11883	----	Proofreading Team. Made Easy Series ENTERTAINING MADE EASY BY EMILY ROSE BURT 1919 _Acknowledgment is made to Woman's Home Companion, The Ladies' Home Journal, Farm and Fireside, and the Designer for their courteous permission to reprint certain material in this book_. TABLE OF CONTENTS SOCIALS AND PARTIES A SMILES SOCIAL AN AVIATION MEET A MOCK CANTEEN A PROGRESSIVE MARCH PARTY AN AUTUMN LEAF DANCE A HARVEST HOME PARTY A NUTTY PARTY FOR OCTOBER A MAY POLE PARTY FOR CHILDREN OUTDOOR AFFAIRS A BACON BAT A CHILDREN'S DAISY PARTY A HAWAIIAN PORCH LUNCHEON A WATERMELON FROLIC A JAPANESE GARDEN PARTY A COMMENCEMENT PICNIC A PROGRESSIVE MOTOR PARTY BIRTHDAYS AND OTHER ANNIVERSARIES A BACHELOR SUPPER MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY TEA A PUSSY CAT PARTY A GIRL'S BIRTHDAY LUNCHEON THE WOODEN WEDDING THE TIN WEDDING A MOCK WEDDING A SILVER WEDDING SHOWER A CAPE COD LUNCHEON ANNOUNCEMENTS AND SHOWERS "A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME" LUNCHEON A HAPPINESS TEA A HELLO PARTY AN APPLE SHOWER AN OLD ROSE SHOWER A KITTY SHOWER A CAMP FIRE SHOWER A "ONE I LOVE" SHOWER AN INDIAN SUMMER SHOWER A CHRISTMAS TREE SHOWER WEDDINGS SUMMER WEDDING DECORATIONS THE TABLE DECORATIONS MENUS FOR THE BUFFET LUNCHEON THE FAVORS TWO SUMMER WEDDINGS A Wild Rose Wedding A Field Flower Wedding OUTDOOR WEDDINGS An Orchard Pageant A Wedding on the Lawn FALL WEDDINGS A Blue and Gold Fall Wedding Oak Leaves and Cosmos THREE WINTER WEDDINGS A Christmas Wedding A Rainbow Wedding A Colonial Wedding _INTRODUCTION_ It is fun to entertain--if you don't make hard work of it. And why make hard work of it when there are ways to entertain easily? Besides you know that the more easily you do it, the more successful you'll be, and there's hardly a woman in the world--is there?--who wouldn't like to be known as a good hostess. "But," says one of you, "I haven't the knack." And another says, "I haven't the time or money." And yet another, "Oh, I never have any ideas." Nonsense! It's not a question of knack or money or ideas. All you need is to know the secret, and it's an open secret at that! First, ask yourself what you mean by a successful hostess. Your answer will be, "One whose guests have so good a time that they want to come again." Sure enough! The secret is out then--entertaining successfully is giving the guests a good time. "More easily said than done," you say. "What must I _do_ to give the guests a good time?" And the answer to that is in a nutshell. "Make your entertainment fit the folks to be entertained." You wouldn't, for instance, think of inviting your grandmother's friends in of an afternoon in honor of the old lady's birthday and playing stagecoach or blindman's buff. And if you have your Sunday School class of lively boys in for the evening, you won't expect them to play paper and pencil games from eight to ten. It's really just a matter of common sense coupled with some imagination and forethought to choose the right kind of entertainment. Along with choosing the right variety of amusement, remember that folks generally like the simple things best and if there's a touch of originality in addition, you've won their hearts. For you see you've made them feel that you took the trouble to plan something "different" in their honor. Because it's different, it isn't necessarily hard to prepare--there are lots of novelties in decoration, amusement and "eats" that are perfectly simple and inexpensive. They are what help to make entertaining easy, in fact. And just at this point you see comes in the reason for the writing of this little book. It aims to make entertaining easy by suggesting plans that are simple and a little out-of-the-ordinary to fit the most frequent occasions when you wish to entertain or perhaps _must_ do so. Special care has been taken to consider time and expense, but at the same time to bring in a touch of the unusual. Don't miss the fun of entertaining because you've always thought it hard work! This book has been prepared to show you how easily, after all, it can be done. And may you have the reward of joy and satisfaction that comes with successful hospitality! SOCIALS AND PARTIES Perhaps you're appointed chairman of the social committee of your young people's church society of or some club. Or maybe you want to entertain for a friend who is visiting you so that she may meet your circle of friends. Anyway it's up to you to plan an evening's amusement for a big crowd of people. If it's a mixed crowd--young and old and in-between (as church socials often are)--you need one kind of plan; if it's a bunch of young folks, or a school class party, or something for the children, you need other plans. But the secret of all good times for big crowds is to choose entertainment that draws the individuals together in some kind of comradeship, gives them all something in common, and puts them on a friendly footing. A SMILES SOCIAL On the door of the parish house as well as in the post-office window appeared a poster adorned with a big smiling face--the kind made by drawing a circle and putting inside of it two eye dots, a nose line, and a cheerful curve for a mouth. Beneath it the invitation urged everybody to come to a Smiles Social, wearing a smile and bringing an extra one in the pocket. Admission, one smile. The parish house parlors were decorated with all the laughing or smiling pictures that could be found by the committee in charge. "Mona Lisa" was there with her inscrutable smile, "The Laughing Cavalier," as well as less famous characters, such as smiling girls on calendars and magazine covers. An amusing display of newspaper cartoons also filled one portion of the wall space. Smilax was appropriately enough used for trimming. At the door was stationed a smiling admission collector, who insisted on an entering smile from everyone. The extra one was not demanded at this point. With such a beginning and the gallery of smiles about the room to break the ice, the social was assured of the success that followed. The first stunt tried was called "Throwing Smiles," not a new amusement but always a fun-maker. One person starts the game by smiling broadly and then pretending to wipe off the smile and throw it to somebody else. As soon as it lands on the next person's face, that person must in turn wipe it off and fling it at a third player. As soon as a smile is supposedly wiped off, the owner of it must maintain a perfectly sober expression. The company was in screams of laughter before this game had gone very far. Another amusing game for a large number which goes under various names was called on this occasion "The Smile Factory." The company is divided into two groups which line up opposite each other. Someone is appointed to stand between the two lines with a man's soft hat in hand. If upon being tossed in the air, the hat lands right side up, one group has to laugh while the opposite one remains absolutely sober. When the hat lands upside down, the first group remains solemn and the other group laughs. A member of either side who fails to follow this rule goes over to the opposite side. The side which wins all the members of the other side is announced victorious. The old-fashioned game of "Poor Pussy" was also played because the point of it is trying not to smile. The younger folk will enjoy it. You may remember that a ring is formed and the person within the ring who is "it," kneels before someone in the circle and mews or purrs appealingly three times successively. Each time the person confronted must answer sternly or calmly "Poor Pussy," never smiling. In case of a smile or a laugh, this person takes the place of "Poor Pussy." Midway of the evening the extra smiles brought to the social were asked for. Jokes and funny rhymes or sayings were read in turn. If various persons dislike the publicity of such a procedure, all the "smiles" may be collected and presented by two or three clever persons in the form of a minstrel show. This can be called "Smiles in Black and White." The popular song "Smiles" was in order as well as the older favorite," Pack up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag and Smile, Smile, Smile." The following conundrum was also propounded: What is the longest word in the English language? The answer is "Smiles" because there's a mile between the first and last syllables. Humorous recitations and others relating to smiles were given by some good readers. Just before the refreshments came a smile-measuring contest. All stood in line and grinned broadly while a girl with a tape measure took account of each one in turn. The winner received as a prize a grinning little china darky. The refreshments were enough to make everyone smile--they consisted of pink lemonade and ginger cookies with features marked on them in white icing. The most conspicuous feature was of course the grin. AN AVIATION MEET Try this plan for recruiting attendance at your next church social. It would also "fill the bill" for a jolly midwinter school party. The invitations are made to look like tickets of admission; the men's of red pasteboard and the girls' of blue. They read this way: _Admit Two To an Aviation Meet In the ---- Church parlors Friday evening February 21 8 o'clock_ Each member who receives a ticket must make a point of inviting somebody else, and should conduct the guest personally to the social. The hall or assembly rooms may be decorated with American and Allied colors, and it would be appropriate and effective to suspend in each window a trio of toy balloons, red, white, and blue in color, respectively. Miniature airplanes hung overhead at intervals down the length of the room would add realism. In different places on the walls fasten conspicuously large posters boldly lettered with the program of events, as follows: 1. TESTS: Ground work Control Balance 2. FLIGHTS 3. STUNTS AND TRICKS: Hands Up Spiral Reverse speed Low speed Spin Nose dives Loop the loop 4. AIR RACES 5. ARRIVAL OF AIR MAIL To promote fun, put up a few placards featuring certain well-known members in some of the events. For instance: "_See Charlie Hays loop the loop_!" or "_Mildred Brown's control is wonderful_!" A good leader can make this program go off well by calling on volunteers for the various contests. Sometimes people like better to take part in teams. The first test, which is called "ground work," is a hopping stunt. The contestants hop on one foot to a given goal, and the one who does it most easily and gracefully and holds out best is declared victorious by the judges. Blue ribbon badges are pinned on the successful persons. Next comes "control," which turns out to be facial control under difficulties. No matter what the funny, teasing, or pseudo-insulting remarks or performances of the onlookers, the contestants must retain calm and unmoved expressions as they stand in line. "Balance" proves who best can poise an apple on the head and walk across the room. All the "balancers" start at the same moment, and the first successful ones are awarded the blue ribbon. Balancing peanuts on a knife blade and carrying them thus from one end of the room to the other is another way to execute the test. When it is time for "flights" everybody is handed a paper aviation cap to put on. Then paper and pencils are passed and all are invited to take flights of fancy. These, it may be explained, may be rhymes, romances, or the biggest lies that can be recalled. A flight of oratory may also be offered. A committee of three appointed on the spot promises to report on the winners at the close of the evening. If preferred, a program of poems and short, comic, exaggerated stories may be prepared beforehand, and fill in this space with apparent impromptu. The stunts and tricks follow in detail: 1. _Hands Up_. Only one person knows the stunt and she quite mystifies everyone who presents himself and obeys her, till some one guesses the secret or she finally tells it. She begins by ordering her student on trial to raise one hand and keep the other at his side while her own back is turned. Upon turning around she is able to specify the hand which was raised. The secret is, of course, that the hand which hangs at the side, because of its position, becomes redder than the raised hand. At a glance she notes the difference in color and so knows which hand has been raised. 2. _Spiral_. This is a good mixer. All are asked to form in line, one behind another, each one's hands on the shoulders of the person ahead. The leader then starts the line winding around and round the room into a spiral and then unwinding it--the well-known gymnasium class stunt which carried through in a sprightly way is bound to make everybody feel better acquainted. 3. _Reverse Speed_. Any number line up for a backward race. They go as fast as they can backward to an appointed goal. 4. _Low Speed_. Any number may enter. This is a "slow" race, that is to say, all contestants progress as slowly as possible to a certain goal. 5. _Spin_. A supply of children's tops is provided and the ability to spin them properly is demonstrated. A few musical tops among them will add to the hilarity. 6. _Nose Dives_. This is a stunt which will probably appeal most to the boys or the more adventurous girls. It consists of pushing apples or peanuts along given chalk marks on table or floor by means of the nose only. 7. _Loop the Loop_. To those who know how to tie different kinds of knots, the announcement of this contest gives a chance to show what they can do. The "air races" are of two sorts: the "hot air" race and the balloon race. In the "hot air" race the contestants are timed as to the number of words each can say in three minutes with the eyes shut. For the balloon race several strings are stretched from one side of the room to the other, and the same number of toy balloons is supplied. The object is for the contestants to blow their respective balloons across the room, following as nearly as possible the courses of string. The choice of different colored balloons makes for interest and consequent "rooting." The arrival of the air mail is heralded by the entrance of someone dressed in aviator's garments--warm helmet, goggles, gloves and all--carrying a mail sack (if real, a new one: but an imitation one suffices). The aviator then proceeds to take out numerous packets which he hands to the guests as far as they go. There should be at least half as many packages as persons present. Each bundle is marked "_Owner unknown. Find another to share this_." The explanation is that each recipient of a parcel must immediately seek a partner and, upon doing so, open the parcel. Enough sandwiches for two are revealed. Meanwhile, hot coffee or chocolate is being passed by pretty waitresses with Japanese fans stuck in their hair airplane-wise. The evening may end with a "musical flight," or, in other words, a rousing "sing." A MOCK CANTEEN For one boy who wanted to entertain a few of the fellows who had been in camp with him, his hospitable sister planned a jolly supper party which undoubtedly owed its success to its "homeiness." Certainly its friendly informality accomplished much more than any large outlay in money could have done. There were to be half a dozen boys, so five other girls were invited to make an equal number of girls and men. To begin with, the hostess passed around to the girls slips of paper and duplicate slips to the men. Each slip contained the name of some article of food for supper and the man and girl who drew duplicate slips were thus delegated to prepare that particular dish together. When all had matched up partners they repaired to the kitchen, a big old-fashioned room with plenty of space for all of them. The hostess and her partner did no cooking, but announced that they would manage this cafeteria. While all the others were in the kitchen, they arranged on a side table in the dining-room stacks of tin trays, knives, forks, spoons, and paper napkins. Over it they posted a bulletin board in good imitation of a real cafeteria. There were listed on it the five dishes which were being prepared and as a joke a number of others--quite impossible to cook at such a time, as roast beef, mince pie, frozen pudding--all of which were then heavily crossed off in black ink. When the cooks had finished their tasks (and the cheerful uproar that accompanied their occupations may be easily imagined) the food was arranged on a long kitchen table. Thereupon each person, after possessing him or herself of a tray and the required silver and scanning the menu posted, passed on and pretended to select from the counter. In reality, of course, everyone took everything, and received a check from the hostess with a punch against some "stunt" written on it. The menu as prepared read as follows: Scalloped salmon Fruit salad Lettuce sandwiches Chocolate pudding with whipped cream Tea or coffee Two tables were left bare in the dining-room and the company chose seats where they wished. A great deal of additional fun was gained upon finding that someone had surreptitiously set up a placard on one of the tables reading "Reserved for Ladies." Over the cold water faucet was a sign reading "Water" and glasses were grouped near it. After supper the various stunts registered on the checks and some rollicking songs filled the remainder of a merry evening in which there had been absolutely no chance for stiffness from beginning to end. These were some of the stunts: _For the Men_ 1. Show in five different ways how reveille affected your friends. 2. Give an imitation of a lady and her pet "Peke." 3. Go around the room without touching your feet to the floor. 4. Do a ballet act. 5. Dig a trench (in pantomime). 6. Sing a Mother Goose rhyme through your nose. _For the Girls_ 1. Give a military salute to every man in the room in turn. 2. Choose a partner to walk around the "chimney" with you ten times. 3. Count to fifty, substituting the words "Oh, fudge!" for fives and every multiple of five. 4. Pretend to eat a bunch of grapes. 5. Represent your favorite movie actress till the others guess her correctly. 6. Flirt in three different ways. A PROGRESSIVE MARCH PARTY A group of high school friends, a social club of boys and girls, or a church society of young people will enjoy giving the following party in March. Send out invitations written on cards reading as follows: _March is the month of all the year When lamb and lion do appear, When pussy willow comes anew And March hare scampers into view. If you would meet these creatures four And maybe several others more, Then come prepared for work and play To Grangers' hall, March first, the day_. On the invitation cards, tiny hares, lions, lambs, or sprays of pussy willows can be outlined or traced by means of carbon paper from pictures. The guests upon arrival draw from a basket containing tiny toy or cracker lions, lambs, rabbits and cats, whichever kind of favor they wish. According to the favor each one draws, the guests take their places respectively at the March hare table, the lion table, the lamb table, or the pussy willow table. Each table is marked by a distinguishing centerpiece: at the March hare table is a plaster rabbit, at the lion table, a toy lion; the lamb table has a woolly lamb on wheels, and the pussy willow table, a bunch of pussy willows or a stuffed cat. The fun is now ready to begin, for with the implements and materials provided at each table the guests are required to produce a facsimile of the animal for which the table is named. Different materials are provided at each table, so there is no monotony, as the guests progress from table to table after half an hour's stay at each one in turn. Modeling clay is the medium in which the March hares are to be done, and no implements except fingers are supposed to be used, though if a boy slyly makes use of his jack-knife, there are no embarrassing questions asked. The lions are to be carved from potatoes with the aid of little kitchen vegetable knives, and the lambs are to be fashioned from cotton wool, matches, and mucilage. At the pussy willow table the guests must show how expert they can be at cutting cats, free hand, from flannel. Beads for eyes, and floss and bristles for whiskers, are also furnished. Prizes are given for the best and the worst specimen at each table. A rabbit's foot charm, a small reproduction of the Barye lion, or the well-known Perry picture of a lion, a Dresden-china lamb or shepherdess, and a pussy-cat plate, pincushion, or paper weight are suggestions for first prizes, and four little tin horns painted green may be given as booby prizes to the four "greenhorns" who have the worst showing. AN AUTUMN LEAF DANCE In the fall, after school has opened, some class often likes to give a reception to the entering class. An autumn leaf dance in October is the prettiest kind of one to have. Decorate the school hall with branches of scarlet and yellow maple leaves, or deep red and russet oak boughs. For the dance programs make covers from water-color paper cut and painted to look like oak or maple leaves. The inside pages can be of thin white paper in the same shape. Attach little red pencils. Plan one autumn leaf dance in which each girl receives a wreath of autumn leaves from her partner. For refreshments have orange or raspberry ice with vanilla ice-cream, and serve it on plates covered with leaf-shaped paper doilies. A HARVEST HOME PARTY A "RED EAR" party is what they called it in the invitations. It was the opening party of the year in the high school and the seniors planned it. The cards they sent out said: _Oh, this time o' the year You'll recall the red ear (It will never go out o' date); So the members of "twenty" Have planned fun a-plenty At a regular Harvest Home fête-- You're invited_! The school hall was delightfully decorated emphasizing the autumn colors. Bright tawny leaves banked the platform where the orchestra sat, and along the side walls globes of red and orange balloons glowed among the soft tans and browns of cornstalks. From the ceiling, myriads of red and orange paper lanterns swayed brilliantly. The dance programs were "red ears" cut from cardboard, and tiny red pencils dangled from them. Some of the names of the dances to excite curiosity were: The Corn Stalk The Scarecrow Skitter Farmerettes Fancy Popcorn Waltz Orchard One-step Pumpkin Pie Walk Red Ear Dance Harvest Home Revue The Corn Stalk was in the nature of a grand march--everybody "stalking stiffly" round and round in time to the music, which ended in a rollicking one-step. Then followed the Scarecrow Skitter. A dilapidated old cornfield character in all the crudity of flapping black was brought in and established in the center of the floor. In his shabby hat fluttered a handful of rusty crow feathers, and the feature of the dance was for each boy to secure one of them in passing for his partner. The poor old fellow was nearly torn to bits in the process. The Farmerettes Fancy was another name for "ladies choice." All the girls were given tiny toy rakes, hoes, spades, or other farm implements which they used as favors in choosing partners. For the Popcorn Waltz, the favors were popcorn chains for the boys to hang around their partners' necks. There was a temptation to devour these adornments as well as to use them for decorative purposes, and on the whole they were a source of much fun. The orchestra at intervals in this dance made use of some contrivance which sounded like corn popping briskly over the fire. A shower of snowy white confetti from the balcony still further emphasized the popcorn idea. In the Orchard One-step the boys were asked to pick peaches. The girls stood behind a high screen and thrust their right hands above it. The boys reached up, touched the "peaches" they chose and thereupon the girls thus designated one-stepped away with their partners. Instead of a cake walk, a Pumpkin Pie Walk was announced. The contestants could indulge in just as crazy, funny or pretty dance steps as they liked. The reward to the most original, entertaining and clever couple was a big pumpkin pie. Then came the Red Ear Dance. Everybody was blindfolded and asked to pick an ear of corn from a big basket. When vision was restored the girl holding the red ear (an ordinary ear with a red crepe paper wrapping) was acclaimed queen of the carnival, and was presented with a bouquet of red roses. During the dance a red glow by means of special lighting arrangements filled the hall. The Harvest Home Dance came just before supper, and lived up to its name, in that paper costume caps designating fruits and vegetables were given out and worn, so that the whole room seemed to be filled with the "harvest." Tomato, carrot, corn, apple, wheat, squashes, grapes, popcorn, watermelon and blackberry were all represented. The supper dance occurred midway in the evening, and the other novelty dances described were interspersed before and after it. The supper consisted merely of peach ice cream with sugared popcorn on top, served on grape leaves, nut macaroons, tiny pumpkin tarts and fruit punch. COSTUME HATS FOR THE RED EAR PARTY _Tomato_: Turkey red crepe paper or cotton skull cap with pointed green paper calyx and green upstanding stem of wire covered over with paper or cloth. _Carrot_: Orange crepe paper or cloth conical cap. This may be made on heavy paper or cardboard foundation. Characteristic lines may be marked on the carrot. _Corn_: Green paper or cloth toboggan cap falling gracefully to one side With a long green or gold-colored silk tassel. _Apple_: Little round bowl-like cap of glossy red paper with a brown stem of paper-covered wire. _Wheat_: A wreath of natural or artificial wheat ears. _Squash_: Cardboard or stiff paper cut to make a "crook neck" effect, covered with yellow paper. _Grapes_: A graceful floppy green hat of straw or paper with a crown entirely made of artificial or real grape bunches--blue or purple as desired.--A filet of green ribbon with a real or artificial bunch of grapes depending on each side to hang over the ears. _Popcorn_: A close-fitting little toque covered with tiny pieces of cotton batting to resemble popped corn. _Watermelon_: A crescent-shaped hat to be worn broadside suggesting a slice of watermelon from green paper border (fitting on hair) to pink center dotted with tiny bits of black court plaster to suggest seeds. _Blackberry_: Close-fitting little black quilted or puffed bonnet to tie under chin. A NUTTY PARTY FOR OCTOBER A girl who wanted to give an inexpensive jolly little party in honor of a visiting friend in October issued invitations to a nut gathering. At the top of each correspondence card which served as an invitation, she glued half an almond shell upon which a face was marked in ink. Below this nut head the rest of the figure was drawn in ink on the card, and the inscription read: _Pretend you're a squirrel for once And join my nut-gathering stunts, Friday, October the eleventh at half-past eight_. The first amusement of the evening was introduced by suspending from the chandelier in the center of the room a cocoanut decorated with a comical face and a pointed paper cap perched on top. Each person from a distance of ten feet was allowed three throws at this cap with a little light rubber ball, the object being to knock Mr. Cocoanut's cap off. The best marksman won a prize. This first nut stunt caused so much fun that no one wanted to be lured away to a Nut Exhibit. Ten varieties of nuts were represented by pictures or objects and little slips of paper and pencil were distributed for recording guesses. The display was as follows: 1. A bit of butter on a plate 2. A stout, old-fashioned stick 3. A can of canned peas with indicating label 4. A single pea 5. A map of South America with the outlines of Brazil especially prominent 6. A picture of typical English stone or brick wall 7. A can or cup of cocoa 8. A photograph of Hazel Dawn, the movie star 9. A beetle specimen (dead or alive) 10. Three ears of corn arranged to form the letter A _Answers_ 1. Butternut 2. Hickory nut 3. Pecan nut 4. Peanut 5. Brazil nut 6. English walnut 7. Cocoanut 8. Hazel nut 9. Betel nut 10. Acorn The winner of this contest also had a prize. Of course a nut party would hardly be complete without a peanut hunt and there was also a peanut race in which the object was to transfer the peanuts from one end of the room to another on the blade of a table knife. In still another peanut contest the object was to pitch ten peanuts into a narrow-necked jar at a distance of about twelve feet. To choose partners for refreshments a basket of English walnuts was passed, each little nut with a painted face and a paper cap of some sort. Blue sailor caps, soldier caps, Red Cross nurse head-dresses, Scotch Tam o' Shanters, babies' bonnets, girls' gay garden hats, were all represented. There were only two of a kind, and the two individuals who selected them were of course partners. In addition each nut proved to be only a hollow nut shell; in one was a conundrum, in its mate the answer. The refreshments were nut-bread sandwiches, peanut butter sandwiches, hot cocoa, cocoanut macaroons, vanilla ice-cream with chocolate nut sauce, and peanut brittle. A MAY POLE PARTY FOR CHILDREN One teacher planned a very happy May party for her little boy and girl pupils. There was no chance to set up a big May pole out-of-doors for the children to wind, but her idea turned out to be more original and maybe even more jolly. There were eighteen children included in the party, which was held in the park. On arriving, each child was given a little peaked paper cap of bright colored tissue paper. The boys liked these as well as the girls did, although they found them harder to keep in place on their heads. As soon as the children had donned their caps, three of the tallest children were appointed to "help teacher." This helping consisted in marching proudly out from behind a screen of bushes, carrying three gay little May poles, decked with flowers and colored paper streamers. They had been made by swinging a barrel hoop from a broomstick handle, by means of a number of ribbon-like strips of cloth. Of course the hoops were wound with the cloth, and besides that were trimmed with apple blossoms and lilacs. From the rim of each hoop the cloth strips hung straight down for two or three feet. The colors on the May pole matched the colored caps that the children wore. There proved to be just fifteen streamer, and each child was allowed to pick out a streamer to correspond with the color of the cap worn. Thus a little girl with a pink cap would pick out a pink streamer; a little boy with a green cap, a green streamer, and so on. The children who held the May poles were then asked to stand at some distance apart out in the open space of the park, and each little group of five danced round and round, and back and forth, holding and twisting their colored streamers. Somehow this amused them almost all the long spring afternoon. Different children took turns holding the May poles and sometimes they would even form a procession and hippity-hop around the park. They paraded down Main Street for a little way, but came back to the park in time to play "Drop the Handkerchief," "Hide and Seek," and "Tag," before refreshments were served. They were perfectly delighted, of course, with strawberry lemonade, brown bread sandwiches, and little frosted cup cakes, which their teacher's mother had made and on which she had outlined in pink candies the individual initials of the children. OUTDOOR AFFAIRS Out-of-door entertaining is perhaps the easiest kind of all--if you live in the country or the near-country. Anything elaborate in the arrangements would be quite out of keeping and there's something about being outdoors that takes away constraint. That's probably why outdoor parties, because they are simple and natural, bring people together in a spirit of good fellowship and are certain of success. Children especially love them and young people always find an evening garden party entrancing. One of the jolliest kinds of outdoor parties is a bacon bat. It may be a breakfast or a luncheon or a supper, but there is always bacon and an open fire. Now that automobiles are so abundant, the possibilities for motor picnics and progressive motor parties are many and various. A BACON BAT A girl who lived in the country and had some city friends visiting her gave them the time of their lives at a bacon bat. She telephoned around to some of the young people and invited them to appear about five o'clock in picnic clothes. The hike wouldn't be long, she announced. At the specified time a jolly bunch assembled to squabble good-naturedly over the various packages and bundles assigned to them to be carried. Under the hostess's direction they betook themselves via footpath and trail to a stone-walled pasture spicy with sweet fern. Long toasting switches were readily cut by the boys from the trees in the vicinity and wood was collected for two fires. Over one the coffee was set to boil, and over the other the young folks proceeded to toast bacon. Rolls were provided in which to insert the crisp juicy morsels after toasting, and each person ate his or her own bacon sandwiches broiling hot without further ceremony. Cucumber pickles and mustard proved popular accompaniments and the coffee was appreciated--drunk from tin cups. There followed some huckleberry turnovers and homemade cookies, but on top of the bacon and rolls they were almost superfluous. Instead of bacon, chops, steak, or Frankfurters may be roasted, as well as corn in season, but bacon is the least messy to eat. Following the supper came stories and songs around the bonfire till late in the evening. The city guests enjoyed it all because to them it was so great a novelty. For the hostess it was a much easier way to introduce her guests to her friends than a more formal affair would have been. A bacon bat is especially fun in spring or fall, but is also very enjoyable on the beach in summer vacation time. A marshmallow roast in the evening is first cousin to a bacon bat. A CHILDREN'S DAISY PARTY Let the children make the invitations they send out for their own daisy party. On heavy water color paper they may draw and cut out simple outlines of daisies--about ten petals around a center which is then colored yellow with crayons. Each petal may hold one or two words of the invitation, thus: Will--you--come--to--our--daisy--party--on--Saturday--at--three?--Betty and John. Of course there should be some outdoor games, and a good one to play is "Daisy in the Dell." For this the children form in a circle, joining hands, and one is chosen to be daisy-picker. The daisy-picker runs around the outside of the circle, chanting: "Daisy in the Dell, Daisy in the Dell, I don't pick you, I don't pick you, I _do_ pick you." The child whom the daisy-picker touches upon reaching, the last word must try to run entirely around the circle and back to his place before the daisy-picker catches him. If he succeeds, he need not be "it"; but if he is caught, he must be the daisy-picker. "Are You a Daisy?" is another jolly game. The players stand in a line facing one child, who is chosen to be "it." This child asks each one in turn the question, "Are you a daisy?" Each child answers by naming the flower he chooses to be. Thus one may say, "I am a rose"; another, "I am a pansy." If any child chooses to say, "I am a daisy," he is immediately chased by the questioner, and if caught, he must take the place of the questioner. The game then proceeds as before. One rule is that a child must not repeat the name of a flower that another child has given. A game that is based on the Mother Goose rhyme, "Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief," etc., is called "Rich Man, Poor Man." One child is chosen to whisper to each of the players some word of the rhyme. The named children then stand in a circle, and another child who is "it" may call for any character in the rhyme that he wishes; the child who has been given that name must respond by saying "Here," and then running away. For instance, the one who is "it" may call for "lawyer," and the child to whom that name has been whispered calls out "Here," and is immediately chased by the leader. If he is caught within a reasonable length of time, he is "it," and the former leader drops out. This should be played until only two are left. The refreshments carry out the daisy idea, and should be served outdoors, either on the piazza or on the lawn. The centerpiece at the supper-table is a big bunch of daisies, and each child has a place-card on which is painted or drawn a daisy face, the petals forming a cap frill. The sandwiches are bread and butter, and some "good-to-eat" daisies can be made from hard-boiled eggs, by cutting the whites petal-shaped, and by mixing the yellow with salad mayonnaise to form the centers. Marguerites and little cakes frosted in yellow and white may be served with vanilla ice cream. A HAWAIIAN PORCH LUNCHEON One woman entertained her club at their last meeting of the year with a little porch luncheon. Hawaii had been one of the subjects of study, so the Hawaiian note was dominant throughout. Each guest was welcomed with a _lei_, the Hawaiian paper flower garland which signifies friendship. Hung about the neck, these decorations excited much fun. The Hawaiian features of the refreshments were Hawaiian pineapple salad and little imitation volcanoes which were in reality cones of vanilla ice-cream in the center of which holes had been scooped and then filled with hot caramel sauce, which of course overflowed the sides in true lava fashion. The favors were tiny dolls, each dressed in a short bright-fringed paper skirt, orange, green, blue or pink, to match the color of the _lei_ which each lady had already received as a souvenir. During the luncheon the hostess played several Hawaiian musical selections on her phonograph. If any of her friends had owned or played a ukelele, doubtless the plaintive music would have been a feature. A WATERMELON FROLIC When watermelons were ripe and plentiful, big pink posters cut oval with a painted border of green and black lettering on the pink startled the village with the notice of a watermelon frolic. They read: _Do you like watermelon? Anyway Be sure to come to a watermelon party on the local fairgrounds next Tuesday evening Admission 25 cents This entitles you to see the minstrel show Proceeds for the Epworth League of ---- Church_ Long plank tables on wooden horses were improvised for serving the watermelons which were contributed by the members of the society. Some of the men acted as carvers of the melons, and the girls served the portions, which were sold for ten cents each. The grounds were lighted with strings of electric lights in pink and green paper lanterns. Besides the main attraction there were several booths and side shows, arranged country fair fashion, which drew well. One was labeled THE WATERMELON PATCH. For this, real watermelon vines had been obtained from somebody's garden and placed naturally on the ground. To the vines were tied any number of artificial melons made of green paper stuffed with cotton wadding which concealed tiny favors. On payment of ten cents any person had the privilege of picking a melon. The prize inside was supposed to be worth the fee. At another booth, "watermelon cake" was served at five cents a slice. The secret of this was that in making a plain cake the batter had been colored with pink sugar and sprinkled with raisins. The cake was then baked in a round tin and when sliced resembled the pink of watermelon filled with black seeds. As it was sweet corn season, and as corn is also typical of the South, there was a hot corn vender, who sold steaming ears straight from kettle to buyer. One feature of the evening was a watermelon contest among the boys. Volunteers were called for and lined up at a table. They were then supplied with large wedges of melon and at the sound of the referee's whistle the race began. The prize was a whole watermelon. There was also a watermelon hurdle race. The course was laid out with big watermelons and time was kept for each hurdler. The main attraction of the evening, however, was the minstrel show. On a raised wooden platform sat the performers with blackened hands and faces. They wore grotesque garb and each one fingered a guitar, mandolin, or banjo. First they gave a number of well-known Southern melodies such as _Old Black Joe, Swanee Riber, Dixie, Massa's in de Cold, Cold Ground_. Some whistling numbers were much appreciated and _My Alabama Coon_, with its humming and strumming, proved a great success. As a special item of their musical program they sang a parody of _Apple Blossom Time_ called _It's Watermelon Time in Dixie_. The watermelon frolic was a great success and is recommended to any organization in town or country at watermelon time as a fun--and funds--producing social. _Parody_ "When It's Watermelon Time in Dixie"[1] After "When It's Apple Blossom Time in Normandie" (_Sing with appropriate motions_) _Repeat_: When it's watermelon time in Dixie Land[1] Ah wants to be Right dher[2] you see In dat dear old melon patch To eat a batch! When it's watermelon time in Dixie Land Dat's de time of all de year When Ah grin[3] with cheer from ear to ear Watermelon's jes' GRAND!!! [Footnote 1: Sway heads and bodies] [Footnote 2: Jerk thumbs backward over shoulder] [Footnote 3: Grin broadly--stretch hands from corners of mouth to ears.] A JAPANESE GARDEN PARTY A girl who wished to entertain for a visiting school friend one evening in midsummer sent out invitations to a Japanese Garden Party. She wrote them on the pretty little hand-decorated place-cards which are to be found in most shops now. The Japanese writing paper which comes in rolls is another possibility for them. She had a wide porch and a big lawn which she decorated for the occasion with strings of pink, yellow and green Japanese lanterns with electric bulbs inside. Settees and wicker chairs were scattered in cosy groups through the shrubbery, and there was a faint odor of burning incense. For entertainment there was dancing on the porch to the tune of a phonograph and a program of Japanese music, including some selections from "Butterfly" and "The Mikado." A clever reader gave one of the Hashimura Togo stories, and also the hostess had arranged some artistic tableaux in Japanese fashion. When it was refreshment time, cunning little girl friends of the hostess appeared in Japanese kimonos, hair done high and stuck full of tiny fans or flowers. They bore Japanese lacquer trays with tiny sandwiches (filled with preserved ginger), cherry ice and rice wafers. A wee Japanese flag was stuck in each portion of cherry ice. The favors were wee Japanese doilies which the guests were bidden to hunt for under a certain group of trees. While doing so, a sudden surprise shower of seeming cherry blossoms covered them with pink and white petals. These were really confetti petals obligingly scattered by the nimble little waitresses perched in the branches above. A COMMENCEMENT PICNIC Instead of giving the usual banquet and reception to the seniors, the juniors in a small school might well plan an outdoor picnic and supper. It has the possibility of being jollier than the regulation affair, and is certainly less expensive. Individual invitations may be sent out to the senior class--quite unusual and mysterious invitations--for each one may consist of a colored feather quill with a message written on a slip of paper wrapped about the end. This reads: _Greetings from the Tribe of Twenteequas To the Tribe of Nyneteenwas: Will the Tribe of Nyneteenwas Smoke the pipe of friendship Round the camp-fire of the Twenteequas On the sixteenth day of the Moon of Roses One hour before waysawi (sunset)? One of the Twenteequas will act as your guide_. As soon as the two classes have gathered at the picnic ground, the juniors, already decked in head bands of ribbon in their own class colors, may present the seniors with similar ribbons. The boys may have feathers stuck in theirs--if they don't object to head bands. The chief of the Twenteequas may announce the first stunt as a Hunt for Game, and all must hunt in pairs, matching partners by means of selecting, blindfolded, colored beads from a basket. Pasteboard bows and arrows are supplied, and everyone is told to return at the summons of a beaten tom-tom. The couples then scatter into the surrounding woods, and hunt for animal crackers which have previously been hidden by a committee of juniors. The prize for the couple getting the most game might be an animal toy. Next, volunteers to "Run the Gauntlet" may be called for. The others form in two parallel lines facing each other, armed with pieces of chalk. The victims must run down between the lines to a goal at the end, while the cruel Indians on each side reach out to put a chalk mark on them. The victim who gets the least chalk marks is permitted to select five of his tormentors to perform a series of stunts, previously planned by the junior entertainment committee. Appropriate ones are these: 1. Give an Indian war whoop. 2. Do an Indian war dance. 3. Give Indian names to five people here. 4. Make a speech in sign language. 5. Tell an Indian story. Supper should be eaten around a big camp-fire, and should consist of coffee cooked over the fire, nut-bread sandwiches, cold chicken and potato chips, and chocolate ice-cream under individual miniature tepees of brown paper. Paint on each tepee in black some symbol apparently mysterious but in reality characteristic of the owner. Thus, a girl with a beautiful voice and a talent for singing may have a quaint bird on hers; an athlete, a pair of Indian clubs; a domestic science girl, a bowl and spoon or a kettle, and so on. Redskins and Palefaces complete the menu, Palefaces being cookies with white icing and features marked in candies, and Redskins being apples. Toasting marshmallows over the fire and singing school ditties and old favorites will end this unique party delightfully. A PROGRESSIVE MOTOR PARTY A group of girls who lived in the country gave a delightful farewell party for one of their number who was to move out of town to another part of the world. They called it a Progressive Rainbow. At four o'clock one Saturday afternoon they all met at one of the homes. The porch was decorated in a red color scheme. A row of red Japanese lanterns hung from the roof all around. Red cushions were scattered about in the chairs and on the steps, and a jar of crimson rambler roses adorned the table. Everybody sat about and gossiped for a little while, and then fruit cocktails, to which strawberries gave the touch of red, were served. A tray of red ribbon streamers was passed, and each girl pinned one on her blouse, as the beginning of her rainbow badge. The guest of honor found with her favor a package tied with red tulle, which she was requested not to open till the end of the afternoon. After this, two automobiles, owned by members of the group or their families, whisked the party along two miles of fresh country road to the home of another girl in the group. Little tables had been set on the lawn with a bouquet of old-fashioned marigolds in the center of each one, and a toy orange balloon tied to the back of each chair by a long string. Here were served jellied orange soup in cups, and saltines. The girls received orange-colored favor ribbons to pin next to their red ones, and the guest of honor received another prize packet, this time tied with orange tulle. From there they all jumped again into the waiting cars and were transported to the home of a third girl for the third course. This time it was served in the dining-room, which was decorated with yellow snapdragons. A basket of them filled the center of the table, and at each place was a scalloped shell containing deviled crab meat garnished with lemon quarters and accompanied by tartar sauce. Cubes of hot yellow cornbread were delicious with the crab. Again the passing of the yellow ribbons to the girls and the presenting of the yellow-tied package to the guest of honor were the signals for leaving to go to the next house. The automobiles quickly took them there, where the main course of the dinner was to be eaten. Maidenhair ferns were lovely in a green bowl on the table, and tiny wood ferns were scattered over the white tablecloth. The menu consisted of broiled chicken, fresh green peas, small boiled potatoes with parsley, and rye rolls. By this time the girls were getting interested in their rainbow of ribbons, to which the green was now added, and the guest of honor received her fourth package, green-tied. Motoring to the salad course, the group found the dining-room lighted by blue candles, though the guests were begged not to feel blue. Ragged robins were arranged as a centerpiece, and fluttering blue tissue butterflies marked the places. The salad was prunes stuffed with peanuts in hearts of lettuce, served with French dressing and Dutch cheese balls. By the time the sixth stop was reached the sun had set and the moon was coming up, so that the girls sat on the veranda in the moon-light and sipped grape-juice ice to the music of romantic ditties. Lavender streamers were added next to the blue ones, and their badges were complete. As they finally drove up to the last house, they were greeted by a rainbow of tulle which arched the entrance to the porch. With their fluttering rainbow ribbon badges and the armful of rainbow packages belonging to the guest of honor, they felt very much at home with the rainbow, and the guest of honor was not even surprised to be asked to seek the pot of gold at the foot. In the yellow pottery jar which she discovered were as many gold nuggets as there were girls, and each nugget was a little gilt-paper-wrapped joke for the trip. The real, sure-enough farewell gifts to keep were in the packages progressively received, and there was a jolly time opening them under the rainbow. BIRTHDAYS AND OTHER ANNIVERSARIES Birthdays you particularly wish to celebrate happily and successfully. There's your mother's birthday or your brother's or your little son's or daughter's birthday or the birthday of the popular president of your special club. Then there are the various wedding anniversaries that call for suitable recognition, especially the five, ten, and twenty-five year ones. Besides these there are countless other events that you want to commemorate pleasantly in some way afterward. These various occasions offer fascinating possibilities for the most delightful of social affairs. A BACHELOR SUPPER "_When I was a bachelor I lived by myself And all the bread and cheese I got, I put upon the shelf; The rats and the mice, they made such a strife I was forced to go to London to buy me a wife. The streets were so broad and the lanes were so narrow I was forced to bring my wife home in a wheelbarrow_." This old Mother Goose rhyme was the keynote of a bachelor supper which one girl gave for her brother and a few of his friends on his birthday. The centerpiece on the table was an arrangement of bachelors' buttons and at every place was a tiny toy wheelbarrow filled with candies, a wee dressed-up dolly dame perched atop of each load. The rhyme also furnished the reason for the first course, which was most suitably bread and cheese, only the bread was in the form of buttered rounds of toast and the cheese was a delicious Welsh rarebit, accompanied by coffee or gingerale. Ice-cream in cantaloupes with a chocolate mouse nibbling at the rind followed, to be eaten with those most delicious of all cookies--home-made "hermits." MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY TEA A pleasant way for a daughter to entertain for her mother is to give a little informal afternoon tea, asking the mother's friends and their daughters and thus making it a kind of mother and daughter affair. Send out the invitations on your calling card, writing your mother's name at the top. If your mother likes surprises, arrange the party to be one if possible, but if she is like most mothers she will prefer to know what's going on and so be prepared. The rooms should be decorated with flowers of the season. The country girl will find it easy in spring, summer, or fall. During the afternoon a little program of previously arranged "mother" songs, lullabies and readings by some of the guests may agreeably interrupt the chat. Tea, sandwiches and little cakes may be served in the dining-room from a festive birthday table. The centerpiece may be a bowl of pink roses--to match in number the years of the guest of honor. Candles from under rose-colored paper or silk shades may light the room, and if desired each guest may be presented with a miniature band-box covered with rose-sprigged paper or chintz--filled with wee pink and white candies. A PUSSY CAT PARTY When Billy's mother decided to give him a birthday party, she pounced upon the pussy cat plan, partly because pussy-willows are still flourishing in April, but mostly because she knew that kittens and cats are favorites with nine and ten year olds. The invitations were folded kitty-cornered and inside of each appeared a fat fuzzy little gray puss taken from a real pussy-willow branch. "Puss" had pen and ink ears, whiskers and tail, and likewise a tiny red-painted fence post upon which to sit. The first game was a good romp at "Puss-in-the-Corner." That was followed by the foolish but funny "Poor Pussy." While the children were still in a circle for that, Billy's mother explained a new game. It was called "Kitty Kitty" and was carried out on the lines of "Spin the Platter." In every child's ear Billy whispered the name of some sort of cat, as for instance, tiger, "yaller," green-eyes, double-toes, maltese, Angora, black and white, gray. He then occupied the center of the circle and spun a tin pieplate. As he did so he called out one of the names he had assigned and counted rapidly out loud up to ten. Thus, "Green-eyes, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten." The child who had been given the name "green-eyes" was supposed to jump up and snatch the pie tin before Billy had finished counting to ten. If "green-eyes" failed, then he had to take Billy's place. Billy, too, of course, had a pussy cat label. Another circle game that was fun was called "Pussy's Prowlings." It was on the order of stage-coach. Billy's mother told the story of a kitty's wanderings and before she started to tell it, she whispered to each child the name of something which was to appear in the story. For instance, she gave out "haymow," "milk dish," "mouse hole," "catnip." Every time she mentioned any such name in the process of telling the story, the child who had it was expected to rise from his chair, turn around three times and sit down again. When the words "pussy's prowlings" were mentioned, all the players jumped up and exchanged seats. The story teller also tried to get a seat, and if she succeeded the child who was finally left without one had to continue the story. PUSSY'S PROWLINGS Once there was a PUSSYCAT named BLINKY who said to herself one day, "I'm tired of MILK to drink and I'm oh, so hungry for MOUSE. I must go on a MOUSE hunt." So BLINKY stole out of the red BRICK HOUSE where she lived very happily with the JONES FAMILY. She pattered down the back DOORSTEPS where her MILK SAUCER was set and she scampered along the winding PATH to the BARN. (That's the way PUSSY'S PROWLINGS began.) Up the LADDER to the HAYMOW she crept and through the heaps of sweet clover HAY to a HOLE IN THE WALL. There BLINKY knew lived a MOUSE. So she crouched close to the MOUSE HOLE, as still as still could be and watched, and she watched and she watched and she watched. But that MOUSE must have been away from home or else very busy down in its HOLE, for it never once stuck its little NOSE out. And when BLINKY had watched there in the HAYMOW for three long, long hours, she was so hungry that she couldn't watch for that MOUSE a single minute more. She thought of the MILK SAUCER by the back DOORSTEPS and she said to herself, "If I can't have MOUSE, MILK won't taste so bad after all." So BLINKY made her way back through the heaps of HAY and scrambled down the LADDER to the HAYMOW and ran along the winding PATH to the back DOORSTEPS. And there, sure enough, was a SAUCER full of MILK all ready for her to drink. So BLINKY lapped it up very hungrily and was perfectly happy! (And that's the way PUSSY'S PROWLINGS ended.) The next game was called "Hunt the Mouse." Billy had hidden a chocolate mouse somewhere in the room and the children were asked to be kitties and try to find it. Whenever anyone came very near the hiding place, Billy miaowed loudly, or if everyone was very far from it, Billy would mew only faintly. The "kitty" who found the mouse kept it for a reward. In another room the children had a chance to hunt for those mittens which the "naughty kittens" once lost. Many tiny red paper mittens were scattered throughout the room and were much more easily found than the mouse. The supper table delighted the children. In the center of it sat a big stuffed toy cat surrounded by chocolate mice, and at each child's place a tiny white plush cat with the child's name on a paper tied to the neck had been placed. Such toys can usually be bought in five and ten cent stores. Pussy-willow sprays laid flat on the tablecloth decorated the table gracefully. The napkins were the paper ones which feature black cats at Hallowe'en. Little ramekins of creamed chicken pleased the children. With the chicken, Billy's mother served "kitty-cornered" sandwiches of brown bread filled with cream cheese and chopped nuts. There was hot cocoa too, and for the last course individual molds of chocolate blanc mange with whipped cream and a candied cherry on top. Needless to say there was a birthday cake which was brought in ablaze with candles and set before Billy to cut. Each guest received a souvenir chocolate mouse and was ready to declare upon departure at six that the pussy cat party had been, oh, so jolly! A GIRL'S BIRTHDAY LUNCHEON Once a mother gave a little birthday luncheon for her daughter who was a freshman in high school. It pleased the fourteen-year-old and her friends because of the novelty in decorations and menu. The class colors were green and white, so that scheme was used throughout. In the center of the table was a green bowl with a few paper narcissi arranged in a flower holder, Japanese fashion. Around each plate was a wreath of smilax--any small green vine would do perfectly well--and above each plate a tiny green candle burning in a wee holder. The place-cards were tied to the handles of the holders. Glass dishes of lime drops and wintergreen candies added to the general green and white effect. The menu consisted of fruit cocktail with a sprig of mint atop of each portion, followed by a second course of chicken à la King generously sprinkled with capers, and accompanied by hot rolls and olives. Then came hot chocolate with a marshmallow floating in each cup and milestone salad, which consisted of oblongs of cream cheese into which numerals cut out of green peppers were pressed. The milestones stood erect on fresh lettuce leaves and were served with French dressing. After that a birthday cake was borne in ablaze with fourteen green tapers and set before the little hostess to cut. Great was the fun when the fortune favors, baked in the cake, were found by the guests. Pistachio ice-cream accompanied the cake, but vanilla ice-cream or a green gelatine dessert would be equally fitting. The favors were little green vanity bags made from ribbon by the fourteen-year-old's mother. THE WOODEN WEDDING An informal evening party is perhaps the jolliest way to celebrate the fifth wedding anniversary. After everybody has arrived, try a wooden smile contest. There will be any number of humorous attempts, but few will be wooden. The contestant who smiles most woodenly may receive as a prize a gaily painted wooden jumping jack or any other wooden toy. The next amusement can be a progressive one, consisting of putting together at tables wooden puzzles of all sorts, including jig-saw puzzles. Puzzles make good prizes for this contest. One of the carefully packed wooden boxes of candy is another possibility. Another occupation that is appropriate and fun-making is a pea and tooth-pick contest. Wooden tooth-picks and dried peas soaked up are provided. Each person is then assigned to construct one member of a tooth-pick wedding party properly. The tooth-pick persons when finished should form in a parade down the center of the library table. A light buffet supper or simply ice-cream and coffee may be served in the dining-room. Decorate the table with a central wooden bowl containing some simple flowers such as daisies, honeysuckles, snapdragons, nasturtiums, or whatever flowers are in season. There may be wooden candlesticks with candles to match the color scheme and small wooden plates and bowls for candies and nuts. Serve the ice-cream on wooden plates covered with lace paper doilies, and give as favors tiny wooden household articles such as dolls' rolling-pins, clothespins, barrels, washtubs, spinning wheels, and the like. THE TIN WEDDING The tenth wedding anniversary has many possibilities for fun. An informal social evening or a dinner followed by some jolly stunts are in order. In any case, arrange for the dining table a centerpiece of a shiny tin funnel filled with bright garden or wild flowers surrounded by a frill of lace paper to represent an old-fashioned, formal bouquet. Use tin candlesticks with bayberry candles for illumination and scatter tiny new patty pans with crinkly edges over the table to hold candies and nuts. The salad may be served on shiny tin plates covered with lace paper doilies, the ice-cream in individual patty pans, and the coffee or punch in tin cups. At each place put a tiny funnel bouquet, a miniature of the central one or else some tiny tin toy. Tin whistles for everybody would promote the hilarity. The old-fashioned game of "Spin the Platter" would be good to start the entertainment of the evening. Then may come a "tin" minute paper and pencil contest to see who can write the most words beginning or ending with TIN in the allotted ten minutes. Ten "reel" years of married life may next be shown. This feature is simply a series of movie-like pantomimes showing humorous events, real or imaginary, in the life of the host and hostess--given, of course, by their friends. A tin band concert will also provide a good time. Those who are in the band perform on instruments contrived from kitchen utensils or the tin noise-making novelties which can be obtained in the shops. A MOCK WEDDING A mock wedding is a funny way to celebrate one of the numerous early wedding anniversaries, especially if a group of young married women friends want to join in a surprise. The bride may be invited to a chum's house and presently the procession may appear before her. The bride should have a cheesecloth or mosquito netting veil with dried orange peel to hold the folds in place, and she should carry a bouquet of white chicken feathers tied with white tape--the shower part can be little bows of rags. The bridesmaids might all wear the cheapest of farmers' hats, with huge bunches of goldenrod or asters on them or else such things as little kitchen utensils sewed on the front in place of flowers. Bouquets of burdock tied with colored cretonne would be attractive for them, or possibly as a substitute for the conventional shepherds' crooks they could carry umbrellas with big bows on the handles. A third suggestion for the bridesmaids is that they carry grape baskets filled with none too choice outdoor flowers and weeds. There should be a flower girl, of course, who can wear an abbreviated costume. Her hair should be in ringlets with a big ribbon tied around her head, and she may carry a market basket filled with scraps of paper, or flowers if you prefer, to scatter in front of the bride. The ring bearer may carry a curtain ring on a sofa cushion. At the ceremony, of course, you must omit all the really solemn parts, but you may let someone make up some questions for the minister to use. For instance, he may say to the mock bridegroom, "Do you promise to obey this woman?" Instead of saying, "I will" and "I do," they may say, "I wilt" and "I doth." For a wedding breakfast, you might serve creamed codfish in heavy crockery, and follow it with helpings of cream of wheat either cold or hot, which can be served to resemble ice cream in little paper cases. There should be a wedding cake which may be only ginger-bread, and some kind of grotesque motto may be inscribed in the frosting. A SILVER WEDDING SHOWER A little group, girlhood friends of more than twenty-five years standing, recently planned a pleasant shower for a popular friend, the president, as it happened, of their fortnightly sewing club, on her silver wedding anniversary. None of the ladies was rich and the gifts were planned to cost not over fifty cents each. Many of them were less than that. Silver fittings for a work basket were chosen and included a silver needle case, a silver thimble case, a silver hem gauge, a unique tatting shuttle, a little silver ripping knife, a cunning strawberry emery with a silver hull and a wee wax cherry with a silver stem. The gifts were wrapped in white tissue paper, tied with silver cord with a tiny shining bell inserted in the center of each knot. They were presented in a lovely sweet grass sewing basket, which in turn was wrapped and tied with silver ribbon. This was not given, however, till the close of the afternoon's sewing, which had gone on as usual, though there was an atmosphere of ill-concealed expectation. Simple refreshments were brought in and served in buffet style. Home-made ice-cream was passed in little ice cups which had as decorations around the rim a circlet of glittering silvery tinsel. "Silver Cake" and bonbons in silver wrappings accompanied the ice cream. Last of all, the "shower" was borne in on a silver tray and set before the surprised guest of honor. A little rhyme explained this turn of events to the delightfully mystified recipient: _Because of many a happy hour With you, well spent, we give this shower, Just to remember in a way With love, your silver wedding day_. As an amusing little contest each lady was asked to write down ten things she had learned in the last twenty-five years. The replies made good reading and furnished plenty of conversation till home-going time. A CAPE COD LUNCHEON In remembrance of a happy two weeks spent in a little bungalow on Cape Cod, one of the girls of the "bunch" gave a quaint luncheon for the others during the year following. The invitations bore a tiny spray of bayberry sketched in one corner and