and white. Now, I’ll tell you
your duties. You must just look pleasant and
smiling, so that people will want to come to our
booth to buy things. Then when they come, you
may tell them the prices of things if they ask
you, but don’t ask them to buy. I hate people
at fairs who insist on everybody’s buying their
goods. Don’t you?”

Marjorie felt quite important at being consulted
on this matter, and she hastened to agree
with Miss Merington.

“Yes,” she said. “But you won’t have to ask
the people to buy; I think they’ll want to come[Pg 281]
here, because this is the prettiest booth in the
whole room.”

“I’m glad you think so. But Miss Frost’s
booth is lovely. All made of cotton-wool snow,
and tinsel ice.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful. My friend Gladys Fulton
belongs there, and Daisy Ferris, too. I thought
you were going to have more assistants, Miss
Merington. Am I the only one?”

“Yes; to tell you the truth, I didn’t know of
any other nice little girl whose name began with
M. You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

“Oh, no, indeed! I’m glad to be here alone
with you. And I’ll do all I can to help.”

“I’m sure you will. But now there’s nothing
more for you to do this morning, so skip along
home and get a good rest; then be back here
promptly at three o’clock this afternoon with all
your mauve millinery on.”

“I don’t wear a hat, Miss Merington!” exclaimed
Midge, in dismay.

“Of course not. I said millinery, meaning your
ribbons and finery. I used the word because it
begins with M. Do you know, Marjorie, I fairly
think in words beginning with M!”

“Oh, is that it?” said Marjorie, laughing.[Pg 282]
“Well, good-morning Mademoiselle Merington!”

“You’re a clever little thing,” said Miss
Merington; “and now run along home to Mother
Maynard’s mansion.”

Marjorie laughed at this sally, and started for
home. But at Miss Frost’s booth she found
Gladys, and the two walked around the hall, looking
at the other booths. They were very interesting,
for each lady in charge had endeavored to
get all the novel ideas possible for which her
special initial could be used.

X, Y, and Z had been declared impossible, but
some clever girls had concluded it would be a pity
to omit them, and said that they would combine
the three in one booth. For X, which, they said,
always represented “an unknown quantity,” they
had prepared some express packages. These contained
merchandise of some sort, and had been
sent through the express office, in order to give
the proper appearance of expressed parcels. They
were for sale at a price that was fair for their
contents, and people were asked to buy them unopened,
thus purchasing “an unknown quantity.”
Then there were yeast-cakes for sale; and toy[Pg 283]
yachts, marked “For Sail”; and yellow things
of any kind; and zephyr garments, such as shawls
and sacques and slippers.

This booth was very attractive, and was draped
with yellow cheesecloth, with black X’s and Y’s
and Z’s all over it.

In order to make a variety, the R booth was
a restaurant, the L booth served lemonade, and
the C booth, candy and cakes.

“Isn’t it fun?” said Marjorie to Gladys, as
at last they started homeward. “What are you
going to wear, Glad? I don’t know of any color
that begins with F.”

“No,” said Gladys. “Miss Frost says there’s
nothing but fawn-color, and that won’t do. So
we’re all to wear white, with lots of frills. And
we’re to have feathers on our heads instead of ribbon
bows, and we’re to carry feather fans. I
wish I was in your booth, Midget.”

“Yes, I wish so, too; but of course we couldn’t
be in the same. But Father’s coming at six to
take us all to supper in the restaurant booth.
Perhaps we can get together then.”

“Yes, I hope we can. I’ll ask Mother about
it.”

The girls parted at Gladys’ gate, and Marjorie[Pg 284]
went on home to luncheon.

“It’s perfectly lovely, Mother!” she cried, as
she entered the house. “I never saw such a beautiful
fair.”

“That’s good, girlie; and now you must eat
your luncheon and then lie down for a little rest
before you go this afternoon.”

“Oh, Mother Maynard! Why, I’m not a bit
tired. You must think I’m an old lady.”

Mrs. Maynard smiled at the bright face and
dancing eyes, which certainly showed no trace
of weariness.

But after luncheon she said: “Now, Midget,
you must go to your room, and lie down for half
an hour. Close your eyes, and rest even if you do
not sleep.”

Midget drew a long sigh, and walked slowly off
to obey. She lay down on her own little white
bed, but though she managed to close her eyes
for nearly half a minute, they then flew wide open.

“Mother!” she called out. “I can’t keep my
eyes shut, unless I pin them. Shall I do that?”

“Don’t be foolish, Marjorie,” called back Mrs.
Maynard, from her own room. “Go to sleep.”

“But, Mother, I can’t go to sleep. I’m as[Pg 285]
wide-awake as a—a weasel. Mother, what time
are you going to the fair?”

