"It'd help—but sure Mr. Harding's too grand a gentleman to do that kind of dirty work!"

"Oh, I just wish we could make him turn out!"

No one heeded her but Pat and he replied only with a grin.

Chicken Little clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. The men had made their last turn and were heading swiftly toward them on the home stretch. Harding had gained a little on his antagonist and was scarcely three feet behind.

"He is gaining—if Sanders will only play fair!" said Frank tensely, his eyes glued on the two dark forms.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Sanders made a feint to cross directly in front of his competitor and Harding lost a length in consequence.

"Confound him!" growled Frank, "the judges oughtn't to stand for that!"

Chicken Little stood fascinated, gazing at the advancing figures.

Her small fists clenched as she saw Harding drop the few paces behind. Suddenly an idea popped into her head. Forgetful of her own uncertain feet, and both ignorant and reckless of any danger, she darted forward, a small red danger signal directly in front of Mr. Sanders as he came opposite. The annoyed racer swerved quickly to the right, but poor Jane once started could not stop, and would have fallen a scarlet heap in Dick Harding's path had not Pat, divining her intention, followed swiftly and grabbing her by the shoulder steered her in a sharp curve out of the way. She got a good scolding from both Frank and Marian when Pat brought her back to them.

"You might have been hurt—you almost spoiled the race—don't you ever do anything so foolhardy again, Jane." This from Marian.

Frank was still more severe. "I'm ashamed of you, Sis. Did you suppose Dick Harding would be willing to win the race by a trick—besides you nearly tripped him. If Pat hadn't been so quick there would have been a bad mix-up."

Chicken Little scarcely heeded at first because from the far end of the pond a shout went up, and looking with wide eyes, she saw the dark stranger and Mr. Harding slip over the line together—it was a tie!

Then Frank's words began to sink in. The idea that she might have hurt or disgraced her beloved Mr. Harding frightened her much more than the possible danger to herself. Her eyes filled with tears and though she tried valiantly to wink them away, they soon overflowed.

Katy and Gertie eyed her curiously, and Frank and Marian though they felt sorry for the child, felt that she needed a lesson. Ernest returning from the finish, felt called upon to rub it in still further.

"What in the dickens were you trying to do, Jane Morton, were you crazy?"

Chicken Little answered never a word, but the tears dripped faster and an observing person would have noticed that the child was digging her finger nails into her palms to keep back the sobs. But her family was too disgusted with her to be either sympathetic or observing. They scarcely noticed that she was loitering behind.

She had no definite purpose till she saw they were about to pass Dick Harding who was the center of an admiring group. This was more than she could stand, and dropping a little farther behind, she slipped into the crowd and started off in the opposite direction. No one missed her for a time as they all stopped to congratulate Dick. It was not until he inquired what the child had been trying to do in her reckless dash, that her absence was discovered.

"Oh, Frank, I am afraid we were too hard on her!" exclaimed Marian.

Frank himself looked anxious for it was fast growing dusk. He scanned the thinning crowd on the pond sharply—no little red figure was to be seen.

"She can't have gone far!" he said now genuinely alarmed.

"Marian, you go on home with the children and I'll find her."

"Let me go with you—poor little girlie she was trying her small best to help me." Harding was scanning the pond narrowly as he spoke.

"I believe she must be behind that big tree across there. She could hardly have got completely out of sight any place else."

Dick Harding fastened on his skates and hurried across the pond to a big oak, which stood flanked by a clump of bushes close to the edge of the bank.

Sure enough, Chicken Little had flung herself down in the snow behind the tree, and was sobbing her heart out. He lifted her tenderly.

"Dear me, little friend, this won't do—where's my little champion who tried to help me win the race just now?"

Chicken Little hushed her sobs in astonishment.

"Frank said—he said—he——" the tears were coming again, "he said I'd disgraced you and I didn't think—you'd ever speak to me again!"

"Nonsense, Jane, listen to me. I am proud and happy that you wanted to help me—it wasn't the best way to do it, but you didn't know. Now come, dry your tears and let's hurry back to the others—they thought they'd lost you."

"And you aren't ashamed of me?"

"Ashamed of you? Bless your heart, I am proud to have such a staunch friend."



CHAPTER XI

CHICKEN LITTLE JANE'S BIRTHDAY

February was birthday month in the Morton family. Jane's came first on the thirteenth, Ernest's on the twenty-second, and Mrs. Morton came near having a birthday only once in four years, for hers was on the twenty-eighth.

"My, I'd hate to be born on the thirteenth. Cousin May says thirteen is awfully unlucky," said Katy impressively, when Chicken Little told her the fateful date.

"Yes, but you see I was born on Sunday, too, and Sunday's the very luckiest day there is to be born on."

"Yes, Jane, 'Blithe and bonny and good and gay, is the child who is born on the Sabbath day,'" chanted Marian, who was sitting by the window sewing. "You have something to live up to, little sister, if you are all that."

"I'm glad my birthday isn't coming on Sunday this year," said Jane thoughtfully. "It did one year and I couldn't have a party or nothing. I do think Sunday is the inconvenientest day—I wish God hadn't ever thought to make it!"

"But we need one day of rest," said Marian, struggling with a laugh.

"Ye—es, but I think we get enough rest sleeping nights; I think Sundays are awful tiring,—you have to work so hard remembering what you can't do."

"I like Sundays," said Gertie, "'cause Father's home and he reads to us Sunday afternoons."

"Father takes a nap, you can hear him all over the house—and Mother tells us to be quiet so we won't wake him. 'Sides your mother lets you do more things."

"I guess your folks are religiouser than ours," said Katy complacently.

"You think it is more religious to sleep Sunday afternoons, Katy?" interposed Marian smiling.

"Well, you can't do anything bad when you are asleep," replied Katy a little confused, but bound to stick to her point.

"Not a bad idea—whenever I am tempted to be bad after this, I'll take a nap and throw the devil off the track that way."

"My mother says it isn't nice to talk about the devil." Katy looked so gravely disapproving that Marian had hard work to keep her face straight.

"Oh, excuse me—I'll be careful not to mention his Satanic majesty again. Well, Chicken Little, are you going to have a birthday party this year?"

"Not a really party, but Mother said I could have Katy and Gertie and Grace Dart come to tea. There's going to be a sure enough birthday cake with candles and my name and age in pink frosting—and we're going to have chocolate creams—and all the dolls."

"I shall bring Violet—she's got a new dress and she's just had her hair glued on—I curled it on the curling iron," said Gertie.

"I'm going to bring my nigger Dinah and you can play she helps wait on the table," put in Katy.

"Dear me, is that the latest thing in dolldom, to have the guests wait on the table?" quizzed Marian.

"I guess it would be all right to play she did," Jane responded with a grin.

"Your mother's birthday comes soon. What are you going to give her, Jane?"

"Yes, and Ernest's too, his is the twenty-second."

"And Valentine's day comes the fourteenth—just the day after your birthday."

"Yes, Father says I was intended for a valentine only I was mailed too soon. I was just wondering what I could give Mother, Marian,—and Ernest. I've only got sixteen cents. I don't think birthdays ought to come so near Christmas."

"Sixteen cents isn't much for two presents, is it? We'll have to put our thinking caps on. Let me see. How would you like to make Mother a little tidy for her rocking chair? I think I have a piece of honey-comb canvas left that would be just about the right size—you might do a Greek border with rose-colored worsted. It's fast work. You could do it easily."

"Oh, Marian, you do think of the nicest things!" and Chicken Little got up impulsively to give her a grateful hug.

"But Ernest will be harder—he wouldn't care for fancy work."

"He wants a new base ball—an awfully hard one like Carol's."

"Frank can get him that. I'll tell you, Chicken Little, I believe he'd like a nice strong bag for his marbles—it won't be long till marble time now. But, perhaps, we can think up something else."

"I wisht you'd come to my tea party, Marian."

"I'd be charmed to, and I'll bring my old doll, Seraphina. She is huge and hasn't any nose left and only one eye. Will she be welcome in this wounded state or had we better put her in a hospital?"

"Oh, Marian, will you?—I'd love to see her."

"She's down in the bottom of a trunk, but I am sure she would be delighted to get out in the world again. What are you looking at with those big eyes of yours, Katy?"

"I was just thinking she must be awful old."

"She is—frightfully—almost as old as I am. My aunt brought her to me from Paris when I was just seven. She was elegant then—all pink silk ruffles with a little wreath of forget-me-nots in her hair. I crowed over all the children I knew because she was so fine, but I must be getting home. Children dear, I wonder if your mothers would mind if you ran down to the postoffice to mail this letter for me. I want it to get off on the five o'clock train."

Chicken Little's boasted luck seemed about to fail her entirely on her birthday morning. She got up late and was so excited over her little remembrances that she almost forgot to get ready for school. She ran as hard as she could, so hard she had a stitch in her side, but the last child in the line was disappearing inside the school-house door, when she was still half a block away.