read like this: _May the bayberry dip and the odor of pine At this little reunion luncheon of mine, Bring back all our fun in the house by the sea, Where we were as jolly as jolly could be_. On the luncheon table homespun runners were used, crossed in the center where a brown wicker basket filled with the gray green of bayberry branches, brightened by the orange of bittersweet, stood on a mat of fragrant pine. Green bayberry dips in the simplest of low tin candlesticks lighted the table and at each cover the place-card was a little outline map of Cape Cod with the situation of the summer camp conspicuously marked. The menu consisted of clam cocktails, codfish cakes and tiny pots of baked beans, hot steamed brown bread cut in small round slices, blueberry tarts, and coffee. The favors were wee bayberry "waxes" for the sewing basket, each with a bit of a bayberry twig peeping from its top. ANNOUNCEMENTS AND SHOWERS "How shall I announce my engagement?" The engaged girl we have always with us, and the next step after the engagement is the announcement of it. Most girls like to have some kind of little social function to break the news to their special circle of friends. Usually a mother or a sister or a chum does the entertaining, though a girl herself may perfectly well plan and carry out such a party. There are several sorts of affairs which may serve as a setting for an announcement. A favorite kind is a luncheon for a group of girl friends. Even less work is an afternoon tea and to that a girl's men friends may be asked also, though it's really easier to have girls only. Another kind of announcement party is the evening affair to which both men and girl friends are invited and at which the announcement should be "sprung" as a total surprise as in all other announcement affairs. After the engagement is known, immediately the friends of the bride-to-be begin to think of showers for her. One friend or a group of friends or her club may be hostesses and give such an affair. There are different ways of planning them. For instance, they may be appropriate to the month, like a Christmas Tree Shower in December or an Indian Summer Shower in November or a Rainy Day Shower in April. Or they may take as keynotes the engaged girl's special likes, as in the case of an apple shower, a kitty shower or an old rose shower. And then again, they may be just plain, ordinary, handkerchief showers, or linen showers, or kitchen showers, with an original touch somewhere. "A LITTLE BIRD TOLD ME" LUNCHEON At a recent engagement luncheon the announcement was made in a unique way. A large wooden embroidery hoop was hung from the ceiling over the table and in the ring perched a gaily painted wooden parrot, the kind that rocks back and forth when touched. From the parrot streamers of colored baby ribbon led to the different places, and tied to the ends of the ribbons were tiny notes in envelopes. These on being opened showed the names of the engaged couple and a short rhyme reading thus: _A little bird told me A very nice thing, That Randolph gave Sally A diamond ring_. The refreshments followed somewhat the parrot color scheme, with halves of grapefruit garnished with cherries, chicken à la King, pimento, walnut and cream cheese salad, orange ice, and little cakes with colored frosting. Small celluloid parrots perched on the rims of the glasses were appropriate souvenirs. A HAPPINESS TEA _Sing a song of sixpence, A pocket full o' rye, Four and twenty bluebirds Baked in a pie; When the pie was opened The birds began to sing, About a certain couple here Who have some news to spring_. Thus did one girl announce her engagement in the month of May. She had asked twenty-four of her best friends to come to a bluebird tea one Saturday afternoon, and nobody suspected her secret, although they did remember that the bluebird stands for happiness. The party was held out on the hostess's big porch, which was decorated with jars of pink and white apple blossoms. Everybody had a very good time dancing to the music of the phonograph until it was time for the tea to be served. The waitresses were Betty's two little sisters, who wore as insignia big blue bows on their hair and cunning little aprons made of bluebird cretonne. The tea was iced and served with lemon and mint in tall glasses. The sandwiches were tiny and round and filled with pink strawberry jam which made them seem like delectable apple-blossom petals. Betty happened to have bluebird plates and she used paper napkins with a bluebird motif. After the sandwiches came little pink and green and white frosted cakes and last of all the surprise. It appeared to be a great pie with bluebird heads peeking through the crust. In reality the crust was just brown paper touched up with a bit of water color paint and pasted across the top of a big open pan. The bluebirds soon showed what they were when the guests in turn pulled them out of the pie by means of the narrow white ribbon attached to each one. They were really flat pasteboard bluebirds and served as the excuse for the rhyme announcing Betty's engagement. As a souvenir each guest had a tiny bluebird May basket filled with pink and white Jordan almonds. Small square boxes formed the foundations of the May baskets, the sides were then covered with bluebird crepe paper and the corners tied with wee blue bows. Little cut-out bluebirds hung from the slender handles and bore the names of the individual guests. When they said good-by, the guests all declared that they had had a bluebirdy time, which in other words meant that Betty had planned very happily. A HELLO PARTY The invitations to this party read as follows: _Hello! hello! hello! A party's on the wire; And you must surely go Or else arouse my ire! Friday evening Eight o'clock_ The affair was planned by one girl to announce the engagement of a chum, and of course the object of the party was not revealed in the invitations. All kinds of jolly games were played to pass the evening, and one pleasant feature was "A Telephonic Conversation" by Mark Twain rendered by a good reader. The telephone was the keynote of the evening and played a prominent part in the table decorations. A big blue paper bell such as one sees in front of telephone booths hung over the center of the table. Beneath it was a low bowl of forget-me-nots of which the guests did not see the significance till later. The candles were white with blue bell-shaped shades, and at each person's plate as a favor stood one of the tiny glass telephones seen in candy stores, full of candies. The place-cards each bore a mock telephone number, such as Sing 1236, Circle 6320, Joke 5156, Shiver 9315, Groan 231. The menu was mostly white and served on blue dishes. It consisted of chicken patties, hot rolls, cream cheese and white grape salad, and vanilla ice-cream in blue frilled paper cases. Toward the end of the ice-cream course the hostess asked the guests to announce their telephone numbers, in turn. Whereupon, each person was requested to rise from the table and act out his number. This was comparatively simple and made everyone quite hilarious. When it came the turn of the hostess, she said that her number was Springit 42. The two (2), she said, were Elizabeth and John, and this was the time she had chosen to spring the announcement of their engagement. Another way in which the announcement could be made is to prepare telephone messages of the news and tie them to the ends of blue ribbons hanging from the tongue of the bell. The hostess may announce that the "bell tolled" when the guests are allowed to open and read their messages. AN APPLE SHOWER A girl who was very fond of apples in every form, so much so that all her friends knew about it, was given a clever shower after she became engaged. The invitations were cut in apple shape and tinted a little with red and green water colors. The following verses voiced the plan of the party and notified the guests: _Invitation to a Shower_ _Apples, apples everywhere Will doubtless make up half the fare On Elsie's future menu pad, As they are Elsie's greatest fad. So if you'd keep that fact in mind In shower presents--'twould be kind; Send it to me the day before And come on Saturday at four_. _January the twentieth At Mary's house_. The first amusement of the afternoon was an apple-guessing contest, the names of different varieties of apples to be guessed from literal definitions, thus: The Royal Apple--. King. After that there was an apple-peeling contest in Hallowe'en fashion and each girl threw the peeling over her left shoulder to discover the initial of her future husband. Immediately following this, the hostess, with the help of one of the other girls, brought in a big bushel basket apparently filled with huge rosy apples, and set it down before the guest of honor. When the green ribbon around the stem of each make-believe apple was untied, the red crepe paper opened out, disclosing, in wrappings of soft cotton, a variety of gifts for the apple-loving girl. There was an up-to-date corer and a plate for baking apples, a fat plush apple pincushion for the kitchen, a red apple "bank" with a slit for savings, one of the beautiful Wallace Nutting photographs of a New England apple tree in full pink and white bloom, an artistic brown basket for apples to be kept on the buffet or used for the breakfast table, and a delightful fruit bowl with an apple border. One girl had contributed a little booklet of choice apple recipes, a jar of apple butter and another of home-made apple sauce. One artistic member of the group had stenciled a crash table runner for the porch table with a conventional apple design in yellow and orange and green, and another girl put the same design very decoratively on a round box of painted tin. Two of the prettiest gifts were a cunning sports handkerchief with a cluster of apples stamped in one corner, and a smart flat silk hat ornament in the shape of three apples. Before the happy bride-to-be had finished exclaiming over her gifts, the hostess served buffet refreshments that were as pretty as they were delicious. There were little individual molds of pink apple tapioca, topped with whipped cream and accompanied by small home-made cakes, frosted uniquely. Each one had in the center of its white icing a miniature apple bough as a decoration, made from two red maraschino cherries, two leaf-shaped pieces of green angelica and a bit of citron. As a surprise for each girl, the hostess had provided a tiny bunch of apple sachets, easily made from scraps of apple-colored silks. "I like apples more than ever now that I've begun to see their possibilities," the guest of honor declared. AN OLD ROSE SHOWER For a girl who was very fond of everything rose-colored, her friends planned an "old-rose" shower on Valentine's Day. As a result, among the gifts were rose-colored silk stockings, a rose-flowered silk party bag, an old-rose boudoir cap, slippers to match, and towels with old-rose initials. Each gift was wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with old-rose ribbon, and they were all presented on a big tray, the bottom of which was rose-flowered cretonne under glass. The refreshments were raspberry ice and tiny cakes frosted in rose and white, and each guest carried away as a favor a wee glove handkerchief with an old-rose border. A KITTY SHOWER It sounds odd, but the engaged girl for whom it was given was so very fond of pussy cats that her chum knew that a kitty shower would just exactly suit her. The invitations, written on cats cut from heavy paper, read this way: _Since Elizabeth Ann is so fond of the kitty Don't you agree that 'twould be a great pity If we missed a good chance now for making a hit By each bringing her some kind of a kit_? The bride-to-be suspected nothing when she was asked to a kitty luncheon at her chum's house. The table had as decorations a centerpiece of pussy willows and yellow tulips, and the candle shades were made of yellow parchment paper with black silhouettes of cats running around them. At each girl's place was a tiny china cat with a yellow ribbon bow on its neck to which was tied the place-card. There was no attempt to carry out the kitty idea in the menu, but it was yellow throughout. The first course was grapefruit, then followed scalloped oysters garnished with lemon slices, chicken and mayonnaise salad, individual baked custards, and sunshine cake. Upon withdrawing from the table, it was announced that "Pussy was in the well," and forthwith a deep cylindrical waste-basket trimmed with pussy willows was brought in and set before the guest of honor, who was requested to be the one to "pull pussy out." With a dawning understanding of the meaning of this, the bride-to-be reached in and drew one by one from the waste-basket the "kits" which had been placed there for her. Each one was tied with yellow ribbon and had a black cat pasted on it. The gifts were all very clever. There was a traveler's sewing kit, a small blacking kit, a wee laundry kit for motoring, a handy kit containing baggage tags, rubber bands, and the like, an emergency kit with safety pins and threaded needle for her handbag, a guest towel with a cross-stitch kitty on one end, a cream pitcher and sugar bowl with a kitten border, a quaint kitten door stop, a painted wooden kitten twine holder, a pair of Angora skating gloves, an odd little sewing apron with linen cats appliqued on the corners, and a knitting bag of cretonne which pictured Puss-in-Boots prominently among other Mother Goose People. When the excitement of the shower was over, a guessing contest was played, each answer being a word in which the syllable "cat" figured. This very jolly afternoon ended with a really hilarious game of Puss-in-the-corner. A CAMP FIRE SHOWER A jolly crowd of young people who had been camping together a great deal gave a lively shower to two of their number who were announcing their engagement. The affair took place in the city in the winter time and was very informal. After the "bunch" had gathered, someone suggested that they play charades, one of their favorite diversions. The engaged persons were chosen to sit with the hostess before the open fire and pretend they were in camp. The word selected was not made known to them, however. The others all retired into the next room and came back shortly, wrapped in raincoats and sou'westers, each one carrying a knobby package. "Shower!" they shouted in chorus, throwing their bundles at the group by the fire. The parcels contained all kinds of camp conveniences. There was a camp kit containing knives and forks and spoons, a collapsible drinking cup, a thermos bottle, a pocket compass, an electric flashlight, a folding mirror, a pocket corkscrew, a folding camp grate, a folding camp stool, a folding alcohol stove with a pot, and a pocket camera. The engaged couple were taken entirely by surprise, for they had supposed the party to be only one of many sociable evenings which the crowd were in the habit of having. The refreshments were reminiscent of camp and were served on wooden plates around the fire in picnic fashion. The menu consisted of hot bacon and roll sandwiches, dill pickles, coffee, and marshmallows toasted over the flames. A "ONE I LOVE" SHOWER The invitations were made of white water color paper cut in the shape of daisies, with centers tinted yellow. Scattered over the petals were the following lines: "_One I love, two I love, Three I love I say, Come and see if this is true On St. Valentine's Day." (or "Friday next, I pray_") On all the invitations but the guest of honor's was added: "In honor of Marion's engagement. Please send your remembrance to me the day before." This direction was put on so that the gifts could all be wrapped in advance by the hostess in white tissue paper, tied with yellow baby ribbon and a big artificial daisy tucked into the knot. Piled on a tray they were brought to the surprised little bride-to-be on the afternoon of the party. The entertainment fulfilled the promise of the invitation in this way: A large paper daisy with many petals was hung against the wall and each guest was given a pointer and asked to select a petal at random. On the back of each petal was written a little fortune rhyme somewhat on the order of this one: "_Five! he loves--good pumpkin pie, So learn to cook it--thus say I_." The refreshments were served in buffet style in the dining room. In the center of the table was a blossoming pot of marguerites. There were individual daisy salads, formed by little mounds of chicken salad covered with yellow mayonnaise and surrounded by a fringe of petals cut from the whites of hard-boiled eggs. With the salad simple bread and butter sandwiches were eaten. As a second course, frozen custard in paper cups with borders of white paper petals was served with squares of angel cake, frosted in yellow, and squares of sunshine cake, frosted in white. The principal feature, however, and the final one, was the favor pie. A big imitation daisy was made from a round basket, by covering the top with yellow paper and surrounding the edge with as many petals as there were guests. Each guest was asked to pull a petal from the daisy, and in so doing drew from the basket a tiny doll dressed like a "rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant or chief." The girl whose fate was already assured had been guided to choose a particular petal and her favor doll proved to be dressed in the garb of her fiancé's profession. FORTUNE RHYMES FOR A "ONE I LOVE" SHOWER 1. If you'll only wait a while Some one nice will make you smile. 2. You will have to choose between Walking or a limousine. 3. If you only ONLY knew Who was thinking much of you. 4. At a motion picture show From the screen your fate you'll know. 5. Something nice you'll sure know In about a week or so. 6. Don't despise Hazel eyes. 7. Far across the briny sea Comes thy lover now to thee. 8. Your career you'll surely ship And substitute a wedding trip. 9. A dance, a ride, a moonlit lawn, Your heart will be completely gone. 10. One--two--three-- The third it will be. 11. Beware, beware the eyes of blue Or they'll surely capture you. 12. Your intellect will meet its equal, Happy though will be the sequel. 13. A word, a smile, a bow, Married in a year from now. 14. Try a smile For a while To beguile. 15. You will travel far away Sixteen years from yesterday. AN INDIAN SUMMER SHOWER For the girl who is to be married in the winter, an Indian Summer Shower might be given some November evening. The cards of invitation can have a little brown Indian wigwam painted in one corner, or cut out of brown paper and pasted on; or the invitations can be written on pieces of white birch bark, if you happened to have gathered and saved any from the summer vacation. Paper imitation of birch bark might also be used. Put all the gifts, wrapped in brown tissue paper and tied with gay ribbons, in a toy wigwam which you can make with three sticks and a piece of brown burlap. When the right time comes, the engaged girl is led up to the wigwam and asked to receive the gifts. If there is a small brother or cousin who can be dressed up in an Indian suit to hand out the presents, so much the better. The hostess may make this any kind of shower she wishes. After the wigwam has been sacked, it would be fun if you could sit around the open fire to pop corn or toast marshmallows and play the Indian Summer game of "Pipe Dreams." Each girl writes out an imaginary dream of the bride's future. The dreams are read by the hostess, and then each dream paper is consigned to the fire. The refreshments ought to be very simple, and may consist of hot chocolate and little chocolate cakes, cone-shaped to simulate wigwams, or they may be merely apples, nuts, popcorn, and sweet cider. Serve the nuts and apples in Indian baskets. A CHRISTMAS TREE SHOWER For the bride who announces her engagement in December, a Christmas tree shower might be given Christmas week. Send out cards of invitation in the shape of small Christmas trees, or else paste or paint little evergreen trees on white cards. Ask the guests to bring something small enough to be hung on a little Christmas tree. The bride should be asked to come a little later than the others, so that they may have time to hang their gifts on the tree. The tree may be as elaborate as you wish to make it. Where trees are hard to procure, a cunning little one on a table is quite large enough. It can be decked with gold and silver hearts and candy kisses, and on its branches should hang the shower gifts, prettily wrapped and tied. When the bride arrives, she must strip the tree. Among its treasures may be English walnut shells, gilded and tied together, with fortune verses inside.--The hostess provides one of these for each guest. The refreshments may consist of sandwiches cut in the shape of Christmas trees and filled with green pepper and cream cheese; caraway cookies cut in the shape of Christmas trees; and hot chocolate, with a sprig of evergreen tied by a tiny bow of red to each cup-handle. This affair could be planned specifically as a handkerchief, hosiery or kitchen shower. WEDDINGS Following naturally on the engagement announcement and bridal showers come the wedding plans. If the bride's house is small, a church wedding may be the solution for her, or else she may plan a house wedding with just a few chosen friends and relatives present. Very often, if a church wedding is planned, there is a reception afterward at the bride's home. If only a few guests are invited to it, a wedding breakfast or dinner may be served, but if a large number of people are asked, buffet refreshments are sufficient. According to the different seasons of the year, the weddings may take on varying characters. Spring, summer, fall and winter weddings, indoor and outdoor weddings, all have their own special charms. SUMMER WEDDING DECORATIONS Every girl can have a pretty wedding--especially if she lives within reach of the free woods and fields or in a place of gardens and shrubbery. Wild roses and wild clematis vines with ferns from the woods are lovely in a country church where festoons and garlands are often needed to adorn the bare walls. Banks of black-eyed Susans with outdoor ferns, bowers of snowy dogwood in season and the fluffy wild pink azalea are very decorative, and so are the spring and early summer shrubs: syringa, deutzia, flowering almond and Japanese snowball. Mountain laurel, with its exquisite pink flowers and glossy green leaves, lends itself particularly to church decoration. Ropes of the leaves may be looped from the roof to the side walls; and the blossoms massed in the front of the church make a fitting background for a bride and her pink-clad attendants. In the South, Cape jasmine, in the Far West, the golden California poppies and carnations, are beautiful to use. Of course, nothing is lovelier than roses--pink and white--and should they prove scarce they can be successfully supplemented with pink and white peonies, especially for church decoration purposes. Meadow rue in great misty clumps as it grows, arranged with tawny field lilies and dark green wood ferns, is remarkably striking in a church. At one home wedding, big loose bunches of feathery grass, buttercups, daisies, and clover in brown earthern jars filled the corners of the living-room, and in the bay window, where the ceremony took place, tall graceful sprays of Queen Anne's lace arranged with plenty of green, made an artistic background. Glass vases filled with it stood on the window sills and on the floor, the tops of the floor bouquets hiding the window receptacles. In the dining-room a bowl of pink and white clover occupied the center of the table and there were window boxes of the same sweet flower. THE TABLE DECORATIONS Whatever color scheme is used in the other parts of the house, an entirely different one may be carried out in the dining-room. Some suggestions for simple table decorations in various colors follow: 1. Large low bowl of blue and pink forget-me-nots in the center of the table, with candle shades of white, painted with forget-me-not sprays. 2. Garden basket or glass basket of yellow roses and honeysuckle with graceful sprays of honeysuckle vines trailing to the corners of the table, yellow candle shades. 3. Old-fashioned bouquet of garden flowers in old-fashioned vase--snapdragons, lark-spur, coreopsis, babies' breath, mignonette--old-fashioned stiff little artificial bouquets in white lace paper for favors. 4. Hanging basket of pink and lavender sweet peas and smilax over the table, with smilax reaching to the corners of the table and caught with pink and lavender tulle bows. 5. Wood maidenhair ferns and pink garden roses, tiny ferns scattered over the tablecloth, and rose-colored candle shades. 6. Wild clematis vines from ceiling over table to four corners, and low bowl of wild roses in center beneath sprays. 7. Bachelors' buttons and mignonette in the center of the table connected with small baskets of mignonette at the corners of the table by ribbon matching the blue bachelors' buttons, tied on the handle of each basket. 8. Scarlet poppies in silver vase, silver candlesticks and shades. 9. Large bowl of "Jack" roses in the center on a table mirror, with a single large Jack rose in a slim flower holder at each corner of the table. 10. Wicker basket of June garden pinks (white and pink) with shower of tiny bells hung on pink ribbons above them from the chandelier or ceiling. MENUS FOR THE BUFFET LUNCHEON Many dining-rooms are too small to have a wedding breakfast served at the table, and for that reason buffet luncheons are most popular. The dining table is decorated with flowers and often lighted with candles under colored shades, and on it are placed extra supplies of silver and small dishes of olives, nuts and bonbons. As the guests leave the receiving line, they move informally toward the dining-room, where they stand to be served. If the wedding reception takes place directly after a ceremony in the morning, or at high noon, the refreshments are more elaborate than at an afternoon affair and the guests may be seated to be served in the different rooms. When a caterer is not employed, and the serving of the refreshments is managed by the hostess herself, it is a pretty and practical plan to ask several young girls to help in the dining-room. They should see that the guests are promptly supplied, and can relieve them of their plates when they have finished. Below are half a dozen good menus for buffet wedding breakfasts and receptions, varying in degree of formality to suit individual needs. I BOUILLON SALTED CRACKERS CHICKEN PATTIES OLIVES PINEAPPLE SALAD SMALL LETTUCE SANDWICHES NEAPOLITAN ICE CREAM WITH FRESH STRAWBERRIES COFFEE CAKE II CREAMED SWEETBREADS CHERRY SALAD WATERCRESS SANDWICHES RASPBERRY ICE MACAROONS III CHICKEN SALAD FINGER ROLLS FROZEN CUSTARD SUNSHINE CAKE IV SCALLOPED CRAB MEAT BREAD AND BUTTER SANDWICHES STRAWBERRY ICE CREAM ANGEL CAKE V ICED CLAM BROTH WITH WHIPPED CREAM SALTED CRACKERS COLD VEAL LOAF SARATOGA CHIPS OLIVES PINEAPPLE ICE SMALL CAKES VI ICED CONSOMM� SALTED CRACKERS CHICKEN CROQUETTES ROLLS FRUIT SALAD UNSWEETENED CRACKERS LEMON CREAM SHERBET SMALL HOME-MADE COOKIES THE FAVORS For wedding favors at a wedding breakfast or reception a number of interesting little souvenirs can be inexpensively prepared. For instance, there are wee fans (bought at the doll department) with the date lettered on each; tiny straw baskets that look like the one the flower girl carries and are filled with very small artificial forget-me-nots and rose-buds; airy butterflies of white and pale yellow silk, to be fastened to fine threads above the table in the dining-room, where they flutter realistically over the flowers beneath. More frivolous are very diminutive bridesmaid's hats, and at the wedding of a bride who is going to travel far away there may be small boats, either real or of cardboard, with a flying flag of matrimony at the masthead. The old-fashioned posy gift cards with clasped hands are quaint; so are the little nosegays in white paper frills, and every guest will like a box of bride's cake. TWO SUMMER WEDDINGS A WILD ROSE WEDDING A wild-rose wedding which one bride planned was wonderfully attractive. In one corner of the living-room an arch of woven wire was erected, and covered with graceful wild clematis vines and wild roses. On each window-sill stood a jar of wild roses, and the mantel was banked with them. The two bridesmaids wore pale green dresses, and carried baskets overflowing with wild roses; the maid of honor wore a gown of wild-rose pink, and carried an arm bouquet of wood maidenhair ferns and wild clematis. The dining-table was decorated effectively. A crystal bowl filled with wild-rose sprays which trailed over the sides and along the table was placed in the center on a mat of hardy sword ferns. From above the middle of the table four garlands of wild clematis were looped down to the edge of the round table and held with bows of green tulle. Glass dishes of olives and pink, green, and white candies on the table still further carried out the color scheme. The menu, which was served in buffet style, was pink and white. It consisted of strawberry and pineapple cocktail, with a sprig of green mint in each glass, sliced ham and pressed chicken, potato chips, hot rolls, raspberry ice, white-frosted cakes cut in the shape of bells, pink-frosted cakes in the shape of hearts. Fruit punch, pink with strawberry juice and green with mint, was served on the rose-bowered porch by a pretty girl in a rose-flowered frock. A FIELD FLOWER WEDDING Another country bride used the field flowers for decorating. Big jars of daisies, buttercups, wild carrot, red clover, and tasseled grasses stood in the corners of all the rooms and filled the empty fireplace. Four little girls, dressed in white with yellow sashes and hair fillets, carried a daisy chain to form an aisle for the bride and her attendants, and the ceremony took place under a big bell of field daisies. The bridesmaids wore pale yellow georgette gowns, and carried bouquets of black-eyed Susans, the maid of honor wore old-gold georgette, lightened with white, and carried a loose bunch of daisies and buttercups. In the center of the dining table a high-handled white-enameled basket held a natural arrangement of sweet white clovers, grasses, and yellow buttercups, and was linked by several streamers of yellow baby ribbon, with four smaller white baskets at the corners which held smaller bouquets of the same flowers. A fluffy yellow bow was tied to the handle of each basket. The menu was also yellow and white and consisted of hot bouillon, sprinkled with grated hard-boiled egg yolks; chicken jelly salad with mayonnaise; tiny bread and butter sandwiches; frozen custard in ice cups trimmed with white paper petals, so that each individual serving looked like a daisy; small squares of sponge cake, and angel food iced in yellow; yellow and white candies. The boxes of wedding cake were piled on the hall table, and each one had a wee daisy blossom tied into the knot of white ribbon on top. OUTDOOR WEDDINGS AN ORCHARD PAGEANT There's no wedding quite so picturesque as the outdoor one. Famous is the orchard wedding beneath a blossoming apple tree, where the air is filled with fragrance and the bridal party comes winding through the trees to the trysting place. It needn't be only a poetic fancy, either--it's entirely practical, and if you have a comparatively small house, why not give your guests the beautiful freedom of outdoors instead of cooping them up in the house? Mark out the path beforehand by mowing the grass in the chosen direction. Select plenty of ushers to conduct the guests to the spot and provide benches and settees for the older folk, who may find it tiring to stand till the wedding party arrives. There need be no decorations except the natural ones of the orchard; preparations may consist of raking out dead leaves and branches. A victrola may be arranged in the proper place to furnish the wedding processional--or perhaps some musical friend may be found to play the violin. The simpler the pageant, the more effective it will be. First may come a tiny flower girl in a white frock, swinging a cretonne flowered sunbonnet from which she tosses apple blossom sprays. If there are bridesmaids, they should wear the simplest of pink dresses with pink fillets on their hair or else wide straw hats trimmed only with a tiny wreath of flowers. Possibly the maid of honor may add a note of contrast by wearing forget-me-not blue. Last of all appear the bride and bridegroom, together, for in an old-fashioned orchard wedding that is less awkward than for the bridegroom to come from some other direction. The bride should wear a simple white gown--formal satin would be out of place. The wedding breakfast may be served picnic fashion on a long table of boards decked with apple blossoms. Toasts in strawberry punch are in order while an orchestra of robins and bluebirds sing in the apple trees round about--unless the noise drives them away. The little waiting maids should wear white aprons and white caps with an apple blossom sprig stuck in the top. Following them came a flock of flower children, tiny girls and boys scattering flower petals from the high-handled baskets swinging in their chubby little hands. Last of all, four abreast, came the bride and bridegroom, with the bride's mother, who gave her away, on the right of the bride, and the best man on the left of the bridegroom. The ribbon girls had accompanied the procession at the proper intervals holding the aisle ribbon, and the last two brought up the rear, winding up the ribbon as they came. The reception took place immediately afterward on the lawn, and the guests were served with ice-cream and cake wherever they chanced to be by the attentive ribbon girls. In the back yard at a long table a colored caterer superintended the service. Altogether it was a most successful wedding and at the same time a fairly easy one to plan since there was no question of overcrowding in the house, although in case of rain it could have been managed there. A WEDDING ON THE LAWN A girl who lived in a small town and had a big lawn chose to be married outdoors in August. The blossoming hydrangea hedge in front of the house was made thicker with small evergreen branches stuck down into the ground. One corner of the yard where there was a natural alcove curving in among the shrubs, she picked out for the wedding itself. The porch was decorated with Japanese lanterns and flowers, and beforehand the guests gathered in groups there or on the lawn. When it was time for the ceremony, some girl friends of the bride marshalled the guests to the chosen place and then returned to the house to act as ribbon girls. There were about a dozen of them in light summer dresses, and the first couple, holding the ends of long white ribbons, preceded the bridal groups, roping off an aisle across the lawn and among the spectators. A chorus of young musical friends came first, singing the words and music of Lohengrin. FALL WEDDINGS A BLUE AND GOLD WEDDING September and October weddings are always popular, partly perhaps because of the decorating possibilities of the autumn season. Goldenrod and wild asters one thinks of for early fall. At one evening home wedding where this blue and gold color scheme was used, the stalks of plumey golden rod seemed to be growing naturally along the stair rail; they were held in place at the uprights. The rooms were hung with blue and golden globes of lights--in reality paper lanterns--sheltering electric bulbs. The fireplace held masses of goldenrod, and blue jars holding wild asters crowned the mantel, the tables, the piano, and the wide window sills. The bridesmaids wore gowns of yellow organdy and the maid of honor an aster blue costume. In the dining-room a dull gilt basket of blue asters occupied the center of the table set for a buffet repast, and a bow of blue and golden tulle fluttered from the handle of the basket. The favors were tiny kewpie dolls, wearing frilly skirts and caps, some of blue and others of yellow. The blue were for the men, the yellow for the girls. OAK LEAVES AND COSMOS When oak leaves begin to glow with tawny splendor, another girl celebrated her wedding. The house was a bower of rich, deep red and brown foliage, and the "bridey" touch came in with the pale pink garden cosmos that was used. Cosmos made the background for the wedding group, and was arranged in feathery masses wherever it might contrast with the dark oak leaves. The wedding was in the late afternoon, and after the sunset light had faded the pink candles began to glow rosily under soft pink shades. The dining-room table was lovely with pink candle-light and pink cosmos as a centerpiece on a mat of oak leaves. There were pink and white candies and raspberry ice was served with the tiniest of pink and white and green _petites fours_. THREE WINTER WEDDINGS A CHRISTMAS WEDDING The first girl lived in a country town and evergreens in the woods near by were plentiful. The wedding was a Christmas one, and took place in the late afternoon. Garlands of graceful ground pine were wound over the banisters in the hall, and draped over the doorways to hang down halfway on each side against the ivory white wood-work. In the living-room, two little Christmas trees, lighted with tiny white candles, formed an alcove where the bridal group could stand. The table in the dining-room was decorated for a buffet luncheon in holiday red and green. There was a centerpiece of red roses, red silk candle shades shading white candles in clear glass candlesticks, and tiny green Christmas ferns scattered on the white cloth. The menu had the same color harmony, and consisted of consommé, salted crackers, oyster patties, chicken jelly salad with green mayonnaise, salad rolls, olives, pistachio ice-cream in holly-decked cases, little cakes with green icing and silver bonbons stuck on top, and coffee, with green mints. A RAINBOW WEDDING The second bride lived in the city and had a rainbow wedding. The usual green of potted ferns and palms formed the background of decorations, but over the rounded archway which opened into a small alcove a "rainbow" of tulle--rose, pale pink, yellow, green, blue, and lavender--was arranged. Pink and yellow roses with green foliage were supplemented in the living-room by blue and lavender tulle on the vases. The six bridesmaids wore gowns which matched the tulle rainbow and they carried pink roses. On the table in the dining-room was a bowl of pink roses, and from the table dome a myriad of baby ribbon streamers in the same varied colors came down at six points, and were held in place by six fluffy favor dolls, dressed in tulle to match the six bridesmaids, to whom they were afterward given as souvenirs. The menu consisted of chicken à la King, small sandwiches, olives, Neapolitan ice-cream, fancy frosted cakes, and coffee. A COLONIAL WEDDING The third girl, with a delight for old-fashioned ways, was followed by six maids in quaint Colonial gowns of plain or flowered silk, no two costumes alike, save for soft white lace fichus. Black velvet neckbands, powdered curls, and "nosegays" of small pink carnations in lace paper holders quite carried out the lovely effect. The old-fashioned rooms were hung with smilax and asparagus fern, and in every window stood a pot of flowering fuchsias. 
36007	----	ETHEL MORTON AND THE CHRISTMAS SHIP BY MABELL S. C. SMITH M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK Made in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE UNITED SERVICE CLUB AT HOME 9 II DOROTHY'S COTTAGE 18 III THE CHRISTMAS SHIP 26 IV FINANCIAL PLANS 35 V ROGER GOES FORAGING 47 VI IN THE SMITH ATTIC 57 VII FOR A TRAVELLER'S KIT 70 VIII THE RED CROSS NURSE SETS SAIL 85 IX PLANNING THE U. S. C. "SHOW" 90 X THE EVENTFUL EVENING 101 XI "SISTER SUSIE'S SEWING SHIRTS FOR SOLDIERS" 115 XII JAMES CUTS CORNERS 129 XIII PASTING 139 XIV JAMES'S AFTERNOON PARTY 151 XV PREVENTION 163 XVI FOR SANTA CLAUS'S PACK 177 XVII THE CLUB WEAVES, STENCILS AND MODELS CLAY 194 XVIII ETHEL BLUE AWAITS A CABLE 206 XIX LEATHER AND BRASS 211 XX THE ETHELS COOK TO KEEP 221 XXI THE CHRISTMAS SHIP SAILS 232 XXII A WEDDING AND A SURPRISE 242 ETHEL MORTON AND THE CHRISTMAS SHIP CHAPTER I THE UNITED SERVICE CLUB AT HOME "IT'S up to Roger Morton to admit that there's real, true romance in the world after all," decided Margaret Hancock as she sat on the Mortons' porch one afternoon a few days after school had opened in the September following the summer when the Mortons and Hancocks had met for the first time at Chautauqua. James and Margaret had trolleyed over to see Roger and Helen from Glen Point, about three quarters of an hour's ride from Rosemont where the Mortons lived. "Roger's ready to admit it," confessed that young man. "When you have an aunt drop right down on your door mat, so to speak, after your family has been hunting her for twenty years, and when you find that you've been knowing her daughter, your own cousin, pretty well for two months it does make the regular go-to-school life that you and I used to lead look quite prosy." "How did she happen to lose touch so completely with her family?" "I told you how Grandfather Morton, her father, opposed her marrying Uncle Leonard Smith because he was a musician. Well, she did marry him, and when they got into straits she was too proud to tell her father about it." "I suppose Grandfather would have said, 'I told you so,'" suggested Helen. "And I believe it takes more courage than it's worth to face a person who's given to saying that," concluded James. "Aunt Louise evidently thought it wasn't worth while or else she didn't have the courage and so she drifted away. Her mother was dead and she had no sisters and Father and Uncle Richard probably didn't write very often." "She thought nobody at home loved her, I suppose," said Helen. "Father and Uncle Richard did love her tremendously, but they were just young fellows at the time and they didn't realize what their not writing meant to her." "Once in a while they heard of Uncle Leonard through the music papers," went on Roger, "but after his health failed, Aunt Louise told us the other day, he couldn't make concert appearances and of course a man merely playing in an orchestra isn't big enough to command public attention." "By the time that Grandfather Morton died about twelve years ago she was completely lost to the family," Helen continued, "and she says she didn't know of his death until five years after, when she came accidentally upon some mention of it in a local paper that she picked up somewhere." "That was after Uncle Leonard's death, but it seemed to her that she could not make herself known to her people without being disloyal to his memory," Roger carried on the story. "She probably thought that your father and uncle were just as much opposed to him as her father had been," guessed Margaret. "As a matter of fact, they have been hunting hard for her through every clue that promised any result ever since Grandfather died because they wanted to give her her share of his property." "He didn't cut her off with a shilling, then?" "Grandfather seems to have had a change of heart, for he left her more than he did his sons. He said she needed it more." "And it has been accumulating all this time." "Seven years. That means a very pleasant increase for her and Dorothy." "She must think rather sadly of the days when they suffered real privation for the lack of it," said Helen. "Anyway, here they are now, with money in their pockets and an affectionate family all ready made for them and they are going to live here in Rosemont near us, and Dorothy is going to school with the Ethels, and I'm willing to admit that it comes nearer to being a romance than anything I ever heard of in real life," and Roger nodded his head gleefully. "I'm glad she's going to live here so we can see her once in a while," said Margaret. "Mother and Sister and I all loved her at Chautauqua, she was so patient and gentle with the people she taught. And of course we all think Dorothy is a darling." "The Ethels are crazy over her. They treat her as if she were some new belonging and they can hardly bear to have her out of their sight." "It was Grandfather Emerson who said all summer that she looked like the Ethels," remarked Roger. "Her hair is fuzzy and her nose is puggy, but I didn't see much other likeness." "When she grows as fat as the Ethels I think she'll look astonishingly like them. She's thin and pale, now, poor little dud." "I wish she could grow as plump as Della Watkins." "I saw Tom Watkins yesterday," said James. "What was a haughty New Yorker doing on the Jersey side of the Hudson?" "It seems he boards Cupid and his family at the Rosemont Kennels--you know they're half way between here and Glen Point. He was going to call on them." "Dear Cupid!" laughed Margaret, recalling the bulldog's alarming face which ill agreed with his mild name and general behavior. "Let's go over to the Kennels and see him some day." "His wife is named Psyche," went on James, "and they have two pups named Amor and Amorette." "I should think Cupid's puppy would be the funniest little animal on earth," roared Roger. "Never, never shall I forget the day old Cupe ran away with his market wagon," and he kicked his legs with enthusiasm. "Did Tom say anything about coming to see us?" asked Margaret. "He said he and Della were coming over on Saturday afternoon and he inquired how far it was from Glen Point to Rosemont and whether they could make two calls in one afternoon." "Not if he stays at either place as long as we'd like to have him," said Roger. "Why don't we have a meeting of the United Service Club on Saturday afternoon?" suggested Helen, "and then the Watkinses can come here and you two can come and we can all see each other and at the same time decide on what we are going to do this winter." "Great head!" approved Roger. "Can you people be here?" "We can," assented Margaret. "And we will." James completed the sentence for her. "Here are the children. They've been asking when we were to have the first meeting, so I know they'll be glad to give Saturday afternoon to it." "The children" of Helen's patronizing expression came rushing into the yard at the moment. Ethel Brown Morton, tall and rosy, her cheeks flushed with running, led the way; her cousin, Ethel Blue Morton, not quite so tall or quite so rosy, made a fair second, and their newly-found cousin, Dorothy Smith, brought up the rear, panting a trifle harder than the rest, but already looking plumper and sturdier than she had during the summer at Chautauqua. They greeted Margaret and James gladly, and sat down on the steps of the porch to engage in the conversation. "Hullo," a voice came through the screen door. "I'm coming out." "That must be my friend Dicky," declared James. "Come on, old man," and he arranged his knees in position to serve as a seat for the six-year-old who calmly sat himself down upon them. "How are you?" questioned James gravely. "All right?" "Firtht rate," replied Dicky briefly. "Have a thuck?" and he offered James the moist end of an all-day-sucker, withdrawing it from his own mouth for the purpose. "Thank you, I'm not eating candy to-day, sir," responded James seriously. "Much obliged to you, all the same." Dicky nodded his recognition of James's thanks and resumed his occupation. "It keeps us still though we're not pretty to look at as we do it," commented Ethel Brown. "You're talking about me," asserted Dicky suddenly, once more removing his sucker from his increasingly sticky lips and fixing an accusing eye upon his sister. "She was, Dicky, that's true," interposed Helen quickly, "but she loves you just as much as if she were talking about Roger." Dicky regarded this as a compliment and subsided against James's chest. "We're going to try and get the Watkinses to come out next Saturday afternoon and the Hancocks will come over and we'll have a meeting of the United Service," explained Roger to the new arrivals. "Good enough!" approved Ethel Brown. "What are you going to do, Madam President?" inquired Ethel Blue, who felt a lively interest in any future plans because the Club was her idea. "We'll all think of things between now and Saturday, and suggest them then." "Tell the Watkinses when you write to them, Helen." "I'm just boiling over with ideas for the Club to put into execution some time or other," announced Roger. "Big ones or little?" asked Dorothy. "Some of them are pretty big, but I have a feeling in my bones that they'll go through." "Good for old Roger's bones!" commended James. "May we venture to ask what some of them are?" "'Nothing venture, nothing have,'" quoted Roger. "I'm merely saying now, however, that the biggest scheme is one that I told Grandfather Emerson about the other day and he said he'd help by giving us the house for it." "What should we do that would need a house?" "What do you mean--house?" Roger grinned delightedly at the commotion he had caused. "This plan I have is so big that we'll have to get the grown-ups to help us, but we'll do most of the carrying out ourselves in spite of that." "I should think we would have to have their help if your plan calls for a house." "You needn't be sarcastic, young woman. This is a perfectly good scheme--Grandfather said so. He said it was so good that he was willing to back it and to help us by supplying the house we should need." "Poor old Roger--gone clean crazy," sighed James. "I almost think so," agreed Helen. "Let me tell you something, you scoffers----" "Tell on; that's what we're waiting for." "Well, on the whole, I guess I won't tell you a thing about it." "If you aren't the very meanest boy I ever knew in my life," decided Margaret whole-heartedly. "To work our curiosity all up this way and then not to tell us a thing." "I didn't get the encouragement that the plan deserved." "Like all great inventors," commented James. "They all come out on top at the end, I notice," retorted Roger. "You just watch me about next April when the buds begin to swell." "Heads begin to swell at any time of year, apparently." "Especially bad cases begin in the autumn--about September." "Oh, you wait, just wait," threatened Roger. "When you haven't an idea what to do to make the Club really useful for another minute then you'll recall that I promised you a really big plan. _Then_--" "If you aren't going to tell us now I think we'd better talk about something that has some connection with what we're going to do in September instead of this April Fool thing of yours," said Helen somewhat sharply. "Let's not talk about it until Saturday," begged Ethel Blue. "Then we can all put our minds on it." "I rise to remark, Madam President," continued James, "that I believe this Club has a great future before it if it does not get involved in wildcat schemes--" "Now listen to that!" exclaimed Roger. "There speaks the canny Scot that was James's great-grandfather. Cautious old Hancock! Now you really have got me riled. I vow to you, fellow-clubmen and -women that I won't be the first to propose this scheme again. You'll have to come to me. And I'll prophesy that you will come to me about the first of next April." "Why April?" "Nothing to do with April Fool, I assure you. But about that time we shall have worked off all the ideas that we've cooked up to carry us through the winter and we'll be glad to undertake a service that is a service--the real thing." "We're going to do the real thing all the time." Ethel Blue defended her idea. "But I dare say we'll want to do your thing, too." "Grandfather's recommendation doesn't seem to count with you young know-it-alls." "Grandfather's recommendation is the only reason why our remarks weren't more severe," retorted Ethel Brown. "Each of us must bring in a list next Saturday," said Helen, as they all walked to the corner to see that the Hancocks took the car safely. "And I believe that every one will be a perfectly good plan," said Roger magnanimously. "There won't be one that will require a house to hold it anyway," retorted Margaret. CHAPTER II DOROTHY'S COTTAGE ROSEMONT and Glen Point were two New Jersey towns near enough to New York to permit business men to commute every day and far enough away from the big city to furnish plenty of air and space for the growing generation. It was the latter qualification that endeared them to the Morton and Hancock families, for there were no commuters in their households. Lieutenant Morton, father of Roger and Helen and Ethel Brown and Dicky, was on his ship in the harbor of Vera Cruz. Captain Morton, his brother, father of Ethel Blue, had returned to Gen. Funston's army after finding their sister, Mrs. Smith, at Chautauqua and convoying her with all the Mortons and Mrs. Morton's father and mother, Mr. and Mrs. Emerson, back to Rosemont. His short furlough did not allow him to remain long enough to see his sister established in a house of her own, but it was understood that she was to hire a furnished house as near as possible to the Mortons' and live in it until she made up her mind where she wanted to build. "Dorothy and I have wandered about the United States so long," she said plaintively, "that we are thankful to settle down in a town and a house that we can call our own, and we shall be even happier when we have a bungalow actually belonging to us." At present they were still staying with the Mortons, but the Morton family was so large that two visitors crowded them uncomfortably and Mrs. Smith felt that she must not trespass upon her sister-in-law's hospitality longer than was absolutely necessary. "I think the white cottage just around the corner will be the one that we will take," she said to Dorothy. "Come with me there again this afternoon for one more look at it, and then we'll make up our minds." So they went to the white cottage and carefully studied its merits. "The principal good thing about it is that it is near Aunt Marion's," declared Dorothy. "I think so, too. And it is near school and church and the butcher's and baker's and candlestick-maker's. We shan't have very far to walk for anything." "Oh, Mother, it doesn't seem possible that this can be _us_ really living and not just perching around, and having enough money and enough to eat and nothing to worry about." Mrs. Smith threw her arm about Dorothy's shoulder. "The thing for you to do to show your gratitude is to grow well and strong just as fast as you can. I want to see you as rosy as the Ethels." "They run me around so much that I think they'll do it for me before very long." "They have a start, though, so you'll have to do all the vigorous things that they do and others too." "You mean exercises at home?" "Every morning when you get up you should do what a cat does when he wakes from a nap." "I know--he stretches himself way out to the tips of his claws." "And shakes himself all over. What do you suppose he's doing it for?" "To stretch his muscles, I should think." "And to loosen his skin and make himself generally flexible. Have you ever seen a sick cat? His coat looks dull and dry and woolly instead of silky, and when you feel of him his skin doesn't slip over his bones easily. It wouldn't be very complimentary to ourselves to say that you and I are sick cats just now, but it wouldn't be far from the truth." "I don't much like the sound of it," laughed Dorothy. "What can we invalid pussies do to get well?" "A few simple exercises we ought to take every morning when we first get out of bed. We ought to stand first on one foot and then on the other, and swing vigorously the foot that is off the floor." "That's easy." "Then if we stretch our arms upward as high as we can, first one and then the other and then both, and then put our hands on the ribs of each side and stretch and lift them we shall have limbered up the lower and the upper parts of ourselves pretty thoroughly." "I learned a good exercise for the waist muscles at the Girls' Club last summer. You sit down and roll the body at the waist line in all directions. You can do it standing, too; that brings in some different muscles." "We'll do that. These few exercises will wake up every part of the body." "We ought to do them with the windows open." "When you first wake up after having the windows wide open all night you don't realize the cold in your room. It isn't until you have been to a warmer room that you notice the cold in your bedroom. So the best time to take these exercises is just the minute you hop out of bed. Stand in front of the open window and take deep breaths of air way down into the very lower tips of your lungs so that every tiny cell will be puffed out with good, fresh oxygen." "It will take a lot of time to do all those exercises." "Five minutes every morning will be enough if we do them vigorously. And you mustn't forget that your aim is to catch up with the Ethels." "And then to beat them. I'll do it." They went slowly through the cottage and planned the purpose to which they would put each room. It was simply furnished, but all the necessities were there. "It's more fun this way than if there were a lot of furniture," said Dorothy, "because we can get what is lacking to suit ourselves." "All the time that we are here we can be making plans for building our own little house." "I can hardly wait to have it." They hugged each other in their happiness and the tears were not far from the eyelids of both of them, for Mrs. Smith had not known anything but the actual necessities of living for many years and Dorothy had never known many comforts that had been every day matters and not luxuries to her mother's youth. So Mrs. Smith hired the white cottage and she and Dorothy moved in at once. A cousin of Mary, Mrs. Morton's old servant, who had been Dicky's nurse, came to work for them, and by the time of the first meeting of the United Service Club Dorothy felt so settled in her new home that she wanted to have the meeting in the living-room or the big attic just to see how it felt to be entertaining people in her own house. "I think I wouldn't suggest it this time," Mrs. Smith warned her. "Helen is the president, you see, and it seems more suitable for the first meeting to be held at her house. Ask if you mayn't have the next one here. How often are you going to meet?" "I hope it will be once a week, and so does Ethel Blue. She thinks there's plenty of occupation to keep a service club busy all the time." At noon the sun disappeared and the Rosemont members of the U. S. C. began to have doubts as to whether the Hancocks and Watkinses would appear. "Even if it rains hard I think James and Margaret will come," said Helen. "The trolley brings them almost from their door to ours; but I don't feel so sure about the Watkinses." "It doesn't take but ten minutes longer for them to come out from New York than for the Hancocks to come over from Glen Point." "But they have to cross the ferry and take the train and it seems more of an undertaking than just to hop into a street car." "It's getting so dark and gloomy--what do you say if you Ethels make some candy to enliven the afternoon?" "Is there time before they come?" "Just about. Try Vinegar Candy this time. If you leave half of it unstirred and stir the other half it will be as good as two kinds, you know." So the Ethels went off into a pantry back of the kitchen, where Mrs. Morton had had a small gas stove installed so that the children might cook to their hearts' content without interfering with the occupants of the kitchen. "There's nothing that upsets people who are trying to make a house run smoothly and to do its work promptly and well as to have children come into the kitchen and use the stove when it is needed for other purposes, and get in the way and leave their cooking apparatus around and their pots and pans uncleaned," declared Mrs. Morton. So the Ethels and Helen, and Roger, too, for he was a capital cook and was in great demand whenever the boys went on camping trips, all contributed from their allowances to buy a simple equipment for this tiny kitchen which they called their own. Mrs. Morton paid for the stove, but the saucepans and baking tins, the flour and sugar and eggs, the flavoring extracts and the seasonings were all supplied by the children, and it was understood that when a cooking fit seized them they must think out beforehand what they were going to want and provide themselves with it and not call on the cook or Mary to help them out of an emergency caused by their own thoughtlessness. Mrs. Morton was sure that her reputation as a sensible mother who did not let the children over-run the kitchen at times when they were decidedly in the way was one of the chief reasons why her servants stayed with her so long. So now Ethel Brown said to Ethel Blue, "Have we got all the materials we need for Vinegar Candy?" and Ethel Blue seized the cook book and read the receipt. "Mix together three cupfuls of sugar, half a cupful of vinegar, half a cupful of water. When it comes to a boil stir in one teaspoonful of soda." "We've got sugar and soda and water," announced Ethel Brown after investigating the shelves of the tiny storeroom, "but there isn't any vinegar. I do hate to go out in this rain," for the dark sky was making good its threat. "I'll get it for you. Give me your jug," said Roger, swinging into his raincoat. "I'll be back in half a jiff," and he dashed off into the downpour, shaking his head like a Newfoundland dog, and spattering the drops as he ran. He was back before the Ethels had their pans buttered and the water and sugar measured, so briskly had he galloped. It was only a few minutes more before the candy stiffened when a little was dropped into a cup of cold water. "Now we'll pour half of it into one of the pans," directed Ethel Brown, "and then we'll get Roger to beat the other half so it will be creamy." Roger was entirely willing to lend his muscles to so good a cause and soon had the mass grained and white. "Good work; one boiling for two batches!" he declared. "That pleases my notions of scientific management." When the door-bell rang for the first arrivals the whole thing was almost cold, and Mary, who was always willing to help in an emergency, hastened the chilling process by popping the tins into the ice box. "They're not warm enough any longer to melt the ice," she decided, "so I'll just hurry 'em up a bit." After all the discussion about the city dwellers' dislike of going into the suburbs it was the Watkinses who came first. "We're ahead of the hour," apologized Della. "We couldn't time ourselves exactly for so long a distance." "The Hancocks will come just on the dot, I've no doubt," laughed Tom. "Old James is just that accurate person!" As the clock's hand was on the appointed minute a whir at the bell announced Margaret and James, both dripping from their run from the corner. "Mrs. Morton's compliments and she thought they had better drink this so they won't get cold." "Our compliments and thanks to Mrs. Morton," returned Tom, his hand dramatically placed over a portion of his person which is said to be the gateway to a boy's heart. When the cups had been emptied and the wafers consumed and the Ethels had taken away the tray with the remains of the feast and had brought back the two kinds of candy, carefully cut into squares and heaped in two of the pretty Japanese bowls which made a part of their private kitchen equipment, they all settled down in big chairs and on couches except Roger, who sat near the fire to stir it, and Helen, who established herself at one end of the table where she could see them all conveniently. CHAPTER III THE CHRISTMAS SHIP "THE meeting will come to order," commanded Helen, her face bubbling with the conflict between her dignity and her desire to laugh at her dignity. "We haven't any secretary, so there can't be any minutes of the last meeting." Helen glanced sidewise at James, for she was talking about something she never had had occasion to mention in all her life before and she wondered if he were being properly impressed with the ease with which she spoke of the non-existent minutes. James responded to her look with an expression of surprise so comical that Helen almost burst into laughter most unsuitable for the presiding officer of so distinguished a gathering. "Oughtn't we to have a secretary?" asked Tom. "If we're going to have a really shipshape club this winter it seems to me we ought to have some record of what we do." "And there may be letters to write," urged Roger, "and who'd do them?" "Not old Roger, I'll bet!" cried James in humorous scorn. "I don't notice that anybody is addressing the chair," remarked Helen sternly, and James flushed, for he had been the president's instructor in parliamentary law at the meeting when the Club was organized, and he did not relish being caught in a mistake. "Excuse me, Madam President," he apologized. "I don't see any especial need for a secretary, Miss President," said Margaret, "but can't we tell better when we're a little farther along and know what we're going to do?" "Perhaps so," agreed Helen. "There isn't any treasurer's report for the same reason that there isn't any secretary's," she continued. "Just to cut off another discussion I'd like to repeat my remark," said Margaret. "If we become multi-millionaires later on we can appoint a treasurer then," said Della, her round face unusually grave. "Instead of a secretary's report it seems to me it would be interesting to remember what the Club did last summer to live up to its name," suggested Tom. "You know Della and I weren't elected until after you'd been going some time, and I'm not sure that I know everything that happened." The Mortons and Dorothy and the Hancocks looked around at each other rather vaguely, and no one seemed in a hurry to begin. "It looks to me as if a secretary is almost a necessity," grinned Tom, "if nobody remembers anything you did!" "There were lots of little things that don't seem to count when you look back on them," began Ethel Blue. "We did some things as a Club," said Roger, "and we can tell Watkins about those without embarrassing anybody." "Our first effort was on Old First Night," said Margaret thoughtfully. "Don't you remember we went outside the gate and picked flowers and decorated the stage?" "In the evening James and Roger passed the baskets to collect the offering in the Amphitheatre," Ethel Blue said. "And then we all did things that helped along in the Pageant and on Recognition Day." "I don't think those really counted for much as service," said Helen, "because they were all of them mighty good fun." "I think we ought to do whatever will help somebody, whether we like it or not," declared Ethel Blue, "but I don't see why we shouldn't hunt up pleasant