"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. 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 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 explained 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 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? Everybody 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. "Besides, 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. "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 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 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 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 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:

"MR. BOLTON,

"Dear Sir: We wish kindly to ask you to keep your place in better order. We are trying to improve our fair city, and how can we do it when places like yours are a disgrace to the community? We trust you will be nice about this, and not get mad, for we mean well, and hope you are enjoying the same blessing."

"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 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 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:

"MR. CRANE,

"Dear Sir: We're improving our village, and, unless you fix up your place pretty quick, we will call and argue with you. On no acc't let it go another week looking as disreputibil as it now does. We mean well, if you do; but if you don't,—beware!

"THE VILLAGE IMP. SOCIETY."

"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 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:

"DEAR MRS. HILL:

"Won't you please be so kind as to straighten out your garden a little? We'd like to see it look neat like Mr. Fulton's, or Mr. Maynard's, or Mr. Adams'. Don't go to too much trouble in this matter, but just kill or shut up your pigs and chickens, and we will all help you if need be.

"Lovingly yours, "THE VILLAGE IMP. SOCIETY."

"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:

"MR. GREEN:

"We wish to goodness you'd keep your goods in better order. In front of your store, on sidewalk and gutter, are old fruits, potatoes, and sundry other things too old to be quite nice. So spruce things up, and you will be surprised at the result.

"Yours in good fellowship, "THE VILLAGE IMP. SOCIETY."

"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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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.

"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 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 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 relationship. 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 Bongzoo; 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 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. 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 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 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 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-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, 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 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 picking 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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, "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, 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 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.

"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. "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 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 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 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 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 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 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. "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, 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. "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 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 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 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?"