She knew what that meant. Miss Brown had a harsh rule for tardy pupils—they stayed one-half hour after school, rain or shine. And to stay in a half hour on one's birthday with a party on foot was unthinkable. Why it would be most dark when she got home! And her mother—well, maybe her mother wouldn't say very much since it was her birthday, but Jane wasn't keen about hearing what she would say.

She dragged herself reluctantly up the stairs, taking an unnecessarily long time to hang up her wraps and it was fully five minutes past nine when she took her seat. Miss Brown looked severe.

"You understand this means thirty minutes after school. I have told you I will not tolerate tardiness."

Chicken Little didn't try to catch up with Katy and Gertie going home that noon. She plodded along soberly by herself with such a forlorn air that Dick Harding, just behind her on his way to his own lunch, was struck by it, and overtook her to find out what was amiss now.

"Have to stay after school on a birthday—well, that is tough. I see plainly you need the services of a lawyer. I guess I'll have to take this under advisement and see what can be done. You know it's my turn to help you out. Clear up that solemn face, Chicken Little,—that's better—I see the smile coming. I'll tell you—wait by the school gate when you come back from dinner and I'll think up some way to mend matters."

Chicken Little hurried through her dinner and back to school, posting herself expectantly to watch for Dick Harding. She did not have long to wait. Mr. Harding had hurried, too, on her account.

"I have been considering this, Jane. I don't believe it would be quite fair to the other pupils to persuade Miss Brown to let you off, as I at first thought of doing. Do you think it would?"

Richard Harding regarded the child keenly, curious to see whether she would see the point.

Chicken Little looked up at him soberly.

"No, I guess it's just as bad to be late on your birthday as any other time. And I s'pose if Miss Brown let me go she'd have to let the rest go, too. And I guess there wouldn't be any rule if she did that."

"Right you are, but I think I have a plan that won't be unfair to anybody and will still keep the birthday intact. We couldn't have the birthday hurt you know, Chicken Little. It's such a little young birthday—it might cry!" Dick Harding smiled down at her whimsically and Jane smiled understandingly back.

"Why don't you ask me what my plan is? You haven't the proper amount of feminine curiosity."

Chicken Little smiled again—a confiding little smile.

"How would it do, Chicken Little Jane, if I should get a cutter with two gray horses and lots of bells—real noisy bells—and call for your guests first, then come here to the school after you? We could go for a nice sleigh ride before that supper party."

Chicken Little's face lit up as instantaneously as if someone had just turned on an electric light before it. She gave one blissful "Oh" then stopped. "If Mother——?" she said.

"'If Mother' is all attended to. I met your father and he said he would make it all right with your mother. So if Miss Jane Morton will do me the honor to ride with me this afternoon, I shall consider the matter settled." Dick Harding made an elaborate bow.

Jane still beamed but found words difficult.

"I'm waiting, Miss Morton, you'd better hurry—I think the bell is going to ring."

The child glanced back at the school house apprehensively.

"Course I want to—awfully, and—Mr. Harding," Chicken Little reached up to whisper something and the tall man bent down.

"I love you most as well as Brother Frank."

"Thank you, dear—I've never had a little sister. Don't you think I might adopt a little piece of you?"

"That's what Alice said. She said little sisters were so nice and cuddly—I think you and Alice are a lot alike, Mr. Harding."

"I'm flattered—in what way?"

"'Cause you—she—why I guess 'cause you and she both know how little girls feel inside—and you're so comforting."

"Much obliged, little sister, I know Miss Alice deserves that nice compliment and I hope I do. Are you lonesome without her?"

"Yes, only when I'm with you it always seems as if she were close by, too."

"Happy thought! Perhaps, it's because I'm partial to being in her neighborhood myself. There goes the bell—I'll be here at 4:30 sharp."

Chicken Little was not the only unfortunate that afternoon. Two small boys were late at noon and Miss Brown set them all to writing long lists from their spellers as soon as the other children filed out. Chicken Little watched the clock anxiously, starting up at every distant tinkle of sleigh bells. It was a glorious clear crisp afternoon and the jingle of bells sounded at frequent intervals.

Her excitement rose as half-past four approached. Finally, just as the clock chimed the half hour, an answering chime tinkled in the distance and two or three minutes later, ceased suddenly in front of the school building.

Chicken Little ran quickly down the walk and there they all were. Dick Harding had a lovely double-seated cutter with white horses and two gay strings of sleigh bells on each horse. Packed snugly in under the bright colored robes were Katy and Gertie and Grace and sister Marian—and the entire family of dolls. Dick Harding had insisted on the dolls. He said he never approved of parents leaving their offspring at home to cry their eyes out, while they went skylarking.

Katy had secured the place next to their host and Chicken Little looked enviously as she started to climb in. But Dick Harding made room for her beside him, saying finally:

"I believe I am to have the honor of having Miss Morton and the birthday sit beside me."

A shadow of disappointment crossed Katy's face. Marian made a little sign to Jane and the child responded bravely.

"I guess Katy ought to have the best place 'cause she's company."

"The queen has spoken," replied Dick Harding with an approving smile. "Perhaps, I might hold the birthday on my lap."

"I wouldn't trust him with it Jane. Young lawyers always want to be older than they are," laughed Marian.

Jane made an elaborate pretense of handing over the birthday.

"You see Chicken Little Jane has a better opinion of me than you," retorted Dick. "Miss Morton, which way shall we go?"

The children were riotously happy. Mr. Harding let each child choose a direction to turn, and they whirled around corners and drove by each small guest's home in great state, so that mothers and sisters might see.

Bright hoods and caps and coats made the sleigh load look like a nosegay and Dick Harding treated them all with an exaggerated courtesy that kept them merry.

They landed at the Morton front gate at six o'clock. It was quite dark but the street lamps were lit and the cheer of gas and firelight streamed out from the old gabled house invitingly.

"This was a mighty sweet thing to do, Dick," said Marian as he helped her out.

"The pleasure is mine," he responded gallantly, "further I'm going to claim a toll of one kiss and a half from every passenger under twelve years of age."

The toll was paid promptly. He was most exacting as to the half kiss, demanding full measure. Marian insisted that the dolls came under the ruling, too, but he begged off. He said he felt it would be taking unfair advantage of their extreme youth.

But Chicken Little and Katy were too much for him. They declared that Marian's doll was older than any of them. So Mr. Harding duly took a peck at Seraphina's pallid cheek to the huge delight of the children.

The hot biscuit and chicken tasted doubly delicious after the long ride in the sharp air. Grace Dart took two servings of quince preserves but declined the apple butter saying she could get that at home.

At the close of the repast Dr. and Mrs. Morton and Frank and Ernest came in to share the birthday cake. Ernest was the only one who could blow out all the candles at one fell swoop. When the last morsel had vanished Chicken Little had another surprise. Dr. Morton went out into the hall and pulled a large white envelope out of his overcoat pocket addressed to "Miss Jane Morton." It was postmarked Cincinnati.

"Oh, it's something from Alice—I just know—open it quick!"

"Bet it's a valentine," guessed Ernest.

"Yes, it looks like one of those beautiful lacy ones with hearts and doves on it," said Katy.

It not only looked, it was—the very fluffiest, laciest one Jane had ever seen, with marvellous cupids and hearts, and forget-me-nots and true lover's knots of blue ribbon. In a little white envelope inside was a tiny gold ring.

Chicken Little gave one squeal of ecstasy:

"Isn't it cunning—I always wanted a ring. Whatever do you s'pose made Alice think of it?"

"She didn't," said Mrs. Morton, "the valentine is from Alice, but her Uncle Joseph sent the ring. It seems he liked your letter and when Alice mentioned getting the valentine he wanted to send something too. You'll have to write him another letter to thank him."

"That reminds me that I saw Gassett on the street this morning. He looks pretty badly still," remarked Dr. Morton.

"Well, he can't get Alice's papers now 'cause she's got them way off in Cincinnati," said Chicken Little.

"Huh, that doesn't make any difference—they could make her send them back," Ernest replied.

Chicken Little turned to her father.

"No need to borrow trouble, Chicken, Alice has an Uncle Joseph to look after her now, anyway. Has it been a happy birthday, pet?"



CHAPTER XII

POOR ERNEST AND POOR MARIAN

Ernest was so tired of being pitied he was in open rebellion.

"For goodness' sake, don't 'poor' me any more! My eyes will be all right as soon as they get a good rest—the doctor said so. I guess I can stand it if they don't hurt like sin. Everybody comes in like a funeral procession asking me how I feel, and hoping it will be a lesson to me to take better care of my eyes. People needn't rub it in because a fellow's down—and the last thing he wants to think of is how he feels!"

"I think you must be feeling better, Ernest, or you wouldn't be so cross," retorted Marian slyly.

Ernest relaxed his gloom enough to grin.

"Well, I don't care—Mother hangs around babying me as if I were six years old!"