things to do." "What are we going to do, anyway?" asked Della. "Has anybody any ideas? Oh, please excuse me, Helen--Miss President--perhaps it wasn't time to ask that question." "I was just about to ask for suggestions," said Helen with dignity. "Has any one come across anything that we can do here in Rosemont or in Glen Point or in New York? Anything that will be an appropriate beginning for the United Service Club? We want to do something that would be suitable for the children of our father and uncle who are serving in the Army and Navy trying to keep peace in Mexico, and of a man like Doctor Hancock, who is serving his fellowmen in the slums every day, and of a clergyman who is helping people to do right all the time." Helen flushed over this long speech. "Rosemont, Glen Point, and New York--a wide field," said Tom dryly. "It seems as if we might find something without much trouble." "I thought of the orphanage in Glen Point," said Margaret. "What is there for us to do for the kids there that the grown people don't do?" asked Roger. "The grown people contribute clothes and food and all the necessaries, but sometimes when I've been there it seemed as if the children didn't have much of any of the little nothings that boys and girls in their own homes have. It seemed to me that perhaps we could make a lot of things that weren't especially useful but were just pretty; things that we'd like to have ourselves." "I know just how they feel, I believe," said Margaret. "One of my aunts thinks that perfectly plain clothes are all that are necessary and she won't let my cousins have any ruffles or bows. It makes them just miserable. They're crazy for something that 'isn't useful.'" "How would it do to get together a lot of things for Christmas for the orphans? We might offer to trim a tree for them. Or to give each one of them a foolish present or a pretty one to offset the solid things the grown-ups will give." "When I was a kid," observed James, "I used to consider it a mean fraud if I had clothing worked off on me as Christmas presents. My parents had to clothe me anyway; why should they put those necessities among my Christmas gifts which were supposed to be extras!" "There you are again; what people want in this world of pain and woe, ye-ho, he-ho," chanted Roger, "is the things they can go without." "Has any one thought of anybody else we can benefit?" questioned Helen. "We might as well have all the recommendations we can." "There's an old couple down by the bridge on South Street," said Roger. "I've often noticed them. They're all bent up and about a thousand years old. We might keep an eye on them." "I know about them," contributed Ethel Brown. "I asked about them. They have a son who takes care of them. He gives them money every week, so they aren't suffering, but they both have the rheumatism frightfully so they can't go out much and I shouldn't wonder if they'd like a party some time, right in their own house. If we could go there and sing them some songs and Dicky could speak his piece about the cat and we could do some shadow pantomimes on a sheet and then have a spread, I believe they'd have as good a time as if they'd been to the movies." "We'll do it." Tom slapped his leg. "I'll sing 'em a solo myself." Groans rose from James and Roger. "Poor old things! What have you got against them?" "Oh, well, if you're jealous of my voice--of course I wouldn't for the world arouse any hard feelings, Madam President. I withdraw my offer. But mark ye, callow youths," he went on dramatically, "the day will come when I'm a Caruso and you'll be sorry to have to remember that you did your best to discourage a genius that would not be discouraged!" "The meeting will come to order." Helen rapped for quiet, for the entire room was rocking to and fro over Tom's praise of one of the hoarsest voices ever given to boy or man. "We'll give the old people a good show, even if Tom does back out," cried Roger. "I wish we had a secretary to put down these suggestions. I'm afraid we'll forget them." "So am I," agreed Helen. "Let's vote for a secretary. Roger, pass around some paper and pencils and let's ballot." Roger did as he was bid, and Ethel Brown and Della collected the ballots and acted as tellers. "The tellers will declare the vote," announced Helen, who had been conferring with James while the balloting was going on, and had learned the proper parliamentary move. Margaret had coached Ethel Brown so that she made her report in proper style. "Total number of votes cast, eight; necessary to a choice, five. Margaret has one, Dorothy has one, Roger has two, Ethel Brown has one, Ethel Blue has three. Nobody has enough." "Have we got to vote over again?" Helen asked of James. "I move you, Madam President, that we consider the person receiving the highest number of votes as the person elected and that we make the election unanimous." "Is the motion seconded?" Cries of "Yes," "I second it," "So do I," came from all over the room and included a call from Ethel Blue. Roger pealed with laughter. "Ethel Blue means to get there," he shouted. "I do? What have I done?" demanded Ethel Blue, so embarrassed at this attack that the tears stood in her eyes. "Why, you're the person who's receiving a unanimous election," returned Roger, between gasps. "You've made it unanimous, yourself, all right." Poor Ethel Blue leaned back in her chair without saying a word. "Roger, you're too mean," cried Helen. "Don't you mind a word he says, Ethel Blue. It's very hard to follow votes and it isn't at all surprising that you didn't understand." "What does it mean?" "It means that you're elected secretary." "But there weren't enough votes." "You had three and Roger had two, and nobody else had more than one. When one candidate has more than the rest he may be considered as elected, even if he didn't get the right number of votes--that is, if everybody agrees to it." "And you agreed to it," chuckled Roger. "Stop, Roger. You're our new secretary, Ethel Blue, and it's very suitable that you should be, for the club was your idea and you ought to be an officer. Roger, give Ethel Blue your pencil and the rest of that paper you had for the ballots. Come and sit next to me, Ethel." Ethel Blue felt that honors were being thrust upon her much against her will, but she was afraid that she would make some other mistake if she objected, so she meekly took the pencil and paper from Roger and began to note down the proceedings. "We've had a suggestion from Glen Point and one from Rosemont--let's hear from New York," said the president. "Della--anything to say?" "Papa can suggest lots of people that we can help if we ask him," said Della. "I didn't ask him because I thought that perhaps you'd have some pet charities out here where there aren't so many helping hands as there are in New York." "How about you, Tom?" "To tell you the truth," responded Tom gravely, "I didn't think up anything to suggest this afternoon because my mind has been so full of the war that I can't seem able to think about anything else." Everybody grew serious at once. The war seemed very close to the Mortons, although it was a war across the sea, because they knew what it would mean to their father and uncle if ever our country should be involved in war. The thought of their own mental suffering and their anxiety if Captain and Lieutenant Morton should ever be sent to the front had given them a keen interest in what had been going on in Europe for six weeks. "I read the newspapers all the time," went on Tom, "and I dare say I don't gain much real information from them, but at least I'm having ground into my soul every day the hideous suffering that all this fighting is bringing upon the women and children. The men may die, but at least they can fight for their lives. The women and children have to sit down and wait for death or destruction to come their way." "It's too big a situation for us way off here to grasp," said Roger slowly, "but there are people on the spot who are trying to give assistance, and if Americans could only get in touch with them it seems as if help might be handed along the way we handed the water buckets last summer when the cottage was on fire." "The Red Cross is working in all the countries that are at war," said Helen. "There's an American Red Cross and people are sending clothing and food to the New York branch and they are sending them on to Europe. That's Roger's bucket brigade idea." "Why don't we work for the Red Cross?" asked Della. "I saw in the paper a plan that seems better still for us youngsters," said Ethel Blue. "Some people are going to send over a Christmas ship with thousands and thousands of presents for the orphans and the other children all over Europe. Why don't we work for that? For the Santa Claus Ship?" "'Charity begins at home,'" demurred Margaret. "We needn't forget the Glen Point orphans. The Christmas Ship is going to sail early in November and we'll have plenty of time after she gets off to carry out those other schemes that we've spoken of." "I'd like to move," said Ethel Brown, getting on to her feet to make her action more impressive, "that the United Service Club devote itself first to preparing a bundle to send off on the Christmas Ship. After that's done we can see what comes next." "Does any one second the motion, that we work first for the Christmas Ship?" asked Helen. Every voice in the room cried "I do." "All in favor?" There was a chorus of "Ayes." "Contrary minded?" Not a sound arose. "It's a unanimous vote that we start right in on the bundle for the Santa Claus Ship." CHAPTER IV FINANCIAL PLANS "This parliamentary business fusses me," exclaimed Helen. "Let's just talk, now that we've decided what we are going to do." "Take a more comfortable chair," suggested Tom, pulling over a Morris chair nearer the fire. Roger stirred up the flames and tossed on some pine cones. "These cones remind me that our old people down by the bridge might like some. They have a funny open stove that they could use them in." "What are they good for? Kindling?" asked Della. "Ha! There speaks the city lady used only to steam! Certainly they are good for kindling on account of the pitch that's in them, but they're also great in an open fire to brighten it up when it is sinking somewhat and one or two at a time tossed on to a clear fire make a pretty sight." "And a pretty snapping sound," added Dorothy, remembering the cones from the long leaf pines. "Our old couple gets a bushel on Monday afternoon if it ever stops raining," promised Roger. "Dicky loves to pick them up, so he'll help." "The honorary member of the United Service Club does his share of service work right nobly," declared James, who was a great friend of Dicky's. "The thing for us to do first is to decide how we are to begin," said Helen. "We might talk over the kinds of presents that the war orphans would like and then see which of them any of us can make," suggested Margaret wisely. "Any sort of clothing would come in mighty handy, I should think," guessed James, "and I don't believe the orphans would have my early prejudices against receiving it for Christmas gifts." "Poor little creatures, I rather suspect Santa Claus will be doing his heaviest work with clothing this year." "As far as clothing is concerned," said Margaret, "we needn't put a limit on the amount we send or the sizes or the kinds. The distributors will be able to use everything they can lay their hands on when the Christmas Ship comes in and for many months later." "Then let's inquire of our mothers what there is stowed away that we can have and let's look over our own things and weed out all we can that would be at all suitable and that our mothers will let us give away, and report here at the next meeting." "While we're talking about the next meeting," broke in Dorothy while the others were nodding their assent to Helen's proposition, "won't you please come to my house next time?" "We certainly will," agreed Della and Margaret. "You bet," came from the boys. "And Mother told me to offer the Club the use of our attic to store our stuff in. It's a big place with almost nothing in it." "I'm sure Aunt Marion will be glad not to have anything else go into her attic," said Ethel Blue, and all the Mortons laughed as they thought of the condition of the Morton attic, whose walls were almost bulging with its contents. "If that's settled we must remember to address all our bundles to 'Mrs. Leonard Smith, Church Street, Rosemont,'" James reminded them. "It seems to me," Ethel Brown said slowly, thinking as she spoke, "that we might collect more clothing than we shall be able to find in our own families." "There are a good many of us," suggested Della. "There are two Watkinses and two Hancocks and five Mortons and one Smith--that's ten, but if the rest of you are like the Morton family--we wear our clothes pretty nearly down to the bone." All the Mortons pealed at this and the rest could not help joining in. "One thing we must not do," declared Helen. "We must not send a single old thing that isn't in perfect order. It's a poor present that you have to sit down and mend." "We certainly won't," agreed Margaret. "I wear my clothes almost down to the skeleton, too, but I know I have some duds that I can make over into dresses for small children. I'm gladder every day that we took that sewing course last summer, Helen." "Me, too. My dresses--or what's left of them--usually adorn Ethel Brown's graceful frame, but perhaps Mother will let us have for the orphans the clothes that would ordinarily go to Ethel Brown." Ethel Brown looked worried. "Ethel Brown doesn't know whether that will mean that she'll have to go without or whether she'll have new clothes instead of the hand-me-downs," laughed Roger. "I don't care," cried Ethel Brown. "I'd just as lief go without new clothes if Mother will let the Club have the money they'd cost." "I've been thinking," said Tom, "that we're going to need money to work this undertaking through successfully. How are we going to get it?" "But shall we need any to speak of?" inquired Margaret. "Fixing up our old clothes won't cost more than we can meet ourselves out of our allowances. I'm going to ask my Aunt Susy to let me have some of the girls' old things. The girls will be delighted; they're the ones who have the plain clothes." "We'll fix them up with ruffles and bows before we send them away," smiled Helen. "Why can't we ask everybody we come across for old clothes?" Ethel Blue wondered. "Grandmother Emerson would be sure to have something in her attic and I shouldn't wonder if she'd be willing to ask the ladies at the Guild if they'd contribute," said Helen. "Do we want to take things from outside of the Club?" objected Ethel Brown. "I don't see why not," answered Margaret. "The idea is to get together for the orphans as many presents as possible, no matter where they come from. We're serving the orphans if we work as collectors just as much as if we made the clothes ourselves." "Right-o," agreed Roger. "Let's tackle everybody we can on the old clo' question. We can ask the societies in our churches--" "Why not in all the churches in town?" dared Ethel Blue. The idea brought a pause, for the place was small enough for the churches to meet each other with an occasional rub. "I believe that's a good idea," declared Tom, and as a clergyman's son they listened to his views with respect. "All the churches ought to be willing to come together on the neutral ground of this club and if we are willing to take the responsibility of doing the gathering and the packing and the expressing to the Christmas Ship I believe they'll be glad to do just the rummaging in their attics and the mending up." "We needn't limit their offerings to clothes, either," said Della. "We'll take care of anything they'll send in." "Let's put it up to them, I say," cried Roger. "There's at least one member of the Morton family in every society in our church and we ought to get the subject before every one of those groups of people by the end of next week and start things booming." "We'll do the same at Glen Point," agreed Margaret. "I can't promise quite as much for New York, because I don't know what Father's plans are for war relief work in his church, but I do feel pretty sure he'll suggest some way of helping us," said Della. "That's decided, then--we'll lay our paws on everything we can get from every source," Tom summed up the discussion. "Now I come back to what I said a few minutes ago--I think we're going to need more money to run this association than we're going to be able to rake up out of our own allowances, unless Margaret's is a good deal bigger than mine," and he nodded toward Margaret, who had objected to the more-money idea when he had offered it before. "Just tell me how we'll need more," insisted Margaret. "I figure it out that the part we boys will have to do in this transaction will be to district this town and Glen Point and make a house to house appeal for clothes and any sort of thing that would do for a Christmas present, all to be sent to Mrs. Smith's." "That won't cost anything but a few carfares, and you can stand those," insisted Margaret. "Carfares are all right and even a few express charges for some people who for some reason aren't able to deliver their parcels at Mrs. Smith's house. But if you girls are going to make over some of these clothes and perhaps make new garments you'll need some cash to buy materials with." "Perhaps some of the dry goods people will contribute the materials." "Maybe they will. But you mark my words--the cost of a little here and a little there mounts up amazingly in work of this sort and I know we're going to need cash." "Tom's right," confirmed Della. "He's helped Father enough to know." The idea of needing money, which they did not have, was depressing to the club members who sat around the fire staring into it gloomily. "The question is, how to get it," went on Tom. "People might give us money just as well as cloth, I suppose," suggested Margaret. "I think it would be a thousand times more fun to make the money ourselves," said Ethel Blue. "The infant's right," cried Tom. "It will be more fun and what's more important still, nobody can boss us because he's given us a five dollar bill." "I suppose somebody might try," murmured Helen. "They would," cried Tom and Della in concert. "We aren't a clergyman's children for nothing," Tom went on humorously. "The importance a five dollar bill can have in the eyes of the giver and the way it swells in size as it leaves his hands is something that few people realize who haven't seen it happen." "Let's be independent," cried Dorothy decidedly, and her wish was evidently to the mind of all the rest, for murmurs of approval went around the room. "But if we're so high and mighty as not to take money contributions and if we nevertheless need money, what in the mischief are we going to do about it?" inquired Roger. "We must earn it," said Helen. "I'll contribute the money Mother is going to pay me for making a dozen middy blouses for the Ethels. She ordered them from me last summer when I began to take the sewing course and I haven't quite finished them yet, but I'll have the last one done this week if I can get home from school promptly for a day or two." "I can make some baskets for the Woman's Exchange," said Dorothy. "I learned how to make Lady Baltimore cake the other day," said Margaret, "and I'll go to some ladies in Glen Point who are going to have teas soon and ask them for orders." "I can make cookies," murmured Ethel Brown, "but I don't know who'd buy them." "You tell the kids at school that you've gone into the cooky business and you'll have all the work you can do for a while," prophesied Roger. "I know your cookies; they're bully." "I don't notice that we boys are mentioning any means of making money," remarked James dryly. "I confess I'm stumped." "I know what you can do," suggested Margaret. "Father said this morning that he was going to get a chauffeur next week if he could find one that wouldn't rob him of all the money he made. You can run the car--why don't you offer to work half time--afternoons after school, for half pay? That would help Father and he'd rather have you than a strange man." "He'd rather have half time, too. He likes to run the car himself, only he gets tired running it all day on heavy days. Great head, Sis," and James made a gesture of stroking his sister's locks, to which she responded by making a face. "I know what I can do," said Roger. "You know those bachelor girls about seventy-five apiece, over on Church Street near Aunt Louise's--the Miss Clarks? Well, they had an awful time last year getting their furnace attended to regularly. They had one man who proved to be a--er," Roger hesitated. "Not a total abstainer?" inquired James elegantly. "Thank you, Brother Hancock, for the use of your vocabulary. The next one stole the washing off the line, and the next one--Oh, I don't know what he did, but the Miss Clarks were in a state of mind over the furnace and the furnace man all winter. Now, suppose I offer to take care of their furnace for them this winter? I believe they'd have me." "I think they'd be mighty glad to get you," confirmed Helen. "Could you do that and take care of ours, too?" "Sure thing, if I put my mind on it and don't chase off with the fellows every time I feel in the mood." "Mother would like to have you take care of ours if you could manage three," said Dorothy. "I'll do it," and Roger thumped his knee with decision. "I wouldn't undertake too much," warned Helen. "It will mean a visit three times a day at each house, you know, and the last one pretty late in the evening." "I'm game," insisted Roger. "You know I can be as steady as an old horse when I put my alleged mind on it. Mother never had any kick coming over my work in the furnace department last winter." "She said you did it splendidly, but this means three times as much." "I'll do it," and Roger nodded his head solemnly. "It seems to be up to Della and me to tell what we can do," said Tom meditatively. "Father's secretary is away on a three months' holiday and I'm doing his typewriting for him and some other office stunts--as much as I can manage out of school hours. I'll turn over my pay to the Club treasury." This was greeted with applause. "I don't seem to have any accomplishments," sighed Della, her round head on one side. "The only thing I can think of is that I heard the ladies who have charge of the re-furnishing of the Rest Room in the Parish House say that they were going to find some one to stencil the window curtains. I might see if they'd let me do it and pay me. I didn't take that class at the Girls' Club last summer, but Dorothy and Ethel Brown could teach me." "Of course." "Or you could get the order from them, I'd fill it, and you could make the baskets for the Woman's Exchange," offered Dorothy. Della brightened. That was a better arrangement. "Try it," nodded Tom. "If you turn out one order well you'll get more; see if you don't." "Our honorary member, Mr. Dicky Morton, might sell newspapers since he got broken in to that business last summer," laughed Ethel Brown. "Mother wouldn't let him do it here, I know, but he can weave awfully pretty things that he learned at the kindergarten and if there are any bazars this fall he could sell some of them on commission." "Dicky really understands about the Club. I think he'd like to do something for the orphans," Helen agreed. "Ladies and gentlemen," announced Ethel Blue, rising in her excitement; "I have a perfectly grand, galoptious idea. Why do we wait for somebody else to get up a bazar to sell Dicky's weaving? Let's have a bazar of our own. Why can't we have a fair with some tables, and ice cream and cake for sale and an entertainment of some kind in the evening? We all know all sorts of stunts; we can do the whole thing ourselves. If we announce that we are doing it for the Christmas Ship I believe everybody in town would come--" "--And in Glen Point and New York," Roger mocked her enthusiasm. "You know we could fill the School Hall as easy as fiddle, Roger. You see everybody would know what we were at work on because we are going to begin collecting the clothes right off, so everybody will be interested." Tom nodded approval. "Perhaps we can do the advertising act when we do the collecting." "If I drive Father, I see myself ringing up all the neighboring houses while he's in on his case," said James, "and it's just as easy to talk bazar part of the time as it is to chat old clo' the whole time." "Can you get the School Hall free?" asked Tom. "We'd have to pay for the lighting and the janitor, but that wouldn't be much," said Roger. "It would be better than the Parish House of any of the churches because if we had it in a church there'd surely be some people who wouldn't go because it was in a building belonging to a denomination they didn't approve of, but no one can make any kick about the schoolhouse." "It's the natural neighborhood centre." "We'll have the whole town there." "If we let in some of the school kids we'll get all their families on the string," recommended Roger. "I'm working up a feat that I've never seen any one do," said Tom. "I'll turn it loose for the first time at our show." "Remember, you're all coming to me next Saturday afternoon," Dorothy reminded them as the Hancocks and Watkinses put on their overgarments and sought out their umbrellas preparatory to going home. "And we'll bring a list of what we can contribute ourselves and what we've collected so far and what we think we can collect and we'll turn in anything we've made." "If there's anything we can work on while the Club is going on we'd better bring it," suggested Helen. "Mother says we may have the sewing machine in the attic," said Dorothy. "I believe I'll take my jig-saw over," suggested Roger. "Aunt Louise wouldn't mind, would she?" "She'd be delighted. Bring everything," and Dorothy glowed with the hospitality that had been bottled up in her for years and until now had had but small opportunity to escape. CHAPTER V ROGER GOES FORAGING ALTHOUGH Helen never had been president of any club before, yet she had seen enough of a number of associations in the high school and the church to understand the advantage of striking while the iron of enthusiasm was hot. For that reason she and Roger worked out the districting of Rosemont before they went to bed that night, and the next afternoon Roger went over to Glen Point on his bicycle, and, with James's help, did the same for that town. It was understood that Tom would not be able to come out again until Saturday, but he had agreed to be on hand early in the morning to do a good half day of canvassing. The girls were to speak to every one to whom they could bring up the subject conveniently, wherever they met them. Roger began his work on Monday afternoon after school. He wheeled over to a part of the town where he did not know many people, his idea being that since that would be the most disagreeable place to tackle he would do it first and get it over with. He was a merry boy, with a pleasant way of speaking that won him friends at once, and he was not bothered with shyness, but he did hesitate for an instant at his first house. It was large and he thought that the owner ought to be prosperous enough to have plenty of old clothes lying about crying to be sent to the war orphans. It was a maid whose grasp on the English language was a trifle uncertain who opened the door. Roger stated his desire. "Old clothes?" she repeated after him. "I've no old clothes to give you," and she shut the door hastily. Roger stood still with astonishment as if he were fastened to the upper step. Then his feelings stirred. "The idiot!" he gasped. "She thought I wanted them for myself," and he looked down at his suit with a sudden realization that his long ride over one dusty road and a spill on another that had recently been oiled had not improved the appearance of his attire. However, he rang the bell again vigorously. The woman seemed somewhat disconcerted when she saw him still before her. "I don't want the clothes--" began Roger. "What did you say you did for?" inquired the maid sharply, and again she slammed the door. By this time Roger's persistency was roused. He made up his mind that he was going to make himself understood even if he did not secure a contribution. Once more he rang the bell. "You here!" almost screamed the girl as she saw once more his familiar face. "Why don't you go? I've nothing to give you." "Look here," insisted Roger, his toe in the way of the door's shutting completely when she should try to slam it again; "look here, you don't understand what I want. Is your mistress at home?" The girl was afraid to say that she was not, so she nodded. "Tell her I want to see her." "What's your name?" "I'm Roger Morton, son of Lieutenant Morton. I live on Cedar Street. Can you remember that?" She could not, but her ear had caught the military title and upstairs she conveyed the impression that at least a general was waiting at the door. When the mistress of the house appeared Roger pulled off his cap politely, and he was such a frank-faced boy that she knew at once that her maid's fears had been unnecessary, though she did not see where the military title came in. Roger explained who he was and what he wanted at sufficient length, and he was rewarded for his persistency by the promise of a bundle. "I know your grandmother, Mrs. Emerson," said the lady, who had mentioned that she was Mrs. Warburton, "and your aunt, Mrs. Smith, has hired one of my houses, so I am glad on their account to help your enterprise, though of course its own appeal is enough." Roger thanked her and took the precaution to inquire the names of her neighbors, before he presented himself at another door. He also reached such a pitch of friendliness that he borrowed a whisk broom from Mrs. Warburton and redeemed his clothes from the condition which had brought him into such disfavor with the maid-servant. There was no one at home in the next house, but the next after that yielded a parcel which the old lady whom he interviewed said that he might have if he would take it away immediately. "I might change my mind if you don't," she said. "I've been studying for ten days whether to make over that dress with black silk or dark blue velvet. If I give the dress away I shan't be worried about it any longer." "Very well," cried Roger, and he rolled the frock up as small as he could and fastened it to his handle bars. There was no one at home at the next house, but the woman who came to the door at the next after that listened to his story with moist eyes. "Come in," she said. "I can give you a great many garments. In fact there are so many that perhaps I'd better send them." "Very well," returned Roger. "Please send them to my aunt's," and he gave the address. "You see," hesitated Roger's hostess, now frankly wiping her eyes, "I had a little daughter about ten years old, and--and I never have been willing to part with her little dresses and coats, but how could I place them better than now?" Roger swallowed hard. "I guess she'd like to have 'em go over there," he stammered, and he was very glad when he escaped from the house, though he told his mother, "she seemed kind of glad to talk about the kid, so I didn't mind much." "Count listening as one of the Club services," replied Mrs. Morton. Back in his own part of town Roger felt that his trip had been profitable. A very fair number of garments and bundles had been promised, and he had told everybody he could to watch the local paper for the announcement of the entertainment to be given by the U. S. C. "Everybody seemed interested," he reported at home. "I don't believe we'll have a mite of trouble in getting an audience." It was at a cottage not far from the high school that Roger came upon his nearest approach to an adventure. When he touched the buzzer the door was opened by an elderly woman who spoke with a marked German accent. Roger explained his errand. To his horror the woman burst into tears. When he made a gesture of withdrawal she stopped him. "My son--my son is mit de army," she exclaimed brokenly. "My son und de betrothed of my daughter. We cannot go to the Fatherland. The German ships go no more. If we go on an English or French ship we are kept in England. Here must we stay--here." "You're safe here, at any rate," responded Roger, at a loss what reply to make that would be soothing in the face of such depressing facts. "Safe!" retorted the woman scornfully. "Who cares to be safe? A woman's place is mit her men when they are in danger. My daughter and I--we should be in Germany and we cannot get there!" "It's surely a shame if you want to go as much as that," returned Roger gently, and just then to his surprise there came through an inner door a young woman whom he recognized as his German teacher in the high school, Fräulein Hindenburg. Her face was disfigured with weeping and he knew now why she had seemed so ill and listless in her classes. "You must not mind Mother," she said, looking surprised as she saw one of her pupils before her. "It is true that we would go if we could but we cannot, so we must stay here and wait." Roger explained his errand. "To work for the war orphans of all countries?" cried both women excitedly. "Gladly! Gladly!" "We are knitting every day--scarfs, socks, wristlets," said the older woman. "Also will we so gladly make clothing for the children and toys and playthings--what we can." Fräulein smiled a sad assent and Roger wheeled off, realizing that the pain caused by the war no longer existed for him only in his imagination; he had seen its tears. So freely had people responded to Roger's appeal that he began to wonder how the Club was going to take care of all the garments that would soon be coming in. After that thought came into his mind he made a point of asking the givers if they would send their offerings as far as possible in condition to be shipped. "Margaret and Helen can make over some of the clothes and the Ethels and Dorothy can help with the simple things, I suppose, but if there are many grown-up dresses like this one on my handle bar they won't have time to do anything else but dressmake," meditated Roger as he pedalled along. Nowhere did he meet with a rebuff. Every one was pleased to be asked. Many offered to make new garments. One old woman who lived in a wheel-chair but who could use her hands, agreed to sew if the material should be sent her. Many mothers seemed to consider it a Heaven-sent opportunity to make a clearance of the nursery toys though Roger stoutly insisted that they must all be in working order before they were turned in. "It's been perfectly splendid," breathed Roger joyfully as he finished his third afternoon and came into the house to report to his mother and Helen. "It's a delight to ask when you feel sure that you won't have to coax as you usually do when you're getting up anything. Everybody seems to jump at the chance." Toward the end of the week Ethel Blue came in beaming. "I've got some entirely new people interested," she cried. "Who? Who?" "The last people you'd ever think of--the women in the Old Ladies' Home." "Why should you think them the very last to be interested?" asked Mrs. Emerson who happened to be at the Mortons' and whose fingers were carrying the flying yarn that her needles were manufacturing into a sock. "Most of them are mothers and it doesn't take a mother to be interested in such a cause as this. Every human being who has any imagination must feel for the sufferings of the poor children." "It seemed queer to me because I've never seen them do anything but just sit there with their hands in their laps." "Poor souls, nobody ever provides them with anything to do." "Now all of them say that they'll be delighted to sew or knit or do anything they can if the materials are provided for them." "Here's where we can begin to spend the money Mother has offered to advance us," cried Ethel Brown. "Can't we go right after school to-morrow and buy the yarn for them, Mother?" "Indeed you may. Has Della sent you the knitting rules from the Red Cross yet?" "We're expecting them in every mail. If they don't come before we take the wool to the Home we can start the ladies on scarfs. They're just straight pieces." "Mrs. Hindenburg and Fräulein are knitting wristlets for the German soldiers. They could give the rule for them, I should think," suggested Roger, "and our old lady friends can just cut it in halves for the kids." It was the next day that Helen came in from school all excitement. "I've made a discovery as thrilling as Roger's about Fräulein!" she cried. "What? Who is it about? Tell us." "It's about Mademoiselle Millerand." "Your French teacher?" asked Mrs. Emerson. "She was new at school last year and you've heard us say she's the most fascinating little black-eyed creature." "Perhaps she can't talk fast!" added Roger. "What's the story about her?" demanded Ethel Brown. "It's not a romantic story like Fräulein's; that is, there's no betrothed on the other side that she's crazy to get to; but she's going over to join the French Red Cross." "That little thing!" cried Roger. "Why she doesn't look as if she had strength enough to last out a week!" "She says she's had a year's training in nursing and that a nurse is taught to conserve her strength. She hopes she'll be sent to the front." "The plucky little creature! When is she going?" "As soon as she can put in a substitute at the school; she doesn't want to leave us in the lurch after she made a contract for the year." "It may take some time after that to arrange for a sailing, I suppose." "Perhaps so. Any way I think it would be nice if we gave her a send-off--" "Just as we will Fräulein if her chance comes." "We can make some travelling comforts." "She won't be able to carry much," warned Mrs. Morton. "Everything will have to be as small as possible, but we can hunt up the smallest size of everything. I think it will be fun!" "She'll probably be very much pleased." "I wish there was something rather special we could do for Fräulein too, so we could be perfectly impartial." "Watch for the chance to do something extra nice for her. She's having the harder time of the two; it's always harder to stay and wait than it is to go into action, even when the action is dangerous." While the Mortons were canvassing Rosemont, James and Margaret were doing the same work in Glen Point. Dr. Hancock had accepted his son's offer and James was now regularly engaged as his father's chauffeur, working after school hours every school day and on Saturday mornings. The Doctor insisted that he should have Saturday afternoons free so that he might go to the Club. He was also quite willing that James should follow the plan he had sketched at the last Club meeting and visit the neighbors of his father's patients while Doctor Hancock was making his professional calls. The plan worked to a charm and James found Glen Point quite as ready as Rosemont to respond to the "bitter cry of the children." "So many people are getting interested I almost feel as if it weren't our affair any longer," James complained to his father as they were driving home in the dusk one afternoon. "Look out for that corner. That's a bad habit you have of shaving the curbstone. You needn't feel that way as long as your club is doing all the organizing and administration. That's the part that seems to make most people hesitate about doing good works. It isn't actual work they balk at; it's leadership." "If handling the stuff and disposing of it is leadership then we're a 'going concern' all right," declared James. "Roger telephoned over this morning that the bundles were coming in to Mrs. Smith's at a great rate, and that a lot of people were making new garments and things that will turn up later." "When is Tom coming out?" "Saturday morning. I've saved one district for him to do then and that will finish up Glen Point as Roger and I sketched it out." "It hasn't been so hard a job as you thought." "Chasing round in the car has saved time. This is a bully job of yours, Dad." "You won't hold it long if you cut corners like that, I warn you again." "I'll try to cut 'em _out_," laughed James as he carefully turned into the Hancocks' avenue. CHAPTER VI IN THE SMITH ATTIC "GRANDFATHER EMERSON wants to give the Club a present," cried Ethel Brown as the last arrivals, the Hancocks, came up the stairs and entered the attic of Dorothy's house on Saturday afternoon. The large room was half the width of the whole cottage and, with its low windows and sloping roof had a quaint appearance that was increased by its furnishing of tables and seats made from boxes covered with gay bits of chintz. Dorothy had not neglected her work for the orphans but she had found time to fit up the meeting place of the U. S. C. so that its members might not have to gather in bare surroundings. The afternoon sun shone brightly in through simple curtains of white cheesecloth, the sewing machine awaited Helen beside a window with a clear north light, and Roger's jig-saw was in a favorable position in a corner. Each one who came up the stairs gave an "Oh" of pleasure as the door opened upon this comfortable, cheerful room where there was nothing too good to be used and nothing too bad to have entrance to the society of beauty-loving folk. "What did your grandfather give us?" asked Margaret. "Grandfather has been awfully interested in the Club from the very beginning, you know. The other day he asked if we wouldn't like to have him give us club pins with our emblem on them." "How perfectly dear of him!" ejaculated Delia. "Don't let your hopes rise too high. I said it would be simply fine to have little forget-me-not pins like those we talked about at our very first meeting in the ravine at Chautauqua--do you remember?" "Blue enamel," murmured Dorothy. "He said he wanted us to have them, and that it was a lovely symbol and so on, and he'd seen some ducks of pins in New York that were just what we'd like, and some single flower ones for the boys--" "Um. This suspense is wearing on me," remarked Roger. "We talked it over and the way it came out was that Grandfather said that perhaps he'd better give us now the money the pins would cost and keep his present for later." No one could resist a groan. "He won't forget it. Grandfather never forgets to do what he promises. We'll get them some time or other. But I had a feeling that we'd like them later better even than now because we'd feel then that we'd really earned them after the Club had done something worth while, you know." "I suppose we will," sighed Della, "but they do sound good to me." "He was bound that we should have the forget-me-not in some form or other," went on Ethel Brown, "and he's sent us a rubber stamp with 'U. S. C.' on it and a forget-me-not at each end of the initials. There's an indelible pad that goes with it and we are to stamp everything we send out on some part where it won't be too conspicuous." "It will be like signing a letter to the child the present goes to," said Dorothy. "Isn't he a darling!" exclaimed Ethel Blue. "I love him as much as if he were my own grandfather." "He turned the money right over into my hand," continued Ethel Brown--"the money he didn't spend for the pins, I mean. It's fifteen dollars. What shall I do with it?" "Pay for the yarn you bought for the women in the Old Ladies' Home to knit with," said Helen promptly. "'"The time has come," the walrus said,'" quoted Tom, "when we must have a treasurer. It was all very well talking about not needing one when we didn't have a cent of money, but now we are on the way toward being multis and we can't get on any longer without some one to look after it." "Let's make Tom treasurer and then he can fuss over the old accounts himself," suggested Roger. Roger's loathing for keeping accounts was so well known that every one laughed. "Not I," objected Tom. "I'm not at all the right one. It ought to be one of you people who live out here where we're going to do our work. You'll have hurry calls for cash very often and it would be a nuisance to have to wait a day to write or phone me. No, sir, Roger's the feller for that job." "No, Roger isn't," persisted that young man disgustedly. "I buck, I kick, I remonstrate, I protest, I refuse." "Here, here," called Ethel Blue. "Who said you could have James's vocabulary?" "Well, James, then," said Tom. "It doesn't make much difference who it is as long as he lives in these precincts and not as far away as I do. Madam President, I nominate Mr. Hancock for treasurer of the United Service Club." "You hear the nomination," responded Helen. "Is it seconded?" "I second it with both hands and an equal number of feet," replied Roger enthusiastically. "Now is the opportunity for a discussion of the merits of the candidate," observed Helen drily. "There are many things that might be said," rejoined Dorothy, "but because it would probably embarrass him--" "Oh, say!" came from James. "Are they as bad as that?" "As I was remarking when I was interrupted," continued Dorothy severely, "because it might make the candidate feel queer if he were to hear all the compliments we should pay him, I think we won't say anything." "I'll trust old Roger not to pay compliments," responded James. "Old Roger is in such a good humor because this job is being worked off on to your shoulders instead of his that he might utter some blandishments that would surprise you." "I wouldn't risk it!" "Are you ready to vote?" asked Helen. "We are," came ringing back, and the resulting ballot placed James in the treasurership, the only dissenting vote being his own. His first official act after the money was put into his hands was to give it back to Ethel Brown in part repayment of the sum which her mother had advanced for the yarn for the Old Ladies' Home. "Here's another bundle," announced Mrs. Smith, appearing with a large parcel as the Club members were looking over the collection that had come in. All the contributions were piled in a corner, and already they made a considerable mound. "Roger will have to apply some of his scientific management ideas to that mass of stuff," laughed Mrs. Smith. "I wish we could spread them out so that we could get an idea of what is which." "Couldn't we boys make some sort of rack divided into cubes or even knock together a set of plain shelves? That would lift them off the floor." "I wish you would," said Helen. "Then we ought to put a tag on each bundle telling who sent it and what is in it." "And what we think can be done with it, if it isn't in condition to send off just as it is," added Ethel Brown. "I believe I saw some planks in the cellar that would make sufficiently good shelves for what you need," said Mrs. Smith. "Suppose you boys go down stairs with me and take a look at them while the girls are making out the tags." So the boys trooped after their hostess while Ethel Brown unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen and wrote on the tags that Dorothy cut out of cardboard, and Ethel Blue fitted them with strings, so that they might be tied on to the parcels. "These dresses and coats came from Mrs. Ames," said Helen. "They belonged to her daughter who died, and they're all right for a child of ten, so we'll just mark the bundle, 'From Mrs. Ames,' and 'O.K.,' and put it away." "There's an empty packing box over in that corner," said Dorothy. "Wouldn't it be a good scheme to put the bundles we shan't have to alter at all, right into it?" "Great. Then we shan't have to touch them again until the time comes to tie them up in fancy paper to make them look Christmassy." "Here's the dress Mrs. Lancaster couldn't decide whether to have made over with black silk or blue velvet." "Mrs. Lancaster," murmured Ethel Brown, making out her card. "That certainly can't go as it is," pronounced Della. "There's material enough in it for two children's dresses," decided Margaret. "Mark it, 'Will make two dresses.'" "Here's Maud Delano's jacket. She told Roger she'd send this over when she got her new one." "It came this morning. It's all right except for tightening a button or two," and Ethel Brown inscribed, "Coat; tighten buttons" on the slip which Della tied on to one of the incompetent fasteners. "Good for Mrs. Warburton!" cried Helen. "What's she done?" "Here's a great roll of pink flannelette--and blue, too--among her things. We can make dresses and wrappers and sacques and petticoats out of that." "It always seems just as warm as woolen stuff to me," said Dorothy. "Of course it can't be." "Cotton is never so warm as wool, but if it's warm enough why ask for anything different. What's in your mind?" inquired Margaret. "I was wondering if we couldn't do something to forward the cotton crusade at the same time that we're helping the war orphans." "You mean by making things out of cotton materials?" "Yes. The orphans will want the warmest sort of clothing for winter, I suppose, but spring is coming after winter and summer after that, and I don't believe anything we send is going to be wasted." "They might wear two cotton garments one over the other," suggested Della. "I don't say that we'd better make all our clothes out of cotton material, but where it doesn't make any especial difference I don't see why we shouldn't choose cotton stuff. After all, it's the war that has spoiled the cotton trade so we're still working for war sufferers only they'll be on this side of the Atlantic. You know they say the southern cotton planters are having a serious time of it because they aren't selling any cotton to speak of in Europe." "Let's do it!" cried Ethel Blue and she told their decision to James who had come up to measure the attic doorway for some reason connected with the planks they had found. "It's a great idea. Bully for Dorothy," he cried working away with a footrule. "This will go all right," he decided, and ran down again to give a lift to the other carpenters. There were eight planks each about six feet long that Mrs. Smith had discovered in the cellar. A telephone to Mrs. Warburton had gained her consent to their use and the boys set about fitting them together as soon as they were on the top floor. Fortunately they were already planed and of so good a length for the purpose they were to be used for that nothing was needed but hammer and nails to produce a set of shelves quite adequate for the purpose. Two of the boards made the sides, and between them the remaining six were nailed at intervals. "We can set it against the wall over here," decided Tom, "and it won't need a back." "Which is lucky," James declared, "cos there ain't no planks to make a back of." "Let's nail a block of wood or a triangle of wood under the bottom shelf in the corners," advised Roger, "so the animal won't wobble." "If we had enough wood and a saw we could make nice cubby-holes, one for each bundle," remarked Tom, his head on one side. "Tom's getting enthusiastic over carpentering. We haven't either any more wood or a saw, old man, so there won't be any cubby-holes this time," decreed Roger. "It will do perfectly well this way," said Helen. "Now if you'll help us up with these bundles--" It was a presentable beginning for their collection. Two parcels in addition to Mrs. Ames's had gone into the packing case in the corner, but three shelves of the new set were filled with tight rolls, each with its tag forward so that no time would be lost in examining the contents, again. "That's what I call a good beginning," announced Helen after the boys had swept up their shavings and had taken them and their hammers and the remaining nails down stairs. "What next, Madam President?" inquired James when they returned. The girls were already spreading out the pink and blue flannelette on a plank table that had been left in the attic by the carpenters who had built the house. "We are going to cut some little wrappers out of this material. I think you boys had better fix up some sort of table over on that side of the room and get your pasting equipment ready, for we'll need oodles of boxes of all sizes and you might as well begin right off to make them." "Right-o," agreed Roger. "Methinks I saw an aged table top minus legs leaning against the wall in the cellar. Couldn't we anchor it on to this wall with a couple of hinges and then its two legs will be a good enough prop?" "If they're both on the same side." "It seems to me they are." "Any superfluous hinges around the house, Dorothy?" "I'm afraid not." "Never mind, I'll get a pair when I go after the pasteboard and the flour for the paste and a bowl for a pastepot, and a--no, _three_ brushes for us three boys to smear the paste with and some coarse cotton cloth for binders." "Don't forget the oil of cloves to keep your paste from turning sour," Dorothy cried after them. "And mind you boil it thoroughly," said Margaret. The boys started again towards the cellar when Roger's eye happened to fall on the cutting operations of the girls. "Pshaw!" he cried in scorn. "You are time-wasters! Why don't you cut out several garments at once and not have to go through all that spreading out and pinning down process every time? I saw a tailor the other day cutting a pile of trousers two feet high." "What with, I should like to know?" inquired Della mystified. "He did have a knife run by electricity," admitted Roger, "but there's no reason why you can't cut four or five of those things just as easily as one." "We'll go on down and get the table top," said James, and he and Tom departed. "Now, then, watch your Uncle Roger. Is this tissue paper affair your pattern? All you need to do is to fasten your cloth tightly down on to your table four thicknesses instead of one. Thumb tacks, Dorothy? Good child! Now lay your pattern on it--yes, thumb-tack it down if you want to--and go ahead. You've got new, sharp shears. Don't be in a hurry. There you are--and you've saved yourself the fuss of doing that three times more." [Illustration: Pattern for Wrapper e c e = twice the length from floor to neck a b = slit Fold cloth on line c b d Sew together sides f to e Insert sleeves c to f] "Roger really has a lot of sense at times," admitted Ethel Brown, after her brother had leaped down the attic stairs in pursuit of the boys. "He is good about helping," added Della. "What is this garment--a wrapper?" asked Margaret as Helen held up the soft flannelette. "Yes, it's the simplest ever, and we can adapt one pattern to children of all sizes or to grown people," explained Helen. "I never heard of anything so convenient!" "First, you measure the child from the floor to his neck--I measured this on Dicky. Then you cut a piece of material twice that length. That is, if the kiddy is thirty inches from the floor to the chin you cut your flannelette sixty inches long." [Illustration: Wrapper Completed] "Exactly. Then cut a lengthwise slit thirty inches long. Then fold the whole thing in halves across the width of the cloth and sew up the sides to within four and a half inches of the top and you have a wrapper all but the sleeves." "How do you make those?" "It takes half a yard for a grown person--a quarter of a yard for a youngster. Cut the width in halves and double it and sew it straight into the holes you've left at the tops." "Will that be the right length?" "You can shorten it if you like or lengthen it by a band. You finish the slit up the front by putting on a band of some different color. It looks pretty on the ends of the sleeves, too. We can use blue on this pink and pink on the blue." "It's easy enough, isn't it? I think I'll make myself one when we get through with the Ship." "All you need to know is the length from the person's chin to the floor and you can make it do for anybody. And all you need to do to make a short sacque is to know the length from the person's chin to his waist. I have a notion we'll have some wee bits left that we can make into cunning little jackets for babies." "I don't see why this pattern wouldn't do for an outdoor coat if you made it of thicker cloth--eider-down, for instance." "It would. Gather the ends of the sleeves about an inch down so as to make a ruffle, and put frogs or buttons and loops on the front and there you have it!" "Did you bring a petticoat pattern, Margaret?" asked Ethel Blue. "Haven't you seen the pictures of European peasant women and little girls with awfully full skirts? I believe they'd like them if we just cut two widths of the same length, hemmed them at the bottom, and ran a draw-string in the top. We can feather-stitch the top of the hem if we want to make it look pretty, or we can cut it a little longer and run one or two tucks." "Or we might buttonhole a scallop around the edge instead of hemming it," suggested Ethel Brown. "You know I believe in doing one thing well," said Dorothy. "How would it do if we Club girls made just coats and wrappers and sacques from that pattern of Helen's, and petticoats? We can make them of all sorts of colors and a variety of materials and we can trim them differently. We'd be making some mighty pretty ones before we got through." "I don't see why not," agreed Margaret thoughtfully. "Let's do it." "I brought the Red Cross knitting directions," said Delia. "I didn't get them till this morning." "Grandmother will be delighted with those. She's going to take them to the Old Ladies' Home and start them all to work there." "Are you sure they'll knit for the children?" "She's going to ask them to knit for the children now, with bright-colored yarns. Afterwards they can knit for the soldiers, and then they must use dark blue or grey or khaki color--not even a stripe that will make any poor fellow conspicuous." As they finished reading the instructions they heard the boys tramping upstairs with their paraphernalia. "It looks to me, Dorothy," said Tom, "as if you had us on your hands for most of these club meetings, to do our work here. Are you sure Mrs. Smith doesn't mind?" "Mother is delighted," Dorothy reassured him. "And she wants you all to come down and have some chocolate." CHAPTER VII FOR A TRAVELLER'S KIT ONCE the Club was started on its work it seemed as if the days were far too short for them to accomplish half of what they wanted to do. Mrs. Morton insisted that her children should have at least two hours out of doors every day, and that cut down the afternoons into an absurdly brief working time. Mrs. Smith had electric lights installed in her attic and it became the habit of the Mortons and often of the Hancocks to meet there and cut and sew and jig-saw and paste for an hour or two every evening. The Watkinses were active in New York evidently, for Della sent frequent postcards asking for directions on one point or another and Tom exchanged jig-saw news with Roger almost daily. Meanwhile the war was in every one's mind. The whole country realized the desirability of trying to obey President Wilson's request for neutrality in word, thought, and deed. The subject was forbidden at school where the teachers never referred to the colossal struggle that was rending Europe and the children of varied ancestries played together harmoniously in the school yard. If at the high school Fräulein and Mademoiselle were looked at with a new interest by their scholars no word suggestive of a possible lack of harmony was uttered to them, and their friendship for each other seemed to increase with every day's prolongation of the war. In the Morton family war discussion was not forbidden and the events of the last twenty-four hours as the newspapers reported them were talked over at dinner every evening. Mrs. Morton thought that the children should not be ignorant of the most upheaving event that had stirred the world in centuries, but she did not permit any violent expressions of partisanship. "You children are especially bound to be neutral," she insisted, "because your father and Ethel Blue's father are in the service of our country, and a neutrality as complete as possible is more desirable from them and their families than from civilians." A new idea was blossoming in the young people's minds, however. They had grown up with the belief that armament was necessary to preserve peace. Great men and good had said so. "If we are prepared for war," they declared, "other nations will be afraid to fight us." Captain and Lieutenant Morton had agreed with them, as was natural for men of their profession. They did not believe in aggression but in being ready for defense should they be attacked. Now it seemed to Roger and Helen as they read of the sufferings of invaded France and the distress of trampled Belgium that no country had the right to benefit by results obtained through such cruel means. "Just suppose a shell should drop down here just as we were walking along," imagined Roger as he and Helen were on their way to school. "Suppose Patrick Shea's cornfield there was marched over before the corn was harvested and all these houses and churches and schools were blown up or burned down and all the people of this town were lying around in the streets dead or wounded!" "When you bring it home to Rosemont it doesn't sound the way it does when you read in the histories about a 'movement' here and a 'turning of the right flank' there, and 'the end of the line crumpling up.' When the line crumples up it means fathers and brothers are killed and women and children starve--" "Think what it would be to have nothing to eat and to have to grub around in the fields and devour roots like the peasants in the famine time in Louis XIV's reign." "And think about the destruction of all the little homes that have been built up with so much care and happiness. Mary told me her sister bought a chair one month and a table at another time when she and her husband came across bargains," said practical Ethel Brown who had caught up with them. "They've furnished their whole house the way we children have added to our kitchen tins and plates; and then everything would be broken to smash by just one of those shells." "The people who've been spreading the gospel of peace for years and years needn't be discouraged now, it seems to me," observed Roger thoughtfully, "even if it does look as if all their talk had been for nothing. These horrors make a bigger appeal than any amount of talk." "Grandfather Emerson says that perhaps universal peace is going to be the result of the war. It seems far off enough now." "It will be dearly bought peace." "Hush, there goes Mademoiselle. I wonder when she's going to sail." "Why don't you ask her to-day? The Club must give her some kind of send-off, you know." "I wonder if she'd mind if we went to New York to see her start?" "It won't be hard to find out. We can tell her that we won't be offended if she says 'No.'" "If she's willing we might take that opportunity to go over the ship. I've always wanted to go over an ocean steamer." "Perhaps they won't let anybody do it now on account of the war. It will be great if we can, though." The Service Club learned more geography in the course of its studies of the war news than its members ever had learned before voluntarily. The approach of the German army upon Paris was watched every day and its advance was marked upon a large map that Roger had installed in the sitting-room. When the Germans withdrew the change of their line and its daily relation to the battle front of the Allies was noted by the watchful pencil of one or another of the newspaper readers. Thanks to the simplicity of the pattern which the Club had adopted for its own they were enabled to make a large number of gay garments in a wonderfully short time. From several further donations of material they made wrappers for children of fourteen, twelve, ten, down to the babies, adding to each a belt of the same color as the band so that the garments might serve as dresses at a pinch. They found that with the smaller sizes they could cut off a narrow band from the width of the cloth at each side, and that served as trimming for another garment of contrasting color. When they had constructed a goodly pile of long wrappers they fell upon the short sacques, and before many days passed a mound of pink-banded blue and blue-banded pink, and red-banded white and white-banded red rose beside their machines. Della wrote that she was using her mother's machine and was learning how better and better every day. Thanks to their lessons at Chautauqua Margaret and Helen sewed well on the machine already. Ethel Brown and Ethel Blue and Dorothy basted on the bands and the belts and added the fastenings. It was their fingers, too, that feather-stitched and cat-stitched the petticoats that came into being with another donation of flannelette. Dorothy was glad when any new material was cotton as every yard that they used helped the South to rid itself of its unsold crop. "Ladies are going to wear cotton dresses all winter, they say," she told the Club at one of its meetings. "Mother is going to let me have all my new dresses made of cotton stuff and she's going to have some herself." "We wear cotton middies all winter," protested the Ethels who felt as if Dorothy felt that they were not doing their share to help on the cause she was interested in. "When Aunt Marion gets your new dancing school dresses couldn't you ask her to get cotton ones?" "I suppose we could. Do you think they'd be pretty enough?" "Some cotton dresses that are going to be worn on the opening night of the opera at the Metropolitan are to be on exhibition in New York in a week or two." "If cotton is good enough for that purpose I guess it's good enough for your dancing class," laughed Helen. "Mother says they make perfectly beautiful cottons now of exquisite colors and lovely designs. Don't you think it would be great if we set the fashion of the dancing class?" "Let's do it. Mother says silk isn't appropriate for girls of our age, anyway." "If you can be dressed appropriately and beautifully at the same time I don't see that you have anything to complain of," smiled Helen. With the short time that the girls had at their command every day it did not seem as if they would be able to do much with the garments that came in to be made over. There were not many of these because the boys had been instructed after the first day to ask that alterations and mending be done at home, but there were a few dresses like Mrs. Lancaster's that were on their hands. Mrs. Smith came to their help when this work bade fair to be too much for them. "I'll ask Aunt Marion and Mrs. Emerson and Mrs. Hancock and Mrs. Watkins to lunch with me some day," she promised Dorothy, "and after luncheon we'll have an old-fashioned bee and rip up these dresses and then we can see what material they give us and we can plan what to do with them." The scheme worked out to a charm. The