“At four o’clock. Now, be quiet, Marjorie,
and don’t ask any more questions.”

“No’m. But, Mother, mayn’t I get up
now? I’ve been here nearly six or seven
hours.”

“It isn’t six or seven minutes, yet. You must
stay there half an hour, so you may as well make
your mind up to it.”

“Yes’m; I’ve made up my mind. But I think
this clock has stopped. It hasn’t moved but a
teenty, taunty speck in all these hours. What
time is it by your clock, Mother?”

“Marjorie! You’ll drive me distracted! Will
you be still?”

“Yes’m, if you’ll let me come in your room.
May I, Mother? I’ll just lie still on your couch,
and I won’t speak. I’ll just look at you. You
know you’re so pretty, Mother.”

Mrs. Maynard stifled a laugh.

“Come on, then,” she called. “I simply can’t
yell like this any longer.”

“I should think not,” said Marjorie, as she[Pg 286]
appeared in her mother’s doorway. “My throat’s
exhausted, too.”

“Now, remember,” said Mrs. Maynard, “you
said you’d be quiet in here. Lie down on the
couch, and put the afghan over you, and go to
sleep.”

“I’ll lie down on the couch,—so,” said Marjorie,
suiting the action to the word; “and I’ll
put the afghan over me,—so; but I can’t go to
sleep—because I can’t.”

“Well, shut your eyes, and try to go to sleep;
and, at any rate, stop talking.”

“Yes’m; I’ll try.” Marjorie squeezed her eyes
tightly shut, and in a moment she began to talk
in a droning voice. “I’m asleep now, Mother,
thank you. I’m having a lovely nap. I’m just
talking in my sleep, you know. Nobody can help
that, can they?”

“No; but they can’t expect to be answered.
So, talk in your sleep if you choose, but keep your
eyes shut.”

“Oh, dear, that’s the hardest part! Oh,
Mother, I’ve such a good idea! Mayn’t I begin
to dress while I’m asleep? Just put on my slippers
and stockings, you know. It would be such a help[Pg 287]
toward dressing to have that done. May I,—Mother?
Mother, may I?”

“Marjorie, you are incorrigible! Get up, do,
and go for your bath, now. And if you’re ready
too early, you’ll have to sit still and not move
until it’s time to go.”

“Oh, Mother, what a dear, sweet mother you
are!”

With a bound, Marjorie was off of the couch
and tumbling into her mother’s arms.

Mrs. Maynard well understood the impatient
young nature, and said no more about a nap.

But at last the time came for Marjorie to start,
and very sweet and dainty she looked in her mauve
and white costume. She had never worn that color
before, as it isn’t usually considered appropriate
for little girls, but it proved becoming, and her
dancing eyes and rosy cheeks brightened up an
effect otherwise too demure for a twelve-year-old
child.

Gladys was waiting at her own gate, and off
they went to the hall.

Of course, the customers hadn’t yet arrived, but
soon after Marjorie had taken her place inside
the booth, the people began to flock to the fair.

Miss Merington looked lovely in a violet crêpe-de-chine[Pg 288]
gown, which just suited her exquisite complexion
and golden hair.

She greeted Marjorie as a companion and
fellow-worker, and Midge resolved to do her best
to please the lovely lady. Somehow there seemed
to be a great deal to do. As the afternoon wore
on the M booth had a great many customers, and
Miss Merington was kept so busy that Marjorie
had to be on the alert to assist her. She made
change; she answered the customers’ questions;
and sometimes she had to go to the department
of supplies for wrapping paper, string, and such
things. She was very happy, for Marjorie dearly
loved a bustle of excitement, and the Bazaar was
a gay place.

After a time old Mr. Abercrombie came to the
M booth. Marjorie hadn’t forgotten the day they
rode behind his sleigh, and she wondered if he
would buy anything from her.

He looked at her quizzically through his big
glasses, and said:

“Well, well, little girl, and what have you for
sale? Old gentlemen like myself are fond of sweet
things, you know. Have you any sweet cakes?”

“Yes, sir,” said Marjorie, and as Miss Mering[Pg 289]ton
was occupied with other customers she felt
justified in trying to make a sale herself.

“Yes, sir; we have these very nice cocoanut
macaroons.”

“Ah, yes; and how do you know they’re nice?
You must never make a statement unless you’re
sure.”

“Oh, but I am sure,” said Marjorie, very
earnestly. “Ellen, our cook, made them, and she’s
a very superior cook. I know she is, because my
mother says so. And, besides, I know these are
good because I’ve had some of them myself.”