Ernest's catastrophe had come about so gradually no one had suspected it. He was reading a letter from Alice, who wrote a fine close hand, when his father noticed that he was holding the paper almost to his eyes. An examination revealed the fact that the poor eyes were sadly overstrained and would have to have a complete rest for weeks or his eyesight would be permanently injured.

This was distressing news to bookworm Ernest who was never so happy as when lost in a book. The lad was immensely proud of his school standing, too, and he chafed sadly at the thought of losing it.

"No school for three months, Son," his father said sorrowfully after the boy's eyes had been thoroughly tested.

"It must be a dark room and a bandage for three weeks at the very least, Dr. Allerton says."

Ernest groaned and growled rather more than usual to keep from breaking down and playing the baby, when he heard this verdict.

"It was all that confounded scroll work!"

"I am afraid so—you remember your mother warned you against selecting all those intricate patterns."

Ernest remembered only too distinctly, but he preferred not to be reminded of it.

"Is there anything a fellow can do?" he demanded after three horrid days of close confinement with the blinds down.

"Not much, poor boy, I'm afraid," Mrs. Morton replied pityingly. "I'll read to you a couple of hours this morning and perhaps Sherm and Carol will come in for a while after school. I'll send word to them by Chicken Little. Mrs. Dart sent you over one of her custard pies just now."

The custard pie sounded comforting.

"How long is it till dinner time?"

"Only about three hours—we might let you have a taste now if you are impatient," Mrs. Morton said.

"Oh, I can wait but the hours seem so plaguey long when you can't see. Read me Alice's letter again, will you? Gee, I wish she were here—she always knew how to help a chap out."

"Better than Mother?" Mrs. Morton couldn't help feeling a trifle nettled.

Ernest felt the tone.

"Oh, Mumsey, you're a brick, but Alice can always think up things—you know? Of course, she isn't like your mother." Ernest reached for his mother's dress and pulling her head down gave her a kiss—an unusual mark of affection.

It wrung Mrs. Morton's heart to see him grope to find her.

It took her a moment to compose herself before she went over to the window and raised the blind enough to see to read the letter.

Alice had written jubilantly of her progress.

"I am so happy today over a compliment—doesn't that sound vain?—that I am going to sit right down and share it with you. I should like to get up on a fence like that little bantam rooster of Darts' and crow it to all the world. Mrs. Martin, our principal, told me this morning I had done wonders in three months! And I was so stupid at first—French and Geometry seemed absolutely impossible. I used to put myself to sleep saying those awful French verbs. If the French had invented those verbs on purpose I'd never forgive them. But I suppose your language is like the color of your hair—you're not responsible. Funny how little of us is us, and how much is somebody else, isn't it? Tell Ernest the first ten pages of Geometry would have floored me completely if I hadn't remembered how patiently he used to saw round all those curves and curlicues in that scroll-work. Every time I flung the old book down and said 'I can't,' I seemed to see Ernest bent over that old scroll saw cutting Geometry out of wood. I could not let a fourteen year old boy beat me. Now the figures are getting as tame as kittens which reminds me of Jane's kitten.

"We call her Poky Pry because she is always poking her inquisitive nose into places where she has no business. I was afraid they might not want her here, but she frisked her way into favor at once. Her usual place for a morning nap is in Aunt Clara's work basket. We found her once in Uncle Joseph's silk hat. Another time she got shut in a bureau drawer and miauwed pitifully to be let out. But her funniest adventure was going downtown. Uncle Joseph got on the horse car one morning and was talking to a friend when they heard a soft purring. 'What on earth is that—it sounds like a cat?' asked the other man. They both looked all around. As soon as Uncle Joseph moved, the sound ceased. When they settled down to talk again the purring began again. 'Well, I never!' said Uncle Joseph. He made another search even getting down to look under the car seat. The sound ceased the moment he began to hunt. 'Pshaw,' said his friend, 'somebody is playing a trick on us. I've heard of people who can throw their voices so the sound seems to come from some other place.' So they settled down once more, and once more the purring began and grew louder. Uncle Joseph got fidgety. His friend watched the lips of the other passengers to see who was hoaxing them. 'It sounds,' he remarked finally, 'as if it came from your overcoat pocket!'—Uncle Joseph plunged his hand down into his pocket and felt soft warm fur. The whole car shouted when he drew Poky Pry out.

"I wonder if I told Chicken Little how Poky frightened the Pullman porter. She was sound asleep in her basket and I put it at the lower end of the berth, carelessly leaving the cover off. The porter was making up the next berth to mine. Suddenly I heard a wild shriek, and, parting my curtains, saw the porter dashing down the aisle with Poky Pry clanging distractedly to his kinky black head. She had crept out of her basket and made her way to the berth above the one he was making, to watch him. When he straightened up she evidently thought his wooly hair some new variety of mouse and she made a spring for it.

"Tell Chicken Little, Kitty has kept me from being lonesome and is a great comfort. Uncle Joseph keeps asking questions about Chicken Little. His girls are all boys and grown up. He was so pleased with her note thanking him for the ring. He chuckled over her skating adventure for days. 'Starting out pretty young to straighten up the world, isn't she?' he remarked."

"Chicken Little Jane is a very rash child, I'm afraid," Mrs. Morton said as she laid down the letter a few moments later. "I only hope she won't get into trouble some day on account of it."

"Don't worry, Mother, she always comes out all right."

Jane came up at noon to bring Ernest his dinner—a dinner in which a generous quarter of the custard pie played an important part. Sherm and Carol would come right from school she told him. Chicken Little had established herself as head nurse out of school hours. She felt very important and amused Ernest with her airs.

The boys were good as their word that afternoon and she met them with a life-like imitation of her mother's manner, admonishing them not to get Ernest excited. As a result the boys lumbered in self-conscious and awkward. Never having paid a sick-room visit before, they were rather overpowered by Ernest's bandaged eyes and the twilight gloom the doctor prescribed. So much so in fact, that they nearly defeated the object of their visit, which was to cheer Ernest up. Indeed they were so stiff and sympathetic that Ernest gruffly requested them to drop that and tell him about school. Tongues limbered up immediately at this, for each boy had a grievance.

"You can be jolly glad you ain't there. Old Goggle-eyes gave us two pages of Algebra—20 problems! I spent a whole hour on the first ten and I'm shaky about them now. Oh, he's a honey, he is—the dried up old crank. I'll bet he was old when Methuselah was born."

"Well, I'd rather tackle Goggle-eyes and minus X than write compositions for Miss Halliday on Spring Flowers—Sper-ing Flow-ers," Carol simpered gently, and, letting his hands fall limp from the wrists, fluttered imaginary skirts in a fantastic promenade across the room.

"'You must cultivate the love of the be-utiful—contemplate birds—and lovely flowers and express what they mean to you,'" he quoted in a high pitched voice. "Holy smoke, I had a notion to tell her that spring flowers meant digging dandelions at five cents a thousand, when I wanted to go fishing! She might at least save 'em till the ground thaws—it's colder than Greenland out today."

"Yes, Father says we're in for a blizzard tonight."

"You might tell her the blizzard nipped all the flowers in the bud, Carol."

"Nope, I'll put it on the list of things I'm thankful for next Thanksgiving, that there aren't any plaguey spring flowers in bloom to write about."

"Say, Pat's got your seat. But he wouldn't let Old Goggle-eyes take your things out. He said there was plenty of room for them. He's got them stacked up in one end of the desk all ship-shape. He's going to be on our nine next summer."

The boys were performing their mission nobly. Ernest began to feel actually consoled for missing school.

"I won three agates and a chiny off Fatty Grover—like to froze my fingers too. We got down behind the coal house out of the wind, but it didn't help much."

"Thought Fatty darsent play keeps?"

"Well, I guess his dad'd lick him if he found out—s'pose he'd most have to, being the Minister—but Fatty's game—he won't blab. Aren't they beauties?"

Ernest gave a little gesture of impatience and Sherm suddenly remembered the bandaged eyes.

"Oh, say, I didn't go to——" he began penitently.

Mrs. Morton appeared opportunely at this moment with a plate of hot doughnuts, a little anxious lest the boys should fall to romping.

Poor Marian's trouble began two weeks after Ernest's and proved to be much more serious. She had sympathized deeply with the bookloving boy in his irksome confinement, and she had been more than faithful about coming over to read or talk to him. It was coming through a storm to keep her promise to him that proved her own undoing.

She had a hard cold already—March had been continuously raw and blustery. The last day of the month had brought with it the worst blizzard of the season. A cutting wind swept down from the north and the snow was icy hard and stinging. Marian watched the storm from her windows for some time before she could get up courage to venture out. But Mother Morton's was only three blocks away and she knew Ernest would be doubly disappointed if she failed to come because of the dreary day. So she wrapped up warmly and braved the elements. The three blocks seemed a mile before she covered them. She had to fight every inch in the teeth of the wind and reached the gabled house thoroughly chilled and spent. A bad attack of pneumonia followed this exposure, and Ernest's troubles were almost ignored in the anxiety about lovely Marian.