elders enjoyed themselves mightily and the resulting pile of materials, smoothly ironed and carefully sorted gave Margaret and Helen a chance to exercise their ingenuity. Mrs. Watkins took back to town with her enough stuff for two, promising to help Della with them, and the suburban girls, with the assistance of the grown-ups, made six charming frocks that looked as good as new. It was early in October that Helen rushed home from school one day with the news that Mademoiselle was going to sail at the end of the week. "We must begin to-day to make up a good-bye parcel for her," she cried. "Red Cross nurses are allowed a very small kit," warned Mrs. Morton. "We can try to make things so tiny that she won't have to leave them behind her when she goes on duty, but even if she does she can give them to somebody who can make them useful." "I'll make steamer slippers to begin with," said Ethel Brown. "How?" asked Ethel Blue. [Illustration: Top of Slipper Sew a and b together] "You get a pair of fleecy inner soles--they have them at all the shoe stores--and then you cut a top piece of bright colored chintz just the shape of the top part of a slipper and you sew it together at the back and bind the edges all around." "How do you put the top and the sole together?" "The edge of the sole is soft enough to sew through. You turn the top inside out over the sole and sew the binding of the chintz on to the edge of the sole over and over and when you turn it right side out there you are with gay shoes." "They'll fill up a bag, though," commented Ethel Blue. "I should think you might make a pair just like that only make the sole of something that would double up. Then they'd go into a case and be more compact." "That's a good idea, too," agreed Ethel Brown. "What could you use for a sole?" "Soft leather would be best. I imagine you could get a piece from the cobbler down town. Or you could get the very thin leather that they used at Chautauqua for cardcases and pocket books--the kind Roger uses--and stitch two pieces together." "Why wouldn't a heavy duck sole do?" suggested Mrs. Emerson. "If you stepped on a pin it wouldn't keep it out as well as leather," objected her daughter. "I believe I'll try a pair with a flowery chintz top and a duck sole covered with chintz like a lining to the shoe," said Ethel Blue slowly as she thought it out. "Then I'll make the case of two pieces of chintz bound together." "One piece ought to be longer than the other so that it would be a flap to come over like an envelope." This was Ethel Brown's contribution to the slipper building. "You could fasten it with a glove snapper. I got some the other day for my leather work," said Roger. "I'll put them on for you." "Why don't you Ethels make both kinds?" suggested Dorothy. "She'll find a use for them." "If you girls will make it I'll contribute the silk for a bath wrap that she can throw over her warm one, just for looks, on the boat," said Mrs. Emerson. "I have one I use on sleeping cars and it rolls up into the smallest space you can imagine." [Illustration: Slipper Case Place section a on section b and sew edges together, leaving c d open e = Snap fastening] "Good for Grandmother!" cried a chorus of voices. "Can we use our famous wrapper pattern?" asked Helen. "I don't see why not. Mine has a hood but that isn't a difficult addition if you merely shape the neck of your kimono a little and then cut a square of the material, sew it across one end and round the lower end a trifle to fit into the neck hole you've made." "How about longer sleeves, Mother?" asked Mrs. Morton. "I think I would make them longer. And I'd also make an envelope bag of the same silk to carry it in on the return trip from the bath. You'll be surprised to find into how small an envelope it will go." "Put a cord from one corner of the envelope to the other so that Mademoiselle may have her hands free for her soap and towel and other needfuls," advised Mrs. Smith, who had been listening to the suggestions. "Wouldn't another envelope arrangement of chintz lined with rubber cloth make a good washrag bag or sponge bag?" asked Ethel Brown. "Nothing better unless you put a rubber-lined pocket in a Pullman apron." This hint from Grandmother Emerson aroused the curiosity of the young people. "What is a Pullman apron? Tell us about it," they cried. "Mine is made of linen crash," said Mrs. Emerson. "Dorothy will insist on your making yours of cotton chintz and it will be just as good and even prettier. Get a yard. Cut off a piece thirty inches long and make it fourteen wide. Bind the lower edge with tape. Turn up six inches across the bottom and stitch the one big pocket it makes into smaller ones of different sizes by rows of up and down stitching. Make a bag of rubber cloth just the right size to fit one of the larger pockets. Take the six inches that you cut off from your yard of material and bind it on both edges with tape. Stitch that across your apron about four inches above the top of the lower row of pockets. Divide the strip into as many pockets as you want to for hairpins and pins and neck arrangements, and so on." "Your apron has two raw edges now," said Helen. "Bind it on each side with tape. That will finish it and it will also fasten the edges of the pockets securely to the apron. Sew across the top a tape long enough to serve as strings." [Illustration: Pullman Apron d b plus the turned up portion, b a, = 30 inches b a = 6 inches b b = 14 inches c c c = pockets d d = strings] "The idea is to roll all your toilet belongings up together in your bag, eh?" "Yes, and when you go to the ladies' room on the train you tie the apron around your waist and then you have your brush and comb and hairpins and tooth brush and washrag all where you can lay your fingers on them in a second of time." "I got my best tortoise-shell hairpin mixed up with another woman's once, and I never recovered it," said Mrs. Morton meditatively. "It wouldn't have happened if you'd been supplied with a bag like this," said her mother. "Mademoiselle's silk wrap must be grey to match her other Red Cross equipment," said Mrs. Emerson, "but I don't see why the chintz things shouldn't be as gay as you like." "Pink roses would be most becoming to her style of beauty," murmured Roger who had come in. "I don't know but pink roses would be becoming enough for slippers," agreed Ethel Blue so seriously that every one laughed. "Let's get pink flowered chintz," said Ethel Brown. "You make the soft kind and I'll make the stiff kind and Dorothy'll make the apron and Helen will make the kimono. Who's got any more ideas?" "I have," contributed Roger. "I'll make a case for her manicure set. I haven't got time this week unfortunately to tool the leather but I'll make a plain one that will be useful if it isn't as pretty as I can do." "What shape will it be?" "I got part of my idea from Grandfather Emerson's spectacle case that I was examining the other day. Ethel Blue's case for the soft slippers is going to be something like it." "Two pieces of leather rounded at the lower corners and stitched together at the sides and with a flap to shut in the contents?" guessed Dorothy. "Correct. I shall make the case about four inches long when it's closed." "That means that you'd have one strip four inches long and the other, the one with the flap, six inches long." "Once more correct, most noble child. It will be a liberal two inches wide, a bit more in this instance because I'm not much of a sewer and I want to be sure that I'm far enough from the edge to make it secure." "You don't try to turn it inside out, do you?" "No, ma'am. Not that mite of an object. You fit a tiny pasteboard slide into the case. Cover it with velvet or leather or a scrap of Ethel Blue's chintz--" "'Rah for cotton," cheered Dorothy. "--and on one side of this division you slip in the scissors and the file and the tweezers or the orange stick and on the other a little buffer with a strap handle that doesn't take up any room." "How in the world do you happen to be so up in manicure articles?" queried Helen, amazed at his knowledge. "Nothing strange about that," returned Roger. "Aunt Louise showed me hers the other day when I was talking to her about making one for just this occasion. Aha!" "You could make the same sort of case without the pasteboard partition, for a tiny sewing kit," offered Ethel Blue, "and one of the envelope shape will hold soap leaves." "I'd like to suggest a couple of shirtwaist cases," said Mrs. Smith. "They are made of dotted Swiss muslin that takes up next to no room and washes like a handkerchief. You'd better make Mademoiselle's of colored muslin or of colored batiste for she won't want to be bothered with thinking about laundry any oftener than she has to." "What shape are the bags?" "Find out whether she will take an American suitcase or a bag. In either case measure the size of the bottom. Take a piece of muslin twice the size and lay it flat. Fold over the edges till they meet in the centre. Then stitch the tops across, on the inside, of course, and hem the slit, and turn them right side out and that's all there is to it. They keep waists or neckwear apart from the other clothing in one's bag and fresher for the separation." [Illustration: Shirtwaist Case] "Since I have my hand in with knitting," said Grandmother, "I believe I'll contribute a pair of bed-shoes. They're so simple that any one who can knit a plain strip can do them." "Let's have the receipt." "Cast on stitches enough to run the length of the person's foot. Fifty will be plenty for any woman and more than enough for Mademoiselle's tiny foot. It's well to have the shoe large, though. Knit ahead until you have a strip six inches high. Then cast off from one end stitches enough to make four inches and go ahead with the remainder for four inches more." "That sounds funny to me," observed Ethel Brown. "Not exactly the shape of my dainty pedestal." "You'll have made a square with a square out of one corner like this piece of paper. Now fold it along the diagonal line from the tip of the small square to the farthest edge of the big square and sew up all the edges except those of the small square. That leaves a hole where you put your foot in. Crochet an edge there to run a ribbon in--and you're done." "I'm going to run the risk of Mademoiselle's laughing at me and give her a folding umbrella," said Mrs. Morton. "It will fit into her bag and at least she can use it until she goes to the front." "All this sounds to me like a good outfit for any woman who is going to travel," observed Helen. "I'm almost moved to sail myself!" CHAPTER VIII THE RED CROSS NURSE SETS SAIL THE girls' cheeks were rosy and their hair was tangled by the wind as Helen and the rest of the U. S. C. left the car at West Street and made their way to the French Line Pier. Roger was heading the flock of Mortons, Mrs. Smith was with Dorothy, the Hancocks had come from Glen Point, more for the fun of seeing a sailing than to say "Good-bye" to Mademoiselle, whom they hardly; knew. The Watkinses were accompanied by their elder brother, Edward, a young doctor. There was a mighty chattering as the party hastened down the pier. A mightier greeted them when they reached the gang plank. "Every Frenchman left in New York must be here saying 'Good-bye' to somebody!" laughed Tom as his eye fell on the throng pressing on to the boat over a narrow plank across which passengers who had already said their farewells were leaving, and stewards were carrying cabin trunks. "Only one _passerelle_ for all that!" exclaimed a plump Frenchman whose age might be guessed by the fashion of his moustache and goatee which declared him to be a follower of Napoleon III. He was carrying a bouquet in one hand and kissing the other vehemently to the lady on the deck who was to be made the recipient of the flowers as soon as her admirer could manage to squeeze himself down the over-crowded gang plank. Taxis driving up behind the U. S. C. young people discharged their occupants upon the agitated scene. All sorts of messages were being sent across to friends on the other side, many of them shouted from pier to deck with a volubility that was startling to inexperienced French students. It was quite twenty minutes before the Club succeeded in filing Indian fashion across the _passerelle_. They were met almost at once by Mademoiselle, for she had been watching their experiences from the vessel. "Before you say 'Good-bye' to me," she said hurriedly, "I want you to go over the ship. I have special permission from the Captain. You must go quickly. There are not many minutes, you were so long in coming on." She gave them over to the kind offices of a "_mousse_" or general utility boy, who in turn introduced them to a junior officer who examined their permit as "friends of Mademoiselle Millerand" and then conveyed them to strange corners whose existence they never had guessed. First they peeked into a cabin which was one of the handsomest on the ship but whose small size brought from Ethel Brown the comment that it was a "stingy" little room. The reading and writing rooms she approved, however, as being cheerful enough to make you forget you were seasick. A lingering odor of the food of yester-year seemed to cling about the saloon and to mingle with a whiff of oil from the engine room that had assailed them just before they entered. People were saying farewells here with extraordinary impetuosity, men embracing each other with a fervor that made the less demonstrative Americans smile. One group was looking over a pile of letters on the table to see if absent friends had sent some message to catch them before they steamed. Below were other staterooms, rows upon rows of them, and yet others below those. By comparison with the fragrances here that in the saloon seemed a breeze from Araby the Blest. From above the party had looked down on the engines whose huge steel arms slid almost imperceptibly over each other as if they were slowly, slowly preparing to spring at an unseen foe; as if they knew that great waves would try to still them, the mighty workers of the great ship. A gentle breathing now seemed to stir them, but far, far down below the waterline the stokers were feeding the animal with the fuel that was to give him energy to contend with storms and winds and come out victor. Half naked men, their backs gleaming in the light from the furnaces, threw coal into the yawning mouth. The heat was intense, and the Ethels turned so pale that young Doctor Watkins hurried them into the open air. Helen was not sorry to breathe the coolness of the Hudson again and even the boys drew a long breath of relief, though they did not admit that they had been uncomfortable. "Mademoiselle Millerand awaits you in the tea room," explained the young officer, and he conducted them to a portion of the deck where passengers could sit in the open, or, on cold or windy days, behind glass and watch the sea and the passengers pacing by. Mademoiselle greeted them with shining eyes. During their absence there had been some farewells that had been difficult. "You have seen everything?" she inquired pleasantly. "Then you must have some lemonade with me before you go," and she gave an order that soon brought a trayful of glasses that tinkled cheerfully. "We are not going to be sentimental," she insisted. "This is just 'Good-bye,' and thank you many times for being so good to me at school, and many, many times more for the bundle that is in my room to surprise me. I shall open it when the Statue of Liberty is out of sight, when I can no more see my adopted land. Then shall I think of all of you and of your Club for Service." "Where do you expect to be sent, Mademoiselle?" inquired Doctor Watkins as the party walked toward the _passerelle_ over which they must somehow contrive to make their way before they could touch foot upon the pier. "To Belgium, I think. My brother is a surgeon and I have a distant relative in the ministry--" "What--_the_ Millerand?" Mademoiselle smiled and nodded. "So probably I shall be sent wherever I wish--and my heart goes but to Belgium. It is natural." "Yes, it is natural. May you have luck," he cried holding out his hand. "Mademoiselle is going to Belgium," he told the young people who were awaiting their turn at the gang-plank. They gazed at her with a sort of awe. Tales of war's horrors were common in the ears of all of them, and it was difficult to believe that the slight figure standing there so quietly beside them would see with her own eyes the uptorn fields and downfallen cottages, the dying men and the miserable women and children they had seen only in imagination. "Oh," gasped Ethel Blue; "oh! _Belgium!_ Oh, Mademoiselle, _won't_ you send us back a Belgian baby? The Club would _love_ to take care of it! Wouldn't we? Wouldn't we?" she cried turning from one to another with glittering eyes. "We would, Mademoiselle, we would," cried every one of them; and as the big ship was warped out of the pier they waved their handkerchiefs and their hands and cried over and over, "Send us a Belgian baby!" "_Un bébé belge! Ces chers enfants!_" ejaculated a motherly Frenchwoman who was weeping near them. "A Belgian baby! These dear children." And then, to James's horror, she kissed him, first on one cheek and then on the other. CHAPTER IX PLANNING THE U. S. C. "SHOW" IT was becoming more and more evident every day to the president of the United Service Club that it must have more money than was at its disposal at the moment or it would not be able to carry out its plans. Already it owed to Mrs. Morton a sum that Helen knew was larger than her mother could lend them conveniently. All of Grandfather Emerson's donation had gone to provide knitting needles and yarn for the occupants of the Old Ladies' Home, and the Club's decision to lay itself under no financial obligation to people outside of the immediate families of the members had obliged her to refuse a few small gifts that had been offered. All the members of the Club were working hard to earn money beyond their allowances and every cent was going into the Club's exchequer. Roger was faithful in his attention to the three furnaces he had undertaken to care for, though he was not above a feeling of relief that the weather was continuing so mild that he had not yet had to keep up fires continuously in any of them. James still drove his father, though the doctor threatened him with discharge almost every day because of his habit of cutting corners. The girls were carrying out their plans for money-making, and Della had secured another order for stenciled curtains which Dorothy and Ethel Brown filled. What with school and working for the orphans and working for the Club treasury these were busy days, and Helen felt that something must be done at once to provide a comparatively large sum so that their indebtedness might be paid off and the pressure upon each one of them would not be so heavy. Helen and James were going over the Club accounts one Saturday before the regular meeting. A frown showed Helen's anxiety and James's square face looked squarer and more serious than ever as he saw the deficit piled against them. "It's high time we gave that entertainment we talked about so much when we began this thing," he growled. "People will have forgotten all about it and we'll have to advertise it all over again." "That'll be easy enough if we make use of some of the small children in some way. All their relatives near and far will know all about it promptly and they'll all come to see how the kiddies perform," said Helen wisely, though her look of perplexity continued. "Let's bring it up at the meeting right now. I don't believe we can do anything better this afternoon than plan out our show and decide who and what and where." "'Where' is answered easily enough--the hall of the schoolhouse. 'Who' and 'what' require more thought." It turned out, however, that every one had been thinking of stunts to do himself or for some one else to do, so that the program did not take as much time as if the subject had not been lying in their minds for several weeks. "At the beginning," said Ethel Blue, "I think some one ought to get up and tell what the Club is trying to do--all about the war orphans and the Santa Claus Ship." "Wouldn't Grandfather Emerson be a good one to do that?" "I don't think we want to have any grown people in our show," was Helen's opinion. "If we bring them in then the outside people will expect more from us because they'll think that we've been helped and it won't be fair to us or to our grown-ups." "That's so," agreed Tom from the depths of a lifetime of experience of the ways of people in church entertainments. "Let's do every single thing ourselves if we can, and I believe the audience will like it better even if it isn't all as O. K. as it would be if we had a grown-up or two to help pull the oars." "The first question before us, then, is who will do this explanation act that Ethel Blue suggests?" There was a dead silence. No one wanted to offer. There seemed no one person on whom the task fell naturally unless--"The Club was Ethel Blue's idea," went on Helen. "Isn't she the right one to explain it?" and "The president of the Club ought to tell about it," said Ethel Blue. Both girls spoke at once. There was unanimous laughter. "'Ayther is correct,'" quoted Roger. "I think Helen is the proper victim." "Yes, indeed," Ethel Blue supported him so earnestly that every one laughed again. "You see, no one knows about its being Ethel Blue's idea and that would take a lot more explaining or else it would seem that there was no good reason for the president's not acting as showman and introducing her freaks to the audience." "'Speak for yourself, John!' I'm no freak!" declared James. "I think Helen's the right one to make the introduction, though." Helen shivered. "I must say I hate to do it," she said, "but we all agreed when we went into this that we'd do what came up, no matter whether we liked it or not, so here goes Number 1 on the program," and she wrote on her pad, beneath an elaborate PROGRAM which she had been drawing and decorating as she talked. 1. Explanatory address. Helen Morton. "Now, then," queried Ethel Brown, "what next?" "Music, if there's any one to tootle for the ladies," said Roger. "Dorothy's the singer." "Oh, I couldn't sing all alone," objected Dorothy shrinkingly. "But Mother said she'd drill a chorus of children and I wouldn't mind doing the solo part with a lot of others on the stage with me." "How about a chorus in costume?" asked Helen. "What kind of costume?" "Oh, I don't know--something historical, perhaps." "Why not the peasant costumes of the countries in the war?" suggested Ethel Blue. "We're working for the children and we'll have a child or two from each country." "A sort of illustration of Helen's speech," said Tom. "They might sing either the national songs of their countries or children's songs," said Dorothy. "Or both, with you dressed as Columbia and singing the Star Spangled Banner at the end." "La, la! Fine!" commended Margaret. "Put down Number 2, Helen, 'Songs by War Orphans.' We can work out the details later, or leave them to Dorothy and her mother." "I've been thinking that we might as well utilize some of the folk dances that we learned at Chautauqua last summer," said Ethel Brown. "Wouldn't Number 3 be a good spot to put in the Butterfly Dance?" "That was one of the prettiest dances at the Exhibition," said James. "Let's have it." "Margaret and I are too tall for it, but you four young ones know it and you can teach four more girls easily enough." "We'll ask them to-morrow at school," said Dorothy, "and we'll have a rehearsal right off. Mother will play for us and it won't take any time at all." "The costumes won't take any time, either. Any white dress will do and the wings are made by strips of soft stuff--cheese cloth or something even softer, pale blue and pink and green and yellow. They're fastened at the shoulders and a loop goes over the wrist or the little finger so the arms can keep them waving." "Do you remember the steps, Dorothy?" "They're very simple, but almost anything that moves sort of swimmingly will do." "There's Number 3, then," decided Dorothy. "Now the boys ought to appear." "Yes, what have you three been planning to throw us in the shade?" inquired Della. "I've got a fancy club-swinging act that's rather good," admitted Roger modestly. "You have?" asked Tom in surprise. "So have I. What's yours?" "Come over here and I'll tell you," and the two boys retired to a corner where they conferred. It was evident, from their burst of laughter and their exclamations that they highly approved of each other's schemes. "We've decided that we won't tell you what our act is," they declared when they came back to the broken meeting. "We'll surprise you as well as the rest of the audience." "Meanies," pronounced Ethel Brown. "Helen, put down 'Number 4, Club Swinging by Two Geese!'" "Not geese," corrected Tom, with a glance at Roger, who made a sign of caution. "What next?" queried the president. "Let's have some of the small children now. Our honorary member ought to be on the card," said Della. "Are you sure he wouldn't be afraid?" asked Tom of Dicky's brethren. "Not Dicky," they shrieked in concert. "I saw a pretty stunt in town the other evening. It was done by grown people but it would be dear with little kids," urged Della, her round face beaming with the joy of her adaptation of the idea. "It was a new kind of shadow dance." "Pshaw, that's old," declared Tom with brotherly curtness. "It wasn't done behind a sheet. That's the old way--" "A mighty good way, too," supported James stoutly. "I've seen some splendid pantomimes done on a sheet--'Red Riding Hood' and 'Jack the Giant Killer,' and a lot more." "This is much cunninger," insisted Della. "Instead of a sheet there's a dull, light blue curtain hung across the stage. The light is behind it, but the actors are in front of it." "Then you don't see their shadows." "You see themselves in silhouette against the blue. There is a net curtain down between them and the audience and it looks like moonlight with elves and fairies playing in it." "It would be hard to train Dicky to be a fairy," decided Ethel Blue so gravely that all the others laughed. "I was thinking that it would be fun to have Dicky and some other children dressed like pussy cats and rabbits and dogs, and playing about as if they were frisking in the moonlight." "Why not have them do a regular little play like 'Flossy Fisher's Funnies' that have been coming out in the _Ladies' Home Journal_?" screamed Ethel Brown, electrified at the growth of the idea. "Take almost any one of them and get the children to play the little story it tells and I don't see why it wouldn't be too cunning for words." "What kind of stories?" asked James who liked to understand. "I don't remember any one exactly but they are something like this;--Mr. Dog goes fishing on the bank of the stream. A strip of pasteboard cut at the top into rushes will give the effect of a brook, you know. He pulls up a fish with a jerk that throws it over his head. Pussy Cat is waiting just behind him. She seizes the fish and runs away with it. Mr. Dog runs after her. The cat jumps over a wheelbarrow, but the dog doesn't see it and gets a fall--and so on." "I can see how it would be funny with little scraps of kids," pronounced Tom. "Who'll train them?" "I'll do that," offered Ethel Brown. "Dicky's always good with me and if he understands the story he'll really help teach the others." "Pick out a simple 'Flossy Fisher' or make up an easy story with plenty of action," advised Margaret. "The chief trouble you'll have is to make the children stay apart on the stage. They'll keep bunching up and spoiling the silhouettes if you aren't careful." "Number 5. Silhouettes," wrote Helen on her pad. "What's Number 6?" "I don't know whether you'll approve of this," offered Dorothy rather shyly, "but when I was at the Old Ladies' Home the other day I thought they made a real picture knitting away there in the sunshine in their sitting room. Do you think some of them could be induced to come to the schoolhouse and make a tableau?" "Fine!" commended Helen. "You could have it a picture of sentiment, such as Dorothy had in mind, I judge," said Tom, "or you could turn it into a comic by having some one sing 'Sister Susie's Sewing Shirts for Soldiers.'" "What's that?" "A stay-at-home war song they're singing in England. It's funny because it's so full of S's that it's almost impossible to sing it without a mistake. I think it would be better, though, to have the old ladies just knitting away. After all, it's sympathy with the orphans we want to arouse." "Couldn't we have a tableau within a tableau--a picture at the back placed with the figures posed behind a net curtain so that they'd be dimmed--a picture of some of the Belgian orphans refugeeing into Holland or something of that sort?" "If Mademoiselle would only send us right off that Belgian baby that James got kissed for we'd have an actual exhibit," said Roger. James made a face at the memory of the unexpected caress he had earned unwittingly, but he approved highly of the addition to the picture of the old ladies. "They're thinking about the orphans as they knit--and there are the orphans," he said, and even his sister Margaret smiled at the approbation with which he looked on a tableau that left nothing to the imagination. "Number 6 is settled, then. Why can't we have the minuet for Number 7?" "Good. All of us here know it so we shan't need to rehearse much." "On that small stage four couples will be plenty, I say," offered Roger. "I think so, too. Eight would make it altogether too crowded," declared Helen. "That means that four of us girls will dance--we can decide which ones later--and you three boys, and we'll only have to train one new boy." "What's the matter with George Foster? His sister is a dancing teacher and perhaps he knows it already." "He's the best choice we can make. We want to get this thing done just as fast as we can for several reasons," continued Helen. "In the first place any entertainment goes off more snappily if the fun of doing it isn't all worn off by too many rehearsals." "Correct," agreed Tom. "Remember that Children's Symphony we exhausted ourselves on for a month last winter, Della?" Della did and expressed her memories with closed eyes and out-stretched hands. "If each one of us makes himself and herself responsible for having his own part perfect and the stunts that he's drilling others in as nearly perfect as he can, then I don't see why we need more than ten days for it." "Especially as we know all the dances now and the Old Ladies' Home tableau won't take much preparation." "Have we got enough numbers on the program, Helen?" "I think we ought to end with a long thing of some sort." "We'll never pull off the show if you try to stick in a play," growled James. "Not a play, but I was reading Browning's 'Pied Piper of Hamelin' the other day and it can easily be made workable with just a little speaking and some pantomime. Two or three rehearsals ought to do it." "All right, then. Your sufferings be on your head." "You'll all back me up, won't you?" "We'll do whatever you tell us, if that's what you want." "Read us the whole program, Madam President," begged Dorothy. "Here you are; I've changed the order a little: PROGRAM 1. Address, Helen Morton. 2. Songs by War Orphans, led by Dorothy Smith. 3. Butterfly Dance. 4. Club Swinging by Roger Morton and Thomas Watkins. 5. Knitting for the War Orphans by Ladies from the Old Ladies' Home. 6. Silhouettes by Dicky Morton and other Juniors. 7. Minuet. 8. "The Pied Piper." "If I do say it as shouldn't, having had a modest part in its construction," remarked Roger complacently, "that's a good program." "Do you know," added Margaret earnestly, "I think so too." So, after discussion of details concerning responsibility and rehearsals, and the appointment of a publicity committee consisting of the officers of the Club plus Roger, the meeting adjourned. CHAPTER X THE EVENTFUL EVENING IF the U. S. C.'s had thought themselves busy before they undertook their entertainment they concluded as they rushed from one duty to another in the ten days of preparation for that function that they had not learned the A B C of busy-ness. Mrs. Morton always insisted that, whatever was on foot, school work must not be slighted. "Your education is your preparation for life," she said. "While you are young you must lay down a good foundation for the later years to build on. You know what happens when a foundation is poor." They did. A building in Rosemont had fallen into a heap of ruins not long before, to the shame of the contractor who had put in poor work. So all the school duties were attended to faithfully, and the out-of-door time was not skimped though the out-of-door time was largely devoted to doing errands connected with the "show," and the home lessons were learned as thoroughly as usual. But sewing went by the board for ten days except such sewing as was necessary for the making of costumes. "Here's a chance for your Club to try out some of Roger's ideas of system," said Grandfather Emerson as he listened to the plans which were always on the lips of the club members whenever he met them. "I think we're doing it all pretty systematically," Helen defended. "Each one of us is responsible for doing certain things and our work doesn't overlap. When we come together for a general rehearsal I believe we're going to find that all the parts will fit together like a cut-out puzzle." [Illustration: Costume for Butterfly Dance] Mr. Emerson said that he hoped so in a tone of such doubt that Helen was more than ever determined that all should run smoothly. To that end she made a diplomatic investigation into every number of the program. Every one she found to be going on well. Her own address was already blocked out in her mind. Dorothy had taken bodily a singing class that Mrs. Smith had started at the Rosemont Settlement and, with the knowledge of singing that the children already had, they soon were drilled in their special songs and in the motions that enlivened them. Mrs. Smith and Dorothy were also preparing the costumes and they reported that the mothers of the children were helping, some of them providing actual peasant costumes that had come from the old country. With four girls who already knew the butterfly dance the drilling of another quartette was swiftly done, and the Ethels were willing to put their flock of butterflies on the stage four days after they had begun to practice. Because every one of them had a white dress their costumes required almost no work beyond the cutting lengthwise of a yard and a quarter of cheesecloth. When they had gathered one end and attached the safety pin which was to fasten it to the shoulder, and gathered the other end and sewed on a loop which was to go over the little finger--all of which took about five minutes--that costume was finished. About the boys' club swinging Helen could not obtain any information beyond the assurance that all was well. With that she had to content herself. The old ladies at the Home were delighted to be able to help and also delighted at the excitement of taking part in the entertainment. They voted for the trio who should represent them in the tableaux and generously selected three who were the most handicapped of all of them. One was lame and always sat with her crutch beside her; one was blind, though her fast flying fingers did not betray it; and the third lived in a wheel-chair. They demurred strongly to their companions' choice, but the other old ladies were insistent and the appointees could not resist the fun. Mr. Emerson agreed to provide transportation for them, wheel-chair and all, and Doctor Hancock was to send over a wagonette from Glen Point so that the rest of the inmates of the Home might take advantage of the tickets that some mysterious giver had sent to every one of them. For the inner picture Dicky and two of his kindergarten friends were to be posed, clad in rags. "It's no trouble to provide Dicky with a ragged suit," said Mrs. Morton. "The difficulty is going to be to make him look serious and poorly fed." "A little artistic shading under his eyes and on his cheeks will make his plumpness disappear. I'll 'make up' the children," offered Mrs. Emerson. Most difficult of all were the silhouettes. This was because the children who were to take part were so tiny that they could not quite remember the sequence of the story they were to act out. There were moments when the Ethels were almost disposed to give up the youngsters and try the shadows with larger children. "The little ones make so much cunninger cats and dogs than the bigger children I don't want to do it unless we have to," said Ethel Brown, and they found at last that perseverance won the day. Here, too, the children's mothers helped with the costumes, and turned out a creditable collection of animal coverings, not one of them with a bit of fur. "They're another help to your cotton crusade," Ethel Blue told Dorothy. Grey flannelette made a soft maltese pussy; the same material in brown covered a dog; a white coat splashed with brown spots out of the family coffee pot was the covering of another Fido, while another white garment stained with black and yellow ornamented a tortoise-shell cat. The rabbits all wore white. As with the butterfly dance so many of the performers knew the minuet that it needed only two rehearsals. The new boy worked in without any trouble and was so graceful and dignified that the U. S. C. boys found themselves emulating his excellent manner. Helen herself took charge of "The Pied Piper" and so few were the speaking parts and so short and so natural the pantomime that she drilled her company in three rehearsals, though she herself worked longer in private over the manipulation of certain stage "properties," and had one or two special sessions with Dr. Edward Watkins who was to take the principal part. Friday evening was chosen for the performance. The Rosemont young people usually had their evening festivities on Fridays because they could sit up later than usual without being disturbed about school work the next morning. The special Friday proved to be clear with a brilliant moon and the old ladies driving over from the Home felt themselves to be out on a grand lark. Evidently the boys had done their publicity work thoroughly, for not only did they see a goodly number of Rosemont people approaching the schoolhouse, but, just as they drove up to the door, a special car from Glen Point stopped to let off a crowd of friends of the Hancocks who had come over to see "what the children were doing for the war orphans." The school hall held 300 people and no seats were reserved except those for the old ladies. They found themselves in front where they could see well and where they were near enough to appreciate the care with which the edge of the platform was decorated. That had been Margaret Hancock's work and she had remembered the success of the Service Club in preparing the platform for the Old First Night exercises at Chautauqua. Tom had insisted that the Club should go to the extra expense of having tickets printed. James had objected. "This old treasury of ours is almost an empty box," he growled. "We can't afford to spend cold cash on printing." "It will pay in the end, believe me," insisted Tom slangily. "You know there are always a lot of people who think they'll go to a show and then at the last minute think they won't if something more amusing turns up. If you sell tickets beforehand you've got their contribution to the cause even if they don't appear themselves." "Tom's right," agreed Margaret. "They won't mind losing so small a sum as a quarter if they don't go." "And they'd think it was too small an amount to bother themselves about by hunting up the treasurer and paying it in if they didn't have a ticket," said Roger. "And there are some people who'd be sure to come and swell the audience just because they had spent a quarter on a ticket," said Ethel Brown. "What does the president think?" asked Ethel Blue. Helen agreed with Tom and the tickets were printed. After all they came to only a small sum and Roger, peeking through a hole in the curtain, saw with satisfaction that if there were going to be any vacant seats at all they would not be many. When one of the old ladies turned about just before the curtain went up she saw a solid room behind her and people standing against the wall. There was music before the curtain rose. This enrichment of the program was a surprise to the performers themselves. Young Doctor Edward Watkins had become so interested in the United Service Club when he met them at the French Line Pier that he had insisted on helping with their work for the orphans. "If Mademoiselle really sends you that Belgian baby you may need a special physician for it," he said. "So you'd better stand in with one whose practice isn't big enough yet to take all his time." He said this to Helen when he appeared with Tom and Della on the evening of the performance and announced that not only did he know his part in the "Piper" but he had brought his violin and would be glad to be a part of the orchestra. "But we haven't an orchestra," objected Helen. "I wish we had." "Who's going to play for the dances?" "Aunt Louise." "Why can't she and I do something at the beginning? It will seem a little less cold than just having the curtain go up without any preliminaries." Mrs. Smith proved to be delighted to go over with Doctor Watkins the music he had brought and they selected one or two lively bits that would set the mood of the audience for the evening. So Mrs. Morton and the Emersons and the younger members of the cast were greatly surprised to hear an overture from a well-played violin accompanied by the piano. While the applause was dying away the curtain rose on Helen seated at a desk reading from a blank exercise book filled with Ethel Blue's neat writing. "This is the report of the Secretary of the United Service Club," began Helen when the applause that greeted her appearance had subsided. She was looking very pretty, wearing a straight, plain pink frock and having her hair bound with a narrow pink fillet. "Perhaps you don't know what the United Service Club is," she went on, and then she told in the simplest manner of the beginning of the Club at Chautauqua the summer before. "What we're trying to do is to help other people whether we want to or not," she declared earnestly. A soft laugh went over the audience at this contradictory statement. "I mean," continued Helen, somewhat confused, "that we mean to do things that will help people even if we don't get any fun out of it ourselves. We want to improve our characters, you see," she added artlessly. "So far we haven't had much chance to improve our characters because all the things that have come our way to do have been things that were great fun--like to-night. "To-night," she went on earnestly, "you have come here to see a little entertainment that we've gotten up to make some money so that we could send a bigger bundle to the Christmas Ship that is going to sail for Europe early in November. We thought we could make a good many presents for the war orphans but we found that our allowances didn't go as far as we thought they would, although we have a very careful treasurer," she added with a smiling glance at the wings of the stage where James greeted her compliment with a wry face. "We made a rule that we would make all the money we needed and not accept presents, so this show is the result, and we hope you'll like it. Anyway, we've had lots of fun getting it up." She bowed her thanks to the applause that greeted her girlish explanation and stepped behind the scenes. Immediately a gay march sounded from the piano. It was a medley of well-known national songs and in time with its notes a group of children led by Dorothy ran upon the stage. Dorothy stepped to the front and sang a few lines of introduction to the tune of "Yankee Doodle." "Here we are from Fatherland, From Russia and from France, From Japan and from Ireland We all together dance. "At home they are not dancing now; There's war and awful slaughter; We here in Rosemont make our bow, Each one Columbia's daughter." Then a flaxen-haired little girl stepped forward and sang a German folk song and after it she and two other children dressed in German peasant costume danced a merry folk dance. Representatives of the other countries which Dorothy's verses had named sang in turn. Then each group sang its national song, at the end uniting in "The Star Spangled Banner," in which the standing audience joined. There was a great clapping when the curtain fell, but the managers had decided that there should be no encores, so the curtain merely rose once upon a bowing, smiling group and then fell with a decision that was understood to be final. "Whatever we do wrong, the thing we must do right," Helen had insisted when she was drilling her performers, "is to have promptness in putting on our 'acts.'" "That's so," agreed Tom, "there's nothing an audience hates more than to wait everlastingly between 'turns' while whispering and giggling goes on behind the scenes." As a result of Helen's sternness the butterflies were waiting when the little internationals went off, and, as those of the children who were not to appear again filed quietly down into the audience where they could see the remainder of the performance, waving wings of soft pink and blue and green and yellow fluttered in from the sides. There was nothing intricate about the steps of this pretty dance. There were movements forward and back and to one side and another, with an occasional turn, but the slowly waving hands with their delicate burden of color made the whole effect entirely charming. When Tom and Roger, jersey clad, stepped on to the stage for the club-swinging act all the other performers were clustered in the wings, for it had roused their curiosity. Evidently Roger was to swing first for he stepped to the front while Tom beckoned to the janitor of the hall who came forward and attached electric light wires to a plug in the edge of the platform. Tom made a connection with wires that ran up under the back of Roger's jersey and down his sleeves and through holes bored into his clubs, and then he stepped forward to the front. "While Roger Morton is swinging his clubs the lights of the hall will be turned off," he explained. "I mention it so that no one will be startled when they go out." Out they went, and in a flash Roger's clubs, made of red and white striped cotton stretched over wire frames which covered electric light bulbs screwed to a sawed-off pair of clubs, were illuminated from within. The beauty of the movements as the clubs flashed here and there in simple or elaborate curves and whirls drew exclamations of enjoyment from the audience. "That's one of the prettiest stunts I ever saw," exclaimed Doctor Hancock, and Doctor Watkins led the vigorous applause that begged Roger to go on. True to his agreement with Helen, however, Roger stepped aside as soon as he was freed from his apparatus and the lights were turned on once more in the hall, and prepared to help Tom. It was clear that Tom, too, was not going to do ordinary club-swinging. He took up his position in the centre of the stage and Roger brought forward a box which he deposited beside him. The actors behind the scenes craned their heads forward until they were visible to the audience, so eager were they to see what the box contained. "My friend, Tom Watkins," said Roger gravely, "is something of a naturalist. In the course of his travels and studies he has come across a curious animal whose chief characteristic is what I may be permitted to call its adhesive power. So closely does it cling to anything to which it attaches itself that it can be detached only with great difficulty. So marked is this peculiarity of the _Canis Taurus_--" A peculiar grunt of amusement from certain high school members of the audience interrupted Roger's oration. "_Canis_, dog; _taurus_, bull," they whispered. "--of the _Canis Taurus_," he went on, "that Watkins has been able to train two of his specimens to do the very remarkable act that you are about to see." As he ended he threw back the top of the box and there popped up over the edge the infinitely ugly heads of Cupid's two pup's, Amor and Amorette. A howl of laughter greeted their silly, solemn countenances. Tom whistled sharply and they sprang from their narrow quarters and ran to him. He stroked them, and faced them toward the footlights so that their eyes should not be dazzled by seeing them suddenly. Then he began to play with them, pushing them about and shoving them gently with the ravelled ends of two short pieces of knotted rope. When he had teased them for a minute he stood upright and Amor and Amorette were hanging each from a rope! It was a trick he had taught them as soon as their teeth were strong enough. Slowly he swung them back and forth, and then in semi-circles constantly increasing in sweep, until in a flash they rose over his head and described regular simple Indian club evolutions. Every move was slow and steady with no jerks that would break the dogs' hold and Amor and Amorette held on with a firmness that did credit to their inheritance of jaw muscle and determination. "Good for the _Canis Taurus_," laughed Mr. Wheeler, the high school teacher, from the back of the hall as the swinging died rhythmically away. "Speak to the ladies and gentlemen," commanded Tom as he dropped the ropes and their attachments to the floor. Each dog was still holding firmly to his bit of rope and manifested no desire to part from it. At their master's order, however, they let go of their handles and uttered two sharp barks. Then they picked them up again and trotted off the stage. All this was so unusual that it aroused the most fervent enthusiasm that had yet been shown. Feet stamped and canes rapped but Tom would do no more than walk on with a dog on each side of him and bow as they barked. With the announcement of the knitting tableau there was a flutter among the old ladies from the Home. Here was an act in which they felt a personal interest. It was almost embarrassing to be so nearly related to a number on the program! The curtain rose very slowly to soft music thrilling through the hall. It was a homely scene--just such a room as any one of the old ladies may have had when she still had a home of her own. There was a table with a lamp upon it and around the table were the three old ladies, one with her crutch and one in her wheel chair, and one sitting in the darkness that was daylight to her--the shining of a contented heart. All of them were knitting. Slowly there grew into view behind them on the wall the picture of the thoughts that were in their minds--the picture of three children, pale, thin, tear-stained, trudging along a weary road. Each one carried a bundle far too heavy for him and each looked unsmilingly out of the frame, though Mrs. Morton breathed a sigh of relief when the touching scene faded and she knew that there was no longer any danger of Dicky's spoiling the effect by a burst of laughter or a genial call to some acquaintance in the audience. Slowly the curtain fell and the old ladies were lost to view. Then the old ladies in front breathed a sigh of satisfaction. It had been simply perfect! CHAPTER XI "SISTER SUSIE'S SEWING SHIRTS FOR SOLDIERS" WITH the evening well under way Helen was beginning to be relieved of the worry that she had not been able to control, but as the time for the silhouette approached the Ethels became distinctly disturbed. Dicky always was an uncertain element. Because he had behaved like an angel child in the tableau with the old ladies was no assurance that as a pussy cat in the silhouettes he would not raise an uproar which would put to shame any backyard feline of their acquaintance. Dicky's companions in the animal play were ready behind the scenes and their funny costumes were causing bursts of suppressed mirth as they danced about excitedly. When Dicky finished his tableau he was hurried into his maltese coat and by the time that his Aunt Louise had played the "Owl and the Pussy Cat" and Dorothy had sung it, the blue curtain had been lowered, the light behind it turned on, and between it and the net curtain in front the dogs and the cats and the rabbits frisked happily. In fact the raising of the outside curtain caught them tagging each other about the stage in a manner that was vastly amusing but had nothing to do with the play. For there was a little play. The Ethels had made it up themselves and it had to do not only with a fisher dog who lost his catch to a robber cat but with a clever rabbit who was chased by both dogs and cats and who took refuge in the rushes on the bank of the stream and was passed by because his pursuers mistook the tips of his ears for rushes. Then they made signs that, wherever he was, if he would come out and join them they should all be friends. He came out and they took paws and danced about in a circle. Against the dull blue background it looked as if the animals were playing in the moonlight, jumping and walking on their hindlegs like the creatures in the fairy books. The small children in the audience were especially pleased with this number and when at the end a boy appeared carrying his schoolbooks and all the animals fell into line behind him and walked off demurely to school it was so like what happens at the end of the holidays that they burst into renewed clapping. The minuet went with the utmost smoothness. Doctor Watkins added his violin to the piano's playing of the Mozart music from "Don Giovanni" and the picturesquely dressed figures stepped and bowed and courtesied with grace and precision. Helen danced with Tom, Margaret with Roger, Ethel Brown with James, and Ethel Blue with the new boy, George Foster. The girls all wore ruffled skirts with paniers elaborately bunched over them, and they had their hair powdered. The boys wore knee breeches, long-tailed coats, and white wigs. On the wall hung an old portrait of a Morton ancestor. A spinet stood at one side of the room which the stage represented. The whole atmosphere was that of a day long gone by. After this number was done Doctor Watkins appeared before the curtain. "I am asked by the president of the United Service Club," he said, "to tell you that there will be an interval of ten minutes between the minuet and the next offering of the program. During that time I am going to sing you a song that the English soldiers are singing. It isn't a serious song, for the soldiers are hearing enough sad sounds without adding to them. I may make some mistakes in singing it--you'll understand why in a moment." At a nod from him, Mrs. Smith broke into the opening notes of "Sister Susie's Sewing Shirts for Soldiers," and by the time the doctor had finished the second stanza the audience was humming the chorus. "Come on," he cried. "I did make some mistakes. See if you can do better," and he led the tune for the four lines that announced,-- "Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers. Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows, Some soldiers send epistles, say they'd sooner sleep in thistles Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers Sister Susie sews." Everybody laughed and laughed and tried to sing and laughed again. When the chorus was over, Doctor Watkins dashed into the Allies' song, "Tipperary," and followed it by "Deutschland ueber Alles." Then he taught the audience the words of "The Christmas Ship" and they quickly caught the air and soon were singing,-- "Hurrah, hurrah for the Christmas Ship As it starts across the sea With its load of gifts and its greater load Of loving sympathy. Let's wave our hats and clap our hands As we send it on its trip; May many a heart and home be cheered By the gifts in the Christmas Ship." Edward had a good voice and he sang with so much spirit that every one enjoyed his unexpected addition to the evening's pleasure. A bell behind the scenes announced that "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" was ready and the curtain rose on the room in the Town Hall of Hamelin in which the Corporation held its meetings. Dorothy, whose voice was clear and far-reaching, stood just below the stage at one side and read the explanation of what had been happening in the city. Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity, Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking. At this point the reading stopped and the action began. Roger, dressed as the Mayor in his mother's red flannel kimono banded with white stripes to which he had attached tiny black tails to give the effect of ermine, stalked in first. He wore a look of deep anxiety. Behind him came James and two of Roger's high school friends who represented members of the Corporation. They also were dressed in red robes but they did not attempt to equal the ermine elegance of the Mayor. After the Mayor and Corporation came a body of the townspeople. They all appeared thoroughly enraged and as the city fathers took their seats at the council table in the centre of the room they railed at them. FIRST CITIZEN. [_Tom, in rough brown jacket and baggy knee breeches, with long brown stockings and low shoes. He frowned savagely and growled in disgust._] "'Tis clear our Mayor's a noddy!" SECOND CITIZEN. [_George Foster, dressed like Tom._] "And as for our Corporation--shocking, To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin!" THIRD CITIZEN. [_Another high school boy. He was bent like a withered old man and spoke in a squeaky voice._] "You hope because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease?" FIRST CITIZEN. "Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing." THE MAYOR. "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence." FIRST MEMBER OF THE CORPORATION. [_James._] "It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so and all in vain." SECOND MEMBER OF THE CORPORATION. "Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap." At this instant came a rap on the door. Helen did it, and a cry came from THE MAYOR. "Bless us, what's that?" FIRST MEMBER. "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" THE MAYOR. "Come in!" In answer to this permission there entered Edward Watkins as the Pied Piper. He had dashed around to the back and slipped into his coat and Mrs. Emerson had painted his face while the first words of the poem were being read. He was tall and thin with light hair, yet a swarthy complexion. He wore a queer long coat, half yellow and half red and around his neck a scarf of red and yellow in stripes to which was attached a tiny flute with which his fingers played as if he were eager to pipe upon it. He smiled winningly and the people crowded in the council chamber whispered, wondering who he was and why his attire was so curious. FIRST CITIZEN. "It's as my great-grandsire Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone." THE PIED PIPER [_Edward Watkins_] advanced to the council table. "Please your honors, I'm able By means of a secret charm to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper. Yet, poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire bats: And as for what your brain bewilders If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" THE MAYOR AND CORPORATION TOGETHER. "One? Fifty thousand!" Then THE PIPER walked slowly across the stage, erect and smiling, and he piped a strange, simple tune on his flute. As he disappeared at one side the stage was darkened and at the back appeared a picture such as had been used in the tableau of the old ladies knitting. THE MAYOR and the CORPORATION and the townsfolk turned their back to the audience and gazed out through this window. Across it passed first THE PIPER still piping, and after him a horde of rats. They were pasteboard rats and Helen was drawing them across the scene with strings, but they made a very good illusion of the dancing rats that the poet described; Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats; Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats. As the crowd in the room watched they uttered exclamations--"See!" "Look at that one!" "How they follow him!" "He's leading them to the river!" "In they go!" "They're drowning!" "Every one of them!" "Let's ring the bells!" With faces of delight the townsfolk left the council chamber and from a distance came the muffled ringing of bells of joy. THE MAYOR addressed them as they passed out; "Go and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats." THE PIPER entered suddenly. "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" FIRST MEMBER OF THE CORPORATION. "A thousand guilders!" The other members of the Corporation shook their heads in solemn refusal. THE MAYOR. "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think." SECOND MEMBER OF THE CORPORATION. "So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke--" THE MAYOR. "But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke." FIRST MEMBER. "Besides, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" THE PIPER [_looking serious, cried_]; "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor; With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion." THE MAYOR. "How? D'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!" Once more the Piper laid the pipe against his lips and blew the strange, simple tune, and from both sides of the stage there came rushing in children of all sizes, boys and girls, flaxen-haired and dark-haired, blue-eyed and brown-eyed. They crowded around him and as he slowly passed off the stage they followed him, dancing and waving their hands and with never a look behind them. Once more the window at the back opened and across it went the Piper, still fluting, though now he could not be heard by the audience; and behind him still danced the children, blind to the gestures of the Mayor and Corporation who stretched out their arms, beseeching them to return. Terrified, the city fathers made known by gestures of despair that they feared the Piper was leading the children to the river where they would meet the fate of the rats. Of a sudden they seemed relieved and the picture showed the throng passing out of sight into a cavern on the mountain. Then limped upon the stage a lame boy who had not been able to dance all the way with the children and so was shut out when the mountain opened and swallowed them up. The Corporation crowded around him and heard him say: LAME BOY. "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!" The MAYOR and CORPORATION were grouped around the LAME BOY listening and the citizens at the back leaned forward so as to hear every word. Almost in tears the boy limped from the stage followed slowly by Mayor and Corporation and citizens while Dorothy's clear voice took up the tale. "Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper by word or mouth Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, 'And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:' And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn: But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land. But how or why, they don't understand." At the conclusion of the play, after hearty applause, the audience broke again into the song of the Christmas Ship: Hurrah, hurrah for the Christmas Ship As it starts across the sea With its load of gifts and its greater load Of loving sympathy. Let's wave our hats and clap our hands As we send it on its trip; May many a heart and home be cheered By the gifts in the Christmas Ship. "That's as good a show as if it had been put on by grown-ups," declared a New Yorker who had come out with Doctor Watkins. "It's hard to believe that those kids have done it all themselves." He spoke to a stranger beside him as they filed out to the music of a merry march played by Mrs. Smith. "My boy was among them," replied the Rosemont man proudly, "but I don't mind saying I think they're winners!" That seemed to be every one's opinion. As for the old ladies--the evening was such an event to them that they felt just a trifle uncertain that they had not been transported by some magic means to far away Hamelin town. "I don't believe I missed a word," said the blind old lady as the horses toiled slowly up the hill to the Home. "We'll tell you every scene so you'll know how the words fit in," promised the old lady in the wheel chair. "It will be something to talk about when we're knitting," chuckled the lame old lady brightly, and they all hummed gently, "Hurrah, hurrah for the Christmas Ship As it starts across the sea." CHAPTER XII JAMES CUTS CORNERS "VERY creditable, very creditable indeed," repeated Doctor Hancock as he and James stepped into their car to return to Glen Point after packing the old ladies into the wagonette. Mrs. Hancock and Margaret had gone home by trolley because the doctor had to make a professional call on the way. The moon lighted the road brilliantly and the machine flew along smoothly over the even surface. "This is about as near flying as a fellow can get and still be only two feet from the earth," said James. James was quiet and almost too serious for a boy of his age but he had one passion that sometimes got the better of the prudence which he inherited from the Scottish ancestor about whom Roger was always joking him. That passion was for speed. When he was a very small child he had made it his habit to descend the stairs by way of the rail at the infinite risk of his neck. Once he had run his head through the slats of a chicken coop into which an over-swift hopmobile had thrown him. On roller skates his accidents had been beyond counting because his calculations of distance often seemed not to work out harmoniously with his velocity. It was because Doctor Hancock thought that if the boy had the responsibility for his father's machine and for other people's bones he would learn to exercise proper care, that he had consented to let him become his chauffeur. The plan had seemed to work well, but once in a while the desire to fly got the better of James's discretion. "Here's where the car gets ahead of the aeroplane," said the doctor. "An aviator would find it dangerous work to skim along only two feet above ground." "I did want to go up with that airman at Chautauqua last summer!" cried James. "Why didn't you?" "Cost too much. Twenty-five plunks." The doctor whistled. "Flying high always costs," he said meditatively. "The Ethels went up. They haven't done talking about it yet. They named the man's machine, so he gave them a ride." "Good work! Look