“You’ve proved your case,” said the old gentleman.
“But now I’ll catch you! I’ll buy your
whole stock of macaroons if——”

“If what, sir?” said Marjorie, breathlessly,
for his suggestion meant a large sale, indeed.

“If you can spell macaroons,” was the unexpected
reply.

“Oh!” Marjorie gave a little gasp of dismay,
for she had never had the word in her spelling
lessons, and she didn’t remember ever seeing it
in print.

“May I think a minute?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Abercrombie, taking out his[Pg 290]
watch; “but just a minute, no more.”

This embarrassed Marjorie a little, but she was
determined to win if possible, so she set her wits
to work.

It was confusing, for she was uncertain whether
to say double c or double r, or whether both those
letters were single. Then, like a flash, came to
her mind the way her father had taught her to
spell macaroni. The words might not be alike,
but more likely they were, so before the minute
had elapsed, she said, bravely:

“M-a-c-a-r-double o-n-s.”

“Good for you!” cried Mr. Abercrombie.
“You’re a smart little girl, and a good speller.
I’ll take all the macaroons you have.”

Greatly elated, Marjorie referred the sale to
Miss Merington, and that lady was very much
pleased when Mr. Abercrombie gave her a good-sized
banknote, and declined to take any change.

“For the good of the cause,” he said, waiving
away the proffered change.

“And now,” their eccentric customer went on,
“I’ve just a little more money to spend at this
booth, for I’ve promised one or two other friends[Pg 291]
to buy some of their wares. But, Miss Rosycheeks,
I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

He looked at Marjorie so teasingly that she felt
sure he was going to ask her to spell something
else, and this time she feared she would fail.

“I’ll do this,” proceeded Mr. Abercrombie:
“I’ll buy anything for sale at this booth that our
young friend, the paragon speller, can not spell!”

Marjorie’s eyes sparkled. She wasn’t really a
“paragon speller,” and she felt sure there must
be something that was beyond her knowledge. But,
somehow, all the things seemed to have simple
names. Any one could spell mittens and muffs
and mats. And though mandolin and marmalade
were harder, yet she conscientiously realized that
she could spell those correctly.

“I don’t see anything,” she said, at last, slowly
and regretfully.

“Then I save my money, and you save your
reputation as a speller,” said Mr. Abercrombie,
jocosely, as he jingled some silver in his pocket.

“Oh, wait a minute!” cried Marjorie.
“There’s that handsome clock! Miss Merington
said it’s malachite, and I haven’t the least idea
how to spell that!”

“Fairly caught!” said the old gentleman,[Pg 292]
chuckling at his own defeat. “I see by your
honest eyes that you really don’t know how to
spell malachite, and it is a hard word. Now,
listen, and I’ll teach you.”

Mr. Abercrombie spelled the word, and then
said:

“Would you have guessed it was spelled like
that?”

“No, sir,” said Midge, truthfully; “I should
have thought there was a ‘k’ in it.”

“I almost wish there had been,” said the gentleman,
ruefully, “then I should not have to buy
the most expensive article on your table. However,
it will look well on my library mantel, and
I shall rejoice whenever I look at it and remember
that you know how to spell it.”

Marjorie smiled at this idea, and the queer
customer paid to Miss Merington the rather large
price that was marked on the handsome clock.

“Marjorie, you’re a trump!” said she, as Mr.
Abercrombie walked away. “He’s about the only
one here rich enough to buy that clock, and I’m
glad he took it. This will swell our fund finely.”

When it was supper-time, the Maynards and[Pg 293]
Fultons all went together to the restaurant in the
R booth. They had a merry time, and Marjorie
told the story of her “Spelling Lesson,” as she
called it.

“You’re a born merchant, Midge,” said King.
“You make money by knowing how to spell—and
then you make money by not knowing!”

“But such occasions don’t happen often,” said
Mr. Maynard. “I think you’d better continue
your spelling lessons for a few years yet. And
now, as it’s time for ice-cream, I’ll try your
friend’s plan, Midget. If you can spell Biscuit
Tortoni, you can have it!”

“Thank you, Father,” said Marjorie, smiling;
“but I’d rather have vanilla and chocolate.
They’re easier to spell, and just as good to eat.”

After supper, the children had to go home.
Marjorie looked back reluctantly at the brilliant
hall, even more gay since the lights were burning,
but she remembered that she could yet come
two more afternoons, so she said no word of
regret.

“But I do hope,” she said to her mother, as
she tucked her tired little girl into bed that night,
“I do hope that when I’m a grown-up young[Pg 294]
lady I’ll be exactly like that lovely, sweet Miss
Merington.”

“I’m thankful to say that your grown-up-young-lady
days are yet far off,” responded her
mother; “but when that time comes I’ll be quite
satisfied to have you the lovely, sweet Miss
Maynard.”