The crisis passed safely by dint of loving care and good nursing, but her convalescence was slow. Ernest's eyes were well and he was back in school before Marian dared leave the house. It grieved them all to see her so thin and white.

Poor Ernest heard the story of her struggle with the blizzard for his sake repeated so many times, as sympathetic friends called upon his mother, that the boy began to feel a personal responsibility for her illness. He didn't say anything but he hovered around her as soon as he was permitted to go out, spending every cent of his slender pin money in dainties and flowers which he seldom presented to her directly. He would leave them on her bed or on the dining-room table with never a word. Frank and Marian were pleased and touched by his devotion. They laughed together over his bashful ways without suspecting that the lad was worried.

It was Chicken Little who finally wormed his trouble out of him.

"Gee, I wish I had some decent marbles. Sherm's got a stunner of an onyx and six flints and——"

"Why Ernest Morton, I thought Father gave you a quarter last night to get some."

Ernest grinned in embarrassed silence.

Chicken Little regarded him suspiciously.

"What did you do with it?"

Ernest did not deign to reply.

"Bet you spent it for those grapes for Marian."

Ernest drummed on the window.

"She doesn't 'spect you to take your marble money for her, goosie. Say, Ernest, what's the matter?"

The boy swallowed painfully.

"Tell me, Ernest, I won't tell. Honest to goodness, I won't." Jane cuddled up close to him laying her face against his shoulder caressingly.

Ernest was not proof against her sympathy and he blurted out his remorse.

"'Tisn't your fault a speck—you didn't tease her to come."

Chicken Little patted and argued in vain. Ernest found her comforting, but did not feel that she was old enough to understand.

Chicken Little took the matter up with Marian the very next day. She began very diplomatically because she had promised not to tell.

"Do you s'pose you'd got sick if you hadn't come to see Ernest that day, Marian?"

"Probably not, dear."

This was not reassuring.

"But you might have gone some place else, mightn't you?"

"I suppose so—only I don't think I should have been silly enough to go out in that storm without a good reason."

"But it wasn't Ernest's fault it stormed," Jane replied plaintively.

"Ernest's fault? Why, what do you mean?" Marian looked at the child in astonishment.

Jane's face was very sober.

"I just guess he couldn't help if it you got all cold and——"

"Of course not, Jane, what put such an idea into your head! I should have had more sense than to venture out in such a storm. Does Ernest—is that why he brings me all those things and hangs round so?—the poor boy? Dear me, this will never do."

"He wouldn't like it if he knew I told you," said Chicken Little ruefully.

"You haven't told me, dear. I guessed it, but I'll find a way to stop his worrying."

April came and went and Marian was still pale and weak. Dr. Morton looked grave and finally suggested to Frank that they should have the famous Dr. Brownleigh of Chicago down to examine Marian's lungs. Frank went white at the suggestion, but quietly acquiesced. Two days later the great doctor arrived.

Chicken Little knew there was some excitement afoot that morning when she went to school. Both Dr. and Mrs. Morton looked sad and Mrs. Morton sighed frequently. Ernest pushed most of his breakfast away untasted.

"What time will he be here, Father?"

"On the nine-thirty."

"Who?" Chicken Little demanded curiously.

"A man you have never seen, little daughter," her father replied quietly.

So Chicken Little went off to school mystified but curious.

The great physician did his work carefully. It was before the days of germ cultures, and the apparatus for such tests had not reached the perfection of today. There was much room for professional judgment.

Dr. Morton and Marian's mother were with Frank beside the bed. Frank looked miserably anxious in spite of his efforts at self control, and Marian's big eyes were questioning and wistful.

Dr. Brownleigh smiled cheerfully down at her as he finished.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Morton, you will live to be a nice rosy-cheeked grandmother. I predict you'll be plumper than your mother."

The tension was broken and Marian sighed with relief.

"There, I told you it was silly to be scared about me, Frank. It always did take me a long time to recover from an illness—even a cold. I'm afraid I'm lazy—you didn't know you had married a lazy wife did you?" Marian gave his hand a little loving pat and Frank silently stooped to kiss her, but he was not reassured.

He had watched the varying expressions of the great doctor's face and he was decidedly uneasy. With reason, he found when he accompanied his father and Dr. Brownleigh back to the old home.

Once inside the little sitting room Dr. Brownleigh turned to him gravely.

"Mr. Morton, your face tells me that you have read mine. Please don't make the mistake of imagining your wife is worse than she is. Her right lung is considerably affected, I am sorry to say. The left one seems to be perfectly sound there is no reason with proper care and a change of climate why she should not live for years."

"Change of climate?—that means what—a few months or a permanent move?"

"A year at the least—I should advise a permanent change to Kansas or Colorado or Arizona. She needs a dryer and more even climate, plenty of fresh air and an outdoor life."

Frank groaned. His father laid his hand on his shoulder sympathetically.

"It is hard, my boy, when you have such a good position here, too. Brace up—we'll find a way out—and Marian may be completely cured—remember that."

Many were the consultations in the Morton and Gates homes during the next few weeks. It was agreed not to tell Marian her weakness till she was able to be out again. In the meantime it was arranged that Dr. Morton should take a trip west to look up a suitable location.

Without telling her the real reason, Frank had talked Marian into the idea of ranching and the older people found her eager zest and enthusiasm for the new life, pathetic.

"I know I'll be lots stronger on a farm," she declared. "I shall have chickens and make butter. You can all come out and spend the summers—won't that be grand?"

Dr. Morton had offered to buy a ranch for Frank taking over their cozy Centerville home in part payment. Ernest had been taken into the family councils and understood all this. He was a reserved serious lad who could be depended upon not to talk. But Chicken Little was not so favored. She knew only that Father was going on a long journey out west, and she did not concern herself as to his errand.



CHAPTER XIII

FORBIDDEN BOOKS AND CANDY HEARTS

During the weeks of worry over Ernest's eyes and the deeper anxiety over Marian's tragic weakness, Chicken Little was left much to her own devices. Mrs. Morton was too overburdened and harassed to give the child the usual care and oversight. Sewing lessons were dropped entirely and practising was so irregular that her music teacher was in despair. Fortunately the days were short and Jane didn't have much time out of school hours to get into mischief. While Ernest was shut in, she spent most of her play time faithfully trying to amuse him. But after he got out she proved the truth of the old adage of Satan and the idle hands.

Mrs. Morton always watched Chicken Little's reading most carefully for the child bade fair to be as much of a bookworm as Ernest. She was never permitted to borrow books from other children without having Mother look them over.

Miss Brown's room at school was cursed with the usual abnormal pupil in a silly overgrown girl called Sary Myers. Sary's parents were shiftless and ignorant people and though Sary was almost fifteen years old, and a woman in size, she was still among children of ten and eleven.

She was a good-natured girl, always willing to pet and humor the little girls, and they liked her in a half contemptuous patronizing way. Sary came to school one day with a book done up carefully in a newspaper. She was very mysterious about it taking it out of her desk when Miss Brown's back was turned, pointing to it with smirks and nods till the little girls were so curious, they could hardly wait for recess to see the wonderful volume.

At recess it went the rounds, Sary assuring them that it was a grand story with lots about love and getting married, and that there was a woman in it who treated a girl just terrible.

Chicken Little was not in the least interested in love or lovers, but she was not proof against Sary's mysterious manner. She promptly begged the loan of the precious book till noon. But there was only time for aggravating peeps in the short hour filled with recitations. So she coaxed Sary to let her take it home that night. Sary was easily persuaded. Reading was a painful process to her and she had been secretly hoping that one of the children would read the book and tell her the story.

Chicken Little slipped it home guiltily hidden in her school bag. She found it a weighty responsibility. No sooner had she ensconced herself snugly in one of the dormer windows to read, than she heard someone coming upstairs. It was only Olga. She thought possibly she would be safer in Ernest's room, but Ernest and Carol were doing their algebra there. At last she settled down in the front parlor and by tea time was deep in the adventures of Rosamond Clifford, romantic and unreal enough to satisfy the most exacting child.

For days the book was her constant companion outside of school hours. She read snatches of it to Sary and a chosen few in a corner of the schoolyard at recesses and noons. She hid it under her pillow ready for her devouring eyes at an early hour in the morning. To be sure Chicken Little never could wake up at an early hour, her mother having to call long and lustily before she could rouse her at all. Still the book was there if she should happen to want it.

After Chicken Little finished it, the story was passed from hand to hand among the children. Gertie being the only one with sufficient firmness of character to decline to read it without asking Mother. One adventurous child discovered she could get other books by the same author from the public library. These the children also passed round and gloated over their lurid adventures for days. The stories were doubly fascinating because each small sinner realized that the mushy volumes must be carefully concealed from mothers and teachers. The craze ended finally by Miss Brown's discovering a copy of "Cousin Maud" and confiscating it after a sharp lecture to the school on what children should read.