out for these corners, now. When you've studied physics a bit longer you'll learn why it is that a speeding body can't change its direction at an angle of ninety degrees and maintain its equilibrium unless it decreases its speed." James thought this over for a while. "In other words, slow up going round corners," he translated, "and later I'll learn why." "Words to that effect," replied the doctor mildly. "Here's a good straight bit," exclaimed James. "You don't care if I let her out, do you? There's nothing in sight." "Watch that cross road." "Yes, sir. Isn't this moon great!" murmured James under his breath, excited by the brilliant light and the cool air and the swift motion. "Always keep your eyes open for these heavy shadows that the moon casts," directed Doctor Hancock. "Sometimes they're deceptive." "I'll keep in the middle of the road and then the bugaboo in the shadow can see us even if I can't see him," laughed James, the moonlight in his eyes and the rush of wind in his ears. "There's something moving there! LOOK OUT!" shouted the doctor as a cow strolled slowly out from behind a tree and chewed a meditative cud right across their path. James made a swift, abrupt curve, and did not touch her. "That was a close one," he whispered, his hands shaking on the wheel. "It hasn't worried her any," reported his father, looking back. "She hasn't budged and she's still chewing. You did that very well, son. It was a difficult situation." James flushed warmly. His father was not a man to give praise often so that every word of commendation from him was doubly valued by his children. "Thank you. I shouldn't like to have it happen every day," James confessed. They sped on in silence after the cow episode, the boy glad of the chance to steady his nerves in the quiet, the doctor thinking of the case he was to visit in a few minutes. The patient's house stood on the edge of Glen Point, and James sat in the car resting and watching the machines of the townspeople passing by with gay parties out to enjoy the moonlight. Some, like themselves, had been to Rosemont, and some of his schoolmates waved to him as they passed. "It was a great show, old man," more than one boy shouted to him. It had been a good show. He knew it and he was glad that he belonged to a club that really amounted to something. They did things well and they didn't do them well just to show off or to get praise--they had a good purpose behind. He was still thinking about it when his father came out. Doctor Hancock did not talk about his cases, but James had learned that silence meant that there was need for serious thought and that the doctor was in no mood to enter into conversation. When he came out laughing, however, and jumped into the car with a care-free jest, as happened now, James knew that all was going well. "Now, home, boy," he directed. "Stop at the drug store an instant." He gave some directions to a clerk who hurried out to them and then they drove on. The moonlight sifted through the trees and flickered on the road. A cool breeze stimulated James's skin to a shiver. On they went, faster and faster. He'd had a mighty good time all the evening, James thought, and Father was a crackerjack. "LOOK OUT, boy," his father's voice rang through his thoughts. The car struck the curb with a shock that loosened his grasp on the wheel and tossed him into the air. As he flew up he tried to say, "I cut the corner too close that time," but he never knew whether he said it or not, for his voice seemed to fail him and his father could not recall hearing such a remark. It was quite an hour later when he came to himself. To his amazement he found himself in his own room. The light was shaded, his mother with tears still filling her eyes was beside him, and his father and a young man whom he recognized as the new doctor who had just come to Glen Point, were putting away instruments. He tried to move in the bed and found that his leg was extraordinarily heavy. "Did I bust my leg?" he inquired briefly. "You did," returned his father with equal brevity. "Weren't you hurt?" "A scratch on the forehead, that's all. Doctor Hanson is going to patch me up now." The two physicians left the room and James did not know until long after that the scratch required several stitches to mend. His illness was a severe trial to James. His Scottish blood taught him that his punishment fitted his crime--that he was hurt as a direct result of doing what he knew was likely to bring that result. He said to himself that he was going to take his punishment like a man. But oh, the days were long! The Glen Point boys came in when they thought of it--there was some one almost every day--but the Indian Summer was unusually prolonged and wonderfully beautiful this year, and it was more than any one could ask in reason that the boys should give up outdoors to stay with him. Roger and Helen and the Ethels and Dorothy came over from Rosemont when they could, but their daily work had to be done and they had only a few minutes to stay after the long trolley trip. "We must think up something for James to do," Mrs. Hancock told Margaret. "He's tired of reading. He can use his hands. Hasn't your Service Club something that he can work on here?" Margaret thought it had, and the result of the conversation was that Mrs. Hancock went to Rosemont on an afternoon car. The Ethels took her to Mrs. Smith's and Dorothy showed her the accumulation for the Christmas Ship that already was making a good showing in the attic devoted to the work. "These bundles in the packing cases are all finished and ready for their final wrappings," Dorothy explained. "There are dresses and wrappers and sacques and sweaters and all sorts of warm clothing like that." "And you girls did almost all of it!" exclaimed Mrs. Hancock. "Helen and Margaret made most of those," said Ethel Brown. "In this box are the knitted articles that are coming in every day now. Most of them are from the Old Ladies' Home so far, but every once in a while somebody else stops and leaves something. We girls don't knit much; it seems to go so slowly." "I brought one pair of wristers with me and I have another pair almost done," said Mrs. Hancock. "What are these?" "Those are the boxes the boys have been pasting," said Ethel Blue, picking up one of them. "They began with the large plain ones first--the real packing boxes." "Here are some that are large enough for a dress." "We've gathered all the old boxes we could find in our house or in our friends' houses--Margaret must have hunted in your attic for she brought over some a fortnight ago. None of the things we are making will require a box as large as the tailors send out, so we took those boxes and the broken ones that we found and made them over." "That must have taken a great deal of time." "The boys paste pretty fast now. Some of them they made to lock together. They didn't need anything but cutting. They got that idea from a tailor's box that Roger found." Mrs. Hancock examined the flat pasteboard cut so that the corners would interlock. "The old boxes they cut down. That saves buying new pasteboard. And they've covered some of the battered looking old ones with fresh paper so they look as good as new--" "And a great deal prettier," said Dorothy. "We get wall paper at ten cents a roll for the covering," said Ethel Blue. "They have an old-fashioned air that's attractive, Aunt Marion says," and she held up a box covered with wild roses. "They're lovely! And they must have cost you almost nothing." "We did these when our treasury was very low. Now we've got almost fifty dollars that we cleared from our entertainment after we paid all our bills and repaid Mother what we owed her," explained Ethel Brown, "so now the boys can get some fresh cardboard and some chintz and cretonne and make some real beauties." "Is this what James has been doing on Saturdays?" "James is the best paster of all, he's so careful. He always makes his corners as neat as pins. Sometimes the other boys are careless." "Then I don't see why James couldn't do some of this at home now. He has altogether too much time on his hands." "Can't he study yet?" "He learns his lessons but his father doesn't want him to go to school for at least a fortnight and perhaps not then, so he has long hours with nothing to do except read and it isn't good for him to do that all the time." "We've got a lot of ideas for pasting that we've been waiting for time and cash to put into operation," said Helen who had come in in time to hear Mrs. Hancock's complaint. "If James could have an old table that you didn't mind his getting sticky, next to his wheel chair he could do a quantity of things that we want very much, and it would help, oh, tremendously." "Tell me about them," and Mrs. Hancock sat down at once to receive her instructions. Helen brought a sheet of paper and made a list of materials to be bought and drew some of the articles over which she thought that James might be puzzled. "Some of these ideas we got from magazines," she said, "and some people told us and some we invented ourselves. They aren't any of them very large." "James will like that. It is more fun to turn off a number of articles. When he has an array standing on his table you must all go over to Glen Point and see them." "We thought that perhaps you'd let us have a meeting of the U. S. C. at your house one Saturday afternoon, and we could take over some of our work to show James and we could see his, and we could work while we were there," suggested Helen diffidently. "You're as good as gold to think of it! It will be the greatest pleasure to James. Shall we say this next Saturday?" The girls agreed that that would be a good time, and Mrs. Hancock went home laden with materials for James's pasting operations and bearing the pleasant news of the coming of the Club to meet with him. Long before the hour at which they were expected James rolled himself to the window to wait for their coming. Now that the leaves were off the trees he could just see the car stop at the end of the street and he watched eagerly for the flock of young people to run toward the house. It seemed an interminable wait, yet the car on which they had promised to come was not a minute late when at last it halted and its eager passengers stepped off. James could see the Ethels leading the procession, waving their hands toward the window at which they knew he must be, although they could not see him until they came much nearer. Dorothy followed them not far behind, and Roger and Helen brought up the rear. Every one of them was laden with parcels of the strangest shapes. "I know the conductor thought we were Santa Claus's own children," laughed Ethel Blue as they all shook hands with the invalid and inquired after his leg. "We've come up to have a pasting bee," said Helen, "and we all have ideas for you to carry out." "So have we," cried a new voice at the door, and Della and Tom came in, also laden with parcels and also bubbling with pleasure at seeing James so well again. "We shall need quantities of smallish presents that you can manage here at your table just splendidly," explained Ethel Brown. "And dozens of wrappings of various kinds that you can make, too." "Great and glorious," beamed James. "'Lay on, Macduff.' I'll absorb every piece of information you give me, like a wet sponge." "Let's do things in shipshape fashion," directed Roger. "What do you say to boxes first? We'll lay out here our patterns, and materials." "Let's make one apiece of everything," cried Dorothy, "and leave them all for James to copy." "And we can open the other bundles afterwards," said Della, "then those materials won't get mixed up with the box materials." "Save the papers and strings," advised Ethel Brown. "We're going to need a fearful amount of both when wrapping time comes." "The secretary has had a letter from Mademoiselle," Helen informed the invalid. "Where from?" James was aflame with interest. "She's in Belgium; you know she said she was going to try to be sent there. She doesn't mention the name of the town, but she's near enough to the front for wounded to be brought in from the field." "And she can hear the artillery booming all the time," contributed Ethel Blue. "And one day she went out right on to the firing line to give first aid." "Think of that! Our little teacher!" "She wasn't given those black eyes for nothing! She's game right through!" laughed Helen. CHAPTER XIII PASTING "SOME of these ideas will be more appropriate for Christmas gifts here in America than for our war orphans, it seems to me," said Helen, "but we may as well make a lot of everything because we'll be doing some Christmas work as a club and nothing will be lost." "Tell me what they are and I can do them last," said James. "And we can put them on a shelf in the club attic as models," suggested Dorothy. "Here's an example," said Helen, taking up a pasteboard cylinder. "This is a mailing tube--you know those mailing tubes that you can buy all made, of different sizes. We've brought down a lot of them to-day. Take this fat one, for instance, and cut it off about three inches down. Then cover it with chintz or cretonne or flowered paper or holly paper." "Line it with the paper, too, I should say," commented James, picking up the pieces that Helen cut off. "Yes, indeed. Cover two round pieces and fit one of them into the bottom and fasten the other on for a cover with a ribbon hinge, and there you have a box for string, or rubber bands for somebody's desk." "O.K. for rubber bands," agreed Roger, "but for string it would be better to make a hole in the cover and let the cord run up through." [Illustration: String Box made from a Mailing Tube] "How would you keep the cover from flopping up and down when you pulled the string?" "Here's one very simple way. You know those fasteners that stationers sell to keep papers together? They have a brass head and two legs and when you've pushed the legs through the papers you press them apart and they can't pull out. One of those will do very well as a knob to go on the box part, and a loop of gold or silver cord or of ribbon can be pasted or tied on to the cover." "If you didn't care whether it was ever used again you could put in the ball of twine with its end sticking through and then paste a band of paper around the joining of the top and the box. It would be pretty as long as the twine lasted." "It would be a simple matter for the person who became its proud possessor to paste on another strip of paper when he had put in his new ball of twine." "Any way you fix it," went on Helen, "there you have the general method of making round boxes from these mailing tubes." "And you can use round boxes for a dozen purposes," said Margaret; "for candy and all the goodies we're going to send the orphans." "Are you sure they'll keep?" asked careful James. "Ethel Brown asked the domestic science teacher at school about that, and she's going to give her receipts for cookies and candies that will last at least six weeks. That will be long enough for the Christmas Ship to go over and to make the rounds of the ports where it is to distribute presents." "Of course we'll make the eatables at the last minute," said Dorothy, "and we'll pack them so as to keep the air out as much as possible." "Give that flour paste a good boiling," Helen called after Margaret as she left the room to prepare it. "And don't forget the oil of cloves to keep it sweet," added Ethel Blue. "These round boxes will be especially good for the cookies," said Ethel Brown, "though the string box would have to go to Father. A string box isn't especially suitable for an orphan." "If you split these mailing tubes lengthwise and line them inside you get some pretty shapes," went on Helen. "Rather shallow," commented Della. "If you split them just in halves they are, but you don't have to do that. Split them a little above the middle and then the cover will be shallower than the box part." "Right-o," nodded Roger. "Then you line them and arrange the fastening and hinges just as you described for the string box?" asked James. "Exactly the same. Another way of fastening them is by making little chintz straps and putting glove snappers on them." "I don't see why you couldn't put ribbons into both cover and box part and tie them together." "You could." "You can use these split open ones for a manicure set or a brush and comb box for travelling." "Or a handkerchief box." "If you get tubes of different sizes and used military hair brushes you could make a box for a man, with a cover that slipped over for a long way," said Ethel Blue. "It would be just like the leather ones." "You make one of those for Uncle Richard for Christmas," advised Ethel Brown. "I rather think the orphans aren't keen on military brushes." "Oh, I'm just talking out any ideas that come along. As Helen suggested, an idea is always useful some time or other even if it won't do for to-day's orphans." "I saw a dandy box the other day that we might have put into Mademoiselle's kit," said Roger. "It's a good thing to remember for some other traveller." "Describe," commanded James. "I don't think these round boxes would be as convenient for it as a square or oblong one. It had a ball of string and a tube of paste and a pair of small scissors, and tags of different sizes and rubber bands and labels with gum on the back." "That's great for a desk top," said Della. "I believe I'll make one for Father for his birthday," and she nodded toward Tom who nodded back approvingly. "A big blotter case is another desk gift. The back is of very stiff cardboard and the corners are of chintz or leather. The blotters are slipped under the corners and are kept flat by them," continued Roger, who had noticed them because of their leather corners. "A lot of small blotters tied together are easy to put up," contributed Dorothy. "You can have twelve, if you want to, and paste a calendar for a month on to each one." "I think we ought to make those plain boxes the boys have made for the dresses a little prettier. Can't we ornament them in some way?" asked Ethel Blue. "The made-over ones are all covered with fancy paper you remember," said Tom. "I was thinking of the plain ones that are 'neat but not gaudy.' How can we make them 'gaudy'?" "Christmas seals are about as easy a decoration as you can get," Tom suggested. "Pretty, too. Those small seals, you mean, that you put on letters. A Santa Claus or a Christmas tree or a poinsettia would look pretty on the smaller sized boxes." "It would take a lot of them to show much on the larger ones, and that would make them rather expensive. Can't we think up something cheaper?" asked the treasurer. "I'm daffy over wall paper," cried Dorothy. "I went with Mother to pick out some for one of our rooms the other day and the man showed us such beauties--they were like paintings." "And cost like paintings, too," growled James feelingly. "Some of them did," admitted Dorothy. "But I asked him if he didn't have remnants sometimes. He laughed and said they didn't call them remnants but he said they did have torn pieces and for ten cents he gave me a regular armful. Just look at these beauties." She held up for the others' inspection some pieces of paper with lovely flower designs upon them. "But those bits aren't big enough to cover a big box and the patterns are too large to show except on a big box," objected Margaret who had come back with the paste. "Here's where they're just the thing for decoration of the plain boxes. Cut out this perfectly darling wistaria--so. Could you find anything more graceful than that? You'd have to be an artist to do anything so good. Paste that sweeping, drooping vine with its lovely cluster of blossoms on to the top of one of the largest boxes and that's plenty of decoration." Dorothy waved her vine in one hand and her scissors in the other and the rest became infected with her enthusiasm, for the scraps of paper that she had brought were exquisite in themselves and admirable for the purpose she suggested. "Good for Dorothy!" hurrahed James. "Anybody else got any ideas on this decoration need?" [Illustration: "Paste that vine on to the top of one of the largest boxes"] "I have," came meekly from Ethel Brown. "It isn't very novel but it will work, and it will save money and it's easy." "Trot her forth," commanded Roger. "It's silhouettes." Silence greeted this suggestion. "They're not awfully easy to do," said Helen doubtfully. "Not when you make them out of black paper, and you have to draw on the pattern or trace it on and you can hardly see the lines and you get all fussed up over it," acknowledged Ethel. "I've tried that way and I almost came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth the trouble I put into it unless you happened to be a person who can cut them right out without drawing them first." "I saw a man do that at a bazar once," said Della. "It was wonderful. He illustrated Cinderella. He cut out a coach and tiny horses and the old fairy without drawing anything at all beforehand." "Nothing doing here," Tom pushed away an imaginary offer of scissors and black paper. "Here's where my grand idea comes in," insisted Ethel Brown. "My idea is to cut out of the magazines any figures that please you." "Figures with action would be fun," suggested Roger. "They'd be prettiest, too. You'll find them in the advertising pages as well as in the stories. Paste them on to your box or whatever you want to decorate, and then go over them with black oil paint." "Good for old Ethel Brown!" applauded her brother. "I didn't think you had it in you, child! Have you ever tried it?" "Yes, sir, I have. I knew I'd probably meet with objections from an unimaginative person like you, so I decorated this cover and brought it along as a sample." It proved to be an idea as dashing as it was simple. Ethel Brown had selected a girl rolling a hoop. A dog, cut from another page, was bounding beside her. Some delicate foliage at one side hinted at a landscape. "Wasn't it hard not to let the black run over the edges of the picture?" asked Della. "Yes, you have to keep your wits about you all the time. But then you have to do that any way if you want what you're making to amount to anything, so that doesn't count." "That's a capital addition, that suggestion of ground that you made with a whisk or two of the brush." "Just a few lines seem to give the child something to stand on." "These plans for decoration look especially good to me," said practical James, "because there's nothing to stick up on them. They'll pack easily and that's what we must have for our purpose." "That's true," agreed Helen. "For doing up presents that don't have to travel it's pretty to cut petals of red poinsettia and twist them with wire and make a flower that you can tuck in under the string that you tie the parcel with--" "Or a bit of holly. Holly is easily made out of green crêpe paper or tissue paper," cried Della. "But as James says, none of the boxes for the orphans can have stick-ups or they'll look like mashed potatoes when they reach the other side." "We'll stow away the poinsettia idea for home presents then," said Margaret. "What we want from James, however, is a lot of boxes of any and every size that he can squeeze out." "No scraps thrown away, old man," decreed Tom, "for even a cube of an inch each way will hold a few sweeties." "Orders received and committed to memory," acknowledged the invalid, saluting. "By the way, I learned an awfully interesting thing to-day," said Helen. "Name it," commanded Roger, busy with knife and pastepot making one of the twine and tag boxes that he had described. "I'll tell you while we each make one of the things we've been talking about so that we can leave them for patterns with James." Dorothy had already set about applying her wistaria vine to the cover of a box whose body Tom was putting together. Ethel Blue was making a string box from a mailing tube, covering it with a scrap of chintz with a very small design; Ethel Brown was hunting in an old magazine for figures suitable for making silhouettes; James was writing in a notebook the various hints that had been bestowed upon him so generously that he feared his memory would not hold them all without help; Helen and Della were measuring and cutting some cotton cloth that was to be used in the gifts that Della was eager to tell about. "By the time Helen has told her tale I'll be ready to explain my gift idea," she said. "Go on, then, Helen," urged James, "I'm ready to 'start something' myself, in a minute." "You and Margaret have heard us talk about our German teacher?" "We've seen her," said Margaret. "She was at our entertainment." "So she was. I remember, she and her mother sat right behind the old ladies from the Home." "And they knitted for the soldiers whenever the lights were up." "I guess Mrs. Hindenburg knitted when the lights were off, too," said Helen. "I've seen her knitting with her eyes shut." "She sent in some more wristers for the orphans the other day," said Dorothy. "She has made seven pairs so far, and three scarfs and two little sweaters." "Some knitter," announced Roger. "Fräulein knits all the time, too, but she says she can't keep up with her mother. This is what I wanted to tell you--you remember when Roger first went there she told him that Fräulein's betrothed was in the German army. Well, yesterday she told us who he is." "Is it all right for you to tell us?" warned Roger. "It's no secret. She said that the engagement was to have been announced as soon as he got back from Germany and that many people knew it already." "Is he an American German?" "It's our own Mr. Schuler." Roger gave a whistle of surprise; the Ethels cried out in wonder, and the Hancocks and the Watkinses who did not know many Rosemont people, waited for the explanation. "Mr. Schuler was the singing teacher in the high school year before last and last year," explained Helen. "Last spring he had to go back to Germany in May so he was there when the army was mobilized and went right to the front." "It does come near home when you actually know a soldier fighting in the German army and a nurse in a hospital on the Allies' side," said Roger thoughtfully. "It makes it a lot more exciting to know who Fräulein's betrothed is." "Does she speak of him?" asked Margaret. "She talked about him very freely yesterday after her mother mentioned his name." "I suppose she didn't want the high school kids gossiping about him," observed Roger. "As we are," interposed James. "We aren't gossiping," defended Helen. "She looks on the Club members as her special friends--she said so. She knows we wouldn't go round at school making a nine days' wonder of it. She knows we're fond of her." "We are," agreed Roger. "She's a corker. I wonder we didn't think of its being Mr. Schuler." "Her mother always mentioned him as 'my daughter's betrothed'; and Fräulein yesterday kept saying 'my betrothed.' We might have gone on in ignorance for a long time if Mrs. Hindenburg hadn't let it slip out yesterday." "Well, I hope he'll come through with all his legs and arms uninjured," said Roger. "I hope it for Fräulein's sake, and for his, too. He's a bully singing teacher." "Has she heard from him since the war began?" "Several times, but not for a month now, and she's about crazy with anxiety. He was in Belgium when he got the last letter through and of course that means that he has been in the very thick of it all." "Poor Fräulein!" sighed Ethel Blue, and the others nodded seriously over their work. CHAPTER XIV JAMES'S AFTERNOON PARTY "NOW are you ready to take in all the difficulties of my art object?" asked Della. "Trot her out," implored James. "It's picture books." A distinct sniff went over the assembly, only kept in check by a desire to be polite. "There can't be anything awfully new about picture books," said Tom. "Especially cloth picture books. You and Helen have been cutting out cambric for cloth picture books," accused Ethel Brown. "Della has been making some variations, though." Helen came to Della's rescue. "She's made some with the leaves all one color, pink or blue; and here's another one with a variety--two pages light pink, and the next two pages pale green." Ethel Brown cast a more interested eye toward the picture book display. "How do you sew them together?" she asked. "You can do it on the machine and let it go at that. In fact, that's the best plan even if you go on to add some decoration of feather-stitching or cat-stitching. The machine stitching makes it firmer." "Is there an interlining?" "I tried them with and without an interlining. I don't think an interlining is necessary. The two thicknesses of cambric are all you need." "Dicky has a cloth book with just one thickness for each page," said Ethel Brown. "But that's made of very heavy cotton," explained Helen. "You cut your cambric like a sheet of note-paper," said Della. "Haven't my lessons on scientific management soaked in better than that?" demanded Roger. "If you want to save time you cut just as many sheets of note-paper, so to speak, as your scissors will go through." "Certainly," retorted Della with dignity. "I took it for granted that the members of the U. S. C. had learned that. Put two sheets of this cambric note-paper together flat and stitch them. That makes four pages to paste on, you see. You can make your book any size you want to and have just as many pages as you need to tell your story on." "Story? What story?" asked Ethel Blue, interestedly. "Aha! I thought you'd wake up!" laughed Della. "Here, my children, is where my book differs from most of the cloth picture books that you ever saw. My books aren't careless collections of pictures, with no relation to each other. Here's a cat book, for instance. Not just every-day cats, though I've put in lots of cats and some kodaks of my own cat. There are pictures of the big cats--lions and tigers--and I've put in some scenery so that the child who gets this book will have an idea of what sort of country the beasts really live in." "It's a natural history book," declared James. "Partly. But it winds up with 'The True Story of Thomas's Nine Lives.'" "The kid it is going to won't know English," objected Roger. "Oh, I haven't written it out. It's just told in pictures with 1, 2, 3, through 9 at the head of each page. They'll understand." "Do you see what an opportunity the different colored cambric gives?" said Helen. "Sometimes Della uses colored pictures or she paints them, and then she makes the background harmonize with the coloring of the figures." "Why couldn't you make a whole book of my silhouettes?" demanded Ethel Brown. "Bully!" commended James. "You can work out all sorts of topics in these books, you see," Della went on. "There are all the fairy stories to illustrate and 'Red Riding Hood,' and the 'Bears,' and when you get tired of making those you can have one about 'The Wonders of America,' and put in Niagara." "And the Rocky Mountains," said Tom. "And the Woolworth Building," suggested Ethel Brown. "And a cotton field with the negroes picking cotton," added Ethel Blue. "There wouldn't be any trouble getting material for that one," said Helen. "Nor for one on any American city. I've got one started that is going to show New York from the statue of Liberty to the Jumel Mansion and the Van Cortland House, with a lot of other historical buildings and skyscrapers and museums in between." "We'll be promoting emigration from the old country after the war is over if we show the youngsters all the attractions that Uncle Sam has to offer." "There'll be a lot of them come over anyway so they might as well learn what they'll see when they arrive." "I see heaps of opportunities in that idea," said Roger. "There's a chance to teach the kiddies something by these books if we're careful to be truthful in the pictures we put in." "Not to make monkeys swinging down the forests of Broadway, eh?" laughed Tom. "If I'm to do a million or two of these you'll all have to help me get the pictures together," begged James. "I've brought some with me you can have for a starter," said Della, "and I'm collecting others and keeping them in separate envelopes--animals in one and buildings in another and so on. It will make it easier for you." "_Muchas gracias, Señorita_," bowed James, who was just beginning Spanish and liked to air a "Thank you" occasionally. "I know what I'm going to make for some member of my family," declared Roger. "Name it, it will be such a surprise when it comes." "Probably it will go to Grandmother Emerson so I don't mind telling you that I think I'll write a history of our summer at Chautauqua and illustrate it." "That's the best notion that ever came from Roger," approved James. "I think I'll make one and give it to Father. The Recognition Day procession and all that, you know." "Envelopes make me think that we may have some small gifts--cards or handkerchiefs--that we can send in envelopes," said Ethel Blue, "and we ought to decorate them just as much as our boxes." "They won't be hard. Any of the ideas we've suggested for the boxes will do--flowers and silhouettes, and seals. You're a smarty with watercolors so you can paint some original figures or a tiny landscape, but the rest of us will have to keep to the pastepot," laughed Margaret. "For home gifts we can write rhymes to put into the envelopes, but I suppose it wouldn't do for these European kids," said Tom. "We don't know where they're going, you see, and it would never do if an English child got a German rhyme or the other way round." "O-oh, ne-_ver_," gasped Ethel Blue whose quick imagination sympathized with the feelings of a child to whom such a thing happened. "We'll have to make them understand through their eyes." "Fortunately Santa Claus with his pack speaks a language they can all understand," nodded Roger. "Here comes his humble servant right now," exclaimed Mrs. Hancock at the door. Tom ran to hold it open for her, and Roger relieved her of the waiter which she was carrying. "James has to have an egg-nog at this time," she explained, "so I thought all of you might like to be 'picked up' after your hard afternoon's work." These sentiments were greeted with applause though Tom insisted that the best part of the afternoon was yet to come as he had not yet had a chance to tell about his invention. "One that you'll appreciate tremendously, Mrs. Hancock," he said gravely. "All housekeepers will. You must get Margaret to make you one." "Don't tell her what it is and I can give it to her for Christmas," cried Margaret. James's egg-nog and his wafers were placed on the table beside him. The others sat at small tables, of which there were several around the room, and drank their egg-nog and ate their cakes with great satisfaction. "Tell me how this egg-nog is made," begged Helen. "It is delicious and I'm sure Mother would like to know." "Mother always has it made the same way," replied Margaret. "I'm sure it is concocted out of six eggs and half a pound of sugar, and three pints of whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg." "It's so foamy--that isn't the whipped cream alone." "First you beat the yolks of the eggs and the sugar together until it is all frothy. Then you beat the whites of the eggs by themselves until they are stiff and you stir that in gently. Then you put the spice on top of that and lastly you heap the whipped cream on top of the whole thing." "It's perfectly delicious," exclaimed Dorothy, "and so is the fruit cake." "Mother prides herself on her fruit cake. It is good, isn't it? She's going to let me make some to send to the orphans." "Won't that be great. Baked in ducky little pans like these." "They'll keep perfectly, of course." "Would your mother let us have the receipt now so we could be practicing it to make some too?" asked Dorothy. "I'm sure she'd be delighted," and Margaret ran off to get her mother's manuscript cook book from which Dorothy copied the following receipt: "Fruit Cake "½ cup butter ¾ cup brown sugar ¾ cup raisins, chopped ¾ cup currants ½ cup citron, cut in small pieces ½ cup molasses 2 eggs ½ cup milk 2 cups flour ½ teaspoon soda 1 teaspoon cinnamon ½ teaspoon allspice ¼ teaspoon nutmeg ¼ teaspoon cloves ½ teaspoon lemon extract or vanilla "Sift the flour, soda and spices together. Beat the eggs, add the milk to them. Cream the butter, add the sugar gradually, add the molasses, the milk and egg, then the flour gradually. Mix the fruit, sift a little flour over it, rub it in the flour, add to it the mixture. Add the extract. Stir and beat well. Fill greased pans two-thirds full. Bake in a moderately hot oven one and a quarter hours if in a loaf. In small sizes bake slowly twenty to thirty minutes." "I'm ready to hear what Tom's got to offer," said James, leaning back luxuriously in his chair after the remains of the feast had been taken away. "Mine is a paper-cutting scheme," responded Tom. "Perhaps it won't come easy to everybody, but on a small scale I'm something of a paper cutter myself." "Dull edged?" queried Roger. "Hm," acknowledged Tom. "I can't illustrate 'Cinderella' like the man Della saw, but I can cut simple figures and I want to propose one arrangement of them to this august body." "Fire ahead," came Roger's permission. "It's just a variation of the strings of paper dolls that I used to make for Della when she was a year or two younger than she is now." Della received this taunt with a puckered face. [Illustration: "Fold strips of paper and then cut one figure of a little girl"] "You fold strips of white paper--or blue or yellow or any old color--in halves and then in halves again and then again, until it is about three inches wide. Then you cut one figure of a little girl, letting the tips of the hands and skirts remain uncut. When you unfold the strip you have a string of cutey little girls joining hands. See?" They all laughed for all of them had cut just such figures when they were children. "Now my application of this simple device," went on Tom in the solemn tones of a professor, "is to make them serve as lamp shades." "For the orphans?" laughed Roger. "For the orphans I'm going to cut about a bushel of strips of all colors. Children always like to play with them just so." "I don't see why those of us who can't draw couldn't cut a child or a dog or some figure from a magazine and lay it on the folded paper and trace around the edges and then cut it," suggested Dorothy. [Illustration: A String of Paper Dolls] "You could perfectly well. All you have to remember is to leave a folded edge at the side, top and bottom. You can make a row of dogs standing on their hind paws and holding hands--forepaws--and the ground they are standing on will fasten them together at the bottom." "How does the lamp shade idea work out?" asked Helen with Grandfather Emerson's Christmas gift in mind. "You cut a string of figures that are fairly straight up and down, like Greek maidens or some conventional vases or a dance of clowns. Then you must be sure that your strip is long enough to go around your shade. Then you line it with asbestos paper--the kind that comes in a sort of book for the kitchen." "I see. You paste the strip right on to the asbestos paper and cut out the figures," guessed James. "Exactly," replied Tom. "After which you paste the ends of the strip together and there you have your shade ready to slip on to the glass." [Illustration: Photograph Frame--front] "What keeps it from falling down and off?" "The shape of the shade usually holds it up. If it isn't the right shape, though, you can run a cord through your figures' hands and tighten them up as much as you need to." "I think that's a rather jolly stunt of Tom's," commended Roger patronizingly. Tom gave him a kick under the table and James growled a request not to hit his game leg. [Illustration: Photograph Frame--back] "If you boys are beginning to quarrel it's time we adjourned," decided the president. "Has anybody any more ideas to get off her alleged mind this afternoon?" "I thought of picture frames," offered James. "While my hand is in with pasting I believe I'll make some frames--a solid pasteboard back and the front with an oval or an oblong or a square cut out of it. You paste the front on to the back at the edges except at the bottom. You leave that open to put the picture in." "You can cover that with chintz--cotton, cotton, cotton," chanted Dorothy, who seldom missed a chance to promote the cotton crusade. "How do you hang it up?" asked Margaret. "Stick on a little brass ring with a bit of tape. Or you can make it stand by putting a stiff bit of cardboard behind it with a tape hinge." "That would be a good home present," said Ethel Brown. "Perfectly good for family photographs. You can make them hold two or three. But you can fix them up for the European kids and put in any sort of picture--a dog or a cat or George Washington or some really beautiful picture." "I believe in giving them pictures of America or American objects or places or people," said Dorothy. "Dorothy is the champion patriot of the United Service Club," laughed Roger. "Come on, infants; we must let James rest or Mrs. Hancock won't invite us to come again. I wish you could get over to Rosemont for the movies next week," he added. "What movies?" "The churches have clubbed together and hired the school hall and they're going to get the latest moving pictures from the war zone that they can find. It is the first time Rosemont has ever had the real thing." CHAPTER XV PREVENTION THE Mortons were gathered about the fire in the half hour of the day which they especially enjoyed. Mrs. Morton made a point of being at home herself for this time, and she liked to have all the young people meet her in the dusk and tell her of the day's work and play. It was a time when every one was glad to rest for a few minutes after dressing for dinner. "I'm sure to get my hair mussed up if I do anything but talk to Mother after I brush it for dinner," Roger was in the habit of explaining, "so it suits me just to stare at the fire." He was sitting now on the floor beside her with his head leaning against the arm of her chair. Dicky was occupying the Morris chair with her, and the three girls were in comfortable positions, the Ethels on the sofa and Helen knitting a scarf as she sat on a footstool before the blaze. "You're not trying your eyes knitting in this imperfect light?" asked her mother. "This is plain sailing, Mother. I can rush along on this straight piece almost as fast as Mrs. Hindenburg, and I don't have to look on at all unless a horrid fear seizes me that I've skipped a stitch." "Which I hope you haven't done." "Never really but there have been several false alarms." "How is Fräulein?" "All right, I guess." "Did you see her to-day?" "We had German compo to-day. I didn't do much with it." "Why not?" "It didn't seem to go off well. I don't know why. Perhaps I didn't try as hard as usual." "Did it disturb Fräulein?" "Did what disturb Fräulein?" "That you didn't do your lesson well." "Disturb Fräulein? I don't know. Why should it disturb her? I should think I was the one to be disturbed." "Were you?" "Was I disturbed? Well, no, Mother, to tell the truth I didn't care much. That old German is so hard and the words all break up so foolishly--somehow it didn't seem very important to me this morning. And Fanny Shrewsbury said something awfully funny about it under her breath and we got laughing and--no, I wasn't especially disturbed." "Although you had a poor lesson and didn't try to make up for it by paying strict attention in the class!" "Why, Mother, I, er--" Helen stopped knitting. "You think I'm taking too seriously a poor lesson that wasn't very bad, after all? Possibly I am, but I've been noticing that all of you are more careless lately than I want my girls and boys to be." Mrs. Morton stroked Roger's hair and looked around at the handsome young faces illuminated by the firelight. "You mean us, too?" cried the Ethels, sitting up straight upon the sofa. "You, too." "We haven't meant to be careless, Mother," said Roger soberly. His mother's good opinion was something he was proud of keeping and she was so fair in her judgments that he felt that he must meet any accusations like the present in the honest spirit in which they were made. "Do you want to know what I think is the trouble with all of you?" Every one of them cried out for information, even Dicky, whose "Yeth" rang out above the others. "If you ask for my candid opinion," responded Mrs. Morton, "I think you are giving so much time and attention to the work of the U. S. C. that you aren't paying proper attention to the small matters of every day life that we must all meet." "Oh, but, Mother, you approve of the U. S. C." "Certainly I approve of it. I think it is fine in every way; but I don't believe in your becoming so absorbed in it that you forget your daily duties. Aunt Louise had to telephone to Roger to go over and start her furnace for her yesterday when the sharp snap came, and the Ethels have been rushing off in the morning without doing the small things to help Mary that are a part of their day's work." "Oh, Mother, they're such little things! She can do them easily once in a while." "Any one of your morning tasks is a small matter, but when none of them are done they mount up to a good deal for Mary. If there were some real necessity for making an extra bed Mary would do it without complaining, but when, as happened yesterday morning, neither of you Ethels made your bed, and Roger left towels thrown all over his floor, and not one of Helen's bureau drawers was shut tight, and Dicky upset a box of beads and went off to kindergarten without picking them up--don't you see that what meant but a few minutes' work for each one of you meant an hour's work for one person?" "I'll bet Mary didn't mind," growled Roger. "Mary is too loyal to say anything, but if your present careless habits should continue we should have to have an extra maid to wait on you, and you know very well that that is impossible." "I'm sorry, Mother," said Roger penitently. "I'm sorry about the towels and about Aunt Louise and I'm sorry I growled. You're right, of course." "I rather guess we've been led astray by being so successful with our team work in the club," said Helen thoughtfully. "We've found out that we can do all sorts of things well if we pull together and we've been forgetting to apply co-operation at home." "Exactly," agreed Mrs. Morton. "And you've been so absorbed in the needs of people several thousand miles away that you overlook the needs of people beside you. What you've been doing to Mary is unkind; what Helen did to Fräulein this morning was unkind." "Oh, Mother! I wouldn't be unkind to Fräulein for the world." "I don't believe you would if you thought about it. She certainly is in such sore trouble that she needs all the consideration that her scholars can give her, yet you must have annoyed her greatly this morning." "I'm afraid Fräulein's used to our not knowing our lessons very well," observed Roger. "I'm sorry to hear that, but if you know you aren't doing as well as you ought to with your lessons that is the best reason in the world for you to pay the strictest attention while you are in class. Yet Helen says that she and Fanny Shrewsbury were laughing. I'm afraid Fräulein isn't feeling especially content with her work this afternoon." "Mother, you make me feel like a hound dog," cried Helen. "And I've been talking as if I were so sorry for Fräulein!" "You are sorry for her as the heroine of a romance, because her betrothed is in the army and she doesn't know where he is or whether he is alive. It sounds like a story in a book. But when you think what that would mean if it were you that had to endure the suffering it wouldn't seem romantic. Suppose Father were fighting in Mexico and we hadn't heard from him for a month--do you think you could throw off your anxiety for a minute? Don't you think you'd have to be careful every instant in school to control yourself? Don't you think it would be pretty hard if some one in school constantly did things that irritated you--didn't know her lessons and then laughed and giggled all through the recitation hour?" Helen's and Roger's heads were bent. "Imagine," Mrs. Morton went on, "how you would feel every day when you came home, wondering all the way whether a letter had come; wondering whether, if one _had_ come, it would be from Father or from some one else saying that Father was--wounded." "Oh, Mother, I can't--" Helen was almost crying. "You can't bear to think of it; yet--" "Yet Fräulein was just so anxious and--" "And we made things worse for her!" "I know you didn't think--" "We ought to think. I've excused myself all my life by saying 'I didn't think.' I ought to think." "'I didn't think' _explains_, but it doesn't _excuse_." "Nothing excuses meanness." "That's true." "And it's almost as mean not to see when people are in trouble as it is to see it and not to care." "I'm glad you're teaching us to be observant, Aunt Marion," said Ethel Blue quietly. "I used to think it was sort of _distinguished_ to be absent-minded and not to pay attention to people, but now I think it's just _stupidity_." "Mother," said Roger, sitting up straight, "I've been a beast. Poor Fräulein is worrying herself to pieces every minute of the day and I never thought anything about it. And I let Aunt Louise freeze yesterday morning and Dorothy had to go to school before the house was warmed up and she had a cold to-day because she got chilled. I see your point, and I'm a reformed pirate from this minute!" Roger rose and squared his shoulders and walked about the room. "When you think it out it's little things that are hard to manage all the time," he went on thoughtfully. "Here are these little things that we've been pestering Mary about, and when we kids squabble it's almost always about some trifle." "A pin prick is often more trying than a severe wound," agreed his mother. "You brace yourself to bear a real hurt, but it doesn't seem worth while for a trifle and so you whine about it before you think. If Father and Uncle Richard really were in action all of us would do our best to be brave about it and to bear our trouble uncomplainingly--" "The way Fräulein does," murmured Helen. "That's the way when you have a sickness," said Ethel Brown. "When I had the measles you and Mary said I didn't make much fuss, but every time I catch cold I'm afraid all of you hear about it." "We do," agreed Roger cheerfully. "I should say, then," remarked Mrs. Morton as Mary appeared at the door to announce dinner, "that this club should bear in mind that it is to serve not only those at a distance but those near home, and not only to serve people in deepest trouble but to serve by preventing suffering." "I get you, Mother dear," said Roger, taking his father's seat. "Prevention is a great modern principle that we don't think enough about," said Mrs. Morton. "I know what you mean--fire prevention," exclaimed Ethel Blue. "Tom Watkins was telling us the other day about the Fire Prevention parade they had in New York. There were a lot of engines and hose wagons and ladder wagons and they were all covered with cards telling how much wiser it was to prevent fire than to let it start and then try to put it out." "Della saw the parade," said Ethel Brown. "She told me there were signs that said 'It's cheaper to put a sprinkler in your factory than to rebuild the factory'; and 'One cigarette in a factory may cost thousands of dollars in repairs.'" "The doctors have been working to prevent disease," said Roger. "James has often told me what his father is doing to teach people how to avoid being sick." "All these clean-up campaigns are really for the prevention of illness as much as the making of cleanliness," said Mrs. Morton. "Everything of that sort educates people, and we can apply the same methods to our own lives," advised Mrs. Morton. "Why can't we have a household campaign to prevent giving Mary unnecessary work and to avoid irritating each other?" "All that can be worked in as part of the duties of the Service Club," said Ethel Blue. "Certainly it can. What's the matter, Ethel Brown?" Ethel Brown was on the point of tears. "One of the girls at school gave me an order for cookies the other day," she said, "and I didn't do them because we went over to the Hancocks' that afternoon." "You got your own punishment there," remarked Roger. "If you didn't fill the order you didn't get any pay." "That wasn't all. She was going to take them to a cousin of hers who was just getting over the mumps. She wanted to surprise her. She was awfully mad because I didn't make them. She said she had depended on them and she didn't have anything to take to her cousin." "There you see it," exclaimed Mrs. Morton. "It didn't seem much to Ethel Brown not to make two or three dozen cookies, but in the first place she broke her promise, and in the next place she caused real unhappiness to a girl who was depending on them to give pleasure to her sick cousin." "You've given us a shake-up we won't forget soon, Mother," remarked Roger. "There's one duty I haven't done this week that you haven't mentioned, but I'm pretty sure you know it so I might as well bring it into the light myself and say I'm sorry." "What is it?" laughed his mother. "I haven't been over to see Grandfather and Grandmother Emerson for ten days." "They'll be sorry." "I was relying on one of the girls going." "We haven't been," confessed the Ethels. "Nor I," admitted Helen. Mrs. Morton looked serious. "We love to go there," said Ethel Brown, "but we've been so busy." "Too busy to be kind to the people near at hand, eh?" The young people looked ruefully at one another. "Anyway, watch me be attentive to Fräulein," promised Helen. She was. She and Roger made a point of giving her as little trouble as possible; and of paying her unobtrusive attentions. Roger carried home for her a huge bundle of exercises; the Ethels left some chestnuts at her door when they came back from a hunt on the hillside, and even Dicky wove her a mat at kindergarten of red and white and black paper--the German colors. The Mortons were all attention to James, too. Every day they remembered to call him up on the telephone and ask him how his box-making was coming on. He had a telephone extension on the table at his elbow and these daily talks cheered him greatly. The others were leaving the making of most of the pasted articles to him, and they were going on with the manufacture of baskets and leather and brass and copper articles and of odds and ends of various kinds. "Perhaps I'll be able to get up to Dorothy's next Saturday," James phoned to Roger one day, "if Mrs. Smith wouldn't mind the Club meeting downstairs. I suppose the Pater wouldn't let me try to climb to the attic yet." Mrs. Smith was delighted to make the change for James's benefit, but before the day came he called up Roger one afternoon in great excitement. "When did you say those church movies were?" he asked. "To-morrow evening." "Father says he'll take me over if he doesn't have a hurry call at the last minute." Roger gave a whoop that resounded along the wire. "You'll find the whole Club drawn up at the door of the schoolhouse to meet you," he cried. "The Watkinses are coming out from New York. Will Margaret come with you?" "She and Mother will go over in the trolley." As Roger had promised, the Club was drawn up in double ranks before the door when Doctor Hancock stopped his machine close to the step. Roger and Tom ran down to make a chair on which to carry James inside, and Helen and Dorothy were ready with the wheel-chair belonging to the old lady at the Home who had been glad to lend it for the evening to the boy whose acquaintance she had made at the Club entertainment. James was rather embarrassed at being so conspicuous, but all his Rosemont acquaintances came to speak to him and he was quite the hero of the occasion. The moving pictures were an innovation in Rosemont. There had been various picture shows in empty stores in the town and they had not all been of a character approved by the parents of the school children who went to them in great numbers. The rooms were dark and there was danger of fire and the pictures themselves were not always suitable for young people to see or agreeable for their elders. The result of a conference among some of the townspeople who had the interests of the place at heart was this entertainment which was the first of a series to be given in the school hall on Friday evenings all through the winter. The films were chosen by a sub-committee and it was hoped that they would be so liked that the poor places down town would find it unprofitable to continue. The program was pleasantly varied. The story of a country boy who went to New York to make his fortune and who found out that, as in the Oriental story, his fortune lay buried in his own dooryard--in this case in the printing office of his own town--was the opener. That was followed by a remarkable film showing the habits of swallows and by another whereon some of the flowers of Burbank's garden waved softly in the California breeze. A dramatization of Daudet's famous story called "The Last Class" brought tears to the eyes of the onlookers whose thoughts were much across the Atlantic. It was a simple, touching tale, and it served appropriately as the forerunner of the war pictures that had just been sent to America by photographers in Germany and France and Belgium. The first showed troops leaving Berlin, flags flying, bands playing, while the crowds along the street waved a cheerful parting, though once in a while a woman bent her head behind her neighbor's shoulder to hide her tears. There were scenes in Belgium--houses shattered by the bombs of airmen, huge holes dug by exploding shells; wounded soldiers making their way toward the hospitals, those with bandaged heads and arms helping those whose staggering feet could hardly carry them. It was a serious crowd that followed every movement that passed on the screen before their eyes. The silence was deep. Then came a hospital scene. Rows upon rows of beds ran from the front of the picture almost out of sight. Down the space between them came the doctors, instruments in hand, and behind them the nurses, the red crosses gleaming on their arm bands. A stir went through the onlookers. "It looks like her." "I believe it is." "Don't you think so? The one on the right?" "It is--it's Mademoiselle Millerand!" cried Roger clearly. The operator, hearing the noise in front of his booth, and all unconscious that he was showing a friend to these townspeople where the pretty young French teacher had lived for two years, almost stopped turning his machine. So slowly it went that there was no doubt among any who had known her. She followed the physician to the bed nearest the front. There they stopped and the doctor turned to Mademoiselle and asked some question. She was ready with bandages. An orderly slipped his arm under the soldier's pillow and raised his head. His eyes were closed and his face was deathly white. The doctor shook his head. Evidently he would not attempt an operation upon so ill a man. He signed to the attendant to lay the man down and as he did so the people in Rosemont, far, far away from the Belgian hospital, heard a piercing shriek. "_Mein Verlobt!