CAROLYN WELLS BOOKS

Attractively Bound. Colored Wrappers.

THE PATTY BOOKS

Patty is a lovable girl whose frank good nature and beauty lend
charm to her varied adventures. These stories are packed with
excitement and interest for girls.

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PATTY AT HOME
PATTY IN THE CITY
PATTY’S SUMMER DAYS
PATTY IN PARIS
PATTY’S FRIENDS
PATTY’S PLEASURE TRIP
PATTY’S SUCCESS
PATTY’S MOTOR CAR
PATTY’S BUTTERFLY DAYS
PATTY’S SOCIAL SEASON
PATTY’S SUITORS
PATTY’S ROMANCE
PATTY’S FORTUNE
PATTY BLOSSOM

THE MARJORIE BOOKS

Marjorie is a happy little girl of twelve, up to mischief, but full of
goodness and sincerity. In her and her friends every girl reader
will see much of her own love of fun, play and adventure.

MARJORIE’S VACATION
MARJORIE’S BUSY DAYS
MARJORIE’S NEW FRIEND
MARJORIE IN COMMAND
MARJORIE’S MAYTIME
MARJORIE AT SEACOTE

THE TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES

Introducing Dorinda Fayre—a pretty blonde, sweet, serious, timid
and a little slow, and Dorothy Rose—a sparkling brunette, quick,
elf-like, high tempered, full of mischief and always getting into
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TWO LITTLE WOMEN
TWO LITTLE WOMEN AND TREASURE HOUSE
TWO LITTLE WOMEN ON A HOLIDAY

THE DICK AND DOLLY BOOKS

Dick and Dolly are brother and sister, and their games, their
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DICK AND DOLLY
DICK AND DOLLY’S ADVENTURES

THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES

By LAURA LEE HOPE

Author of “The Blythe Girls Books.”

Every Volume Complete in Itself.

These are the adventures of a group of bright,
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THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A MOTOR CAR
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A WINTER CAMP
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN FLORIDA
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT OCEAN VIEW
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN ARMY SERVICE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON PINE ISLAND
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT THE HOSTESS HOUSE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT BLUFF POINT
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT WILD ROSE LODGE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN THE SADDLE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AROUND THE CAMPFIRE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON CAPE COD
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT FOAMING FALLS
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ALONG THE COAST
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT SPRING HILL FARM
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT NEW MOON RANCH
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON A HIKE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON A CANOE TRIP
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT CEDAR RIDGE
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN THE AIR

THE BLYTHE GIRLS BOOKS

By LAURA LEE HOPE

Author of The Outdoor Girls Series

Illustrated by Thelma Gooch

The Blythe Girls, three in number, were left alone in
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kept the little flat uptown, while Margy, just out of business
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THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN, MARGY AND ROSE
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY’S QUEER INHERITANCE
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE’S GREAT PROBLEM
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN’S STRANGE BOARDER
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: THREE ON A VACATION
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY’S SECRET MISSION
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE’S ODD DISCOVERY
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF HELEN
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: SNOWBOUND IN CAMP
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY’S MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE’S HIDDEN TALENT
THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN’S WONDERFUL MISTAKE

THE LILIAN GARIS BOOKS

Illustrated. Every Volume Complete in Itself.

Among her “fan” letters Lilian Garis receives some flattering
testimonials of her girl readers’ interest in her stories.
From a class of thirty comes a vote of twenty-five naming
her as their favorite author. Perhaps it is the element of
live mystery that Mrs. Garis always builds her stories upon,
or perhaps it is because the girls easily can translate her
own sincere interest in themselves from the stories. At
any rate her books prosper through the changing conditions
of these times, giving pleasure, satisfaction, and,
incidentally, that tactful word of inspiration, so important
in literature for young girls. Mrs. Garis prefers to call her
books “juvenile novels” and in them romance is never
lacking.

JUDY JORDAN
JUDY JORDAN’S DISCOVERY
SALLY FOR SHORT
SALLY FOUND OUT
A GIRL CALLED TED
TED AND TONY, TWO GIRLS OF TODAY
CLEO’S MISTY RAINBOW
CLEO’S CONQUEST
BARBARA HALE
BARBARA HALE’S MYSTERY FRIEND
NANCY BRANDON
NANCY BRANDON’S MYSTERY
CONNIE LORING
CONNIE LORING’S GYPSY FRIEND
JOAN: JUST GIRL
JOAN’S GARDEN OF ADVENTURE
GLORIA: A GIRL AND HER DAD
GLORIA AT BOARDING SCHOOL