But the mischief was done. Fully a dozen young heads seethed with romance. They imagined they were abused by unfeeling sisters or stern parents. They looked for unhappy lovers around every corner. They even tried to lie awake nights nursing broken hearts, but ten o'clock was the latest hour anyone reached, though Grace Dart said she knew she heard it strike one. Katy, indeed, walked in her sleep one night to her mother's horror. Mrs. Halford promptly gave her a liberal dose of castor oil and she was never able to repeat the wonderful feat.

At least six dolls were re-christened Rosamond Clifford, and seven others promptly became Cousin Maud. Marbles and tag and the usual spring outdoor sports were neglected while they planned doll elopements or family quarrels, and locked the tiny heroines in dark closets.

Chicken Little was in great demand on these occasions because she had learned some of the choicest scenes in the stories by heart and she would talk for the dolls.

"My, you do Dr. Kennedy just grand!" said Katy stirred out of her usual calm by a thrilling scene in which her prettiest doll had defied a cruel stepfather made from a stick of stove-wood.

"It's awful easy," Jane responded modestly. "I've read it so often I can say it most all, and I just try to act mad."

The epidemic of play-acting among the dolls gave Katy's practical talents a chance also. There was a great demand for boy dolls. One badly damaged tin soldier and a fat sailor boy were all that could be found. But Katy was ingenious. She took her tallest doll and made her a complete outfit of men's clothes including a cunning straw hat with a black band. She sheared Angelina's blonde wig short and painted a smart black mustache on her rosebud mouth.

Angie was so changed she wouldn't have known herself in the glass. But she didn't need to. She became Horatio Seymour and was never permitted to wear petticoats again.

The other children were so charmed, Katy was besieged with teasing to make over their dolls. It was no small job and after being obliging once or twice, Katy had the happy thought of charging fifteen cents for the transformation.

This was more money than most of the little girls had, so they took to borrowing boy dolls. Horatio Seymour was much over-worked. He took the parts of villain, lover and irate father on an average of at least once every day and from two to three times on Saturdays. Katy had to put a little stick up his back-bone, he got so limp.

But the interest in this doll lovering began to wane after a time. The children looked about for something else exciting. They began to make Horatios out of the boys they knew. Some of the older girls started writing notes, and the smaller ones hung round breathlessly to hear the answers read. The boys were not always responsive. This was the height of the marble season and most of the lads were too crazy over the mooted question of "playing keeps" to care to spell out scrawly notes.

"Who is your beau, Jane?" Grace Dart demanded one day.

Chicken Little cherished a secret admiration for Carol, but she wouldn't have betrayed it for worlds. Still she felt that she must claim somebody to be in the swim. She thought about it for several days and finally announced proudly to Grace that Johnny Carter was her beau.

"Why he's the boy you slapped! I thought you didn't like him Jane."

"I don't so very well," confessed Chicken Little reluctantly. "That's the reason I took him. Don't you see—I'm going to reform him."

Grace looked decidedly puzzled.

"Yes, like the heroines do in books."

"What you going to do to Johnny?"

But Jane had it all thought out.

"His hands most always need washing awful bad—I did think of that, but they don't seem ever to begin with hands. They most always make them promise not to use tobacco or drink wine and stuff."

"Yes," said Grace doubtfully, "but Johnny doesn't do anything like that—Mr. Carter would lick him if he did. He's temperance and awful strict with Johnny. I heard Mother say so."

"Johnny chews gum. I've seen him lots of times—I think gum's most as bad as tobacco don't you?"

"Maybe it's just as bad for a boy. Miss Brown always makes us throw it in the waste-paper basket."

"Well, my mother thinks it's a horrid habit. She says no lady would do such a thing."

"How you going to make him quit?"

This was a point that was not quite clear to Chicken Little herself. To tell the truth she and Johnny had not been on very good terms since the candy episode. She thought it best to be a little vague with Grace.

"For me to know and you to find out," she said with dignity.

"Bet you can't do it," retorted Grace, nettled. "Johnny Carter likes that red-headed girl who goes to our Sunday School better than you anyhow. I saw him talking to her. I guess it doesn't make a boy your beau, just wanting him to be!" And Grace departed with her nose in the air after this parting thrust.

It made Chicken Little feel a trifle uncomfortable. She wished she hadn't been so hasty about claiming Johnny's affections. She wished this still more when she went over to Halford's that evening for Katy called to her before she got inside the gate.

"Somebody's got a beau!—somebody's got a beau!" and Katy pointed the finger of scorn at her vigorously.

Chicken Little tried to appear unconcerned.

"Pooh, that's nothing—all the girls have."

Katy ignored this remark and returned to the charge.

"Jane Morton's got a beau! Johnny Carter is Jane's beau!"

Chicken Little began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. She did wish Katy wouldn't sing it out so loud.

But Katy was thoroughly enjoying herself. She had discovered Ernest and Carol coming along the walk and she saw her chance to make a hit. She took up the refrain again with embellishments.

"Jane Morton's got a beau And I know what'll please her, A bottle of wine——"

but she got no further. Chicken Little, too, had caught sight of her brother Ernest and Carol, and she flew at Katy like a young fury.

The remainder of the doggerel was largely drowned in the scuffle that ensued, but Katy managed to get "Johnny Carter" out in a shrill treble that carried far, in spite of the hands clapped over her mouth.

The boys heard it, grinned, and passed on. Chicken Little was furious.

"I'll never forgive you, Katy Halford, as long as I live, so there!" And she turned her back on the offending Katy, stalked straight out of the yard and banged the gate after her emphatically.

The feud lasted a week. Chicken Little passed Katy by as if she did not exist, and Katy lost no opportunity to hector her. She chanted Johnny's name every time Jane came in sight till the child loathed the sound. To add to her woes, Grace Dart began to demand some visible proof that Johnny was her beau.

"He hasn't ever given you anything, has he?" she quizzed. "He gave Sallie a big red apple yesterday at recess—I saw him."

Chicken Little grew desperate. She didn't care very much to have Johnny or anybody else as a beau. She wished there were no such things as beaux on the face of the earth, but her pride was stung to the quick. She began to imagine that Johnny grinned when he saw her. Suppose he had heard. She wanted to run every time she saw him coming, but she felt that she must do something to make friends with him.

Finally she thought out a way. She saw some of the older girls buying candy hearts at the grocery store one Saturday when she went downtown on an errand for her mother. That would be just the thing she thought. If she could find one with a nice motto it surely wouldn't be very hard to turn around and lay it on Johnny's desk.

The more she thought about it, the more feasible the plan seemed. Sunday afternoon she went upstairs and shook a nickel out of her bank which she invested in candy hearts the next morning, going downtown on her way to school—a thing strictly forbidden in the Morton household.

She didn't have a chance to look at them till she got home at noon, and then, alas, none of the mottoes seemed suitable. She couldn't make up her mind to give him "You're my girl," or "I love you," or "Sweetheart mine," which appeared oftenest in flaming red letters on their tombstone surfaces.

She decided to try again. That night she took another nickel out of her bank and bought more hearts the following morning. This time she found two she thought might do. She wavered quite a while between "Be my friend," and "I like you," at length deciding on the latter.

She wrapped it up carefully in a bit of white paper, then waiting her opportunity took the rest of the bag of hearts and dumped them in the grate. She was sick of them. Her mother coming in soon after wondered what made such an odor of burned sugar.

But the act of putting the fateful heart on Johnny's desk wasn't as simple as she had fancied beforehand. If Miss Brown wasn't looking, Grace Dart was. It seemed to her that Grace didn't study a single bit that whole afternoon. Twice when the coast was clear, she actually turned around with the heart in her hand, but some way her courage failed her. One look into Johnny's impish eyes paralyzed her hand. Finally she decided to put it on his desk when he went to the board. She would wait till he was almost back to his seat so nobody could get it, and, then lay it down real quick.

The deed was done and Chicken Little turned back to bury her burning face in her Geography and await results. She listened to the rustling of paper as Johnny unwrapped the heart. There was a long silence. She wondered if he would eat it. But Johnny evidently didn't eat it. She couldn't detect the tiniest crunch. She began to grow more and more uncomfortable. Suppose he should show it to some of the other children—or to teacher.

But Johnny wasn't thinking of doing anything of the kind. He was furtively contemplating the tip of a very red ear and a strip of cheek, which were about all he could see of Chicken Little's face. Johnny had secretly admired Chicken Little ever since she had got even with him so artistically. He was considerably overcome by this unlooked-for mark of her favor. But he couldn't think off-hand of any suitable way of returning the courtesy.

He went through his pockets thoughtfully. Their contents were not inspiring—five marbles, a piece of string, two broken slate pencils and a red bandanna handkerchief slightly soiled. He cherished this handkerchief specially because he had seen so many teamsters and jockeys—his special admiration—carrying them. Further, he was the only boy in school who had one.

He smoothed the handkerchief out carefully and looked at it. Finally he folded it up into the smallest wad possible, tied it with the bit of string, and reached under the desk touched Jane's arm. He pressed it into her hand furtively when she looked around.