_ My betrothed!" screamed Fräulein Hindenburg. "That's Schuler." "Don't you recognize Schuler?" "No wonder poor Fräulein screamed!" Kind hands were helping Fräulein and her mother from the hall. Doctor Hancock went out with them to give a restorative to the young woman and to take them home in his car. "Didn't he die at that very moment, Herr Doctor?" whispered Fräulein, and the doctor was obliged to confess that it seemed so. "But we can't be sure," he insisted. Fräulein's agitation put an end to the entertainment for that evening. Indeed, the film was almost exhausted when the bitter sight came to her. The people filed out seriously. "If that poor girl has been in doubt about her betrothed, now she knows," one said to another. "Do you think he really died?" James asked his father as they were driving home. "I'm afraid he did, son. But there is just a chance that he didn't because the film changed just there to another scene so you couldn't tell." "That might have been because they didn't want to show a death scene." "I'm afraid it was." CHAPTER XVI FOR SANTA CLAUS'S PACK JAMES telephoned Dorothy that he was going to be at her house on the afternoon of the Club meeting if it was going to be downstairs and Dorothy replied that her mother was very glad to let them have the dining room to work in. All the members had arrived when Doctor Hancock stopped his car at the door and Margaret got out and rang the bell for Roger's and Tom's help in getting James into the house. Everybody hailed him with pleasure and everybody's tongue began at once to chatter about the dramatic happening of the evening before. "I'm perfectly crazy to hear everything you've learned this morning," said Margaret, "but before we start talking about it I want to make a beginning on a basket so I can be working while I listen." "Me, too," said James. "I've pasted enough boxes and gimcracks to fill a young cottage. In fact they are now packed in a young cottage that Father is going to bring over some day when he hasn't any other load. He said the car wouldn't hold it and Margaret and him and me all at the same time this afternoon." "We've been making all sorts of things this week," said Ethel Brown. "I'm just finishing the last of a dozen balls that I've been covering with crochet. It's the simplest thing in the world and they're fine for little children because the slippery rubber balls slide out of their fingers and these are just rough enough for their tiny paws to cling to." "I've been making those twin bed-time dolls," said Ethel Blue. "You've seen them in all the shops--just ugly dolls of worsted--but mine are made like the Danish _Nisse_, the elves that the Danes use to decorate their Yuletide trees." She held up a handful of wee dolls made of white worsted, doubled until the little figure was about a finger long. A few strands on each side were cut shorter than the rest and stood out as arms. A red thread tied a little way from the top indicated the neck; another about the middle defined the waist; the lower part was divided and each leg was tied at the ankle with red thread, and a red thread bound the wrists. On the head a peaked red hat of flannel or of crochet shaded a face wherein two black stitches represented the eyes, a third the nose, and a red dot the ruby lips. From the back of the neck a crocheted cord about eighteen inches long connected one elf with his twin. "What's the idea of two?" inquired Tom. "To keep each other company. You tie them on to a wire of the baby's crib and they won't get lost." "Or on to the perambulator." "They don't take long to make--see, I wind the wool over my fingers, so, to get the right length, and then I tie them as quick as a wink; and when I feel in the mood of making the caps I turn off a dozen or two of them--" "And the cord by the yard, I suppose." "Just about. I've made quantities of these this week and I'm not going to make any more, so I'll help with the baskets or the stenciling." "I've been jig-sawing," said Roger. "I've made jumping jacks till you can't rest." "Where did you get your pattern?" asked Tom who also was a jig sawyer. [Illustration: Jumping Jack] "I took an old one of Dicky's that was on the downward road and pulled it to pieces so that I could use each part for a pattern. I cut out ever so many of each section. Then I spent one afternoon painting legs and arms and jackets and caps, and Ethel Blue painted the faces for me. I'm not much on expression except my own, you know." "Have you put them together yet?" "Dorothy has been tying the pull strings for me this afternoon and I'm going to do the glueing now while you people are learning baskets." "James ought to do the glueing for you," suggested Margaret in spite of James's protesting gestures. Roger laughed. "I wouldn't be so mean as to ask him," he said. "He's stuck up enough for one lifetime, I suspect." "I've been jigging, too," confessed Tom. "Anything pretty?" asked Roger. "Of course something pretty," defended Helen. "Don't you remember the beauty box he made Margaret?" "I certainly do. Its delicate openwork surpassed any of my humble efforts." "It was pretty, wasn't it?" murmured Margaret. "The yellow silk lining showed through." "What I've been doing lately was the very simplest possible toy for the orphans." Tom disclaimed any fine work. "I've just been cutting circles out of cigar boxes and punching two holes side by side in each one. Then I run a string through the two holes. You slip it over your forefinger of each hand and whirl the disk around the string until it is wound up tight and then by pulling the string you keep the whirligig going indefinitely." "It doesn't look like much of a toy to me," said Della crushingly. "May be not, ma'am, but I tried it on Dad and Edward and they played with it for ten minutes apiece. You find yourself pulling it in time to some air you're humming in the back of your head." "Right-o," agreed James. "I had a tin one once and I played with it from morning till night. I believe the orphans will spend most of their waking hours tweaking those cords." "I'm glad you think so," said Tom. "Roger was so emphatic I was afraid I'd been wasting my time." "What's Dorothy been up to this week?" asked James. "Dorothy couldn't make up her mind whether she wanted most to make bags or model clay candlesticks or dress dolls this week," responded Dorothy, "but she finally decided to dress dolls." "Where did you get the dolls?" "Some of them I got with treasury money--they're real dolls, and I made galoptious frocks for them out of scraps from piece-bags." "Were you patient enough to make all the clothes to take off?" asked Della. "Every identical garment," replied Dorothy emphatically. "Dolls aren't any fun unless you can dress and undress them. I never cared a rap for a doll with its clothes fastened on." "Nor I." "Nor I." "Nor I." Every girl in the room agreed with this opinion. "The rag dolls are the ones I believe the children will like best," said Helen; "that is, if they are at all like American children." "Isn't it funny--I always liked that terrible looking old rag object of mine better than the prettiest one Father ever sent me," agreed Ethel Blue. "Every child does," said Margaret. "Dorothy made some fine ones," complimented Helen. "Did you draw them or did you get the ones that are already printed on cloth?" asked Della. "Both. The printed ones are a great deal prettier than mine, but Aunt Marion had a stout piece of cotton cloth--" A shout arose. "Cotton cloth! That's enough to interest Dorothy in making anything," laughed Tom. "Almost," agreed Dorothy good-naturedly. "Any way, I used up the piece of cloth making dolls and cats and dogs. I drew them on the cloth and then stitched them on the machine and, I tell you, I remembered the time when Dicky's stuffed cat had an awful accident and lost almost all his inner thoughts, and I sewed every one of the little beasties twice around." "What did you stuff them with?" "Some with cotton." "Ha, ha!" "Ha!" retorted Dorothy, "and some with rags, and one with sawdust, but I didn't care for him; he was lumpy." "I didn't know you could paint well enough to color them," said Roger. "I can't. I did a few but Ethel Blue did the best one. There was a cat that was so fierce that Aunt Marion's cat growled at it. He was a winner!" "All the rag dolls were dressed in cotton dresses," explained Ethel Brown. "Of course." "But the real dolls were positively scrumptious. There was a bride, and a girl in a khaki sport suit, and a boy in a sailor suit, and a baby. They were regular beauties." All the time that these descriptions had been given Dorothy and the Mortons had been opening packages of rattan and raffia and laying them out on the dining table. James sat in state at one end, his convalescent leg raised on a chair, and his right hand to the table so that he could handle his materials easily. "I'm simply perishing to hear about Fräulein," he acknowledged. "Do start me on this basket business, Dorothy, so I can hear about her." "We don't know such an awful lot," said Dorothy slowly as she counted out the spokes for a small basket. "In fact, we don't know anything at all." "Misery! And my curiosity has been actually on the boil! How many of those sticks do I need?" "Let's all do the same basket," suggested Ethel Brown. "Then one lecture by Miss Dorothy Smith will do for all of us." "Doesn't anybody else know how to make them?" "Della and I do," replied Ethel Blue. "We're going to work on raffia, but you people might just as well all do one kind of basket. We can use any number of them, you know, so it doesn't make any difference if they are all alike." "We'll start with a basket that measures three inches across the bottom and is two and a half inches deep," announced Dorothy, who was an expert basket maker. "You'll need eight spokes sixteen inches long and one nine inches long." There was a general cutting and counting of rattan spokes. "Are you ready? Take your knife and in four rattans make slits long enough to poke the other four rattans through." "They're rather fat to get through," complained James. [Illustration: "Make slits long enough to poke the other rattans through. Sharpen them to a point"] [Illustration: "You'll need eight spokes sixteen inches long and one nine inches long"] "Sharpen them to a point. Have you put them through so they make a cross with the arms of even length? Then put the single short piece through on one arm--no, not way through, James; just far enough to catch it." "That's pretty solid just as it is," commented Tom with his head on one side. "Nevertheless, you must wrap it with a piece of raffia. Watch me; lay your raffia at the left side of the upright arm and bring it across from left to right. Now pass it under the right hand arm and over the bottom arm and under the left hand arm. Instead of covering the wrapping you've just done you turn back and let your bit of raffia go _over_ the left hand arm." [Illustration: "This weaving process makes the spokes stand out like wheel spokes"] "That binds down the beginning end of the raffia," cried Helen. "Exactly. That's why you do it. Go under the bottom arm and over the right hand arm behind the top arm." "Back at the station the train started from," announced Margaret. "So far you've used your weaver--" "What's that? The raffia?" "Yes. So far you've used it merely to fasten the centre firmly. Now you really begin to weave under and over the spokes, round and round." "I could shoot beans through mine," announced James. "You haven't pulled your weaver tight as you wove. Push it down hard toward the centre. That's it. See how firm that is? You could hardly get water through that--much less beans or hound puppies, as they say in some parts of North Carolina." "This weaving process makes the spokes stand out like wheel spokes, doesn't it?" "That's why they're called spokes. By the time you've been round three times they ought all to be standing apart evenly." "Please, ma'am, my raffia is giving out," grumbled Tom. "It's time to use a rattan weaver, then. You used raffia at first because the spokes were so near together. Now you use a fine rattan, finer than your spokes. Wet it first. Then catch it behind a spoke and hold on to it carefully until you come to the second time round or it will slip away from you. You're all right as soon as the second row holds the first row in place." "My rattan weaver is giving out," said Ethel Brown. "Take another one and lap it over the end of the one that is on the point of death, then go right ahead. If they're too fat at the ends shave them down a bit where they lap." "This superb creation of mine is three inches across the middle," announced James. "It's time to turn up the spokes then. Make up your mind how sharply you want the basket to flare and watch it as you weave, or you'll have it uneven." "Mine seems to have reached a good height for a small work basket," decided Helen, her head on one side. "Mine isn't quite so high, but I can seem to see a few choice candies of Ethel Brown's concoction resting happily within its walls," said Tom. "Let's all make the border. Measure the spokes and cut them just three inches beyond the top of the weaving. You'll have to sharpen their tips a little or else you'll have trouble pushing them down among the weavers." "I get the idea! You bend them into scallops!" "Wet them first or there'll be broken fence pickets. When you've soaked them until they're pliable enough bend each spoke over to make a scallop and thrust it down right beside its neighbor spoke between the weavers." "Mine is more than ever a work basket," said Helen when she had completed the edge. "I shall line it with brown and fit it up with a thimble and threads and needles and a tiny pair of scissors." "Mine, too," was Ethel Brown's decision. "My sides turn up too sharply," James thought. "I shall call mine a cover for a small flower pot. Then I shan't have to line it!" "Here are some of the most easily made mats and baskets in the world," announced Della. "They're made just like the braided rugs you find in farm houses in New England. Mother got some in New Hampshire once before we started going to Chautauqua for the summers." "I've seen them," said Margaret. "There are yards and yards of rags cut all the same width and sewed together and then they are braided and then the braid is sewed round and round." "You make raffia mats or baskets in just the same way, only you sew them with raffia," explained Della. "You braid the raffia first and that gives you an opportunity to make pretty color combinations." "A strand of raffia doesn't last forever. How do you splice it?" "Splice a thick end alongside of a thin end and go ahead. Try to pick out strands of different lengths for your plaiting or they'll all run out at once and have to be spliced at once and it may make them bunchy if you aren't awfully careful." [Illustration: The braid for easily made rugs and baskets] "I saw a beauty basket once made of corn husks braided in the same way. The inside husks are a delicate color you know, and they were split into narrow widths and plaited into a long rope." "Where the long leaf pine grows," said Dorothy, "they use pine needles in the same way, only they wrap them around with thread--" "Cotton thread?" "Cotton thread--of about the same color." "You can work sweet grass just so, except that you can wrap that with a piece of itself." "When you have enough material," went on Della, "you begin the sewing. If you're going to make a round or an oblong mat you decide which right at the beginning and coil the centre accordingly. Then all you have to do is to go ahead. Don't let the stitches show and sew on until the mat is big enough." "And for a basket I suppose you pile the braids upon each other when you've made the bottom the size you want it." "Exactly. And you can make the sides flare sharply or slightly just as we made them do with the rattan." "What's the matter with making baskets of braided crêpe paper?" asked James. "My whole being has been wrapped in paper for a week so it may influence my inventive powers unduly, but I really don't see why it shouldn't work." "I'm sorry to take you off your perch," remarked Ethel Brown, "but I've seen one." "O--oh!" wailed James in disappointment. "They were pretty though, weren't they?" "They were beauties. There was a lovely color combination in the one I saw." "You could make patriotic ones for Fourth of July--red, white, and blue." "Or green and red ones for Christmas." "Or all white for Easter." "Or pinky ones for May Day." Just at this moment there came a rush of small feet and Dicky burst into the room. "Hullo," he exclaimed briefly. "Hullo," cried a chorus in return. "I've seen her," said Dicky. "Who is 'her'?" asked Roger. "Fräulein." "Fräulein! Dicky, what have you been doing?" Helen seized him by the arm and drew him to the side of her chair, while all the other members of the Club laid down their work and listened. Dicky was somewhat embarrassed at being the object of such undivided attention. He climbed up into Helen's lap. "I heard you talking at breakfatht about Fräulein and how thomebody perhapth wath dead and perhapth wathn't dead, tho I went and athked her if he wath dead." "Oh, Dicky!" Helen buried her face in his bobbed hair, and the rest of the Mortons looked at each other aghast. "We were wondering if it would be an intrusion to send Fräulein some flowers," explained Helen,--"and--" "--and here Dicky butts right in!" finished Roger. "I went to the houthe and I rang the bell," continued Dicky, "and an old lady came to the door." "Mrs. Hindenburg." "I thaid 'Ith Mith Fräulein at home?' The old lady thaid 'Yeth.' I walked in and there wath Mith Fräulein in front of the fire. I thaid, 'Ith he dead?'" "You asked her?" "Great Scott!" "Fräulein thaid, 'I don't know, Dicky.' And I thaid, 'Here ith a chethnut I found. You can have it.' And Fräulein thaid, 'Thank you, Dicky,' and I that on her lap and the talked to me a long time about the man that perhapth ith dead, and thometimeth the thaid queer wordth--" "German," interpreted Margaret under her breath. "And onthe the cried a little, and--" "Dicky, Dicky, what have you done!" "I ain't done anything bad, 'coth when I thaid, 'Now I mutht go,' the old lady thaid, 'Thank you for coming.'" "She did?" "Perhaps it did Fräulein good to cry. Poor Fräulein!" "I'm going again." "Did she ask you?" "Of courth the athked me. And I thaid I'd go if the'd wear a white dreth. I don't like a black dreth." Silence reigned about the table. "I wish I knew whether he's done harm or good," sighed Helen. "Good, I should say, or Fräulein's mother wouldn't have asked him to come again," said Ethel Blue. "At this uncertain moment I think we'd better have some refreshments," said Dorothy. "I'm certainly in need of something sustaining," groaned Roger. "Then try these sugar cookies of Ethel Brown's." "Let me write down right now how she makes them," exclaimed Della, borrowing a pencil from Tom. "This is the kind you're going to make for the orphans, isn't it?" "Yes, they'll keep a long time, especially if they're wrapped in paraffin paper and put into a tin." "Recite the rule to me." "I never can remember rules. Dorothy's got it copied into her cook book. Ask her for it." "Here you are," said Dorothy who had overheard the conversation, "here on page twenty. And I know you're going to ask for the fudge receipt as soon as you taste Ethel Blue's fudge so you might as well copy that at the same time. It's on the next page." So Della copied diligently while Dorothy brought in the cookies and fudge in question and Helen and Roger discussed Dicky's performance under their breath. Here is what Della wrote: "Sugar Cookies or Sand Tarts "1 cup butter 2 cups sugar 2 eggs 3½ cups flour 4 teaspoons baking powder Extra whites of 2 eggs 1½ cups blanched almonds, chopped. 2 tablespoons sugar--extra ½ teaspoon cinnamon "Blanch the almonds by putting them in boiling water, let them stand on the table five minutes, remove a few at a time from the water, rub off the skin and dry them in a towel; then chop them. "Cream the butter, add the sugar gradually, then the beaten eggs. Sift flour and baking powder together, add to the butter mixture gradually, using a knife to cut it in. Add the nuts. If stiff and dry add a few tablespoons milk to moisten slightly, and mould into a dough with the hands. Roll out portions quite thin, on a floured board, cut out with a cutter, brush with the extra whites, slightly beaten. Mix the cinnamon and the two extra tablespoons sugar together, sprinkle over the cookies. Place on a greased tin, bake about five minutes in a moderately hot oven." "Fudge "3 cups brown or white sugar 1 cup milk or water 1 tablespoon butter 3 squares (inch) chocolate (about ¼ cup grated) ½ teaspoon vanilla "Mix sugar, milk, butter and chocolate in a saucepan; let it melt slowly; bring to a boil and boil about ten minutes, or until a little forms a soft ball when dropped in a cup of cold water. Add the vanilla, stir a few minutes until slightly thick, turn at once into greased _tin_ plates. Cool and cut into blocks. If it crumbles and is sugary, add half a cup or more hot water, melt, boil again, and try as before. If it should not be hard enough it may be boiled a second time." CHAPTER XVII THE CLUB WEAVES, STENCILS AND MODELS CLAY WHETHER Dicky had done something entirely inexcusable or something wise no one was able to decide, but everybody agreed that at any rate it was pleasanter to think that he had brought poor Fräulein some comfort, and that her mother's thanking him for coming seemed to mean that. They all felt somewhat shocked and queer. "I move, Madam President," said Tom, "that we don't talk about it any more this afternoon. We don't know and probably we never shall know, and so we might as well get to work again. Did you people realize that time is growing short? The Santa Claus Ship is booked to sail the first week in November." "We did and do realize it," said Helen. "I'd like to know next about these raffia sofa pillows that Ethel Blue and Della have been making." "The ones we made are sofa pillows for the orphans' dolls," explained Ethel Blue, "or they can be used for pincushions." "They make thothe at kindergarten," announced Dicky. "I can make thothe. Mine are paper." "They're made in just about the same way," said Della. "We made a small cushion with double raffia and wove it under and over on a pasteboard loom." "How do you make that?" "Just a piece of heavy pasteboard or a light board or you can take the frame of a smashed slate. You fasten the ends of the threads with pins or tacks or tie them around the bars. First you lay all the threads you want in one direction. That's the warp." "Warp--I remember. I always have to look it up in the dictionary to see which is warp and which is woof." "Warp is the thread that goes on first. In a rug or a piece of tapestry it's the plain, ugly thread that holds the beautifully colored threads in place. It's the up and down threads. In raffia you have to be careful to alternate the big ends and small ends so that the weaving will be even." "What do you do when the warp is ready?" "Before you begin to weave you must make a solid line across the end so that when you run your first bit of woof across it won't just push right up to the bar of the loom and then ravel out when you cut your product off the loom." "I get the reason for its existence. I should think you'd make it by tying a string right across the loom knotting it into each strand of warp as you pass by." "That's exactly what you do; and the ends you can leave flying to join in with the fringe." "Can we weave now?" "Go ahead. When you've made the cushion square, if you want it square, go around the three remaining sides and tie a break-water, so to speak, so that the weaving won't ravel out. Trim your fringe even and there's one side of your pillow." "One side would be enough for a pincushion." "If you want to make a big sofa cushion--a grown up one--you'll have to make a wide plait of raffia--a four strand or six strand braid--or else you'd never get it done." "The unbraided would be too delicate. I hate to make things that wear out before you can get used to them about the house." "You'd have to have a bigger loom for something that size." "It's no trouble to make. Roger nailed mine together," said Ethel Blue. "Any one want the dimensions?" asked Roger. "Take two pieces of narrow wood twenty-three inches long, and nail two other pieces of lighter stuff each twenty-five inches long on to their tops at the ends. These bits are raised from the table by the thickness of the first piece of lumber. See?" Tom and James, who were examining Ethel Blue's loom, nodded. "Then nail slender uprights, ten inches tall, at each of the four corners and connect them by two other thin sticks twenty-five inches long, running just above your first pair of twenty-fives. Do you get it?" Again the boys nodded. "That's all there is to it, and you really don't need to make that for a plain, smooth plank will do at a pinch." "How do you carry your woof across?" asked Margaret. "Your hand would be in its own way, I should think." "You thread the raffia into a wooden bodkin about twenty-six inches long." "I can see that you must draw the cross threads down tight the way we did in weaving the baskets," said James. "Indeed you must or you'll turn out a sleazy piece of weaving," answered Della. "There must be oceans of articles you can make out of woven raffia." "Just about everything that you can make out of a piece of cloth of the same size." "Of cotton cloth? Ha!" "Or silk." "Handkerchief cases and collar cases." "Coverings for boxes of all kinds. Another material for James to glue on to pasteboard." "I see lots of chances for it," he answered seriously. "I believe old James is really taking kindly to pasting," laughed Tom. "Certainly I am. It's a bully occupation," defended James. "There are a thousand things that can be made of raffia--you can make lace of it like twine lace, and make articles out of the lace; and you can make baskets of a combination of rattan and raffia, using the raffia for wrapping and for sewing. But we have such a short time left that I think those of us who are going to do any raffia work had better learn how to weave evenly and make pretty little duds out of the woven stuff." "Wise kid," pronounced Roger. "Now what's little Margaret going to teach us this afternoon?" "Little Margaret" made a puckered face at this appellation, but she came promptly to the front. "Ethel Brown and Dorothy have been teaching me to stencil. They could teach the rest of you a great deal better than I can, but they've done their share this afternoon so I'll try." "Go on," urged Ethel Brown. "We'll help you if you forget." "If you'll excuse me I'll go to the attic and get my clay," said Dorothy. "I found a new idea for a candlestick in a book this morning and I want to make one before I forget it." Margaret was in the full swing of explanation when Dorothy returned. "Why this frown, fair Coz?" demanded Roger in a Shakesperean tone. "It's the queerest thing--I thought I had enough clay for two pairs of candlesticks and it seems to have shrunk or something so there'll only be one and that mighty small." "'_Mighty small_,'" mimicked Roger. "How large is _'mighty_ small'?" "Don't bother me, Roger. I'll start this while Margaret talks." "When a drawing fit seizes Ethel Blue again we'll get her to make us some original stencils," said Helen. "These that we bought at the Chautauqua art store will do well enough for us to learn with." "They are very pretty," defended Dorothy. "Mine won't be any better, only they will be original," said Ethel Blue. "I hate to mention it," said Tom in a whisper, "but I'm not perfectly sure that I know what a stencil is." There was a shout from around the table. "Never mind, Thomas," soothed Roger, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Confession is good for the soul. A stencil, my son, is a thin sheet of something--pasteboard, the girls use--with a pattern cut out of it. You lay the stencil down on a piece of cloth or canvas or board or whatever you want to decorate, and you scrub color on all the part of the material that shows through." "Methinks I see a great light," replied Tom, slapping his forehead. "When you lift the stencil there is your pattern done in color." Roger and James leaned forward together and patted Tom's brow. "Such it is to have real intellect!" they murmured in admiring accents. Tom bowed meekly. "Enlighten me further--also these smarties. What kind of paint do you use?" "Tapestry dyes or oil paints. It depends somewhat on your material. If you want to launder it, use the dye." "Fast color, eh?" "When you wash it, set the color by soaking your article in cold water salted. Then wash it gently in the suds of white soap. Suds, mind you; don't touch the cake of soap to it." "I promise you solemnly I'll never touch a cake of soap to any stenciling I do." "You're ridiculous, Roger. No, I believe you won't!" "Here's a piece of cloth Ethel Brown is going to make into a doll's skirt. See, she's hemmed it already and I'll put this simple star stencil on the hem. Where's a board, Dorothy?" Dorothy brought a sewing board and the others watched Margaret pin her material down hard upon it and fasten the stencil over that. "Good girl! You've got them so tight they won't dare to shiver," declared Tom. "Do you notice that this stencil has been shellacked so the edges won't roughen when I scrub? Stiff bristle brushes are what I'm using." Margaret called their attention to her utensils. "And I have a different brush for each color. Also I have an old rag to dabble the extra color off on to." "Are you ready? Go!" commanded Roger. [Illustration: "I'll put this simple star stencil on the hem"] Margaret scrubbed hard and succeeded in getting a variety of shading through the amount of paint that she allowed to soak entirely through or partway through the material. When she had done as many stars as there were openings on the pattern she took out the pins and moved the stencil along so that the holes came over a fresh piece of material, making sure that the space between the first new star and the last old one was the same as that between the stars on the stencil. "How can we boys apply that?" asked James. "You can stencil on anything that you would decorate with painting," said Ethel Brown. "Your jig-saw disks, Tom. Stencil a small conventional pattern on each one--a star or a triangle." "Here's a stencil of a vine that would be a beauty on one of your large plain pasteboard boxes, James." "Dorothy has been turning white cheesecloth doll clothes into organdie muslins by stenciling on them these tiny sprays of roses and cornflowers and jasmine." "I'm going to do roosters and cats and dogs on a lot of bibs for the babies." "You'd better save a few in case Mademoiselle really sends us that Belgian baby." "I'll make some more if it does turn up." "Aunt Marion gave me some cotton flannel--" "Cot--ton!" "Cotton flannel, yes, sir; and I've made it into some little blankets for tiny babies. I bound the raw edges, and on some of them I did a cross stitch pattern and on others I stenciled a pattern." "It saves time, I should say." "Lots. When you have ever so many articles gathered, just have a stenciling bee and you can turn out the decoration much faster than by doing even a wee bit of embroidery." "If the Belgian baby really comes, let's make it a play-house. The boys can do the carpentry and we can all make the furniture and I'm wild to stencil some cunning curtains for the windows." "I'll draw you a fascinating pattern for it." "There's my candlestick half done," said Dorothy mournfully, "and I can't finish it. I don't understand about that clay." "Perhaps it dried up and blew away." "It did dry, but I moistened it and kneaded it and cut it in halves with a wire and put the inside edges outside and generally patticaked it but I'm sure it's not more than a quarter the size it was when I left it in the attic yesterday afternoon." "You seem to have made a great mess on the floor over there by the window; didn't you slice off some and put it in that cup?" "That's my 'slip.' It only took a scrap to make that. It's about as thick as cream and you use it to smooth rough places and fill up cracks with. No, that wouldn't account for much of any of the clay." "How did you make this thing, anyway?" asked James turning it about. "Careful. I took a saucer and put a wet rag in it and then I made a clay snake and coiled it about the way you make those coiled baskets, only I smoothed the clay so you can't see the coils. I hollowed it on the inside like a saucer. Then I put another wet rag inside my clay saucer and a china saucer inside that and turned them all upside down on my work board, and took off the original china saucer and smoothed down the coils on the underside of the clay saucer." Tom drew a long breath. "Take one yourself," he suggested. "You'll need it, you talk so fast." "It stiffened while Margaret was doing her stenciling. When it was firm enough to handle I turned it over again and took out the small china saucer and smoothed off any marks it had left." "It's about time to build up the candle holder, isn't it?" [Illustration: Dorothy's Candlestick] "Did you see me bring in a short candle? I wrapped it in a wet rag and stood it exactly in the middle of the clay saucer. Then I roughened the clay around it and wet the rough part with slip and pressed a fresh little snake round the foot of the candle. The slip makes it stick to the roughening, so you have to roughen the top of every coil and moisten it with slip." "You finished off the top of that part very smoothly," complimented Helen. "When it's stiff enough you take out the candle and smooth the inside. Here's where I'm stumped. I haven't got enough clay for a handle." "How do you make the handle?" "Pat out another snake and make a hoop attached to the holder and another one rolling up on to the lip of the saucer." "As if the serpent were trying to put his tail into his mouth." "I shall have to just smooth this over with a soft brush and wrap it up in a wet cloth until I get some more clay. If I let it get hard I can't finish it." "What's that drip, Dorothy?" asked Helen, as a drop of water fell on the table before her. They all looked at the ceiling where drops of water were assembling and beginning to fall with a soft splash. There was a scramble to get their work out of the way. Dorothy brought a salad bowl and placed it where it would catch the water and then ran to investigate the cause of the trouble. At a cry from upstairs Helen and the Ethels ran to her help. Roger went to the foot of the stairs and called up to inquire if they wanted his assistance. Evidently they did, for he, too, disappeared. In a few minutes he re-appeared bearing Dicky in his arms--a Dicky sopping wet and much subdued. "What in the world?" everybody questioned. "Dorothy's found her clay," said Roger. "Come on, old man. Wrap Aunt Louise's tweed coat around you--so--and _run_ so you won't catch cold," and the two boys disappeared out of the front door, Dicky stumbling and struggling with the voluminous folds of his aunt's garment. Dorothy and the other girls came down stairs in a few minutes. "Do telephone to Aunt Marion's and see if Mother is there and ask her to come home," Dorothy begged Helen, while she gathered cloths and pans and went upstairs again, taking the maid with her. "What did Dicky do?" asked the others again. Both Ethels burst into laughter. "He must have gone up in the attic and found Dorothy's clay, for he had filled up the waste pipe of the bath tub--" "--and turned on the water, I'll bet!" exclaimed Tom. "That's just what he did. It looks as if he'd been trying to float about everything he could find in any of the bedrooms." "Probably he had a glorious time until the tub ran over and he didn't know how to stop it." "Dicky's a great old man! I judge he didn't float himself!" "Now Dorothy can finish her candlestick handle!" CHAPTER XVIII ETHEL BLUE AWAITS A CABLE MRS. SMITH begged that the meeting should not adjourn, and under her direction the trouble caused by Dicky's entrance into the navy was soon remedied, although it was evident that the ceiling of the dining-room would need the attention of a professional. Roger soon returned with the news that the honorary member of the Club had taken no cold, and every one settled down to work again, even Dorothy, who rescued enough clay from Dicky's earthworks to complete the handle of her candlestick. "I'd like to bring a matter before this meeting," said Tom seriously when they were all assembled and working once more. "Bring it on," urged the president. "It isn't a matter belonging to this Club, but if there isn't any one else to do it it seemed to me--and to Father when I spoke to him about it--that we might do some good." "It sounds mysterious. Let's have it," said James. "It seemed to me as I thought over those movies the other night that there was a very good chance that that man Schuler--your singing teacher, you know, Fräulein's betrothed--wasn't dead after all." "It certainly looked like it--the way he fell back against the orderly--he didn't look alive." "He didn't--that's a fact. At the same time the film made one of those sudden changes right at that instant." "Father and I thought that was so a death scene shouldn't be shown," said James. "That's possible, but it's also possible that they thought that was a good dramatic spot to leave that group of people and go off to another group." "What's your idea? I don't suppose we could find out from the film people." "Probably not. It would be too roundabout to try to get at their operator in Belgium and very likely he wouldn't remember if they did get in touch with him." "He must be seeing sights like that all the time." "Brother Edward suggested when he heard us talking about it that we should send a cable to Mademoiselle and ask her. She must have known Mr. Schuler here in the school at Rosemont." "Certainly she did." "Then she would have been interested enough in him to recall what happened when she came across him in the hospital." "How could we get a message to her? We don't know where that hospital was. They don't tell the names of places even in newspaper messages, you know. They are headed 'From a town near the front.'" "Here's where Edward had a great idea--that is, Father thought it was workable. See what you think of it." The Club was growing excited. The Ethels stopped working to listen, Helen's face flushed with interest, and the boys leaned across the table to hear the plan to which Rev. Herbert Watkins had given his approval. They knew that Tom's father, in his work among the poor foreigners in New York, often had to try to hunt up their relatives in Europe so that this would not be a matter of guesswork with him. "It's pretty much guesswork in this war time," admitted Tom when some one suggested it. "You can merely send a cable and trust to luck that it will land somewhere. Here's Edward's idea. He says that the day we went to see Mademoiselle sail she told him that she was related to Monsieur Millerand, the French Minister of War. It was through her relationship with him that she expected to be sent where she wanted to go--that is, to Belgium." "She was sent there, so her expectation seems to have had a good foundation." "That's what makes Edward think that perhaps we can get in touch with her through the same means." "Through Monsieur Millerand?" "He suggests that we send a cable addressed to Mademoiselle--" "Justine--" "--Millerand in the care of Monsieur Millerand, Minister of War. We could say 'Is Schuler dead?' and sign it with some name she'd know in Rosemont. She'd understand at once that in some way news of his being in Belgium had reached here." "It seems awfully uncertain." "It is uncertain. Even if she got the cable she might not be able to send a reply. Everything is uncertain about it. At the same time if we _could_ get an answer it would be a comfort to Fräulein even if the message said he had died." "I believe that's so. It's not knowing that's hardest to bear." "Don't you think Mademoiselle would have sent word to Fräulein if he had died?" "I don't believe she knew they were engaged. No one knew until after the war had been going on for several weeks. If ever she wrote to any one in Rosemont she might mention having seen him, but I don't believe it would occur to her to send any special word to Fräulein." "She might be put under suspicion if she addressed a letter to any one with a German name even if she lived in the United States." "No one but Ethel Blue has had a letter from Mademoiselle since, she left," said Helen. "We should have heard of it, I'm sure." "Well, what do you say to the plan? Can't we send a cable signed by the 'Secretary of the United Service Club'?" "I think it would be a good use to put the Club money to," approved James, the treasurer. "If you say so I'll send it when I get back to New York this afternoon. How shall we word it?" "Mademoiselle Justine Millerand, Care Monsieur Millerand, Minister of War, Bordeaux, France," said Roger, slowly. "Cut out 'Mademoiselle' and 'Monsieur,'" suggested Margaret. "We must remember that our remarks cost about a quarter a word in times of peace and war prices may be higher." "Cut out 'of War,'" said Ethel Brown. "There's only one 'Bordeaux,'" added Margaret. "A dollar and a quarter saved already," said James thoughtfully. "Now let's have the message." "What's the matter with Tom's original suggestion--'Is Schuler dead'?" asked Ethel Blue. "I suppose we must leave out the 'Mr.' if we are going to be economical." "Sign it 'Morton, Secretary United Service Club, Rosemont.' I'll file Ethel Blue's address--at the cable office so the answer will be sent to her if one comes." Ethel Blue looked somewhat agitated at the prospect of receiving a cable almost from the battlefield, but she said nothing. "The United Service Club was the last group of people she saw in America, you see," Tom went on, "so Edward thinks she'll know at once whom the message comes from and she'll guess that the high school scholars want to know about their former teacher." "I have a feeling in my bones that she'll get the message and that she'll answer," said Ethel Blue. "If she doesn't get it we shan't have done any harm," mused Ethel Brown, "and if she does get it and answers then we shall have done a lot of good by getting the information for Fräulein." "We needn't tell anybody about it outside of our families and then there won't be any expectations to be disappointed." "It certainly would be best not to tell Fräulein." "That's settled, then," said Tom, "and I'll send the message the moment I reach town this afternoon." "It's the most thrilling thing I ever had anything to do with," Ethel Blue whispered. CHAPTER XIX LEATHER AND BRASS THE following week was filled with expectation of a reply from Mademoiselle, but none came though every ring at the Mortons' doorbell was answered with the utmost promptness by one or another of the children who made a point of rushing to the door before Mary could reach it. "I suppose we could hardly expect to have a reply," sighed Ethel Blue, "but it would have been _so_ splendiferous if it did come!" Thanks to Dicky's escapade the last Saturday afternoon had been so broken in upon that the Club decided that they must have an all-day session on the next Saturday. Roger had promised to teach the others how to do the leather and brass work in which he had become quite expert, and he was talking to himself about it as he was dressing after doing his morning work. "This business of working in leather for orphan children makes a noise like toil to me," he soliloquized. "But think of the joy of the kids when they receive a leather penwiper, though they aren't yet old enough to write, or a purse when they haven't any shekels to put into it!" "Ro--ger," came a voice from a long way off. "Let's go over to Dorothy's now," Roger called back as if it had been Ethel Brown who was late. "I should say so! The Watkinses and Hancocks said they'd be there at ten and it must be that now. I'll call Ethel Blue and Helen," and Ethel Brown's voice came from a greater distance than before. The other girls were not to be discovered, however, and when Roger and Ethel arrived at Dorothy's they found all the rest waiting for them. [Illustration: "Roger cut a slip ten inches long and four inches wide"] [Illustration: Corner for Blotter Pad] "Where's this professor of leather?" called Tom as he heard Roger's steps on the attic stairs. "_And_ brass," added Roger grandly as he appeared in the doorway. "No one disputes the brass," returned Tom, and Roger roared cheerfully and called out "Bull's-eye!" "Now, then," began Roger seating himself at the head of the table, "with apologies to the president I'll call this solemn meeting to order--that is, as much order as there can be with Dicky around." Dicky was even then engaged in trying to make a hole in Ethel Blue's shoe with a leather punch, but he was promptly suppressed and placed between the Ethels before his purpose was accomplished. "You've got him interned there," remarked James, using a phrase that was becoming customary in the newspaper accounts of the care of prisoners. "I'm going to start you people making corners for a big blotting pad," said Roger, "not because the orphans will want a blotting pad, but because they are easy to make and you can adapt the idea to lots of other articles." "Fire ahead," commanded James. "You make a paper pattern to fit your corner--so fashion," and Roger tore a sheet of paper off a pad and cut a slip ten inches long and four inches wide. A point in the middle of the long side he placed on the corner of the big blotter that lay before him and then he folded the rest of the paper around the corner. The result was a smooth triangle on the face of the blotter and a triangle at the back just like it except that it was split up the middle. "Here's your pattern," said Roger slipping it off. "When you make this of brass or copper it's a good plan to round these back corners so there won't be any sharp points to stick into you or to scratch the desk." "The orphans' mahogany." "Or Grandfather Emerson's. I'm going to inflict a set on him at Christmas." "I should think it would be hard to work on such dinky little things," remarked James who had large hands. "You don't cut them out of your big sheet of copper or your big piece of leather yet. You draw the size of this small pattern on to a larger piece of paper and you draw your ornamental design right where you want it on the face of the triangle--so." "More work for Ethel Blue, making original designs." "She might get up some U. S. C. designs and have them copyrighted," suggested Helen. "Until she does we'll have to use these simple figures that I traced out of a book the other day." "Why couldn't we use our stenciling designs?" "You could, if they are the right size. That star pattern you put oh a doll's skirt would be just the ticket--just one star for each corner." "We might put U. S. C. in each corner." "Or U. in one corner and S. in another, and C. in a third and a star or something in the fourth." "Or the initials of the person you give it to." "We've got the size of the corner piece as it is when it's unfolded and with its design on it, all drawn on this piece of paper. Now you tack your sheet of brass on to a block of wood and lay a sheet of carbon paper over it and your design on that and trace ahead." "I see, I see," commented Margaret. "When you take it off, there you have the size of your corner indicated and the star or whatever you're going to ornament it with, all drawn in the right place." "Exactly. Now we tackle the brass itself." "It seems to me we ought to have some tools for that." "A light hammer and a wire nail--that's all. See the point of this nail? It has been filed flat and rather dull. I made enough for everybody to have one--not you, sir," and he snatched away one of them from Dicky just as that young man was about to nail Ethel Brown's dress on to the edge of her chair. "Dicky will have to be interned at home if he isn't quiet." The president shook her head at the honorary member. "First you go around the whole outline, tapping the nail gently, stroke by stroke, until the line of the design is completely hammered in." "That isn't hard," said Tom. "Watch me." "When the outline is made you take another wire nail that has been filed perfectly flat on the bottom and go over the whole background with it." "I see, I see," cried Ethel Blue. "That makes the design stand out puffily and smooth against a sort of motheaten background." "For eloquent description commend me to Ethel Blue," declared Margaret. "She's right, though. You can make the moth holes of different size by using nails of different sizes. There are regular tools that come, too, with different pounding surfaces so it's possible to make quite a variety of backgrounds." "This mothy one is pretty enough for me," declared Margaret. "I don't much like that name for it, but it is pretty, just the same," insisted Roger. "When you've hammered down the background you take out the tacks and cut out your whole corner with this pair of shears that is made to cut metal. Then you fold over the backs just the way you folded over the paper to find the shape originally." "It's not so terribly easy to bend," commented Ethel Blue. "Shape them along the edge of your block of wood. Persuade them down--so, and fold them back--so. Tap them into place with your wooden mallet. There you are." The finished corner was passed from hand to hand and duly admired. "Rub it shiny with any brass polish, if you like it bright," directed Roger. "It's fashionable for coppers to be dull now," said Helen. "You ladies know more about fashions of all sorts than I should ever pretend to," said her brother meekly. "I like metals to shine, myself." "What are some of the articles we can start in to make now that we know how?" questioned Margaret. "All sorts of things for the desk--a paper knife and a roller blotter and a case to hold the inkwell and a clip to keep papers from blowing away. The work is just the same, no matter what you're making. It's all a matter of getting the outlines of different objects and then bending them up carefully after you've hammered the design and got them cut out well." "Why can't you make all sorts of boxes?" asked James whose mind had run to boxes ever since his week of work upon them. "You can. All sorts and sizes. Line them with silk or leather. Leather wears best." "How far is the leather work like the metal work?" asked Ethel Brown. "It seemed to be the same as far as the point where you tacked them on to the wooden block." [Illustration: "A beauty leather mat"] "It is the same except that you wet the leather before you tack it on to the block. When you put your design on to the leather you don't need to use carbon paper. Borrow one of Ethel Brown's knitting needles and run it over the design that you have drawn on the paper placed over the leather, and it will leave a tiny groove on the damp leather." "That's a simple instrument." [Illustration: "A three cornered purse that doesn't need any sewing"] "The steel tooler you take next is simple, too. You deepen the groove with its edge and then take the flat part of the tooler and go over every bit of the leather outside of the design, pressing it and polishing it with great care." "I suppose that gives the leather a different texture." [Illustration: The three cornered purse completed] "It seems to. It makes the design show more, anyway." "I saw a beauty leather mat the other day with a cotton boll design that puffed right up from the background. "The cotton boll caught our little Dorothy's eye, of course! You make your design puff out by rubbing it on the back with a round headed tool. Your mat probably had the puffed up part filled with wax so it wouldn't smash down again when something heavy was placed on it." "I think it did; it felt hard." "If you do puff out any part of your pattern you have to tool over the design again, because the outline will have lost its sharpness." "The mat I saw was colored." "That's easy. There are colors that come especially for using on leather. You float them on when the leather is wet and you can get beautiful effects." "You ought not to cut out your leather corners until they are dry, I suppose?" "They ought to be thoroughly dry. If you want a lining for a purse or a cardcase you can paste in either silk or a thin leather. It's pretty to make an openwork design and let the lining show through." "How about sewing purses? It must be hard work." "Helen does mine on the machine. She says it isn't much trouble if she goes slowly and takes a few stitches back at the ends so they won't come apart. But I'm going to show you how to make a little three cornered purse that doesn't need any sewing--only two glove snappers." So simple was this pattern that each of them had finished one by the time that Grandmother Emerson's car came to take them all over to luncheon at her house. CHAPTER XX THE ETHELS COOK TO KEEP ANOTHER week rolled on and still no reply came to the cable that the Club had sent to Mademoiselle Millerand. "Either she hasn't received it," said Ethel Blue, who felt a personal interest because it had been signed by her as Secretary of the club, "or Mr. Schuler is dead and she doesn't want to tell us." "It's pretty sure to be one or the other," said Ethel Brown. "I suppose we might as well forget that we tried to do anything about it." "Have you heard Roger or Helen say anything about Fräulein lately?" "Helen said she looked awfully sad and that she was wearing black. Evidently she has no hope." "Poor Fräulein!" "What are we going to do this week?" "I've planned the cunningest little travelling bag for a doll. It's a straight strip of leather, tooled in a pretty pattern. It's doubled in halves and there is a three-cornered piece let in at the ends to give a bit more room." "How do you fasten it?" "Like a Boston bag, with a strap that goes over the top." "You could run a cord in and out parallel with the top and pull it up." "I believe I'll make two and try both ways." "You could make the same pattern only a little larger for a wrist bag for an older child." [Illustration: Bag for a doll, a child or a grown-up] [Illustration] "And larger still for a shopping bag for a grown person." "That's as useful a pattern as Helen's and Margaret's wrapper pattern! Do you realize that this is the week that we ought to cook?" "Is it? We'll have to hurry fearfully! Are you perfectly sure the things will keep?" "I've talked it over several times with Miss Dawson, the domestic science teacher. She has given me some splendid receipts and some information about packing. She says there won't be any doubt of their travelling all right." "We'll have to cook every afternoon, then. We'd better go over the receipts and see if we have all the materials we need." "We know about the cookies and the fruit cake and the fudge. We've made all those such a short time ago that we know we have those materials. Here are ginger snaps," she went on, examining her cook book. "We haven't enough molasses I'm sure, and I'm doubtful about the ginger." "Let me see." Ethel Blue read over the receipt. "1 pt. molasses--dark 1 cup butter 1 tablespoon ginger 1 teaspoon soda 1 teaspoon cinnamon "About 2 quarts flour, or enough more to make a thick dough. "Sift flour, soda, and spices together. Melt the butter, put the molasses in a big bowl, add the butter, then the flour gradually, using a knife to cut it in. When stiff enough to roll, roll out portions quite thin on a floured board, cut out with a cookie cutter or with the cover of a baking powder can. Place them on greased tins, leaving a little space between each cookie. Bake in a hot oven about five minutes." "Miss Dawson says we must let the cookies get perfectly cold before we pack them. Then we must wrap them in paraffin paper and pack them tightly into a box." "They ought to be so tight that they won't rattle round and break." "If we could get enough tin boxes it would be great." "Let's ask Grandmother Emerson and Aunt Louise and all Mother's friends to save their biscuit boxes for us." "We ought to have thought of asking them before. And we must go out foraging for baking powder tins to steam the little fruit puddings and the small loaves of Boston brown bread in." "What a jolly idea!" "Miss Dawson says that when they are cold we can slip them out of their tins and brush the bread and pudding and cake over with pure alcohol. That will kill the mould germs and it will all be evaporated by the time they are opened." "If there is paraffin paper around them, too, and they are slipped back into their little round tins it seems to me they ought to be as cosy and good as possible." "I'm awfully taken with the individual puddings. We can make them all different sizes according to the size of the tins we get hold of. Doesn't this sound good?" Ethel read aloud the pudding receipt with an appreciative smile. "Steamed Fruit Pudding "2½ cups flour 3 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon cinnamon ½ teaspoon nutmeg or ginger 1 cup chopped suet 1 cup chopped raisins ½ cup cleaned currants 1 cup water or milk 1 cup molasses (dark) "Sift soda, salt, baking powder, and spice with the flour, add the suet and fruit, then the molasses and milk. Mix well. Fill moulds two-thirds full. Steam three hours." "When we do them up we can arrange them so that no bundle will contain both a fruit cake and a fruit pudding. We must have variety." "I asked particularly about wheat bread. The papers say that that is scarce, you know." "Did Miss Dawson say it would travel?" "No, she thought it would be as hard as shoe leather. But she says the Boston brown bread ought to be soft enough even after six weeks. If we can make enough small loaves--" "Baking powder tin loaves--" "Yes--to have a loaf of bread and a fruit cake or a fruit pudding or a box of cookies--" "That is, one cake--" "--and some candy in each package that we do up it will give variety." "It sounds good to me. We'll have to hide all our things away from Roger." "Listen to this receipt: "Boston Brown Bread "1 cup rye meal (or flour) 1 cup granulated corn-meal 1 cup Graham flour 2 cups sour milk or 1¾ cups sweet milk or water 1 teaspoon salt ¾ teaspoon soda ¾ cup molasses (dark) "Mix and sift the dry ingredients, add molasses and milk, stir until well mixed, turn into a well greased mould, steam 3½ hours. The cover should be greased before being placed on the mould, then tied down with a string, otherwise the bread might force off the cover. The mould should never be filled more than two-thirds full. For steaming, place the mould on a stand (or on nails laid flat) in a kettle of boiling water, allowing water to come half way up around mould, cover closely, and steam, add, as needed, more boiling water." "'Mould' is polite for baking powder tin." "I wish our family was small enough for us to have them. They're just too dear!" "Some time after the Christmas Ship sails let's make some for the family--one for each person." "That's a glorious idea. I never do have enough on Sunday morning and you know how Roger teases every one of us to give him part of ours." "All these 'eats' that travel so well will be splendid to send for Christmas gifts to people at a distance, won't they? People like Katharine Jackson in Buffalo." "And the Wilson children at Fort Myer," and the Ethels named other young people whom they had met at different garrisons and Navy Yards. "Here are three kinds of candies that Miss Dawson says ought to travel perfectly if they're packed so they won't shake about Here's 'Roly Poly' to start with. I can see Katharine's eyes shining over that." "And the orphans', too." Ethel read the receipt. "Roly Poly "2 lbs. brown sugar 1 cup cream 2 tablespoons butter ½ pint (1 cup) chopped figs 1 cup chopped almonds 2 cups chopped dates 1 cup citron, cut in pieces ½ cup chopped pecans ½ cup chopped cherries ½ cup chopped raisins "Cook sugar, cream and butter together until a little forms a soft ball when dropped in a cup of cold water. Then add the nuts and fruit. Put it all in a wet cotton bag, mould into a roll on a smooth surface. Remove from the bag and cut as desired." "I like the sound of 'Sea Foam.' Della tried that, and said it was delicious. "Sea Foam "2 cups brown sugar ½ cup water 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 cup chopped nuts 1 white of egg "Beat the white of egg until stiff. Boil the sugar and water together until a little forms a soft ball when dropped in a cup of cold water. Add the vanilla and nuts, beat this into the white of egg. When it stiffens pour it into a greased pan, or drop it by spoonsful on the pan." "It sounds delicious. When we fill James's pretty boxes with these goodies and tie them with attractive paper and cord they are going to look like 'some' Christmas to these poor little kiddies." "Don't you wish we could see them open them?" "If Mademoiselle would only send that Belgian baby we really could." "I'm afraid Mademoiselle has forgotten us utterly." "It isn't surprising. But I wish she hadn't." "We must get plenty of brown sugar. This 'Panocha' calls for it, as well as the 'Sea Foam' and the 'Roly Poly.'" "We'll have to borrow a corner of Mary's storeroom for once." "She won't mind. She's as interested as we are in the orphans. Let me see how the 'Panocha' goes. "Panocha "2 cups brown sugar 2 tablespoons butter ½ cup milk ½ cup chopped nuts of any kind. "Boil sugar, butter, and milk together until a little forms a soft ball when dropped in a cup of cold water. Add the nuts, stir a few moments till slightly thick, drop by spoonsful on greased tins, or pour it into a greased tin. When cool cut in blocks." The time given by the Ethels to preparing for their cooking operations was well spent. Never once did they have to call on Mary for something they had forgotten to order, and each afternoon was pronounced a success when it was over and its results lay before them. "If we just had energy enough we might follow the plan that the candy store people do when they have a new clerk. They say that they let her eat all she wants to for the first few days and then she doesn't want any more. It would be fun to give the family all they wanted." "We really ought to do it before we set the Club to work packing all these goodies, but I don't see how we can with those three boys. We never could fill them up so they'd stop eating." "Nev-_er_!" "Not Roger!" "We'll just have to give them a lecture on self-control and set them to work." "It's a glorious lot we've got. Where's Mother? We must show them to her and Grandmother and Aunt Louise." So there was an exhibit of "food products" that brought the Ethels many compliments. Shelf upon shelf of their private kitchen was filled with boxes and tins, and every day added to the quantity, for Mary came in occasionally to bring a wee fruit cake, Aunt Louise sent over cookies, and Mrs. Emerson added a box of professional candy to the pile. "They tell me at the candy store that very hard candy doesn't last well," she said. "It grows moist." "That's why Miss Dawson gave me these receipts for softish candies like fudge. It's well to remember that at Christmas time when you're selecting candies for presents." "I don't believe the Ethels ever will buy any candies again," said Mrs. Morton. "They've become so expert in making them that they quite look down on the professionals." "Did you see the paper this morning?" asked Mrs. Emerson. When the girls said that they had not, she produced a clipping. "Grandfather thought that perhaps this might have escaped your notice, so he sent it over." Ethel Brown took it and Ethel Blue read it over her shoulder. CARGO FOR CHRISTMAS SHIP GATHERING HERE FROM EVERY STATE Hundreds of cases containing every conceivable kind of gift for a child have been received at the Bush Terminal in Brooklyn, where the Christmas Ship _Jason_, which will carry the gifts of American children to the orphans of the European War is being loaded. It became apparent that if the _Jason_ were to get off within reasonable time, a tremendous force of sorters and packers would have to be employed. When the situation was presented over the telephone to Secretary of the Navy Daniels he secured authorization for Gen. Wood to assign sixty soldiers to help to get the cargo ready. These men appeared for duty yesterday afternoon. Secretary Daniels has assigned Lieut.-Commander Courtney to command the Christmas Ship. "What a fine Santa Claus-y feeling Commander Courtney must have," said Mrs. Morton. "He's a friend of your father's, Ethel Brown." "Think of being Santa Claus to all Europe!" "Our parcels won't be very visible among several millions, will they?" "You have a wonderfully creditable collection for ten youngsters working so short a time." "Mr. Watkins is keeping in touch with the ship so that we can make use of every day that she's delayed. Tom telephoned to Roger this afternoon that he had been over to the Bush Terminal and they were sure they wouldn't start before the 10th of November. "That gives us almost a week more, you see." "Do you think we could go to New York to see the _Jason_ sail?" asked Ethel Blue and both girls waited eagerly for the reply. "Aunt Louise and I were saying that the Club ought to go in a body." "If only she doesn't sail during school hours." "Even then I think we might manage it for once," smiled Mrs. Morton, and the Ethels rushed off to tell Roger and Helen the plan and to telephone it to Margaret and James. CHAPTER XXI THE CHRISTMAS SHIP SAILS THE Rosemont and Glen Point members of the U. S. C. did not wait for the Watkinses to join them on Saturday before beginning to do up the parcels for the Santa Claus Ship. All the small bundles were wrapped and tied in Dorothy's attic, but after Mrs. Smith had made a careful examination of the attic stairs she came to the conclusion that the large packing cases into which they must be put for transportation to the Bush Terminal in Brooklyn could not be taken down without damage to the walls. It was therefore decided that when the bundles were ready they were to be brought downstairs and there packed into several large cases which had been donated for the purpose by the local dry goods dealer and the shoe store man. Each of these huge boxes James declared to be probably as large as the mysterious house which Roger was going to propose for some sort of club work in the spring. They had been delivered early in the week and were established on the porch at the back of the Smith cottage awaiting the contents that were to bring pleasure to hundreds of expectant children. Doctor Hancock was so busy that he could not bring Margaret's and James's collection to Rosemont when it was wanted there, so Mrs. Emerson went to Glen Point in her car and brought it back filled high with the result of James's pasting. It was necessary to have all his boxes to pack the candies and cookies and small gifts in. Every afternoon a busy throng gathered in the attic, wrapping and tying and labelling the work that kept them all so busy for the previous two months. "We must do up every package just as carefully as if we were going to put it on our own Christmas tree," Helen decided. "I think half the fun of Christmas is untying the bundles and having the room all heaped up with tissue paper and bright ribbons." The Club had laid in a goodly store of tissue paper of a great variety of colors, buying it at wholesale and thus obtaining a discount over the retail price. The question of what to tie with was a subject of discussion. "We certainly can't afford ribbon," Ethel Brown declared. "Even the narrowest kind is too expensive when we have to have hundreds of yards of it." "We ought to have thought about it before," said Helen looking rather worried, as this necessity should have been foreseen by the president. "I'll go right over to town and get something now," she added, putting on her hat. "Have any of you girls any ideas on the subject?" "I have," replied Dorothy. "You know that bright colored binding that dressmakers use on seams? It's sometimes silk and sometimes silk and--" "Cotton? Ha!" "Silk and cotton; yes, ma'am. It comes in all colors and it's just the right width and it costs a good deal less than real ribbon." "I suppose we can get the rolls by wholesale in assorted colors, can't we?" "I should suppose so." "I have an idea, too," offered Margaret who had come over on the trolley after school was over. "There's a tinsel cord, silver and gilt, that doesn't cost much and it looks bright and pretty. It would be just the thing." "I've seen that. It does look pretty. For home packages you can stick a sprig of holly or a poinsettia in the knot and it makes it C-H-A-R-M-I-N-G," spelled Ethel Blue, giving herself a whirl in her excitement. "But we can't use stick-ups on our Christmas Ship parcels, you know." "That's so, but the tinsel string just by itself is quite pretty enough." "I'll bring back bushels," said Helen. "You have enough to go on with for a while." "One year when Mother and I were caught at the last minute on Christmas Eve without any ribbon," said Dorothy, "--it was after the shops had closed, I remember, we found several bundles that we had overlooked--we tied them with ordinary red and green string twisted together. It looked holly-fied." "That would be easy to do," said Roger. "See, put two balls of twine, one red and one green in a box and punch a hole in the top and let the two colors come out of the hole. Then use them just as if they were one cord. See?" "As he talked he manufactured a twine box, popping into it not only the red and green balls about which he had been talking, but, on the other side of a slip of pasteboard which he put in for a partition, a ball of pink and a ball of blue. "Watch Roger developing another color scheme," cried Ethel Blue. "I'm going to follow that out," and she proceeded to make up a collection of parcels wrapped in pink tissue paper tied with blue string, in blue paper tied with pink cord and in white tied with Roger's combination. "There's one family fitted out with a lot of presents all naturally belonging together," she cried. "I rather like that notion myself," announced James gravely, adjusting his lame leg to a more comfortable position. "Please hand me that brown and yellow tissue, somebody. I'm going to make a lot of bundles along the color lines that my auburn haired sister uses in her dress." "Observant little Jimmy," commented Margaret. "Here you perceive, ladies, that I am doing up the bundles with brown and yellow and burnt orange and tango, and lemon color, and I'm tying them with a contrast--brown with orange and buttercup yellow with brown and lemon yellow with white and so on. Good looking, eh?" he finished, pointing with pride to his group of attractive parcels. "I'm going to do a bunch with a mixture of all sorts," announced Roger. "Here's a green tied with red and a white tied with green and a pink tied with white and a brown tied with tango, and violet tied with blue, _und so weiter_, as our Fräulein says when she means 'and so forth' and can't remember her English fast enough." "Poor Fräulein! It will be a hard Christmas for her." "She brought in the last of her work and Mrs. Hindenburg's yesterday. Such a mound of knitting!" "Has any one been to the Old Ladies' Home to gather up what they have there?" asked James. "Roger went early this morning before school. Perhaps those old ladies haven't been busy! See that pile?" "All theirs? Good work," and James set about tying up the soft and comfortable knitted mufflers and wristlets and socks, first in tissue paper with a ribbon or a bright cord and then with a stouter wrapper of ordinary paper. He marked on each package what was in it. "If the people who are doing the sorting and repacking at the Bush Terminal can know what is in each bundle it is going to help them a lot," remarked methodical James. The packing of the candies and cookies took especial care, for they had to be wrapped in paraffin paper and tightly wedged in the fancy boxes awaiting them before they could be wrapped with their gay outside coverings. "We want them to arrive with some shape still left to them and not merely a boxful of crumbs," said Ethel Brown earnestly. Except for the collections of varied presents which they had made for the sake of the color schemes of their wrappings--an arrangement with which Helen was much pleased when she came back laden with ribbons and cord--the gifts were packed according to their kind. Every article of clothing was wrapped separately and the bundles were labelled, each with the name of the article within, and then put into one large box. It was only by great squeezing that the knitted articles were persuaded to go into the same case. In another box were the candies and cookies and cakes and breads. The grocer from whom they had bought the materials for their cooking had contributed a dozen tins of peaches. In still another case went the seemingly innumerable small parcels that held toys or little gifts. Here were the metal pieces and the leather coin purses and the stuffed animals and the dolls. Doctor Hancock had sent over a box of raisins and Mrs. Watkins had sent out from town a box of figs and a few of these goodies with two or three pieces of candy, went into every article that could be made to serve as a container. Of this sort were the innumerable fancy bags made of silk bits and of cretonne and of scraps of velvet which the girls had put together when other work flagged. Many of the pretty little baskets held a pleasant amount of sweeties, and the tiny leather travelling bags and the larger wrist bags of tooled leather were lined with a piece of paraffin paper enclosing something for sweet-toothed European children. James's boxes, with those made by the others, held out wonderfully. "You certainly put in a good week's work with the paste pot," declared Roger admiringly as he filled the last one with sugar cookies and tied it with green and red twine to harmonize with its covering of holly paper. The Watkinses had sent out their offerings, for they wanted what they had at home to be packed with the other Club articles, even though they lived nearer than the rest to the place from which the ship was going to steam. When this additional collection was prepared and packed it was found that there were three big packing cases. "Good for the U. S. C.!" cried the boys as the last nail went into the last cover. James, who printed well, painted the address neatly on the tops and sides, and they all watched with vivid interest the drayman who hauled them, away, generously contributing his services to the Christmas cause. After all their hurry it seemed something of a hardship when they were informed that the sailing of the ship was delayed for several days because the force of packers, large as it was, could not prepare all the parcels in time for the tenth of the month. "The paper says there are more than sixty car-loads of gifts," read Ethel Blue to her interested family, "and five or six million separate presents." "No wonder they're delayed!" Yet after all they were glad of the delay for the _Jason_ finally sailed at noon of the fourteenth, and that was Saturday. The Hancocks went in to New York and over to Brooklyn in the Doctor's car and Mrs. Emerson's big touring car held all the Mortons and Dorothy and her mother, and Fräulein and her mother, though it was a tight squeeze. "The old woman who lived in a shoe must have been on her way to a Christmas Ship," cried Grandmother when Roger tossed Dicky in "on top of the heap of Ethels," as he described it and took up his own station on the running board. The pier at the Bush Terminal in Brooklyn was already well crowded with people and motors when the Rosemont party arrived. The Watkinses and the Hancocks were already there. Freight cars stood at one side, freight cars empty now of their loads of good cheer. Everybody was laughing and happy and in a Christmas mood, and the boy band from St. John's Home in Brooklyn made merry music. Thanks to Mrs. Morton's acquaintance with Lieutenant-Commander Courtney, who was in command of the ship, she and her flock had been invited to hear the speeches of farewell made in the main saloon by representatives of the city of New York. Roger led the way to the gang plank which stretched from the pier to the deck of the huge navy collier. "Old _Jason_ looks grim enough in his gray war paint," he commented. "But those great latticed arms of the six cranes look as if he were trying to play Christmas tree," suggested Mrs. Emerson. The speeches were full of good will and Christmas cheer. Back on to the pier went the listeners and then amid the cheers of the throng on the dock and the whistles of near-by boats and the strains of "The Star Spangled Banner" from the boys' band and the waving of handkerchiefs and hats, the huge gray steamer slipped out into the stream and started on her way across the ocean. It was when the U. S. C. was making its way back to the automobiles that a piercing scream attracted their attention. "That sounds like Fräulein's voice," said Helen, looking about for the source of the cry. "_Meine Tochter!_" exclaimed Mrs. Hindenburg at the same moment. And then they came upon Fräulein, her arms about the neck of a bearded man, who stroked her hair and cheek with one hand while with the other he clung to one of the crutches which gave him but an insecure support. "_Lieber Heinrich!_" cried Mrs. Hindenburg as she caught sight of the tableau. "It's--yes, I believe it's Mr. Schuler! Look, Helen, do you think it is?" whispered Roger. "It must be," returned Helen. "It's hard to tell with that beard, but I'm almost sure it is." "His leg! Oh, Helen, his leg is gone!" lamented Ethel Blue. The Rosemont party's certainty was relieved by Mrs. Hindenburg who turned to them, beaming. "It iss Mr. Schuler; it iss Heinrich," she explained. "_He_ has lost his leg. What matter? He is here and the _Tochter_ is happy!" Happy indeed was Fräulein when she turned her tear-stained face toward the others. "He has come," she said simply, while the rest crowded around and shook hands. It seemed that he had obtained leave to return to America because he had lost his leg and could fight no more. Yes, he said, Mademoiselle Millerand had nursed him when his leg was taken off. The spectators of the moving pictures looked at each other and nodded. Mademoiselle had sent a message to the Secretary of the United Service Club, he went on. It was--he took a slip of paper from his pocket book. "Message received. Answered in person." The Club members laughed at this whose whole meaning it was clear that Mr. Schuler did not appreciate. He had arrived, it seemed, only two hours before, on an Italian boat, and had heard on the way up from Quarantine of the sailing of the Christmas Ship and so had crossed to wave a farewell before going out to Rosemont. "And here I have found my best fortune," he said over and over again, his eyes resting fondly on Fräulein's face. CHAPTER XXII A WEDDING AND A SURPRISE IT was a simple wedding that the U. S. C. went to in a body a few days after the arrival of the convalescent German soldier. Mr. Wheeler, the principal of the high school, acted as best man, and Miss Dawson, the domestic science teacher, was maid of honor, but Fräulein also gathered about her in the cottage sitting-room where the ceremony took place a group of the young girls who had been kindest to her when she was in trouble. "I want you and the Ethels and Dorothy," she said to Helen; "and if your friends, Della and Margaret, would come with you it would give me greatest pleasure." So the girls, all dressed in white, and wearing the forget-me-not pins that Grandfather Emerson insisted on giving them for the occasion, clustered around the young teacher, and the three boys, a forget-me-not in each scarfpin, held the ribbons that pressed gently back the cordial friends who were happy in Fräulein's happiness. It was the Club that decorated the house with brown sedges and stalks of upstanding tawny corn and vines of bittersweet. And it was the Club that sang a soft German marriage song as the bride and groom drove off toward the setting sun in Grandmother Emerson's car. Life seemed rather flat to the members of the U. S. C. after the wedding. For the last two months they had been so busy that every hour had been filled with work and play-work, and now that there was nothing especial scheduled for every waking moment it seemed as if they had nothing at all to do. "We'll have to ask Roger about his house," laughed James who came over with Margaret one afternoon and confessed to the same feeling. "Not yet," answered Helen. "Helen is full of ideas up to her very eyebrows, I believe," said Ethel Blue. "She's just giving us a holiday." "Mother said we needed one," assented Helen. "After we've had a few days' rest we can start on something else. There's no need to call on Roger yet awhile." "Why not? My idea is a perfectly good one," insisted Roger, strolling in. Just at this minute Mary entered with a note for "The Secretary of the United Service Club." "For you, Ethel Blue," said Roger, handing it to his cousin. Ethel Blue slipped a cutter under the edge while the others waited expectantly, for the address indicated that the contents was of interest to all of them. "What does this mean?" she cried as she read. "What is it? Is it true?" She was so excited that they all crowded around her to see what had taken away her power of explanation. The letter was signed "Justine Millerand." "Mademoiselle," cried all who could see the signature. "She says," read Ethel Blue, finding her strength again, "'Here is the Belgian baby you asked for. She is two years old and her name is "Elisabeth," after the Queen of Belgium!'" "Is that all?" "That's all." "But she says, '_Here_ is the Belgian baby.' _Where_ is the Belgian baby?" They turned toward Mary who had remained in the room. "There's a Red Cross nurse in the reception room," she explained. "She said she'd rather you read the letter first." They made a rush for the door. Roger reached it first and ushered the nurse into the living room. She was dressed in her grey uniform and sheltered under her cape the thinnest, wannest mite of humanity that ever the Club had seen outside of the streets of a city slum. "Mademoiselle Millerand said you had asked for a Belgian baby," she began, but she was interrupted by a cry from the entire throng. "We did; we did," they exclaimed so earnestly that any doubts she may have felt about the cordiality of their reception of her nursling were banished at once. "Your mother?" she asked. "I don't believe Mother really expected it to come, any more than we did," replied Helen frankly, "but she will love it just as we will, and we'll take the very best of care of her." She offered her finger to Elisabeth, who clutched it and gazed solemnly at her out of her sunken blue eyes. Ethel Blue in the back of the group gave a sob. "She'll pick up soon when she has good food every day," the nurse reassured them, and then she told them of her own experiences. She had been, it seemed, in the same hospital with Mademoiselle in Belgium. Out on the field one day a bit of shrapnel had wounded her foot so that she was forced to come home. Mademoiselle had asked her to bring over this mite "to the kindest young people in the world," and here she was. The baby's father and mother were both dead, she went on. That she knew. "Are you sure her name is Elisabeth?" asked Dorothy. "That's what she calls herself." By this time Elisabeth had made friends with every one of them and was sitting comfortably on one of Roger's knees while Dicky occupied the other and made acceptable gestures toward her. "She'll be happy here," said the nurse, and rose to explain her visit to Mrs. Morton. Like the girls, Mrs. Morton had not expected that Mademoiselle would respond to their request for a Belgian baby and she was somewhat taken back by its appearance. "I can see that you did not look for her," the nurse suggested, "but when you are on the spot and are seeing such hideous distress every day and a chance opens to relieve just one little child, it is more than you can resist. I know that is why Mademoiselle Millerand sent her." "I quite understand," responded Mrs. Morton cordially. "Elisabeth shall have a happy home in Rosemont." "And a baker's dozen of fathers and mothers to make up for her own," said James. "And we're grateful to you for bringing her," said Ethel Blue, offering her hand. It was after the nurse had had a cup of tea and had returned to New York that Helen called the Club to order formally. "The Club has got its work cut out for it for a long time to come," she said. "I don't think we have any right to bring this baby over to America and then send it to an orphanage, though that would be the easiest way to do." "We'll never do that," said Margaret firmly. "If we are going to take care of it it means that we'll have to earn money for it and give it our personal care. Now, all in favor of accepting Elisabeth as our Club baby, say 'Aye.'" There was a hearty assent. "There are no contrary-minded," declared the president. "From now on she belongs to us." "And here's my forget-me-not pin to prove it," said Ethel Blue, fastening it on the baby's dress. "Just what we'll have to do about her we must think out carefully and talk over with our mothers," went on Helen. "But this minute we can accept our new club member and cry all together, 'Three cheers for Elisabeth of Belgium.'" And at the shout that followed, Elisabeth of Belgium gave her first faint smile. THE END Girl Aviators Adventures By MARGARET BURNHAM Contact! Gas! Ignition! with a roar of motors and whirling propellers the Aviator Girls glide down the runway. Gracefully the big ship takes the air, circles the airport and they are off on their glorious adventures among the clouds. These books are printed from an easily readable type, bound in cloth, and jacketed in an illustrative wrapper printed in full colors and varnished. 1. GIRL AVIATORS AND THE PHANTOM AIRSHIP 2. GIRL AVIATORS ON GOLDEN WINGS 3. GIRL AVIATORS SKY CRUISE 4. GIRL AVIATORS MOTOR BUTTERFLY Motor Maids Travels By KATHERINE STOKES A fast motor and the thrill of the open road, with the whole world for a playground. Come with the adventurous Motor Maids as they surmount every obstacle and unravel every mystery they encounter in all parts of the world. The easily readable type and cloth binding jacketed in an attractive illustrative wrapper that is varnished makes the books a welcome addition to any library. 1. MOTOR MAIDS' SCHOOL DAYS 2. MOTOR MAIDS ACROSS THE CONTINENT 3. MOTOR MAIDS AT SUNRISE CAMP 4. MOTOR MAIDS IN FAIR JAPAN _For sale at all Booksellers or sent Postpaid on receipt of 40 cents_ M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO VICTORY BOY SCOUTS Come with the Boy Scouts on their hikes, learn with them secrets of woods and waters, join them at their council fires, overcome with them the many problems and trials that make the Boy Scouts the outstanding young men in their community. 1. Afloat; or, Adventures on Watery Trails 2. Boy Scouts in an Airship 3. Boy Scout Electricians 4. Boy Scouts on Open Plains 5. The Campfires of the Wolf Patrol 6. Endurance Test; or, How Clear Grit Won the Day 7. Great Hike; or, the Pride of Khaki Troop 8. Pathfinder; or, the Missing Tenderfoot 9. Storm-bound; or, a Vacation Among the Snow Drifts 10. Tenderfoot Squad; or, Camping at Raccoon Bluff 11. Under Canvas; or, The Search for the Carteret Ghost 12. Woodcraft; or, How a Patrol Leader Made Good _For sale at all Booksellers or sent Postpaid on receipt of 40 cents_ M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY 711 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET, CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. 
43025	----	RAINY WEEK BY ELEANOR HALLOWELL ABBOTT AUTHOR OF "OLD-DAD," "PEACE ON EARTH, GOOD-WILL, TO DOGS," ETC. NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 1921, By E. P. Button & Company All Rights Reserved PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA RAINY WEEK CHAPTER I IN the changes and chances of our New England climate it is not so much what a Guest can endure outdoors as what he can originate indoors that endears him most to a weather-worried Host. Take Rollins, for instance, a small man, dour, insignificant--a prude in the moonlight, a duffer at sailing, a fool at tennis--yet once given a rain-patter and a smoky fireplace, of an audacity so impertinent, so altogether absurd, that even yawns must of necessity turn to laughter--or curses. The historic thunderstorm question, for instance, which he sprang at the old Bishop's house-party after five sweltering days of sunshine and ecclesiastical argument: "Who was the last person you kissed before you were married?" A question innocent as milk if only swallowed! But unswallowed? Gurgled? Spat like venom from Bishop to Bishop? And from Bishop's Wife to Bishop's Wife? Oh la! Yet that Rollins himself was the only unmarried person present on that momentous occasion shows not at all, I still contend, the slightest "natural mendacity" of the man, but merely the perfectly normal curiosity of a confirmed Anchoret to learn what truths he may from those who have been fortunate--or unfortunate enough to live. Certainly neither my Husband nor myself would ever dream of running a house-party without Rollins! Yet equally certain it is not at all on Rollins's account but distinctly on our own that we invariably set the date for our annual house-party in the second week of May. For twenty years, in the particular corner of the New England sea-coast which my husband and I happen to inhabit, it has never, with one single exception only, failed to rain from morning till night and night till morning again through the second week of May! With all weather-uncertainties thus settled perfectly definitely, even for the worst, it is a comparatively easy matter for any Host and Hostess to _Stage_ such events as remain. It is with purely confessional intent that I emphasize that word "stage." Every human being acknowledges, if honest, some one supreme passion of existence. My Husband's and mine is for what Highbrows call "the experimental drama." We call it "Amateur Theatricals." Yet even this innocent passion has not proved a serene one! After inestimable seasons of devotion to that most ruthless of all goddesses, the Goddess of Amateur Theatricals, involving, as it does, wrangles with Guests who refuse to accept unless they areassured that there will be a Play, wrangles with Guests who refuse to accept unless assured that there will not be a Play, wrangles with Guests already arrived, unpacked, tubbed, seated at dinner, who discover suddenly that their lines are too long, wrangles with Guests already arrived, unpacked, tubbed, seated at dinner, who discover equally suddenly that their lines are too short. wrangles with Guests who "can't possibly play in blue." wrangles with Guests who "can't possibly play in pink." wrangles with Guests who insist upon kissing in every act. wrangles with Guests who refuse to kiss in any act, it was my Husband's ingenious idea to organize instead an annual Play that should never dream it was a Play, acted by actors who never even remotely suspected that they were acting, evolving a plot that no one but the Almighty, Himself, could possibly foreordain. We call this Play "_Rainy Week_." Yet, do not, I implore you, imagine for a moment that by any such simple little trick as shifting all blame to the weather, all praise to the Almighty, _Care_ has been eliminated from the enterprise. It is only indeed at the instigation of this trick that the real hazard begins. For a Play after all is only a Play, be it humorous, amorous, murderous, adulterous,--a soap-bubble world combusting spontaneously of its own effervescence. But life is life and starkly real if not essentially earnest. And the merest flicker of the merest eyelid in one of life's real emotions has short-circuited long ere this with the eternities themselves! It's just this chance of "short-circuiting with the eternities" that shifts the pucker from a Host's brow to his spine! No lazy, purring, reunion of old friends this _Rainy Week_ of ours, you understand? No dully congenial convocation of in-bred relatives? No conference on literature,--music,--painting? No symposium of embroidery stitches? Nor of billiard shots? But the deliberate and relentlessly-planned assemblage of such distinctly diverse types of men and women as prodded by unusual conditions of weather, domicile, and propinquity, will best act and re-act upon each other in terms inevitably dramatic, though most naively unrehearsed! "Vengeance is mine!" said the Lord. "Very considerable psychologic, as well as dramatic satisfaction is now at last ours!" confess your humble servants. In this very sincere if somewhat whimsical dramatic adventure of _Rainy Week_, the exigencies of our household demand that the number of actors shall be limited to eight. Barring the single exception of Husband and Wife no two people are invited who have ever seen each other before. Destiny plays very much more interesting tricks we have noticed with perfect strangers than she does with perfect friends! Barring nothing no one is ever warned that the week will be rainy. It is astonishing how a guest's personality strips itself right down to the bare sincerities when he is forced unexpectedly to doff his extra-selected, super-fitting, ultra-becoming visiting clothes for a frankly nondescript costume chosen only for its becomingness to a--situation! In this connection, however, it is only fair to ourselves to attest that following the usual managerial custom of furnishing from its own pocket such costumes as may not for bizarre or historical reasons be readily converted by a cast to street and church wear, we invariably provide the _Rainy Week_ costumes for our cast. This costume consists of one yellow oil-skin suit or "slicker," one yellow oil-skin hat, one pair of rubber boots. One dark blue jersey. And very warm woolen stockings. Reverting also to dramatic sincerity no professional manager certainly ever chose his cast more conscientiously than does my purely whimsical Husband! After several years of experiment and readjustment the ultimate cast of _Rainy Week_ is fixed as follows: A Bride and Groom One Very Celibate Person Someone With a Past Someone With a Future A Singing Voice A May Girl And a Bore. (Rollins, of course, figuring as the Bore.) Always there must be that Bride and Groom (for the Celibate Person to wonder about). And the Very Celibate Person (for the Bride and Groom to wonder about). Male or Female, one Brave Soul who had Rebuilt Ruin. Male or Female, one Intrepid Brain that Dares to Boast of Having Made Tryst with the Future. Soprano, Alto, Bass or Tenor, one Singing Voice that can Rip the Basting Threads out of Serenity. One Young Girl so May-Blossomy fresh and new that Everybody Instinctively Changes the Subject When She Comes into the Room . . . . And Rollins! To be indeed absolutely explicit experience has proved, with an almost chemical accuracy, that, quite regardless of "age, sex, or previous condition of servitude," this particular combination of Romantic Passion Psychic Austerity Tragedy Ambition Poignancy Innocence And Irritation cannot be housed together for even one Rainy Week without producing drama! But whether that drama be farce or fury--? Whether he who came to _star_ remains to _supe_? Who yet shall prove the hero? And who the villain! Who--? Oh, la! It's God's business now! "All the more reason," affirms my Husband, "why all such details as light and color effects, eatments, drinkments and guest-room reading matter should be attended to with extra conscientiousness." Already through a somewhat sensational motor collision in the gay October Berkshires we had acquired the tentative Bride and Groom, Paul Brenswick and Victoria Meredith, as ardent and unreasonable a pair of young lovers as ever rose unscathed from a shivered racing car to face, instead of annihilation, a mere casual separation of months until such May-time as Paul himself, returning from Heaven knows what errand in China, should mate with her and meet with us. And to New York City, of course, one would turn instinctively for the Someone With a Future. At a single round of studio parties in the brief Thanksgiving Holiday we found Claude Kennilworth. Not a moment's dissension occurred between us concerning his absolute fitness for the part. He was beautiful to look at, and not too young, twenty-five perhaps, the approximate age of our tentative Bride and Groom. And he made things with his hands in dough, clay, plaster, anything he could reach very insolently, all the time you were talking to him, modeling the thing he was thinking about, instead! "Oh, just wait till you see him in bronze?" thrilled all the young Satellites around him. "Till you see me in bronze!" thrilled young Kennilworth himself. Never in all my life have I beheld anyone as beautiful as Claude Kennilworth--with a bit of brag in him! That head sharply uplifted, the pony-like forelock swished like smoke across his flaming eyes, the sudden wild pulse of his throat. Heavens! What a boy! "You artist-fellows are forever reproducing solids with liquids," remarked my Husband quite casually. "All the effects I mean! All the illusion! Crag or cathedral out of a dime-sized mud-puddle in your water-color box! Flesh you could kiss from a splash of turpentine! But can you reproduce liquids with solids? Could you put the ocean into bronze, I mean?" "The ocean?" screamed the Satellites. "No mere skinny bas-relief," mused my Husband, "of the front of a wave hitched to the front of a wharf or the front of a beach but waves corporeally complete and all alone--shoreless--skyless--like the model of a village an ocean rolling all alone as it were in the bulk of its three dimensions?" "In--bronze?" questions young Kennilworth. "_Bronze_?" His voice was very faintly raspish. "Oh, it wasn't a blue ocean especially that I was thinking about," confided my Husband, genially, through the mist of his cigarette. "Any chance pick-up acquaintance has seen the ocean when it's blue. But my wife and I, you understand, we live with the ocean! Call it by its first name,--'Oh Ocean!'--and all that sort of thing!" he smiled out abruptly above the sudden sharp spurt of a freshly-struck match. "The--the ocean I was thinking of," he resumed with an almost exaggerated monotone, "was a brown ocean--brown as boiled sea-weeds--mad as mud under a leaden sky--seething--souring--perfectly lusterless--every brown billow-top pinched-up as though by some malevolent hand into a vivid verdigris bruise----" "But however in the world would one know where to begin?" giggled the Satellites. "Or how to break it off so it wouldn't end like the edge of a tin roof! Even if you started all right with a nice molten wave? What about the--last wave? The problem of the horizon sense? Yes! What about the horizon sense?" shouted everybody at once. From the shadowy sofa-pillowed corner just behind the supper table, young Kennilworth's face glowed suddenly into view. But a minute before I could have sworn that a girl's cheek lay against his. Yet now as he jumped to his feet the feminine glove that dropped from his fidgety fingers was twisted with extraordinary maliciousness, I noted, into a doll-sized caricature of a "Vamp." "I could put the ocean into bronze, Mr. Delville," he said, "if anybody would give me a chance!" Perhaps it was just this very ease and excitement of having booked anyone as perfect as young Kennilworth for the part of Someone with a Future that made me act as impulsively as I did regarding Ann Woltor. We were sitting in our room in a Washington hotel before a very smoky fireplace one rather cross night in late January when I confided the information to my Husband. "Oh, by the way, Jack," I said quite abruptly, "I've invited Ann Woltor for Rainy Week." "Invited whom?" questioned my Husband above the rim of his newspaper. "Ann Woltor," I repeated. "Ann--what?" persisted my Husband. "Ann Woltor," I re-emphasized. "Who's she?" quickened my Husband's interest very faintly. "Oh, she's a woman," I explained--"or a Girl--that I've been meeting 'most every day this last month at my hair-dresser's. She runs the accounts there or something and tries to keep everybody pacified. And reads the darndest books, all highbrow stuff. You'd hardly expect it! Oh, not modern highbrow, I mean, essays as bawdy as novels, but the old, serene highbrow,--Emerson and Pater and Wordsworth,--books that smell of soap and lavender, as well as brains. Reads 'em as though she liked 'em, I mean! Comes from New Zealand I've been told. Really, she's rather remarkable!" "Must be!" said my Husband. "To come all the way from New Zealand to land in your hair-dresser's library!" "It isn't my hair-dresser's library!" I corrected with faint asperity. "It's her own library! She brings the books herself to the office. "And just what part," drawled my Husband, "is this New Zealand paragon, Miss Stoltor, to play in our Rainy Week?" "Woltor," I corrected quite definitely. "Ann Woltor." "Wardrobe mistress?" teased my Husband. "Or----?" "She is going to play the part of the Someone With a Past," I said. "What?" cried my Husband. His face was frankly shocked. "_What_?" he repeated blankly. "The most delicate part of the cast? The most difficult? The most hazardous? It seemed best to you, without consultation, without argument, to act so suddenly in the matter, and so--so all alone?" "I had to act very suddenly," I admitted. "If I hadn't spoken just exactly the minute I did she would have been off to Alaska within another forty-eight hours." "U-m-m," mused my Husband, and resumed his reading. But the half-inch of eye brow that puckered above the edge of his newspaper loomed definitely as the sample of a face that was still distinctly shocked. When he spoke again I was quite ready for his question. "How do you know that this Ann Woltor has got a past?" he demanded. "How do we know young Kennilworth's got a future?" I counter-checked. "Because he makes so much noise about it I suppose," admitted my Husband. "By which very same method," I grinned, "I deduct the fact that Ann Woltor has got a past,--inasmuch as she doesn't make the very slightest sound whatsoever concerning it." "You concede no personal reticence in the world?" quizzed my Husband. "Yes, quite a good deal," I admitted. "But most of it I honestly believe is due to sore throat. A normal throat keeps itself pretty much lubricated I've noticed by talking about itself." "Herself," corrected my Husband. "Himself," I compromised. "But this Ann Woltor has told you that she came from New Zealand," scored my Husband. "Oh, no, she hasn't!" I contradicted. "It was the hair-dresser who suggested New Zealand. All Ann Woltor has ever told me was that she was going to Alaska! Anybody's willing to tell you where he's going! But the person who never tells you where he's been--! The person who never by word, deed or act correlates to-day with yesterday! The Here with the There--! I've been home with her twice to her room! I've watched her unpack the Alaska trunk! Not a thing in it older than this winter! Not a shoe nor a hat nor a glove that confides anything! No scent of fir-balsam left over from a summer vacation! No photograph of sister or brother! Yet it's rather an interesting little room, too,--awfully small and shabby after the somewhat plushy splendor of the hairdressing job--but three or four really erudite English Reviews on the table, a sprig of blue larkspur thrust rather negligently into a water glass, and a man's----" "Blue larkspur in January?" demanded my Husband. "How--how old is this--this Woltor person?" "Oh--twenty-five, perhaps," I shrugged. With a gesture of impatience my Husband threw down his paper and began to poke the fire. "Oh, Pshaw!" he said, "is our whole dramatic endeavor going to be wrecked by the monotony of everybody being 'twenty-five'?" "Well--call it 'thirty-five' if you'd rather," I conceded. "Or a hundred and five! Arm Woltor wouldn't care! That's the remarkable thing about her face," I hastened with some fervor to explain. "There's no dating on it! This calamity that has happened to her,--whatever it is, has wrung her face perfectly dry of all contributive biography except the mere structural fact of at least reasonably conservative birth and breeding." A little bit abruptly my Husband dropped the fire-tongs. "You like this Ann Woltor, don't you?" he said. "I like her tremendously," I acknowledged. "Tremendously _as_ a person and tremendously _for_ the part!" I insisted. "Yet there's something about it that worries you?" quizzed my Husband not unamiably. "There is," I said, "just one thing. She's got a broken tooth." With a gesture of real irritation my Husband sank down in his chair again and snatched up the paper. It was ten minutes before he spoke again. "Is it a front tooth?" he questioned with out lifting his eyes from the page. "It is," I said. When my Husband jumped up from his chair this time he showed no sign at all of ever intending to return to it. As he reached for his hat and coat and started for the door, he tried very hard to grin. But the effort was poor. This was no mere marital disagreement, but a real professional shock. "I simply can't stand it," he grinned. "One's prepared, of course, for a tragedy queen to sport a broken heart but when it comes to a broken tooth--!" "Wait till you see her!" I said. There was nothing else to say. "Wait till you see her!" Even with the door closed behind him he came back once more to tell me how he felt. "Oh!" he shivered. "O--H!" Truly if we hadn't gone out together the very next day and found George Keets I don't know what would have happened. Depression still hung very heavily over my Husband's heart. "Here it is almost February," he brooded, "and even with what we've got, we're still short the Celibate and the Singing Voice and the May Girl." It was just then that we turned the street corner and met George Keets. "Why--why the Celibate--of all persons!" we both gasped as in a single breath, and rushed upon him. Now it may seem a little strange instead of this that we have never thought to feature poor Rollins as the Celibate. To "double" him as it were as Celibate and Bore. Conserving thereby one by no means inexpensive outfit of water-proof clothes, twenty-one meals, a week's wash, and Heaven knows how many rounds of Scotch at a time of imminent drought. But Rollins--though as far as anybody knows, a bachelor and eminently chaste--is by no means my idea of a Celibate. Oh, not Rollins! Not anybody with a mind like Rollins! For Rollins, poor dear, would marry every day in the week if anybody would have him. It's the "other people" who have kept Rollins virgin. But George Keets on the other hand is a good deal of a "fascinator" in spite of his austerity, perhaps indeed because of his austerity, tall, lean, good-looking, extravagantly severe, thirty-eight years old, and a classmate of my Husband at college. Whether Life would ever succeed or not in breaking down his unaccountable intention never-to-mate, that intention,--physical, mental, moral, psychic, call it whatever you choose,--was stamped indelibly and for all time on the curiously incongruous granite-like finish of his originally delicate features. Life had at least done interesting historical things to George Keets's face. "Oh, George!" cried my Husband, "I thought you were in Egypt digging mummies." "I was," admitted George without any further palaver of greeting. "When did you get back?" cried my Husband, "And what are you doing now!" "And where are you going to be in May?" I interposed with perfectly uncontrollable interest. "Why, I'm just off the boat, you know," brightened George. "A drink would be good, of course. But first I'd just like to run into the library for a minute to see if they've put in any new thrillers while I've been gone. There's a corking new book on Archselurus that ought to be due about now." "On w-what?" I stammered. "Oh, fossil cats, you know, and all that sort of thing," explained George chivalrously. "But, of course--you, Mrs. Delville," he hastened now to appease me, "would heaps rather hear about Paris fashions, I know. So if you-people really should want me in May I'll try my best, I promise you, to remember every latest wrinkle of lace, or feather. Only, of course," he explained with typical conscientiousness, "in the museums and the libraries one doesn't see just--of course--the----" "On the contrary, Mr. Keats," I interrupted hectically, "there is no subject in the world that interests me more--at the moment--than Mummies. And by the second week in May that interest will have assumed proportions that----" "S-sh!" admonished my Husband. "But really, George," he himself hastened to cut in, "if you could come to us the second week in May----" "May?" considered George. "Second week? Why, certainly I will." And bolted for the library, while my Husband and I in a perfectly irresistible impulse drew aside on the curbing to watch him disappear. Equally unexplainably three totally non-concerned women turned also to watch him. "It's his shoulders," I ventured. "The amazing virility of his shoulders contrasted with the stinginess of his smile." "Stinginess nothing!" snapped my Husband. "Devil take him!" "He may--yet," I mused as we swung into step again. So now we had nothing to worry about--or rather no uncertainty to worry about except the May Girl and the Singing Voice. "The Singing Voice," my Husband argued, "might be picked up by good fortune at most any cabaret show or choral practise. Not any singing voice would do, of course. It must be distinctly poignant. But even poignancy may be found sometimes where you least expect it,--some reasonably mature, faintly disappointed sort of voice, usually, lilting with unquestionable loveliness, just this side of real professional success. "But where in the world should we find a really ingenuous Ingénue?" "They don't exist any more!" I asserted. "Gone out of style like the Teddy Bear--! Old Ingénues you see, of course, sometimes, sweet and precious and limp--as old Teddy Bears. But a brand new Ingénue--? Don't you remember the awful search we had last year and even then----?" "Maybe you're right," worried my Husband. And then the horrid attack of neuralgia descended on poor Mr. Husband so suddenly, so acutely, that we didn't worry at all about anything else for days! And even when that worry was over, instead of starting off gaily together for the Carolinas as we had intended, to search through steam-heated corridors, and green velvet golfways, and jessamine scented lanes, for the May Girl, my poor Husband had to dally at home instead, in a very cold, slushy and disagreeable city, to be X-rayed, tooth-pulled, ear-stabbed, and every thing but Bertilloned, while I, for certain business reason, went on ahead to meet the Spring. But even at parting it was the dramatic anxiety that worried my Husband most. "Now, don't you dare do a thing this time," he warned me, "until I come! Look around all you want to! Get acquainted! Size things up! But if ever two people needed to work together in a matter it's in this question of choosing a May Girl!" Whereupon in an impulse quite as amazing to himself as to me--he went ahead and chose the May Girl all by himself! Before I had been in the Carolinas three days the telegram came. "Have found May Girl. Success beyond wildest dreams. Doubles with Singing Voice. Absolute miracle. Explanations." Himself and the explanations arrived a week later. Himself, poor dear, was rather depleted. But the explanations were full enough to have pleased anybody. He had been waiting, it seems, on the day of the discovery, an interminably long time in the doctor's office. All around him, in the dinginess and general irritability of such an occasion, loomed the bulky shapes of other patients who like himself had also been waiting interminable eons of time. Everybody was very cross. And it was snowing outside,--one of those dirty gray late-winter snows that don't seem really necessary. And when _She_ came! Just a girl's laugh at first from the street door! An impish prance of feet down the dark, unaccustomed hallway! A little trip on the threshold! And then personified--laughing--blushing, stumbling fairly headlong at last into the room--the most radiantly lovely young girl that you have ever had the grace to imagine, dangling exultantly from each frost-pinked hand a very large, wriggly, and exceedingly astonished rabbit. "Oh, Uncle Charles!" she began, "s-ee what I've found! And in an ash-barrel, too! In--a--" She blinked the snow from her lashes, took a sudden startled glance round the room, another at the clock, and collapsed with confusion into the first chair that she could reach. A very tall "little girl" she was, and very young, not a day more than eighteen surely. And even in the encompassing bulk of her big coon-skin coat with its broad arms hugging the brown rabbits to her breast she gave an impression of extraordinary slimness and delicacy, an impression accentuated perhaps by a slender silk-stockinged ankle, the frilly cuff of a white sleeve, and the aura of pale gold hair that radiated in every direction from the brim of her coon-skin hat. For fully fifteen minutes my Husband said she sat huddled-up in all the sweet furry confusion of a young animal, till driven apparently by that very confusion to essay some distinctly normal-appearing, every-day gesture, she reached out impulsively to the reading table and picked up a book which some young man had just relinquished rather suddenly at a summons to the doctor's inner office. Relaxing ever so slightly into the depths of her chair with the bunnies' noses twinkling contentedly to the rhythm of her own breathing, she made a wonderful picture, line, color, spirit, everything of _Youth_. Reading, with that strange, extra, inexplainable touch of the sudden little pucker in the eyebrows, sheer intellectual perplexity was in that pucker! But when the young man returned from the inner office he did not leave at once as every cross, irritable person in the room hoped that he would, but fidgeted around instead with hat and coat, stamped up and down crowding other people's feet, and elbowing other people's elbows. With a gaspy glance at his watch he turned suddenly on the girl with the rabbits. "Excuse me," he floundered, "but I have to catch a train--_please_ may I have my book?" "Your book?" deprecated the Girl. Confusion anew overwhelmed her! "Your--book? Why, I beg your pardon! Why--why--" Pink as a rose she slammed the covers and glanced for the first time at the title. The title of the book was "What Every Young Husband Should Know." . . . With a sigh like the sigh of a breeze in the ferns the tension of the room relaxed! A very fat, cross-looking woman in black satin ripped audibly at a side seam. . . . A frail old gentleman who really had very few laughs left, wasted one of them in the smothering depths of his big black-bordered handkerchief. . . . The lame newsboy on the stool by the door emitted a single snort of joy. Then the doctor himself loomed suddenly from the inner office, and started right through everybody to the girl with the rabbits. "Why, May," he laughed, "I told you not to get here till four o'clock!" "Oh, not May?" I protested to my Husband. "It simply couldn't be! Not _really_?" "Yes, really," affirmed my Husband. "Isn't it the limit? But wait till you hear the rest! She's Dr. Brawne's ward, it seems, and has been visiting him for the winter. . . . Comes from some little place way off somewheres. . . . And she's got one of those sweet, clear, absolutely harrowing 'boy soprano' types of voices that sound like incense and altar lights even in rag-time. But weirder than any thing--" triumphed my Husband. "Oh, not than 'anything'?" I gasped. "But weirder than anything," persisted my Husband, "is the curious way she's marked." "M-marked?" I stammered. "Yes. After I saw her with her hat off," said my Husband, "I saw the 'mark'. I've seen it in boys before, but never in a girl--an absolutely isolated streak of gray hair! In all that riot of blondness and sparkle and youth, just as riotous, just as lovely, a streak of gray hair! It's bewitching! Bewildering! Like May itself! Now sunshine! Now cloud! You'll write to her immediately, won't you?" he begged. "And to Dr. Brawne, too? I told Dr. Brawne quite frankly that it was going to be rather an experimental party, but that, of course, we'd take the best possible care of her. And he said he'd never seen an occasion yet when she wasn't perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And that he'd be delighted to have her come--" laughed my Husband quite suddenly, "if we were sure that we didn't mind animals." "Animals?" I questioned. "Yes, dogs, cats, birds!" explained my Husband. "It isn't apt to be a large animal such as a horse or a cow, Dr. Brawne was kind enough to assure me. But he never knew her yet, he said, to arrive anywhere without a guinea pig, squirrel, broken-winged bat, lame dove, or half-choked mouse that she had acquired on the way! She's very tender-hearted. And younger than----" Blankly for a moment my Husband and I sat staring into each other's eyes. Then, quite impulsively, I reached over and kissed him. "Oh, Jack," I admitted, "it's too perfect! Truly it makes me feel nervous!--Suppose she should roll her hoop off the cliff or----" "Or--blow out the gas!" chuckled my Husband. So you see now our cast was all assembled. Radiant, "runctious," impatient Paul Brenswick and Victoria Meredith for the Bride and Groom. George Keets for the Very Celibate Person. Ann Woltor for the Someone With a Past. Claude Kennilworth for the Someone With a Future. May Davies for the May Girl and the Singing Voice. And Rollins for the Bore. About Rollins I must now confess that I have not been perfectly frank. We hire Rollins! How else could we control him! Even with a mushroom mind like his,--fruiting only in bad weather, one can't force him on one's guests morning, noon, _and_ night! Very fortunately here, for such strategy as is necessary, my Husband concedes one further weakness than what I have previously designated as his passion for amateur theatricals and his tolerance of me. That weakness is sea shells--mollusca, you know, and that sort of thing. . . . From all over the world, smelling saltily of coral and palms, iceberg or arctic,--and only too often alas of their dead selves, these smooth-spikey-pink-blue-yellow-or-mottled shells arrive with maddening frequency. And Rollins is a born cataloguer! What easier thing in the world to say than, "Oh, by the way, Rollins, old man, here's an invoice that might interest you from a Florida Key that I've just located. . . . How about the second week in May? Could you come then, do you think? I'm all tied up to be sure with a houseful of guests that week, but they won't bother you any. And, at least, you'll have your evenings for fun. Clothes? Haven't got 'em? Oh, Pshaw! Let me see. It rained last year, didn't it? . . . Well, I guess we can raise the same umbrella that we raised for you then! S'long!" Everything settled then! Everything ready but the springtime and the scenery! . . . And God Himself at work on that!--Hist! What is it? The flash of a blue-bird? A bell tinkles! A pulley-rope creaks! And the Curtain Rises! May always comes so amazingly soon after February! So infinitely much sooner than anyone dares hope that it would! Peering into snow-smeared shop windows some rather particularly bleak morning you notice with a half-contemptuous sort of amusement a precocious display of ginghams and straw hats. And before you can turn round to tell anybody about it, tulips have happened!--And It's May! More than seeming extravagantly early this year, May dawned also with extravagant lavishness. Through every prismatic color of the world, sunshine sang to the senses! "What shall we do," fretted my Husband, "if this perfection lasts?" The question indeed was a leading one! The scenery for Rainy Week did not arrive until the afternoon of the eighth. From his frowning survey of bright lawns, gleaming surf, radiant sky, I saw my Husband turn suddenly with a little gasping sigh that might have meant anything. "What is it?" I cried. "Look!" he said, "it's come." Silently, shoulder to shoulder, we stood and watched the gigantic storm-bales roll into the sky--packed in fleece, corded with ropes of mist, gorgeous, portentous,--To-morrow's Rain! It is not many hosts and hostesses under like circumstances who turn to each other as we did with a single whoop of joy! An hour later, hatless and coatless in the lovely warm May twilight, we stood by the larch tree waiting for our guests. We like to have them sup in town at their own discretion or indiscretion, that first night, and all arrive together reasonably sleek and sleepy, and totally unacquainted, on the eight o'clock train. But the larch tree has always been our established point for meeting the _Rainy Week_ people. Conceding cordially the truth of the American aphorism that while charity may perfectly legitimately begin at home, hospitality should begin at the railroad station! We personally have proved beyond all doubt that for our immediate interests at stake dramatic effect begins at the entrance to our driveway. Yet it is always with mingled feelings of trepidation and anticipation that we first sense the blurry rumble of motor wheels on the highway. If the station bus were only blue or green! But palest oak! And shuttered like a roll-top desk! Spilling out strange personalities at you like other people's ideas brimming from pigeon-holes! For some unfathomable reason of constraint this night, no one was talking when the bus arrived. Shy, stiff-spined, non-communicative, still questioning, perhaps. Who was who and what was what, these seven guests who by the return ride a week hence might even be mated, such things have happened, or once more not speaking to each other, this also has happened, loomed now like so many dummies in the gloom. "Why, Hello!" we cried, jumping to the rear step of the bus as it slowed slightly at the curb, and thrusting our faces as genially as possible into the dark, unresponsive doorway. "Hello!" rallied someone--I think it was Rollins. Whoever it was he seemed to be having a terrible time trying to jerk his suitcase across other people's feet. "Oh, is this where you live?" questioned George Keets's careful voice from the shadows. The faintest possible tinge of relief seemed to be in the question. "Here?" brightened somebody else. A window-fastener clicked, a shutter crashed, an aperture opened, and everybody all at once, scenting the sea, crowded to stare out where the gray dusk merging into gray rocks merged in turn with the gray rocks into a low rambling gray fieldstone house silhouetted with indescribable weirdness at the moment against that delicate, pale gold, French-drawing-room sort of sky cluttered so incongruously with the clump of dark clouds. "The road--doesn't go any farther?" puzzled someone. "There's no other stopping place you mean--just a little bit farther along? This is the end,--the last house,--the----?" High from a cliff-top somewhere a sea bird lifted a single eerie cry. "Oh, how--how dramatic!" gasped somebody. Reaching out to nudge my Husband's hand I collided instead with a dog's cold nose. Following apparently the same impulse my Husband's hand met the dog's startling nose at almost the same instant. Except for a second's loss of balance on the bus-step neither of us resented the incident. But it was my Husband who recovered his conversation as well as his balance first. "Oh, you Miss Davies!" he called blithely into the bus. "What's your Pom's name? Nose-Gay? Skip-a-bout? Cross-Patch? What?--Lucky for you we knew your propensity for arriving with pets! The kennel's all ready and the cat sent away!" In the nearest shadow of all it was almost as though one heard an _ego_ bristle. "I beg your pardon, but the Pomeranian is mine," affirmed Claude Kennilworth's un-mistakable voice with what seemed like quite unnecessary hauteur. "What the deuce is the matter with everybody?" whispered my Husband. With a jerk and a bump the bus grazed a big boulder and landed us wheezily at our own front door. As expeditiously as possible my Husband snatched up the lantern that gleamed from the doorstep and brandishing it on high, challenged the shadowy occupants of the bus to disembark and proclaim themselves. Ann Woltor stepped down first. As vague as the shadows she merged from her black-garbed figure faded un-outlined into the shadow of the porch. For an instant only the uplifted lantern flashed across her strange stark face--and then went crashing down into a shiver of glass on the gravelly path at my Husband's feet. "Ann--Stoltor!" I heard him gasp. My Husband is not usually a fumbler either with hand or tongue. In the brightening flare of the flash-light that some one thrust into his hands his face showed frankly rattled. "Ann _Woltor_!" I prompted him hastily. For the infinitesimal fraction of a second our eyes met. I hope my smile was as quick. "What is the matter with everybody?" I said. With extravagant exuberance my Husband jumped to help the rest of our guests alight. "Hi, there, Everybody!" he greeted each new face in turn as it emerged somewhat hump-shouldered and vague through the door of the bus into the flare of his lantern light. Poor Rollins, of course, tumbled out. Fastidiously, George Keets illustrated how a perfect exit from a bus should be made,--suitcase, hat-box, English ulster, everything a model of its kind. Even the constraint of his face, absolutely perfect. With the Pomeranian clutched rather drastically under one arm, Claude Kennilworth followed Keets. All the time, of course, you knew that it was the Pomeranian who was growling, but from the frowning irritability of young Kennilworth's eyes one might almost have concluded that the boy was a ventriloquist and the Pom a puppet instead of a puppy. "Her name is 'Pet'," he announced somewhat succinctly to my Husband. "And she sleeps in no--kennel!" A trifle paler than I had expected, but inexpressively young, lovely, palpitant, and altogether adorable, the May Girl sprang into my vision--and my arms. Her heart was beating like a wild bird's. With the incredibility of their miracle still stamped almost embarrassingly on their faces, our Bride-and-Groom-of-a-Week completed the list. It wasn't just the material physical fact that Love was consummated, that gave them that look. But the spiritual amazement that Love was consummatable! No other "look" in life ever compasses it, ever duplicates it! It made my Husband quite perceptibly quicken the tempo of his jocosity. "One--two--three--four--five--six--seven," he enumerated. "All good guests come straight from Heaven! One--two--three--four--five--six-- Seven--" he repeated as though to be perfectly sure, "_seven_? Why--Why, what the----?" he interrupted himself suddenly. With frank bewilderment I saw him jump back to the rear step of the bus and flash his light into the farthest corner where the huddled form of an _eighth_ person loomed weirdly from the shadows. It was a man--a young man. And at first glimpse he was quite dead. But on second glimpse, merely drunk. Hopelessly,--helplessly,--sodden drunk, with his hat gone, his collar torn away, his haggard face sagging like some broken thing against his breast. With a tension suddenly relaxed, a faint sigh seemed to slip from the group outside. In the crowding faces that surrounded us instantly, it must have been something in young Kennilworth's expression, or in the Pomeranian's, that made my Husband speak just exactly as he did. With his arms held under the disheveled, uncouth figure, he turned quite abruptly and scanned the faces of his guests, "And whose little pet--may this be?" he asked trenchantly. From the shadow of the Porte-cochere somebody laughed. It was rather a vacuous little laugh. Sheer nerves! Rollins, I think. Framed in the half-shuttered window of the bus the May Girl's face pinked suddenly like a flare of apple blossoms. "He--came with--me," said the May Girl. No matter how informally one chooses to run his household there is almost always some one rule I've noticed on which the smoothness of that informality depends. In our household that rule seems to be that no explanations shall ever be asked either in the darkness or by artificial light. . . . It being the supposition I infer that most things explain themselves by daylight. . . . Perfectly cordially I concede that they usually do. . . . But some nights are a great deal longer to wait through than others. It wasn't, on this particular night, that anyone refused to explain. But that nobody even had time to think of explaining. The young Stranger was in a bad way. Not delirium tremens nor anything like that, but a fearful alcoholic disorganization of some sort. The men were running up and down stairs half the night. Their voices rang through the halls in short, sharp orders to each other. No one else spoke above a whisper. With silly comforts like talcum powder, and hot water bottles, and sweet chocolate, and new novels, I put the women to bed. Their comments if not explanatory were at least reasonably characteristic. From a swirl of pink chiffon and my best blankets, with her ear cocked quite frankly toward a step on the stairs, her eyes like stars, her mouth all a-kiss, the Bride reported her own emotions in the matter. "No,--no one, of course had ever believed for a moment," the Bride assured me, "that the Drunken Man was one of the guests. . . . And yet, when he didn't get off at any of the stops, and this house was so definitely announced as the 'end of the road'--why it did, of course, make one feel just a little bit nervous," flushed the Bride, perfectly irrelevantly, as the creak on the stairs drew nearer. Ann Woltor registered only a very typical indifference. "A great many different kinds of things," she affirmed, "were bound to happen in any time as long as a day. . . . One simply had to get used to them, that was all." She was unpacking her sombre black traveling bag as she spoke, and the first thing she took out from it was a man's gay, green-plaided golf cap. It looked strange with the rest of her things. All the rest of her things were black. I thought I would never succeed in putting the May Girl to bed. With a sweet sort of stubbornness she resisted every effort. The first time I went back she was kneeling at her bedside to say her "forgotten prayers." The second time I went back she had just jumped up to "write a letter to her Grandfather." "Something about the sea," she affirmed, "had made her think of her grandfather." "It was a long time," she acknowledged, since she "had thought of her grandfather." "He was very old," she argued, "and she didn't want to delay any longer about writing." Slim and frank as a boy in her half-adjusted blanket-wrapper dishabille she smiled up at me through the amazing mop of gold hair with the gray streak floating like a cloud across the sunshine of her face. She was very nervous. She must have been nervous. It darkened her eyes to two blue sapphires. It quickened her breath like the breath of a young fawn running. "And would I please tell her--how to spell 'oceanic'?" she implored me. As though answering intuitively the unspoken question on my lips, she shrugged blame from her as some exotic songbird might have shrugged its first snow. "No--she didn't know who the young man was! Truly--as far as she knew--she had never--never seen the young man before!--o-c-e-a-n-i-c--was it?----" The rain was not actually delivered until one o'clock in the morning. Just before dawn I heard the storm-bales rip. In sheets of silver and points of steel, with rage and roar, and a surf like a picture in a Sunday supplement, the weather broke loose! Thank heaven the morning was so dark that no one appeared in the breakfast-room an instant before the appointed hour of nine. George Keets, of course, appeared exactly at nine, very trim, very _distingué_, in a marvelously tailored gray flannel suit, and absolutely possessed to make his own coffee. Claude Kennilworth's morning manner was very frankly peevish. "His room had a tin roof and he hardly thought he should be able to stand it. . . . Rain? Did you call this rain? It was a _Flood_! . . . Were there any Movie Palaces near? . . . And were they open mornings? . . . And he'd like an underdone chop, please, for the Pomeranian. . . . And it wasn't his dog anyway, darn the little fool, but belonged to the girl who had the studio next to his and she was possessed with the idea that a week at the shore would put the pup on its feet again. . . . Women were so blamed temperamental. . . . If there was one thing in the world that he hated it was temperamental people." And all the time he was talking he wasn't making anything with his hands, because he wasn't thinking anything instead, "And how in Creation," he scolded, "did we ever happen to build a house out on the granite edge of Nowhere? . . . How did we stand it? How----? . . . Hi there! . . . Wait a moment! . . . _God_--what _Form_! That wave with the tortured top! . . . Hush! . . . Don't speak! . . . _Please_ leave him alone! Breakfast? Not yet! When a fellow could watch a--a thing like that! . . . For heaven's sake, pass him that frothy-edged napkin! . . . Did anybody mind if he _tore_ it? . . . While he watched that other froth tear!" Dear, honest, ardent, red-blooded Paul Brenswick came down so frankly interested in the special device by which our house gutters took care of such amazing torrents of water that everybody felt perfectly confident all at once that no bride of his would ever suffer from leaky roofs or any other mechanical defect. Paul Brenswick liked the rain just as much as he liked the gutters! And he liked the sea! And he liked the house! And he liked the sky! And he liked everything! Even when a clumsy waitress joggled coffee into his grapefruit he seemed to like that just as much as he liked everything else. Paul Brenswick was a real Bridegroom. I am not, I believe, a particularly envious person, and have never as far as I know begrudged another woman her youth or her beauty or her talent or her wealth. But if it ever came to a chance of swapping facial expressions, just once in my life, some very rainy morning, I wish I could look like a Bridegroom! But the expression on the Bride's face was distinctly worried. Joy worried! Any woman who had ever been a bride could have read the expression like an open book. Victoria Brenswick had not counted on rain. Moonlight, of course, was what she had counted on! Moonlight, day and night in all probability! And long, sweet, soft stretches of beach! And cavernous rocks! And incessantly mirthful escapades of escape from the crowd! But to be shut up all day long in a houseful of strange people! . . . With a Bridegroom who after all was still more or less of a strange Bridegroom? The panic in her face was almost ghastly! The panic of the Perfectly-Happy! The panic of the person hanging over-ecstatically on the absolute perfection of a singer's prolonged high note, driven all at once to wonder if this is the moment when the note must break! . . . To be all alone and bored on a rainy day is no more than anyone would expect. . . . But to be with one's Lover and have the day prove dull? . . . If God in the terrible uncertainty of Him should force even one dull day into the miracle of their life together----? Ann Woltor, dragging down to breakfast just a few moments late, had not noticed especially, it seemed, that the day was rainy. She met my Husband's eyes as she met the eyes of her fellow-guests, calmly, indifferently, and with perfect sophistication. If his presence or personality was in any way a shock to her she certainly gave no sign of it. The May Girl didn't appear till very late, so late indeed that everybody started to tease her for being such a Sleepy Head. Her face was very flushed. Her hair in a riot of gold--and gray. Her appetite like the appetite of a young cannibal. Across the rim of her cocoa cup she hurled a lovely defiance at her traducers. "Sleepy Head!" she exulted. "Not much! Hadn't she been up since six? And out on the beach? And all over the rocks? . . . Way, way out to the farthest point? . . . There was such a heavenly suit of yellow oil-skins in her closet! . . . She hoped it wasn't cheeky of her but she just couldn't resist 'em! . . . And the fishes? . . . The poor, poor little bruised fishes dashed up, by that terrible surf on the rocks! . . . . She thought she never, never would get them all put back! . . . They kept coming and coming so! Every new wave! Flopping!--Flopping----" Rollins's breakfast had been sent to his room. You yourself wouldn't have wanted to spring Rollins on any one quite so early in the day. And with my best breakfast tray, my second best china, and sherry in the grape fruit, there was no reason certainly why Rollins in any way should feel discriminated against. Surely, as far as Rollins knew, every guest was breakfasting in bed. Even without Rollins there was quite enough uncertainty in the air. Everybody was talking--talking about the morning, I mean--not about yesterday morning; most certainly not about yesterday night! Babble, chatter, drawl, laughter, the voices rose and fell. Breakfast indeed was just about over when a faint stir on the threshold made everybody look up. It was the Drunken Stranger of the night before. Heaven knows he was sober enough now. But very shaky! Yet collarless as he was and still unshaven--our men had evidently not expected quite so early a resuscitation--he loomed up now in the doorway with a certain tragic poise and dignity that was by no means unattractive. "Why, hello!" said everybody. "Hello!" said the Stranger. With a palpable flex of muscle he leaned back against the wainscoting of the door and narrowed his haggard eyes to the cheerful scene before him. "I don't know where I am," he said, "or how I got here. . . . Or who you are." "I can't seem to remember anything." The faintly sheepish smile that quickened suddenly in his eyes, if not distinctly humorous, was at least plucky. "I think I must have had a drink," he said. "I wouldn't wonder!" grinned Paul Brenswick. "You are perfectly right," conceded George Keets. "Have another!" suggested my Husband. "A straight and narrow this time! You look wobbly. There's nothing like coffee." And still the Stranger stood undecided in the doorway. "I'm not very fit," he acknowledged. "Not with ladies. . . . But I _had_ to know where I was." Blinking with perplexity he stared and stared at the faces before him. "I'm three thousand miles from home," he worried. "I don't know a soul this side of the Sierras. . . . I--I don't know how it happened----" "Oh, Shucks!" shrugged young Kennilworth. "Easiest thing in the world to happen to a stranger in a new town! 'Welcome to our City Welcome to our City' from night till morning and morning till night again! Any crowd once it gets started----" "Crowd!" brightened the Stranger. "I--I was in some sort of a--a crowd?" he rummaged hopefully through his poor bruised brain. From her concentrated interest in a fried chicken-bone, the May Girl glanced up with her first evidence of divided attention. "Yes! You were!" she confided genially. "It was at the railroad junction. And when the officer arrived, he said, 'I hate like the dickens to run this gentleman in, but if there's nobody to look after him--?' So I said you belonged to me! I saw the crape on your sleeve!" said the May Girl. "Crape--on--my--sleeve?" stammered the Stranger. With a dreadful gesture of incredulity he lifted his black-banded arm into vision. It was like watching a live heart torn apart to see his memory waken. "My--God!" he gasped. "My _God_!" Still wavering but with a really heroic effort to square his stricken shoulders, he swung back toward the company. His face was livid, his voice, barely articulate. Over face and voice lay still that dreadful blight of astonishment. But when he spoke his statement was starkly simple. "I--I buried my wife and unborn child--yesterday," he said. "In a strange land--among strangers I--I----" More quickly than I could possibly have imagined it, George Keets was on his feet beckoning the Stranger to the place which he himself had just vacated. And with his hands on the Stranger's shoulders he bent down suddenly over him with a curiously twisted little smile. "Welcome to our--Pity!" said George Keets. Between Paul Brenswick and his Bride there flashed a sharp glance of terror. It was as though the bride's heart had gasped out. "What if I have to die some day?