"'Tain't much," he said apologetically, "but maybe it'll do for your doll."

Chicken Little walked on air going home from school that night. She called Grace Dart clear across the street to come over and see. Grace came and saw and bowed down. There was no need to ask who had given Chicken Little the trophy. Only Johnny Carter possessed such a one—and the handkerchief was undeniably big and masculine. But Jane's troubles were not over yet. Grace had a good memory.

"I don't care if he did give it to you. I saw him chewing gum this morning coming to school."

Chicken Little felt that having a beau was harder work than she had bargained for. She privately resolved never never to have one again, even if she never grew up to be like Rosamond Clifford. But she hated to back down on any part of her program before Grace. She didn't like Grace very well anyway.

But Johnny himself made things easier for her this time. He caught up with her going home from school the next day and carelessly extended a brand new paper of gum in passing.

"Oh, Johnny," she said, "I'd love it but Mother don't let me—and—Johnny——"

Johnny looked expectant.

"I wish you wouldn't chew it either."

Johnny was surprised. He didn't reply for a moment then demanded:

"Why, gum's all right."

"No, it isn't—my Mother says it's a very bad habit."

Johnny pondered. He wasn't walking along with Jane, he was about two steps ahead.

"Well, I don't mind quittin'—it's kind of girls' stuff anyway."



CHAPTER XIV

MAY BASKETS

It was a late spring and both the wild blossoms and the early garden flowers were discouragingly scarce.

"I don't believe there is even a spring beauty or a dog-tooth violet out yet," Mrs. Halford replied doubtfully when the little girls broached the subject of May baskets.

"I don't mind your making them or hanging them—I think it is a charming custom—but I really don't see where you can get the flowers."

"Mother's got some geraniums in bloom. I think she'd let us have them," suggested Chicken Little.

"And maybe there'll be some plum blossoms out—it's three whole days till May Day and you can see the white on the buds." Gertie was always hopeful.

"Well, get your baskets ready and we'll do the best we can to find the flowers. We can take some green from the house plants to help fill up—my oxalis is blooming nicely—that will be pretty to mix in."

"I'm glad it comes Saturday. I wish we could go to the Duck Creek woods to hunt for wild flowers—I just know I could find some." Katy looked out the window longingly.

"Wait and see. Perhaps you can," Mrs. Halford answered. "But you'd better be getting your materials and start your baskets. What colors do you want?"

"I'm going to have mine all red and white—they're so nice and bright," Katy spoke up promptly.

Gertie decided on green and white and Chicken Little selected pink and blue.

They bought their materials that evening after school and started the dainty weaving at Katy's house. It was pretty, bright work and a good deal of a novelty to the children for a kindergarten had only recently been established in the town.

Katy did all the cutting of the strips of shiny paper. She had a truer eye and nimbler fingers than either of the others. But they were expert at weaving the gay-colored strips in and out, and the three finished six baskets the first evening. Mrs. Halford gave them each a box so they could keep their materials and completed baskets in good order.

"How many are you going to hang, Katy?"

"Six, but you needn't ask where for I sha'n't tell."

"I didn't hear anyone ask you, Katy," retorted Mrs. Halford slyly.

"I know two of the places anyway," added Gertie.

"I guess I know three," Chicken Little had been thinking.

"I bet you don't—where?"

"Oh, Katy, ladies don't bet," interrupted Mrs. Halford reprovingly.

"I just forgot, Mumsey, but all the girls most, say it—you're so very particular."

"You'll be glad I am some day, I hope."

"Maybe, but I—I'm not just now. And anyhow Jane doesn't know where I'm going to hang my baskets."

"I do too, but I'm not going to tell."

"You don't either—you're 'fraid to tell 'cause you don't!"

Katy was crowding the truth pretty close. Chicken Little started to protest again when Gertie came to the rescue.

"You're going to hang one for Miss Burton—I heard you say so—and one for Cousin May, aren't you?"

"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. Perhaps I haven't decided."

"You are too, Katy Halford, you said you were."

"I s'pose I ought to hang one for Miss Brown," sighed Jane. "I don't want to very bad—she's been awful cross—and Marian. I'm going to give her the prettiest one I have. I wish I could send Alice one."

"How is Alice getting on?" asked Mrs. Halford.

"All right. I guess she's learned a lot—she says she stays up till ten o'clock every night studying. Her aunt Clara gave her a pretty new dress—and a new coat. Her aunt's going to take her to the seashore with them this summer, maybe. I wish I could go to the seashore."

"I've been to the lakes—that's most like the seashore, isn't it, Mother?" Katy boasted.

"A little. But you haven't told us about the baskets, Katy. Where are the other four going? I'm getting curious myself."

Katy looked up at her mother's teasing face.

"I'll tell you, Mumsey, but I sha'n't tell the girls." Katy jumped up and whispered something to her mother.

"There, there, dear, you tickle my ear and I didn't half hear."

Katy put her mouth close to her mother's ear and hurriedly mumbled six names.

"That'll do—it feels as if you were exploding firecrackers in my ear. I guess I got them all."

"I heard, too," piped Chicken Little and Gertie almost in concert.

"You didn't either!" Katy looked up indignantly.

"I did, too. You said Miss Burton and Cousin May and Marian Morton and Papa and Grace Dart and Ernest—so there!" Gertie reeled off the names almost as quickly as Katy had.

"Gertie Halford, I think that was real mean of you to tell."

"I heard them all but Ernest, anyhow," Chicken Little said quickly.

"Jane Morton, if you ever tell Ernest I'm going to hang a May basket to him, I'll never speak to you again."

"You don't need to get so mad—I wasn't going to tell, but I just guess you told on me—and——"

"And what?" demanded Katy icily.

It had been on the tip of Chicken Little's tongue to add, "and you thought you were awful smart, too," but she suddenly remembered Mrs. Halford's presence and she didn't want to be a tattle-tale.

"Nothing," she finished lamely, and was deaf to further questioning.

The Fates favored Chicken Little and Gertie for Miss Brown suddenly decided to have a May Day hunt for wild flowers for her room instead of waiting for the usual June picnic.

They started out at nine o'clock Saturday morning. It was an ideal spring day—not a cloud in the sky and the sunshine so warm that coats and jackets were shed long before they reached the woods. Some of the plum trees were out in bloom, and purple and yellow crocuses were opening in a number of the yards they passed.

"We'll surely find a few spring beauties and yellow violets," said Miss Brown hopefully.

There was only a faint glimmer of green on twigs and brown earth as they came into the timber and, for a time, the little band searched in vain. But Miss Brown showed them where to look in sheltered places and under protecting leaves. Johnny Carter found the first—a little bunch of spring beauties fragile and exquisite. After showing them proudly to "Teacher" he shyly slipped them into Chicken Little's basket.

They found the flowers more plentiful as they penetrated deeper into the woods. Gleeful shouts of discovery grew more and more frequent as they swarmed up and down the creek banks, over fallen logs and through the underbrush, merry and chattering as the squirrels themselves. Chicken Little counted seven blue-birds and Gertie ten, besides one brilliant cardinal that flashed by like a flame, whistling joyously.

Chicken Little's basket filled quickly for Johnny's sole interest in the flowers was apparently the pleasure of finding them, and he gave most of his spoils to her. Most, but not quite all. He had a little pasteboard box in his pocket into which he occasionally tucked a particularly choice spring beauty, carefully moistening its stem in the creek first.

Chicken Little got so many that she generously divided with Gertie when noon came, and Miss Brown called her flock together. She showed the children how to preserve the flowers by wrapping their stems in damp moss and packing them carefully in the boxes and baskets.

The ground was voted too damp for the picnic lunch so "Teacher" aided by the bigger boys searched till she found a great fallen tree, whose trunk and spreading branches accommodated her thirty chickens nicely.

The girls lined up along the trunk as near Miss Brown as possible, but the boys perched aloft, sitting astride some crotch or forked branch with their dinner pails hung conveniently on a twig nearby.

Doughnuts and sandwiches and apples went from grimy hands to eager mouths with a rapidity that astonished even Miss Brown despite her ten years of teaching. She had brought a big box of bright colored stick candy to top off with. One thoughtful boy gratefully started three cheers for Miss Brown by way of the thanks most of the children forgot. The hearty cheering of the shrill young voices went far to repay her for the morning's trouble, and warmed her heart much more than the stiff little "I've had a nice time, Miss Brown," "Good-bye, Miss Brown," which the more gently-bred children conscientiously repeated at parting.

Chicken Little turned to look back at the teacher's plain face as they left her at the school-house gate.

"I don't mind hanging her a basket now—she—she didn't act mad a bit today."

She went straight over to Marian's to display her treasures.

"Oh, the lovely woodsy things! I wouldn't have believed there were so many out—how I love them!" and Marian sniffed the wild-wood fragrance hungrily.

"Oh, I do hope I'll be well enough to go hunt them soon. Bring your baskets over here, Chicken Little—Katy and Gertie too, and let me help you fill them—I'd love to."

Jane had something on her mind. She wanted to lay it before Marian but shyness overcame her whenever she opened her mouth to mention it. She hung round Marian's chair restlessly till Marian discovered that she wanted something and helped her.

"What is it, Sis? Do you want some of my flowers for the baskets? Anything I've got except that big lily."

"Oh, Marian, I don't want to take your flowers—I just—wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away—I can give you advice to burn—it's about all I'm good for these days."

"It's about the May baskets. Do you think it would be all right to hang one for Carol?"

"Why sure, dear. Anybody would like one of your lovely baskets with these dear flowers."

"But—I——"

"Yes?"

"Johnny Carter gave me all his flowers and I thought maybe I ought to hang one for him."

"Well, you have plenty of flowers for two."

"Ye—es."

"Well?"

"I thought maybe it wasn't nice—to have two."

"Two what?"

Chicken Little wriggled uneasily and got rather red in the face.

"Two beaux."

Marian suppressed a laugh.

"Why, Chicken Little, I think you are a little young to be talking about beaux. I wouldn't, if I were you. Carol is Ernest's friend and he does lots of nice things for you. And you certainly don't want to neglect Johnny when he was so kind about giving you the flowers. It would be very nice for you to show your appreciation by hanging a basket for each of them. I'll write the names for you, if you want me to—then they won't recognize the writing."

"Oh, will you? And Marian——"

"Yes?"

"Don't tell Katy or Ernest—or Mother, will you?"

"I won't tell a living soul, dear, this shall be our very own secret."

"Katy's going to hang one to Ernest," said Chicken Little shamelessly betraying Katy's secret just after she had secured Marian's promise to keep her own.

"Is she? That's nice, but Chicken Little, if you don't want me to tell about you, you oughtn't to tell about Katy—ought you?"

"I am not going to tell Ernest," the child assured her hastily.

"Well, I don't believe I'd tell anybody. It's Katy's little secret. Let her tell it if she wants to."

Marian's admonition was well-timed but she felt it was rather wasted later that afternoon. The little girls had accepted her invitation and had brought their flowers and May baskets over for her help and advice. Katy was filling hers deftly, chattering as she worked. She was especially particular with one, taking the flowers out and rearranging them several times before she could get them to her liking.

"That must be for someone very special, Katy."

Katy looked pleased.

"Yes, it's for a very—special friend."

Marian saw that Katy wished to be questioned.

"Why, Katy, that sounds mysterious. I suppose we don't dare ask who this friend is?"

"It's somebody you know," volunteered Gertie.

Chicken Little giggled, appreciating the joke.

"Somebody you know very well," added Katy with emphasis.

"It can't be Frank?" Marian queried.

The children laughed in derision.

"You're getting a little bit warm," suggested Katy.

"Only a little bit warm—let me see—it's Dr. Morton. No?—then it must be Dick Harding."

Katy shook her head.

"I'm certainly a poor guesser. Is it Sherm?"

Jane was delighted with Marian's pretending and Gertie was burning to assist.

"He was here this morning," Gertie encouraged.

"He has weak eyes," Chicken Little was delightfully definite.

"Why, it must be Ernest!"

Katy smiled a self-conscious little smirk and the others nodded joyfully.

"Of course, how stupid I was. Let's see—you go after dark and hang the baskets on the door knob, then ring the bell and run—isn't that the way? That's the way we used to do with our comic valentines."

The little girls were not the only ones who came consulting Marian that day. Three rather sheepish boys appeared so promptly after the girls departed, that Marian suspected they had been hanging around waiting for the children to go.

"Say, Marian, do you s'pose you could help us fix up some of those May basket things everybody's talking about?"

"It's a little late in the day, Ernest. How many do you boys want?"

Ernest looked at Sherm and Sherm looked at Carol, and Carol saw something out of the window that interested him.

At length, Ernest, getting no assistance from the others, blurted out:

"One's enough for me. What do you say, boys?"

Carol and Sherm nodded.

"One apiece—my, this looks exciting. Somebody is to be very specially honored I see. It is too late to make the kind the little girls have, but you might buy some tiny baskets—I'd love to trim them up for you. Got any money, boys?"

An exhaustive search of trousers' pockets revealed a combined capital of twenty-five cents. The boys asked anxiously if it were enough.

"Yes, for three. Are you getting this for Chicken Little, Ernest?"

Ernest got red and looked uncomfortable.

"Never mind—I didn't mean to be prying—only I wish you big boys would hang some for the little girls—it would please them to death. If you don't mind my having a part in this. I'd like to put in a little money, too. Let me put in another quarter and I'll do the trimming and you boys can repay me by hanging a basket to each of the little girls as well as to your own friends."

The bargain was speedily struck and the boys hurried off downtown for the baskets and the ribbon for the tiny bows Marian had decided should adorn them.

They came back so quickly, it made Marian breathless to think of the pace they must have gone. Carol didn't come straight either. He slipped round by home to beg some blossoms from his mother's house plants. Not finding her, he promptly helped himself to all her most cherished blooms to her surprise and wrath when she discovered her loss.

Marian filled in with her own flowers and the boys hung round admiring, waiting upon her awkwardly and watching every move she made with the baskets.

"Is it all right?" she asked, holding up the first, filled with scarlet geraniums.

"Gee, that's a dandy!" Ernest approved.

"Say, I'd like to have that one," said Sherm.

"I like blue better anyway—make mine blue, will you, Marian?" Ernest added.

Marian thought of Katy's scarlet and white offering to be laid at Ernest's shrine and smiled.

"Yellow for me, please," put in Carol. "Yellow's so kind of cheerful—like sunshine or gold—I always liked dandelions only they're such a pest."

The little girls had been too happily full of their own plans to wonder whether they would get any baskets in return. But they came back that evening from the delightfully exciting task of hanging their fragrant gifts to find that friends and playmates had been equally mindful of them.

Katy had the most—seven. Jane and Gertie had each five. One of Jane's was a marvellous creation so heavy that she promptly investigated what lay beneath the flowers, finding a fat little box of candy hidden away. Another was a crude little pasteboard affair fairly overflowing with dainty spring beauties, and this, too, contained an offering in the shape of a jolly little homemade whistle. Still another had scarlet bows.

Katy wondered and wondered who sent her a similar basket with golden yellow bows on each side of the handle.

"I'm sure I heard Ernest and Sherm outside our gate. I just know Ernest gave me that," she confided to Gertie.

Gertie's biggest basket had blue bows and Gertie loved blue.

Marian never knew where the mates to the blue and yellow and red baskets found a lodging place. She did not inquire. But when she saw Chicken Little's candy she promptly exclaimed "Dick Harding!"

"I just know it was," replied Chicken Little.



CHAPTER XV

THUNDER AND GOOSEBERRY BUSHES

May seemed to have traded places with April that year for it was a month of many showers. Poor Marian got tired of watching the pelting rain and Mrs. Morton complained that it was simply impossible to clean house as the sunniest day was liable to end in a downpour.

Dr. Morton's letters from the west full of glowing accounts of the sunshine in Kansas and Colorado seemed almost irritating in their contrast. Alice, too, wrote of lovely spring weather, declaring it had been almost hot some days.

The children did not mind the rain—they merely objected to being shut in on account of it. Chicken Little told Dick a long tale of woe one evening when he came up to inquire about Marian and get the latest news of Alice.

"Fine weather for ducks and frogs, Chicken Little. Just try standing in the edge of a puddle—saying croak, croak and see if you don't like it. I'll have to give you a few swimming lessons," he consoled her teasingly.

"Don't put any such nonsense into her head, Dick. She is a born duck now and is forever teasing to go wading," Mrs. Morton had replied.

"Why we'll have to call you Ducky Daddles instead of Chicken Little," said Dick.

Mrs. Morton repeated the incident to Mrs. Halford the following day.

"Children certainly do have the craziest notions. Chicken Little has been fretting all spring to go out in the rain. I suspect several slight colds she has had are due to experiments of that kind." Mrs. Morton looked both amused and annoyed.

"Yes, Katy and Gertie have had the same craze—I guess it's natural. I remember the spring rains used to have the same attraction for me when I was a child. My father used to say children should be born web-footed—they love water so. Puddles do look tempting. I think the thing that cured me was one of those dashing spring showers that bring the earthworms out. Some kind child made me believe they rained down. I loathed the slimy things. You couldn't get me out doors, if it so much as looked like rain, for weeks after. I kept imagining the crawly things dropping down on my hair and face. Ugh! I remember just how I felt even yet."

"That might be a good way to cure our would-be ducklings."

"No, I don't think so—fear is never the best way to cure a child, and I like my girls to love rain as well as shine. But I've been wondering if it might not be a good idea to let them go out once in a good hard thunder shower just to get it out of their systems—though, of course, there would be fear in that, too."

Some two weeks after this conversation between the mothers, Chicken Little was spending Saturday morning at the Halfords'. The children were playing keep house out under the gooseberry bushes. The bushes were very old and tall. Mr. Halford kept them trimmed up underneath, forming leafy aisles about three feet high. Here the little girls delighted to set up their doll goods in the late spring and early summer.

They had everything arranged to their taste on this particular morning. They had settled down in charge of a most extensive dolls' hospital, using the aisles between the rows of bushes for wards and the green gooseberries for pills—a most convenient arrangement because the supply of medicine never gave out. But, alas, before Dr. Katy had time to inspect a single ward, big drops began to patter down, and Gertie's cherished Minnie, suffering from a terrible attack of pneumonia, was well sprinkled before her anxious mother could remove her to a sheltered spot. The sprinkle was but the beginning of a smart shower that sent the children scurrying to the house with their arms filled with a jumble of patients and bedding. Gertie regarded them dumped in a heap on the kitchen floor, ruefully.

"Minnie'll take an awful cold and die I just know, and my new pink silk quilt got wet and the pink's run into the white!"

"I think it's horrid of it to rain just as we got everything fixed," added Katy.

"I wish we could stay out in it," said Chicken Little, staring out the window at the rain falling ker-splash on the brick walk outside.

"Wouldn't it be fun!" Katy exclaimed enthusiastically. "See what big drops—I most believe I could catch some in my hands. Oh, I wonder if Mother would let us go out—I'm going to ask her."

Mrs. Halford meditated a moment over the request, then putting by her sewing went to the window to take a look at the clouds.

It was growing darker with an occasional flash of lightning and an accompanying growl of thunder off in the distance. Mrs. Halford turned to the children with a twinkle of resolution in her eyes and astonished them by saying:

"Yes, you may. Off with your shoes and stockings and put on your gossamers. You may stay out in the rain just as long as you like. You too, Chicken Little, I'll be responsible to your mother. You can take my gossamer."

"Oh, Mother," Katy and Gertie both flung themselves at their little mother for an ecstatic hug.

"Yes," she continued, as soon as they released her. "You may take those old umbrellas in the woodhouse and go back under the gooseberry bushes if you wish—I want you to be thoroughly satisfied, so you won't always be teasing to go out in the wet."

"You don't need to think we'll get tired of it, Mother," Katy assured her.

"My, I could stay out all day—I love it so," Chicken Little protested.

"We'll stay as long as you'll let us, Mumsey."

Mrs. Halford smiled.

Shoes and stockings came off in a jiffy and the children ran out jumping up and down gleefully. They splashed about in the little puddles in the old brick walk, and dabbled their bare toes in the wet grass. They danced and squealed, catching the splashing drops in their hands and flinging them in each other's faces until the water was dripping in streams from noses and chins.

"Isn't it grand?"

"My, I never had so much fun in my life!"

"'Tisn't a bit cold."

They frisked and splashed till the novelty began to wear off a little, then adopted Mrs. Halford's suggestion about going back to their gooseberry playhouse.

The rain was coming down harder now and the roll of thunder and play of lightning were more frequent. But the little girls were too much absorbed with their own plans to notice this.

"I shall not take Minnie out in this rain—she would be sure to take a nasty cold," said Gertie decidedly, heartlessly denying her child the pleasures she was enjoying.

"Let's leave the dolls in the house—they'll get all messy—besides the paint comes off if you get them a teeny bit wet."

"Let's play we're sailing in a boat—and the umbrellas can be the sails and——"

"No, let's be Swiss Family Robinson in the tree house—we can just play pull the ladder up after us."

They all agreed to this and started out to fit up their abode under almost as discouraging circumstances as that famous family are supposed to have faced. Taking two of the old umbrellas Katy propped them up to reinforce their foliage roof over the driest spot she could find. She worked quite a while before she could get them moored securely. It was hard to manage with the rain driving in her face and the wind tugging at the umbrellas.

"My, it'll be fine when we get it all fixed. See, it's hardly a bit wet here——"

"Let's bring an old piece of carpet and spread down—and a book. We can read here just as snug."

"Yes, and some cookies and apples—I'm getting hungry."

"All right—let's."

The children plodded back and forth under the remaining umbrellas looking like a six-legged mushroom. They found it difficult to get the carpet and provender safely placed without getting wet. And however willing they were to be ducks themselves water didn't seem adapted to carpets or cookies.

Mrs. Halford watched the trio busy and dripping and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes. The Irish maid in the kitchen was scandalized but interested.

"Did you ever see the likes of 'em? They're that wet, ma'am, they leave puddles on me floor every time they come in and they be after stayin' out there and 'atin,' ma'am! Now drinkin' would sure be aisier."

"Never mind, Maggie, it does seem foolish, but I want them to have their fill of it."

"Fill—it's sloppin' over they are already. Howly Saints—hear that thunder! They'll not be stayin' out long to that music I'm thinkin'."

Mrs. Halford smiled and settled down to her sewing after one parting look at the camp under the gooseberry bushes.

It was truly a comical sight. The old umbrellas swayed uneasily above the green domes below and they could catch glimpses of the gossamer-clad figures, including a generous exposure of bare feet and legs in the leafy gloom beneath.

Maggie came to the sitting-room door a few moments later in the last throes of astonishment.

"And what do you think they be doing now? It's radin' they be—radin'! It's swimmin' they'll be doin' soon I'm a thinkin'!"

Maggie returned to her post indignant at such carryings on.

The rain was coming down steadily. Water was pouring off the eaves in great streams, branches were dripping, and some chickens huddled in a fence corner in the adjoining yard were so dejected that not even an aspiring tail-feather pointed heavenward. The streets were almost deserted and the few passers-by hurried along wet and forlorn. Mrs. Halford began to wonder a little anxiously how long the gooseberry campers would stick it out. She began to have painful visions of sore throats and bronchitis or at the best colds, caught from sitting on the wet ground. She was also fearful lest Mrs. Morton might not approve after all.

"Have you got plenty of boiling water, Maggie?" she called. Hot drinks and hot foot baths could surely be relied upon to ward off colds, she reassured herself, if they didn't stay too long. She wondered if they were really enjoying it.

The children were beginning to wonder themselves, though not for worlds would either Chicken Little or Katy have confessed to the other that this rainy day playhouse was not all she had fancied.

The trio huddled together close under the two umbrellas. The rain was pounding down through the gooseberry screen now and the carpet was decidedly damp on the edges. Little streams of water ran down the furrows in the garden about them. They had eaten all the cookies but one, which got wet and dissolved in a gluey paste. Katy read away valiantly but the story didn't seem as absorbing as it had been the night before—the children found their attention wandering.

Gertie's eyes kept straying to the forked streaks of lightning that were cutting the black clouds overhead.

"It's getting pretty close," she complained finally.

But the others' courage was still good.

"Pooh, who minds a little lightning," said Katy scornfully.

"I'm not afraid of lightning," said Chicken Little valiantly, "but I wish it wouldn't thunder so hard."

"Bet you are afraid, Jane Morton."

"I am not, Katy Halford. I never said a word about going in. I just said I wished it wouldn't thunder so much—and I do."

A long reverberating roll gave point to her wish.

Gertie and Chicken Little both squirmed uneasily, but Katy caught her breath and went on reading, scrooging up a little closer under the umbrellas. The continuous drip from one of the umbrella points down on her back was making her nervous, she said. She could feel a little damp spot coming through her gossamer. Gertie drew her bare feet up under her and cast longing looks toward the house. She was getting cold and the drifting smoke from the kitchen chimney looked wondrously inviting. She did wish Katy would stop reading. But Katy read on as steadily as the rain pattered, rolling out the big words reckless of mistakes and lifting her shrill little voice almost to a shriek when it thundered, as if she defied the elements to do their worst.

"I don't think it's very intrusting," Gertie interrupted plaintively.

"Why, Gertie Halford, you said you just loved it last night."

Gertie could not deny the accusation. She didn't quite realize herself how very different the story seemed when listened to from the depths of a cushioned chair in a cozy, brightly lighted room and out here under the dripping bushes, chilled and frightened. Even the old umbrellas were getting soaked. Katy had to shift the precious book a time or two to avoid the drip.

Gertie returned to the charge.

"I guess the Swiss family got awful tired of their tree house if it rained like this. I am never going to play tree house again, Katy."

"'Fraid cat! 'fraid cat! I think it's lots of fun. Don't you, Jane?"

Chicken Little had begun to fuss about restlessly, shifting from one cramped position to another. She did not answer Katy's question right away.

"I guess it's most noon," she finally evaded diplomatically. "Mother said I must be home by noon."

But Katy saw through this flimsy excuse.

"Oh, you're backing out! 'Tisn't anywhere near noon—you're just making an excuse to go home. I bet you're 'fraid too."

"I'm not, Katy Halford, I'm not afraid the least speck and I can stay here just as long as you can!" Chicken Little repelled this slur upon her courage indignantly.

"Pooh, I'm going to stay here till the dinner bell rings," declared Katy with a confidence she did not feel. She had been secretly hoping for several minutes that her mother would call them in.