--And _this_ day was wasted in rain?" I saw young Kennilworth flush and turn away from that glance. I saw the May Girl open her eyes with a new baffled sort of perplexity. It was then that Rollins came puttering in, grinning like a Chessy Cat, with his half-demolished breakfast sliding round rather threateningly on his ill-balanced tray. The strange exultancy of rain was in his eye. "I thought I heard voices," he beamed. "Merry voices!" With mounting excitement he began to beat tunes with his knife and fork upon the delicate porcelain dome of his toast dish. "Am I a--King," he began to intone, "that I should call my own, this--?" Struck suddenly by the somewhat strained expression of Ann Woltor's face, he dropped his knife and fork and fixed his eye upon her for the first time with an unmistakable intentness. "How did you break your tooth?" beamed Rollins. CHAPTER II FOR a single horrid moment everybody's heart seemed to lurch off into space to land only too audibly in a gaspy thud of dismay. Then Ann Woltor with unprecedented presence of mind jumped up from the table and ran to the mirror over the fireplace. Only the twittering throat-muscle reflected in that mirror belied for an instant the sincerity of either her haste or her astonishment. "Broken tooth!" she protested incredulously. "Why! Have I got a--broken tooth?" People acknowledge their mental panics so divergently. My Husband acknowledged his by ramming his elbow into his coffee cup. Claude Kennilworth lit one cigarette after another. The May Girl started to butter a picture post card that someone had just passed her. Quite starkly before my very eyes I saw the Sober Stranger, erstwhile drunken, reach out and slip a silver salt-shaker into his pocket. Meeting his glance my own nerves exploded in a single hoot of mirth. Into the unhappy havoc of the Stranger's face a rather sick but very determinate little smile shot suddenly. "Well, I certainly am rattled?" he acknowledged. His embarrassment was absolutely perfect. Not a whit too much, not a whit too little, at a moment when the slightest under-emphasis or over-emphasis of his awkwardness would have stamped him ineradicably as either boor--or bounder. More indeed by his chair's volition than by his own he seemed to jerk aside then and there from any further responsibility for the incident. Turbid as the storm at the window his eyes racked back to the eyes of his companions. "Surely," he besought us, "there must be some place--some hotel--somewhere in this town where I can crawl into for a day or two till I can yank myself together again? . . . Taking me in this way from the streets--or worse the way you-people have--" Along the stricken pallor of his forehead a glisten of sweat showed faintly. From my eyes to my Husband's eyes, and back to mine again he turned with a sharply impulsive gesture of appeal. "How do you-people know but what I _am_ a burglar?" he demanded. "Even so," I suggested blithely, "can't you see that we'd infinitely rather have you visiting here as our friend than boarding at the hotel as our foe!" The mirthless smile on the Stranger's face twitched ever so faintly at one corner. "You really believe then--" he quickened, "that there is 'honor among thieves'?" "All proverbs," intercepted my Husband a bit abruptly, "are best proved by their antithesis. We do at least know that there is at times--a considerable streak of dishonor among saints!" "Eh?--What's that--I didn't quite catch it," beamed the Bridegroom. But my Husband's entire attention seemed focused rather suddenly on the Stranger. "So you'd much better stay right on here where you are!" he adjured him with some accent of authority. "Where all explanations are already given and taken! . . . Ourselves quite opportunely short one guest and long one guest-room, and--No! I won't listen for a moment to its being called an 'imposition'!" protested my Husband. "Not for a moment! Only, of course, I must admit," he confided genially, above the flare of a fresh cigarette, "that it would be a slight convenience to know your name." "My name?" flushed the Stranger. "Why, of course! It's Allan John." "You mean 'John Allan'," corrected the May Girl very softly. "No," insisted the Stranger. "It's Allan John." Quite logically he began to rummage through his pockets for the proof. "It's written on my bill-folder," he frowned. "It's in my check-book. . . . It's written on no-end of envelopes." With his face the color of half-dead sedge grass he sank back suddenly into his chair and turned his empty hands limply outward as though his wrist-bones had been wrung. "Gone!" he gasped. "Stripped!--Everything!" "There you have it!" I babbled hysterically. "Now, how do you know but what _we_ are burglars? . . . This whole house a Den of Thieves? . . . The impeccable Mr. George Keets there at your right,--no more, no less, than exactly what he looks,--an almost perfect replica of a stage 'Raffles'?" "Eh? What's that?" bridled George Keets. "Dragging you here to this house the way we did," I floundered desperately. "Quite helpless as you were. So--so----" "'Spifflicated,'" prompted the May Girl. The word on her lips was like the flutter of a rose petal. With a little gasp of astonishment young Kennilworth rose from his place, and dragging his chair in one hand, his plate of fruit in the other, moved round to the May Girl's elbow to finish his breakfast. Like a palm trying to patronize a pine tree, his crisp exotic young ego swept down across her young serenity. "Really, I don't quite make you out," he said. "I think I shall have to study you!" "Study--me!" reflected the May Girl. "Make a lesson about me, you mean! On a holiday?" The vaguely dawning dimple in her smooth cheek faded suddenly out again. The Stranger--Allan John--it seemed, was rising from the table. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go to my room," he explained. "I'm still pretty shaky. I'm----" But half way to the stairs, as though drawn by some irresistible impulse, he turned, and fumbling his way back across the dining-room opened the big glass doors direct into the storm. Tripping ever so slightly on the threshold he lurched forward in a single wavering step. In an instant the May Girl was at his side, her steadying hand held out to his! Recovering his balance almost instantly he did not however release her hand, but still holding tight to it, indescribably puzzled, indescribably helpless, stood shoulder to shoulder with her, staring out into the tempestuous scene. Lashed by the wind the May Girl's mop of hair blew gold, blew gray, across his rain-drenched eyes. Blurred in a gusty flutter of white skirts his whole tragic, sagging figure loomed suddenly like some weird, symbolic shadow against the girl's bright beauty. Frankly the picture startled me! "S-s-h!" warned my Husband. "It won't hurt her any! He doesn't even know whether she's young or old." "Or a boy--or a girl," interposed George Keets, a bit drily. "Or an imp or a saint," grinned young Kennilworth. "Or----" "Or anything at all," persisted my Husband, "except that she says '_Kindness_' and nothing else, you notice, except just '_Kindness_.' No suggestions, you observe? No advice? And at an acid moment in his life of such unprecedented shock and general nervous disorganization when his only conceivable chance of 'come-back' perhaps, hangs on the alkaline wag of a strange dog's tail or the tune of a street piano proving balm not blister. By to-morrow--I think--you won't see him holding hands with the May Girl nor with any other woman. Personally," confided my Husband a bit abruptly, "I rather like the fellow! Even in the worst of his plight last night there was a certain fundamental sort of poise and dignity about him as of one who would say, 'Bad as this is, you chaps must see that I'd stand ready with my life to do the same for you'!" "To--do--the same--for you?" gasped the Bride. Very quietly, like an offended young princess, she rose from the table and stood for that single protesting moment with her hand on her Bridegroom's shoulder. Her eager, academic young face was frankly aghast,--her voice distinctly strained. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I quite fail to see how the word 'dignity' could possibly be applied to any man who had so debased himself as to go and get drunk because his wife and child were dead!" "You talk," said my Husband, "as though you thought 'getting drunk' was some sort of jocular sport. It isn't! That is, not inevitably, you know!" "No--I didn't--know," murmured the Bride coldly. "Deplorable as the result proved to be," interposed George Keets's smooth, carefully modulated voice, "it's hardly probable I suppose that the poor devil started out with the one deliberate purpose of--of debasing him self, as Mrs. Brenswick calls it." "N-o?" questioned the Bride. "It isn't exactly, you mean, as though he'd leapt from the church shouting, 'Yo--ho--, and a bottle of rum,'" observed young Kennilworth with one faintly-twisted eyebrow. "S-s-h!" admonished everybody. "Maybe he simply hadn't eaten for days," suggested my Husband. "Or slept for nights and nights," frowned George Keets. "And just absolutely was obliged to have a bracer," said my Husband, "to put the bones back into his knees again so that he could climb up the steps of his train and fumble some sort of way to his seat without seeming too conspicuous. Whatever religion may do, you know, to starch a man's soul or stiffen his upper lip, he's got to have bones in his knees if he's going to climb up into railroad trains. . . . And our poor young friend here, it would seem, merely mis----" "Mis--calculated," mused Kennilworth, "how many knees he had." "Paul wouldn't do it!" flared the Bride. "Do what?" demanded young Kennilworth. "Hush!" protested everybody. "Make a beast of himself--if I died--if I died!" persisted the Bride. "Pray excuse me for contradicting either your noun or your preposition," apologized my Husband. "But even at its worst I'm quite willing to wager that the only thing in the world poor Allan John started out to 'make' was an oblivion--for--himself." "An oblivion?" scoffed the Bride. "Yes--even for one night!" persisted my Husband. "Even for one short little night! . . . Before the horror of 365 nights to the year and God knows how many years to the life--rang on again! Some men really like their wives you know,--some men--so no matter how thin-skinned and weak this desire for oblivion seems to you--" quickened my Husband, "it is at least a----" "Paul wouldn't!" frowned the Bride. In the sudden accentuation of strain everybody turned as quickly as possible to poor Paul to decide as cheerfully as seemed compatible with good taste just what that gorgeously wholesome looking specimen of young manhood would or would not do probably under suggested circumstances. Nobody certainly wanted to consider the matter seriously, yet nobody with the Bride's scared eyes still scorching through his senses would have felt quite justified I think in mere shrugging the issue aside. "No, I don't think Paul--would!" rallied my Husband with commendable quickness. "Not with those eyes! Not with that particular shade of crisp, controlled hair! . . . Complexions like his aren't made in one generation of righteous nerves and digestions! . . . Oh no--! Even in the last ditch the worst thing Paul would do would be to stalk round putting brand new gutters on a brand new house!" "Bridge-building is my job--not gutters," grinned Paul unhappily. "Stalk round building brand new bridges," corrected my Husband. "Intoxicated with bridges!" triumphed young Kennilworth. "Doped with specifications!" "But perhaps Allan John--doesn't know how to build bridges," murmured my Husband. "And perhaps in Allan John's family an occasional Maiden Aunt _or_ Uncle has strayed just a----" "With the faintest possible gesture of impatience, but still smiling, the Bridegroom rose from the table and lifted his Bride's hand very gently from his shoulder. "Who started this conversation, anyway?" he quizzed. "I did!" laughed everybody. "Well, I end it!" said the Bridegroom. "Oh, thunder!" protested young Kennilworth. In the hollow of his hand something that once had been the spongy shapeless center of a breakfast roll crushed back into sponge again. But in the instant of its crushing, crude as the modeling was, half jest, half child's play, I sensed the unmistakable parody of a woman's finger-prints bruising into the soft crest of a man's shoulder. Even in the absurdity of its substance the sincerity of the thing was appalling. Catching my eye alone, young Kennilworth gave an amused but distinctly worldly-wise little laugh. "Women do care so much, don't they?" he shrugged. A trifling commotion in the front hall stayed the retort on my lips. The commotion was Ann Woltor. Coated and hatted and already half-gloved she loomed blackly from the shadows, trying very hard to attract my attention. In my twinge of anxiety about the May Girl I had quite forgotten Ann Woltor. And in the somewhat heated discussion of Allan John's responsibilities and irresponsibilities, the May Girl also, it would seem, had passed entirely from my mind. "I'm very sorry," explained Ann Woltor, "but with this unfortunate accident to my tooth I shall have to hurry, of course, right back to town." Even if you had never heard Ann Woltor speak you could have presaged perfectly from her face just what her voice would be like, gravely contralto, curiously sonorous, absolutely without either accent or emphasis, yet carrying in some strange, inex-plainable way a rather goose-fleshy sense of stubbornness and finality. "One can't exactly in a Christian land," droned Ann Woltor, "go round looking like the sole survivor of a massacre." Across the somewhat sapient mutual consciousness that ever since we had first laid eyes on each other five months ago--and goodness knows how long before that--she had been going round perfectly serenely 'looking like the sole survivor of a massacre,' Ann Woltor and I stared just a bit deeply into each other's eyes. The expression in Ann's eyes was an expression of peculiar poignancy. "No, of course not!" I conceded with some abruptness. "But surely if you can find the right dentist and he's clever at all, you ought to be able to get back here on the six-thirty train to-night!" "The six-thirty train? Perhaps," murmured Ann Woltor. Once again her eyes hung upon mine. And I knew and Ann Woltor knew and Ann Woltor knew that I knew,--that she hadn't the slightest intention in the world of returning to us on any train whatsoever. But for some reason known only to herself and perhaps one other, was only too glad to escape from our party--anatomically impossible as that escape sounds--through the loop-hole of a broken tooth. Already both black gloves were fastened, and her black traveling-bag swayed lightly in one slim, determinate hand. "Your maid has ordered the station bus for me," she confided; "and tells me that by changing cars at the Junction and again at Lees--Truly I'm sorry to make any trouble," she interrupted herself. "If there had been any possible way of just slipping out without anybody noticing----!" "Without anybody noticing?" I cried. "Why, Ann, you dear silly!" At this, my first use of her Christian name, she flashed back at me a single veiled glance of astonishment, and started for the door. But before I could reach her side my Husband stepped forward and blocked her exit by the seemingly casual accident of plunging both arms rather wildly into the sleeves of his great city-going raincoat. "Why the thing is absurd!" he protested. "You can't possibly make train connections! And there isn't even a covered shed at the Junction! If this matter is so important I'll run you up to town myself in the little closed car!" Across Ann Woltor's imperturbable face an expression that would have meant an in-growing scream on any other person's countenance flared up in a single twitching lip-muscle and was gone again. Behind the smiling banter in my Husband's eyes she also perhaps had noted a determination quite as stubborn as her own. "Why--if you insist," she acquiesced, "but it has always distressed me more than I can say to inconvenience anybody." "Inconvenience--nothing!" beamed my Husband. Ordinarily speaking my Husband would not be described I think as having a beaming expression. With a chug like the chug of a motor-boat the little closed car came splashing laboriously round the driveway. Its glassy face was streaked with tears. Depressant as black life-preservers its two extra tires gleamed and dripped in their jetty enamel-cloth casings. A jangle as of dungeon chains clanked heavily from each fresh revolution of its progress. Everybody came rushing helpfully to assist in the embarkation. My Husband's one remark to me flung back in a whisper from the steering wheel, though frankly confidential, concerned Allan John alone. "Don't let Allan John want for anything to-day," he admonished me. "Keep his body and mind absolutely glutted with bland things like cocoa and reading aloud . . . And don't wait supper for us!" With her gay jonquil-colored oil-skin coat swathing her sombre figure, Ann Woltor slipped into the seat beside him and slammed the door behind her. Her face was certainly a study. "Sixty miles to town if it's an inch! How--cosy," mused young Kennilworth. "Good-bye!" shouted everybody. "Good-bye!" waved Ann Woltor and my Husband. As for Rollins, he was almost beside himself with pride and triumph. Shuffling joyously from one foot to the other he crowded to the very edge of the vestibule and with his small fussy face turned up ecstatically to the rain, fairly exploded into speech the instant the car was out of earshot. "She'll look better!" gloated Rollins. "Who?--the car?" deprecated young Kennilworth. Then, because everybody laughed out at nothing, it gave me a very good chance suddenly to laugh out at "nothing" myself. And most certainly I had been needing that chance very badly for at least the last fifteen minutes. Because really when you once stopped to consider the whole thrilling scheme of this "Rainy Week" Play, and how you and your Husband for years and years had constituted yourself a very eager, earnest-minded Audience-of-Two to watch how the Lord Almighty,--the one unhampered Dramatist of the world, would work out the scenes and colors--the exits and entrances--the plots and counter plots of the material at hand--it was just a bit astonishing to have your Husband jump up from his place in the audience and leap to the stage to be one of the players instead! It wasn't at all that the dereliction worried your head or troubled your heart. But it left your elbow so lonely! Who was there left for your elbow to nudge? When the morning curtain rose on a flight of sea gulls slashing like white knives through a sheet of silver rain, or the Night Scene set itself in a plushy black fog that fairly crinkled your senses; when the Leading Lady's eyes narrowed for the first time to the Leading Man's startled stare, and the song you had introduced so casually at the last moment in the last act proved to be the reforming point in the Villain's nefarious career, and the one character you had picked for "Comic Relief" turned out to be the Tragedienne, who in the world was left for your elbow to nudge? Swinging back to the breakfast-room I heard the clock strike ten--only ten? It was going to be a nice little Play all right! Starting off already with several quite unexpected situations! And it wouldn't be the first time by any means that in an emergency I had been obliged to "double" as prompter and stage hand or water carrier and critic. But how to double as elbow-nudger I couldn't quite figure. "Let's go for a tramp on the beach!" suggested the Bridegroom. Always on the first rainy morning immediately after breakfast some restive business man suggests "a tramp on the beach!" Frankly we have reached a point where we quite depend on it for a cue. Everybody hailed the proposition with delight except Allan John and Rollins. A zephyr would have blown Allan John from his footing. And Rollins had to stay in his room to catalogue shells. . . . Rollins was paid to stay in his room and catalogue shells! Of the five adventurers who essayed to sally forth, only one failed to clamor for oil skins. You couldn't really blame the Bride for her lack of clamoring. . . . The Bride's trousseau was wonderful as all trousseaux are bound perforce to be that are made up of equal parts of taste,--money,--fashion,--and passion. No one who had "saved up" such a costume as the Bride had for the first rainy day together, could reasonably be expected to doff it for yellow oil-skins. Of some priceless foreign composition, half cloth, half mist, indescribably shimmering, almost indecently feminine, with the frenchiest sort of a little hat gaily concocted of marshgrass and white rubber pond-lilies, it gave her lovely, somewhat classic type, all the sudden audacious effect somehow of a water-proofed valentine. Young Kennilworth sensed the inherent contrast at once. "Beside you," he protested, "we look like Yellow Telegrams! . . . Your Husband there is some Broker's Stock Quotation--sent 'collect!' . . . Mr. Keets is a rather heavily-worded summons to address the Alumnae of Something-or-other College! . . . I am a Lunch Invitation to 'Miss Dancy-Prancy of the Sillies!' . . . And you, of course, Miss Davies," he quickened delightedly, "are a Night Letter, because you are so long--and inconsequent--all about rabbits--and puppies--and kiddie things like checked gingham pinafores!" Laughing, teasing, arguing, jeering each other's oil-skins, praising the Bride's splendor, they swept, a young hurricane of themselves, out into the bigger hurricane of sea and sky, and still five abreast, still jostling, still teasing, still arguing, passed from sight around the storm-swept curve of the beach, while I stayed behind to read aloud to Allan John. Not that Allan John listened at all. But merely because every time I stopped reading he struggled up from the lovely soggy depths of his big leather chair and began to worry. We read two garden catalogues and a chapter on insect pests. We read a bit of Walter Pater, and five exceedingly scurrilous poems from a volume of free verse. It seemed to be the Latin names in the garden catalogues that soothed him most. And when we weren't reading, we drank malted milk. Allan John, it seemed, didn't care for cocoa. But even if I hadn't had Allan John on my mind I shouldn't have gone walking on the beach. We have always indeed made it a point not to walk on the beach with our guests on the first rainy, restive morning of their arrival. In a geographical environment where every slushy step of sand, every crisp rug of pebbles, every wind-tortured cedar root, every salt-gnawed crag is as familiar to us as the palms of our own hands, it is almost beyond human nature not to try and steer one's visitors to the preferable places, while the whole point of this introductory expedition demands that the visitors shall steer themselves. In the inevitable mood of uneasiness and dismay that overwhelms most house party guests when first thrust into each other's unfamiliar faces, the initial gravitations that ensue are rather more than usually significant. To be perfectly explicit, for instance, people who start off five abreast on that first rainy walk never come home five abreast! In the immediate case at hand, nobody came home at all until long after Allan John and I had finished our luncheon, and in the manner of that coming, George Keets had gravitated to leadership with the Bride and Bridegroom. Very palpably with the Bridegroom's assistance he seemed to be coaxing and urging the Bride's frankly jaded footsteps, while young Kennilworth and the May Girl brought up the rear staggering and lurching excitedly under the weight of a large and somewhat mysteriously colored wooden box. The Bridegroom and George Keets and young Kennilworth and the May Girl were as neat as yellow paint. But the poor Bride was ruined. Tattered and torn, her diaphanous glory had turned to real mist before the onslaught of wind and rain. Her hat was swamped, her face streaked with inharmonious colors. She was drenched to the skin. Her Bridegroom was distracted with anxiety and astonishment. Everybody was very much excited! Lured by some will-o-the-wisp that lurks in waves and beaches they had lost their way it seems between one dune and another, staggered up sand-hills, fallen down sand-hills, sheltered themselves at last during the worst gust of all "in a sort of a cave in a sort of a cliff" and sustained life very comfortably "thank you" on some cakes of sweet chocolate which George Keets had discovered most opportunely in his big oil-skin pockets! But most exciting of all they had found a wreck! "Yes, a real wreck! A perfectly lovely--beautiful--and quite sufficiently gruesome real wreck!" the May Girl reported. Not exactly a whole wreck it had proved to be . . . Not shattered spars and masts and crumpled cabins with plush cushions floating messily about. But at least it was a real trunk from a real wreck! Mrs. Brenswick had spied it first. Just back of a long brown untidy line of flotsam and jetsam, the sea-weeds, the dead fish, the old bales and boxes, that every storm brings to the beach, Mrs. Brenswick had spied the trunk lurching up half-imbedded in the sand. It must have come in on the biggest wave of all some time during the night. It was "awfully wet" and yet "not so awfully wet." Everybody agreed that is, that it wasn't water-logged, that it hadn't, in short, been rolling around in the sea for weeks or months but bespoke a disaster as poignantly recent as last night, on the edge of this very storm indeed that they themselves were now frivoling in. For fully half an hour, it appeared before even so much as touching the trunk, they had raced up and down the beach hunting half hopefully, half fearfully for some added trace of wreckage, the hunched body even of a survivor. But even with this shuddering apprehension once allayed, the original discovery had not proved an altogether facile adventure. It had taken indeed at the last all their combined energies and ingenuities to open the trunk. The Bride had broken two finger nails. George Keets had lost his temper. Paul Brenswick in a final flare of desperation had kicked in the whole end with an abandon that seemed to have been somewhat of an astonishment to everybody. Even from the first young Kennilworth had contested "that the thing smelt dead." But this unhappy odor had been proved very fortunately to be nothing more nor less than the rain-sloughed coloring matter of the Bride's pond-lily hat. "And here is what we found in the trunk!" thrilled the Bride. In the palm of her extended hand lay a garnet necklace,--fifty stones perhaps, flushing crimson-dark in a silver setting of such unique beauty and such unmistakable Florentine workmanship as stamped the whole trinket indisputably "precious," if not the stones themselves. "And there were women's dresses in it," explained Paul Brenswick. "Rather queer-looking dresses and----" "Oh, it was the--the--funniest trunk!" cried the May Girl. "All--" Her eyes were big with horror. "Anybody could have Sherlocked at a glance," sniffed young Kennilworth, "that it had been packed by a crazy person!" "No, I don't agree to that at all!" protested the Bride, whose own trunk-packing urgencies and emergencies were only too recent in her mind. "Anybody's liable to pack a trunk like that when he's moving! The last trunk of all! Every left-over thing that you thought was already packed or that you had planned to tuck into your suitcase and found suddenly that you couldn't." "Why, there was an old-fashioned copper chafing dish!" sniffed young Kennilworth. "And the top-drawer of a sewing-table fairly rattling with spools!" "And books!" frowned George Keets. "The weirdest little old edition of 'Pilgrim's Progress'!" "And toys!" quivered the May Girl. "A perfectly gorgeous brand new box of 'Toy Village'! As huge as--Oh it was awful!" "As huge as--that!" kicked young Kennilworth wryfully against the box at his feet. "I wanted to bring the chafing dish," he scolded, "but nothing would satisfy this young idiot here except that we lug the Toy Village.----" "One couldn't bring--everything all at once," deprecated the May Girl. "Perhaps to-morrow--if it isn't too far--and we ever could find it again----" "But why such haste about the 'Toy Village'?" I questioned. "Why not the dresses? The----" Hopelessly, but with her eyes like blue skies, her cheeks like apple-blossoms, the May Girl tried to justify her mental processes. "Probably I can't explain exactly," she admitted, "but books and dishes and dresses being just things wouldn't mind being drowned but toys, I think, would be frightened." With a frank expression of shock she stopped suddenly and stared all around her. "It doesn't quite make sense when you say it out loud, does it?" she reflected. "But when you just feel it--inside----" "I brought the little 'Pilgrim's Progress' back with me," confessed George Keets with the faintest possible smile. "Not exactly perhaps because I thought it would be 'frightened.' But two nights shipwreck on a New England coast in this sort of weather didn't seem absolutely necessary." "And I brought the dinkiest little pearl-handled pistol," brightened Paul Brenswick. "It's a peach! Tucked into the pocket of an old blue cape it was! Wonder I ever found it!" From a furious rummaging through her pockets the May Girl suddenly withdrew her hand. "Of course, we'll have to watch the shipwreck news," said the May Girl. "Or even advertise, perhaps. So maybe there won't be any real treasure-trove after all. But just to show that I thought of you, Mrs. Delville," she dimpled, "here are four very damp spools of red sewing-silk for your own work-table drawer! Maybe they came all the way from China! And here's a--I don't know what it is, for Allan John--I think it's a whistle! And here's a little not-too-soggy real Morocco-bound blank book for Mr. Rollins when he comes down-stairs again! And----" "And for Mr. Delville?" I teased. "And for Ann Woltor?" With her hand slapped across her mouth in a gesture of childish dismay, the May Girl stared round at her companions. "Oh dear--Oh dear--Oh _dear_!" she stammered. "None of us ever thought once of poor Mr. Delville and Miss Woltor!" "It's hot eatments and drinkments that you'd better be thinking of now!" I warned them all with real concern. "And blanket-wrappers! And downy quilts! Be off to your rooms and I'll send your lunches up after you! And don't let one of you dare show his drenched face down-stairs again until suppertime!" Then Allan John and I resumed our reading aloud. We read Longfellow this time, and a page or two of Marcus Aurelius, and half a detective story. And substituted orange juice very mercifully for what had grown to be a somewhat monotonous carousal in malted milk. Allan John seemed very much gratified with the little silver whistle from the shipwreck, and showed quite plainly by various pursings of his strained lips that he was fairly yearning to blow it, but either hadn't the breath, or else wasn't sure that such a procedure would be considered polite. Really by six o'clock I had grown quite fond of Allan John. It was his haunted eyes, I think and the lovely lean line of his cheek. But whether he was animal--vegetable--mineral--Spirituelle--or Intellectuelle, I, myself, was not yet prepared to say. The supper hour passed fortunately without fresh complications. Everybody came down! Everybody's eyes were like stars! And every body's complexion lashed into sheer gorgeous-ness by the morning's mad buffet of wind and wave! Best of all, no one sneezed. Our little Bride was a dream again in a very straight, very severe gray velvet frock that sheathed her young suppleness like the suppleness of a younger Crusader. Her regenerated beauty was an object-lesson to all young husbands' pocket-books for all time to come that beauty like love is infinitely more susceptible to bad weather than is either homeliness or hate, and as such must be cherished by a man's brain as well as by his brawn. Paul Brenswick, goodness knows, would never need to choose his Bride's clothes for her. But lusty young beauty-lover that he was by every right of clean heart and clean living, it was up to him to see that his beloved was never financially hampered in her own choosing! A non-extravagant bride, wrecked as his bride had been by the morning's tempest, might not so readily have recovered her magic. The May Girl, as usual, was like a spray of orchard bloom in some white, frothy, middy blouse sort of effect. With the May Girl's peculiarly fragrant and insouciant type of youthfulness one never noted somehow just what she wore, nor rated one day's mood of loveliness against another. The essential miracle, as of May-time itself, lay merely in the fact that she was here. Everybody talked, of course, about the shipwreck. The Bride did not wear her necklace. "It was too ghostly," she felt. But she carried it in her hand and brooded over it with the tender, unshakable conviction that once at least it must have belonged to "another Bride." Rollins, I thought, was rather unduly enthusiastic about his share of the booty. Yet no one who knew Rollins could ever possibly have questioned the absolute sincerity of him. Note-books, it appeared, were a special hobby of his! Morocco-bound note-books particularly. And when it came to faintly soggy Morocco-bound note-books, words were inadequate it seemed to express his appreciation. Nothing would do but the May Girl must inscribe it for him. "Aberner Rollins," she wrote very carefully in her round, childish hand, with a giggly flourish at the tail-tip of each word. "For Aberner Rollins from his friend May Davies. Awful Shipwreck Time, May 10th, 1919." Rollins used an inestimable number of note-books it appeared in the collection of his statistics. "The collection of statistics was the consuming passion of his life," he confided to everybody. "The consuming passion!" he reiterated emphatically. "Already," he affirmed, "he had revised and reaudited the whole fresh-egg-account of his own family for the last three generations! In a single slender tome," he bragged, "he held listed the favorite flowers of all living novelists both of America and England! Another tome bulged with the evidence that would-be suicides invariably waited for pleasant weather in which to accomplish their self-destruction! In regard to the little black Morocco volume," he kindled ecstatically, "he had already dedicated it to a very interesting new thought which had just occurred to him that evening, apropos of a little remark--a most significant little remark that had been dropped during the breakfast chat. . . . If anyone was really interested--" he suggested hopefully. Nobody was the slightest bit interested! Nobody paid the remotest attention to him! Everybody was still too much excited about the shipwreck, and planning how best to salvage such loot as remained. "And maybe by to-morrow there'll be even more things washed up!" sparkled the May Girl. "A real India shawl perhaps! A set of chess-men carved from a whale's tooth! Only, of course--if it should rain as hard--" she drooped as suddenly as she had sparkled. "It can't!" said young Kennilworth. Even with the fresh crash of wind and rain at the casement he made the assertion arrogantly. "It isn't in the mind of God," he said, "to make two days as rainy as this one." The little black Pomeranian believed him anyway, and came sniffing out of the shadows to see if the arrogantly gesticulative young hand held also the gift of lump sugar as well as of prophecy. It was immediately after supper that the May Girl decided to investigate the possibilities and probabilities of her "toy village." Somewhat patronizingly at first but with a surprisingly rapid kindling of enthusiasm, young Kennilworth conceded his assistance. The storm outside grew wilder and wilder. The scene inside grew snugger and snugger. The room was warm, the lamps well shaded, the tables piled with books, the chairs themselves deep as waves. "Loaf and let loaf" was the motto of the evening. By pulling the huge wolf-skin rug away from the hearth, the May Girl and young Kennilworth achieved for their village a plane of smoothness and light that gleamed as fair and sweet as a real village common at high noon. Curled up in a fluff of white the May Girl sat cross-legged in the middle of it superintending operations through a maze of sunny hair. Stretched out at full-length on the floor beside her, looking for all the world like some beautiful exotic-faced little lad, young Kennilworth lay on his elbows, adjusting, between incongruous puffs of cigarette smoke, the faintly shattered outline of a miniature church and spire, or soothing a blister of salt sea tears from the paint-crackled visage of a tiny villa. Softly the firelight flickered and flamed across their absorbed young faces. Mysteriously the wisps of cigarette smoke merged realities with unrealities. It was an entrancing picture. And one by one everybody in the room except Rollins and myself became drawn more or less into it. "If you're going to do it at all," argued Paul Brenswick, "you might as well do it right! When you start in to lay out a village you know there are certain general scientific principles that must be observed. Now that list to the floor there! What about drainage? Can't you see that you've started the whole thing entirely wrong?" "But I wanted it to face toward the fire," drooped the May Girl, "like a village looking on the wonders of Vesuvius." "Vesuvius nothing!" insisted Paul Brenswick. "It's got to have good drainage!" Enchanted by his seriousness, the Bride rushed off up-stairs with her scissors to rip the foliage off her second-best hat to make a hedge for the church-yard. Even Allan John came sliding just a little bit out of his chair when he noted that there was a large, rather humpy papier-mache mountain in the outfit that seemed likely to be discarded. "I would like to have that mountain put--there!" he pointed. "Against that table shadow . . . And the mountain's name is Blue Blurr!" "Oh, very well," acquiesced everybody. "The mountain's name is Blue Blurr!" It was George Keets who suggested taking the little bronze Psyche from the mantelpiece to make a monument for the public square. "Of course there'll be some in your village," he deprecated, "who'll object to its being a nude. But as a classic it----" "It's a bear! It's a bear! It's a bear!" chanted Kennilworth in exultant falsetto. "Speaking of classics!" "Hush!" said George Keets. . . . George Keets really wanted very much to play, I think, but he didn't know exactly how to, so he tried to talk highbrow instead. "This village of yours," he frowned, "I--I hope it's going to have good government?" "Well, it isn't!" snapped young Kennilworth. "It's going to be a terror! But at least it shall be pretty!" Under young Kennilworth's crafty hand the little village certainly had bloomed from a child's pretty toy into the very real beauty of an artist's ideal. The skill of laying out little streets one way instead of another, the decision to place the tiny red schoolhouse here instead of there, the choice of a linden rather than a pinetree to shade an infinitesimal green-thatched cottage, had all combined in some curious twinge of charm to make your senses yearn--not that all that cunning perfection should swell suddenly to normal real estate dimensions--but that you, reduced by some lovely miracle to toy-size, might slip across that toy-sized greensward into one of those toy-sized houses, and live with toy-sized passions and toy-sized ambitions and toy-sized joys and toy-sized sorrows, one single hour of a toy-sized life. Everybody, I guess, experienced the same strange little flutter. "That house shall be mine!" affirmed George Keets quite abruptly. "That gray stone one with the big bay-window and the pink rambler rose. The bay-window room I'm sure would make me a fine study. And----" From an excessively delicate readjustment of a loose shutter on a rambling brown bungalow young Kennilworth looked up with a certain flicker of exasperation. "Live anywhere you choose!" he snapped. "Miss Davies and I are going to live--here!" "W--What?" stammered the May Girl. "What?" "Here!" grinned young Kennilworth. "Oh--no," said the May Girl. Without showing the slightest offense she seemed suddenly to be quite positive about it. "Oh, no!--If I live anywhere it's going to be in the gray stone house with Mr. Keets. It's so infinitely more convenient to the schools." "To the what?" chuckled Kennilworth. Before the very evident astonishment and discomfiture in George Keets's face, his own was convulsed with joy. "To the schools," dimpled the May Girl. "You do me a--a very great honor," bowed George Keets. His face was scarlet. "Thank you," said the May Girl. In the second's somewhat panicky pause that ensued Rollins flopped forward with his note-book. Rollins evidently had been waiting a long and impatient time for such a pause. "Now speaking of drinking to drown one's Sorrows--" beamed Rollins. "But we weren't!" observed George Keets coldly. "But you were this morning!" triumphed Rollins. From the flapping white pages of the little black note-book he displayed with pride the entries that he had already made, a separate name heading each page--Mrs. Delville--Mr. Delville--Mr. Keets--Miss Davies--the list began. "Now take the hypothesis," glowed Rollins, "that everybody has got just two bottles stowed away for all time, the very last bottles I mean that he will ever own, rum--rye--Benedictine--any thing you choose--and eliminating the first bottle as the less significant of the two--what are you saving the last one for!" demanded Rollins. From a furtive glance at Allan John's graying face and the May Girl's somewhat startled stare, young Kennilworth looked up with a rather peculiarly glinting smile. "Oh, that's easy," said he, "I'm saving mine to break the head of some bally fool!" "And my last bottle," interposed George Keets quickly. "My last bottle--?" In his fine ascetic face the flush deepened suddenly again, but with the flush the faintest possible little smile showed also at the lip-line. "Oh, I suppose if I'm really going to have a wedding--in that little gray toy house, it's up to me to save mine for a 'Loving Cup' . . . claret . . . Something very mild and rosy . . . Yes, mine shall be claret." With her pretty nose crinkled in what seemed like a particularly abstruse reflection, the May Girl glanced up. "Bene--benedictine?" she questioned. "Is that the stuff that smells the way stars would taste if you ate them raw?" "I really can't say," mused Kennilworth. "I don't think I ever ate a perfectly raw star. At the night-lunch carts I think they almost invariably fry them on both sides." "Night-lunch carts?" scoffed Keets, with what seemed to me like rather unnecessary acerbity. "N-o, somehow I don't seem to picture you in a night-lunch cart when it comes time to share your last bottle of champagne with--with--'Miss Dancy-Prancy of the Sillies,' wasn't it?" "My last bottle isn't champagne!" flared young Kennilworth. "It's scotch! . . . And there'll be no Miss Anybody in it, thank you!" His face was really angry, and one twitch of his foot had knocked half his village into chaos. "Oh, all right, I'll tell you what I'm going to do with my last bottle!" he frowned. "The next-to-the-last-one, as you say, is none of your business! But the last one is going to my Old Man! . . . I come from Kansas," he acknowledged a bit shamefacedly. "From a shack no bigger than this room . . . And my Old Man lives there yet . . . And he's always been used to having a taste of something when he wanted it and I guess he misses it some. . . . And he'll be eighty years old the 15th of next December. I'm going home for it. . . . I haven't been home for seven years. . . . But my Old Man is going to get his scotch! . . . If they yank me off at every railroad station and shoot me at sunrise each new day,--my Old Man is going to get his scotch! "Bully for you," said George Keets. "All the same," argued the May Girl, "I think benedictine smells better." With a little gaspy breath somebody discovered what had happened to the Village. "Who did that?" demanded Paul Brenswick. "You did!" snapped young Kennilworth. "I didn't, either," protested Brenswick. "Why of all cheeky things!" cried the Bride. "Now see here," I admonished them, "you're all very tired and very irritable. And I suggest that you all pack off to bed." Helping the May Girl up from her cramped position, George Keets bent low for a single exaggerated moment over her proffered hand. "I certainly think you are making a mistake, Miss Davies," bantered young Kennilworth. "For a long run, of course, Mr. Keets might be better, but for a short run I am almost sure that you would have been jollier in the brown bungalow with me." "Time will tell," dimpled the May Girl. "Then I really may consider us--formally engaged?" smiled George Keets, still bending low over her hand. He was really rather amused, I think--and quite as much embarrassed as he was amused. "No, not exactly formally," dimpled the May Girl. "But until breakfast time to-morrow morning." "Until breakfast time to-morrow morning," hooted young Kennilworth. "That's the deuce of a funny time-limit to put on an engagement . . . It's like asking a person to go skating when there isn't any ice!. . ." "Is it?" puzzled the May Girl. "What the deuce do you expect Keets to get out of it?" quizzed young Kennilworth. In an instant the May Girl was all smiles again. "He'll get mentioned in my prayers," she said. "'Please bless Mr. Keets, my fiancé-till-to-morrow-morning.'" "That's certainly--something," conceded George Keets. "It isn't enough,"--protested Kennilworth. The May Girl stared round appealingly at her interlocutors. "But the time is so awfully short," she said, "and I did want to get engaged to as many boys as possible in the week I was here." "What--what!" I babbled. "Yes, for very special reasons," said the May Girl, "I _would_ like to get engaged to as many----" With a strut like the strut of a young ban tam rooster, Rollins pushed his way suddenly into the limelight. "If it will be the slightest accommodation to you," he affirmed, "you may consider your self engaged to me to-morrow!" Disconcerted as she was, the May Girl swallowed the bitter, unexpected dose with infinitely less grimace than one would have expected. She even smiled a little. "Very well, Mr. Rollins," she said, "I will be engaged to you--to-morrow." Young Kennilworth's dismay exploded in a single exclamation. "Well--you--certainly are an extraordinary young person!" "Yes, I know," deprecated the May Girl. "It's because I'm so tall, I suppose----" Before the unallayed breathlessness of my expression she wilted like a worried flower. "Yes, of course, I know, Mrs. Delville," she acknowledged, "that mock marriages aren't considered very good taste . . . But a mock engagement?" she wheedled. "If it's conducted, oh, very--very--very properly?" Her eyes were wide with pleading. "Oh, of course," I suggested, "if it's conducted very--_very_--_very_ properly!" Across the May Girl's lovely pink and white cheeks the dark lashes fringed down. "There--will--be--no--kissing, affirmed the May Girl. "Oh, Shucks!" protested young Kennilworth. "Now you've spoiled everything." Out of the corner of one eye I saw Rollins nudge Paul Brenswick. It was not a facetious nudge, but one quite markedly earnest. The whole expression indeed on Rollins's face was an expression of acute determination. With laughter and song and a flicker of candlelight everybody filed up-stairs to bed. Rollins carried his candle with the particularly unctuous pride of one who leads a torchlight procession. And as he turned on the upper landing and looked back, I noted that-behind the almost ribald excitement on his face there lurked a look of poignant wistfulness. "I've never been engaged before," he confided grinningly to Paul Brenswick. "I'd like to make the most of it . . ." Passing into my own room I flung back the casement windows for a revivifying slash of wind and rain, before I should collapse utterly into the white scrumptiousness of my bed. Frankly, I was very tired. It must have been almost midnight when I woke to see my Husband's dark figure silhouetted in the bright square of the door. Through the depths of my weariness a consuming curiosity struggled. "Did Ann Woltor come back?" I asked. "She did!" said my Husband succinctly. "And how did you get on with Allan John?" "Oh, I'm crazy about Allan John," I yawned amiably. And then with one of those perfectly inexplainable nerve-explosions that astonishes no one as much as it astonishes oneself I struggled up on my elbow. "But he's still got my best silver saltshaker in his pocket!" I cried. It was then that the scream of a siren whistle tore like some fear-maddened voice through the whole house. Shriller than knives it ripped and screeched into the senses! Doors banged! Feet thudded! "There's Allan John now!" I gasped. "It's the whistle the May Girl gave him!" CHAPTER III EVERYBODY looked pretty tired when they came down to breakfast the next morning. But at least everybody came down. Even Rollins! Never have I seen Rollins so really addicted to coming down to breakfast! Poor Allan John, of course, was all overwhelmed again with humiliation and despair, and quite heroically insistent on removing his presence as expeditiously as possible from our house party. It _was_ his whistle that had screeched so in the night. And as far as he knew he hadn't the slightest reason or excuse for so screeching it beyond the fact that, rousing half-awake and half-asleep from a most horrible nightmare, he had reached instinctively for the little whistle under his pillow, and not realizing what he was doing, cried for help, not just to man alone it would seem, but to High Heaven itself! "But however in the world did you happen to have the whistle under your pillow?" puzzled the Bride. "What else have I got?" answered Allan John. He was perfectly right! Robbed for all time of his wife and child, stripped for the ill-favored moment of all personal moneys and proofs of identity, sojourning even in other men's linen, what did Allan John hold as a nucleus for the New Day except a little silver toy from another person's shipwreck? (Once I knew a smashed man who didn't possess even a toy to begin a new day on so he didn't begin it!) "Well, of course, it was pretty rackety while it lasted," conceded young Kennilworth. "But at least it gave us a chance to admire each other's lingeries." "Negligées," corrected George Keets. "I said 'scare-clothes'!" snapped young Kennilworth. "Everybody who travels by land or sea or puts in much time at house parties ought to have at least one round of scare-clothes, one really chic 'escaping suit.'" "The silver whistle is mine," intercepted the May Girl with some dignity. "Mine and Allan John's. I found it and gave it to Allan John. And he can blow it any time he wants to, day or night. But as long as you people all made so much fuss about it--and looked so funny," dimpled the May Girl transiently, "we will consider that after this--any time the whistle blows--the call is just for me." The May Girl's gravely ingenuous glance swept down in sudden challenge across the somewhat amused faces of her companions, "Allan John--is mine!" she confided with some incisiveness. "I found him--too!" "Do you acknowledge that ownership, Allan John!" demanded young Kennilworth. Even Allan John's sombre eyes twinkled the faintest possible glint of amusement. "I acknowledge that ownership," acquiesced Allan John. "Now see here!--I protest," rallied George Keets. "Most emphatically I protest against my fiancée assuming any masculine responsibilities except me during the brief term of our engagement!" "But your engagement is already over!" jeered young Kennilworth. "Nice kind of Lochinvar you are--drifting down-stairs just exactly on the stroke of the breakfast bell!--'until breakfast time' were the terms, I believe. Now Rollins here has been up since dawn! Banging in and out of the house! Racing up and down the front walk in the rain! Now that's what I call real passion!" At the very first mention of his name Rollins had come sliding way forward to the edge of his chair. He hadn't apparently expected to be engaged till after breakfast. But if there was any conceivable chance, of course---- "All ready--any time!" beamed Rollins. "_Through_--breakfast time was what I understood," said George Keets coldly. "Through breakfast time was--was what I meant," stammered the May Girl. From the only too palpable excitement on Rollins's face to George Keets's chill immobility she turned with the faintest possible gesture of appeal. Her eyes looked suddenly just a little bit frightened. "A--after all," she confided, "I--I didn't know as I feel quite well enough to-day to be engaged so much. Maybe I caught a little cold yesterday. Sometimes I don't sleep very well. Once----" "Oh, come now," insisted young Kennilworth. "Don t, for Heaven's sake, be a quitter!" "A--'quitter'?" bridled the May Girl. Her cheeks went suddenly very pink. And then suddenly very white. Like an angry little storm-cloud that absurd fluff of gray hair shadowed down for an instant across her sharply averted face. A glint of tears threatened. Then out of the gray and the gold and the blue and the pink and the tears, the jolliest sort of a little-girl-giggle issued suddenly. "Oh, all right!" said the May Girl and slipped with perfect docility apparently into the chair that George Keets had drawn out for her. George Keets I really think was infinitely more frightened than she was, but in his case, at least, a seventeen years' lead in experience had taught him long since the advisability of disguising such emotions. Even at the dining-table of a sinking ship George Keets I'm almost certain would never have ceased passing salts and peppers, proffering olives and radishes, or making perfectly sure that your coffee was just exactly the way you liked it. In the present emergency, to cover not only his own confusion but the May Girl's, he proceeded to talk archaeology. By talking archaeology in an undertone with a faintly amorous inflection to the longest and least intelligible words, George Keets really believed I think that he was giving a rather clever imitation of an engaged man. What the May Girl thought no one could possibly have guessed. The May Girl's face was a study, but it was at least turning up to his! Whether she understood a single thing he said, or was only resting, whether she was truly amused or merely deferring as long as possible her unhappy fate with Rollins, she sat as one entranced. Slipping into the chair directly opposite them, young Kennilworth watched the proceedings with malevolent joy. Between his very frank contempt for the dulness of George Keets's methods, and his perfectly palpable desire to keep poor Rollins tantalized as long as possible, he scarcely knew which side to play on. Everybody indeed except Ann Woltor seemed to take a more or less mischievous delight in prolonging poor Rollins's suspense. Allan John never lifted his eyes from his coffee cup, but at least he showed no signs of disapproval or haste. Even George Keets, to the eyes of a close observer, seemed to be dallying rather unduly with his knife and fork as well as with his embarrassment. As the breakfast hour dragged along, poor Rollins's impatience grew apace. Fidgeting round and round in his chair, scowling ferociously at anyone who dared to ask for a second service of anything, dashing out into the hall every now and then on perfectly inexplainable errands, he looked for all the world like some wry-faced clown performing by accident in a business suit. "Really, Rollins," admonished my Husband. "I think it would have been a bit more delicate of you if you'd kept out of sight somehow till Keets' affair was over--this hovering round so through the harrowing last moments--all ready to pounce--hanged if I don't think it's crude!" "Crude?--it's plain buzzard-y!" scoffed Kennilworth. It was the Bride's warm, romantic heart that called the time-limit finally on George Keets's philandering. "Really, I don't think it's quite fair," whispered the Bride. Taken all in all I think the Bridegroom was inclined to agree with her. But stronger than anybody's sense of justice, it was a composite sense of humor that sped Rollins to his heart's desire. Even Ann Woltor, I think, was curious to see just how Rollins would figure as an engaged man. The May Girl's parting with George Keets was at least mercifully brief. "Does he kiss my hand?" questioned the May Girl. "No--I think not," flushed George Keets. Having no intention in the world of kissing any woman in earnest, it was not in his code, apparently, to kiss a young girl in fun. Very formally, with that frugal, tight-lipped smile of his which contrasted so curiously with the rather accentuated virility of his shoulders, he rose and bowed low over the May Girl's proffered fingers. "Really it's been a great honor. I've enjoyed it immensely!" he conceded. "Thank you," murmured the May Girl. In a single impulse everybody turned to look at Rollins, only to find that Rollins had disappeared. "Hi, there, Rollins! _Rollins_!" shouted young Kennilworth. "You're losing time!" As though waiting dramatically for just this cue, the hall portieres parted slightly, and there stood Rollins grinning like a Cheshire Cat, with a great bunch of purple orchids clasped in one hand! Now we are sixty miles from a florist and the only neighbor of our acquaintance who boasts a greenhouse is a most estimable but exceedingly close-fisted flower-fancier, who might under certain conditions, I must admit, give bread at the back door, but who never under any circumstances whatsoever has been known to give orchids at the front door. Nor did I quite see Rollins even in a rain-storm actually breaking laws or glass to achieve his floral purpose. Yet there stood Rollins in our front hall, at half-past nine in the morning, with a very extravagant bunch of purple orchids in his hand. "Well--bully for you!" gasped young Kennilworth. "Now that's what I call not being a mutt!" Beaming with pride Rollins stepped forward and presented his offering, the grin on his face never wavering. "Just a--just a trifling token of my esteem, Miss Davies!" he affirmed. "To say nothing of--of----" The May Girl, I think, had never had orchids presented to her before. It is something indeed of an experience all in itself to see a young girl receive her first orchids. The faint astonishment and regret to find that after all they're not nearly as darling and cosy as violets or roses or even carnations--the sudden contradictory flare of sex-pride and importance--flashed like so much large print across the May Girl's fluctuant face. "Why--why they're--wonderful!" she stammered. Producing from Heaven knows what antique pin-cushion a hat-pin that would have easily impaled the May Girl like a butterfly against the wall, Rollins completed the presentation. But the end it seemed was not yet. Fumbling through his pockets he produced a small wad of paper, and from that small wad of paper a large old-fashioned seal ring with several strands of silk thread dangling from it. "Of course at such short notice," beamed Rollins, "one couldn't expect to do much. But if you don't mind things being a bit old-timey,--this ring of my great uncle Aberner's--if we tie it on--perhaps?" Whereupon, lashing the ring then and there to the May Girl's astonished finger, Rollins proceeded to tuck the May Girl's whole astonished hand into the crook of his arm, and start off with her--still grinning--to promenade the long sheltered glassed-in porch, across whose rain-blurred windows the storm raged by more like a sound than a sight. The May Girl's face was crimson! "Well it was all your own idea, you know, this getting engaged!" taunted Kennilworth. It was not a very good moment to taunt the May Girl. My Husband saw it I think even before I did. "Really, Rollins," he suggested, "you mustn't overdo this arm-in-arm business. Not all day long! It isn't done! Not this ball-and-chain idea any more! Not this shackling of the betrothed!" "No, really, Rollins, old man," urged young Kennilworth, "you've got quite the wrong idea. You say yourself you've never been engaged before, so you'd better let some of us wiser guys coach you up a bit in some of the essentials." "Coach me up a bit?" growled Rollins. "Why, you didn't suppose for a minute, did you," persisted young Kennilworth tormentingly, "that there was any special fun about being engaged? You didn't think for a moment, I mean, that you were really going to have any sort of good time to-day? Not both of you, I mean?" "Eh?" jerked Rollins, stopping suddenly short in his tracks, but with the May Girl's reluctant hand still wedged fast into the crook of his arm, he stood defying his tormentor. "Eh? _What_?" "Why I never in the world," mused Kennilworth, "ever heard of two engaged people having a good time the same day. One or the other of them always has to give up the one thrilling thing that he yearned most to do and devote his whole time to pretending that he's perfectly enraptured doing some stupid fuddy-duddy stunt that the other one wanted to do. It's simply the question always--of who gives up! Now, Miss Davies for instance--" Mockingly he fixed his eyes on the May Girl's unhappy face. "Now, Miss Davies," he insisted, "more than anything else in the world to-day what would you like to do?" "Sew," said the May Girl. "And you, Mr. Rollins," persisted Kennilworth. "If it wasn't for Miss Davies here--what would you be doing to-day?" "I?" quickened Rollins. "I?" across his impatient, irritated face, an expression of frankly scientific ecstasy flared up like an explosion. "Why those shells, you know!" glowed Rollins. "That last consignment! Why I should have been cataloging shells!" "There you have it!" cried Kennilworth. "Either you've got to sew all day long with Miss Davies--or else she'll have to catalog shells with you!" "Sew?" hooted Rollins. "Oh, I'd just love to catalog shells!" cried the May Girl. In that single instant the somewhat indeterminate quiver of her lips had bloomed into a real smile. By a dexterous movement, released from Rollins's arm, she turned and fled for the door. "Up-stairs, you mean, don't you?" she cried. The smile had reached her eyes now. In another minute it seemed as though even her hair would be all laughter. "At the big table in the upper hall? Where you were working yesterday? One, on one side of the table--and one--the other? And one, the _other_!" she giggled triumphantly. With unflagging agility Rollins started after her. "What I had really planned," he grinned, "was a walk on the beach." "Arm--in--arm!" mused young Kennilworth. "Eh! You think you're smart, don't you!" grinned Rollins. "Yes, quite so," acknowledged Kennilworth. "But if you really want to see smartness on its native heath just pipe your eye to-morrow when I dawn on the horizon as an engaged man!" "You?" called the May Girl. Staring back through the mahogany banisters her face looked fairly striped with astonishment. "You certainly announced your desire," said Kennilworth, "to go right through the whole list. Didn't you?" "Oh, but I didn't mean--everybody," parried the May Girl. Her mouth and her eyes and her hair were all laughing together now. "Oh, Goodness me--not _everybody_!" she gesticulated, with a fine air of disdain. "Not the married men," explained the Bride. "No, I'm sure she discriminated against the married men," chuckled the Bridegroom. "Well--she sha'n't discriminate against _me_!" snapped young Kennilworth. Absurd as it was he looked angry. Young Kennilworth, one might infer, was not accustomed to having women discriminate against him. "You made the plan and you'll jolly-well keep to it!" affirmed young Kennilworth. "Oh, all right," laughed the May Girl. "If you really insist! But for a boy who's as truly unselfish as you are about nursery-governessing other people's Pom dogs, and saving your last taste of anything for your old Old Daddy--you've certainly got the worst manners! "Manners!" drawled George Keets. "This is no test. Wait--till you see his engagement manners!" "Oh, she'll 'wait' all right!" sniffed young Kennilworth, and turned on his heel. Paul Brenswick, searching hard through the shipping news in the morning paper, looked up with a faint shadow of concern. "What's the grouch?" he questioned. Standing with her hands on her Bridegroom's shoulders the Bride glanced back from the stormy window to Kennilworth's face with a somewhat provocative smile. "Well--it _was_ in the mind of God, wasn't it?" she said. "What was!" demanded young Kennilworth. "The rain," shrugged the Bride. "Oh--damn the rain!" cried young Kennilworth. "I wish people wouldn't speak to me! It drives me crazy I tell you to have everybody babbling so! Can't you see I want to work? Can't anybody see--anything?" Equally furious all of a sudden at everybody, he swung around and darted up the stairs. "Don't anybody call me to lunch," he ordered. "For Heaven's sake don't let anyone be idiot enough to call me to lunch." Even Ann Woltor's jaw dropped a bit at the amazing rudeness and peevishness of it. It was then that the beaming grin on Rollins's face flickered out for a single instant of incredulity and reproach. "Why--Miss Woltor!" he choked, "you didn't have your tooth fixed--after all!" With a great crackle of paper every man's face seemed buried suddenly in the shipping news. "No!" I heard my Husband's voice affirm with extravagant precision, "not the slightest mention anywhere of any maritime disaster." "Not the slightest!" agreed George Keets. "Not the slightest!" echoed Paul Brenswick with what seemed to me like quite unnecessary monotony. It was the Bride who showed the only real tact. Slipping her hand casually into Ann Woltor's hand she started for the Library. "Let's go see if we can't find something awfully exciting to read to-day," she suggested. Once across the library threshold her voice lowered slightly. "Really, Miss Woltor," she confided, "there are times when I think that Mr. Rollins is sort of crazy." "So many people are," acquiesced Ann Woltor without emotion. Caroming off to my miniature conservatory on the pretext of watering my hyacinths I met my Husband bent evidently on the same errand. My Husband's sudden interest in potted plants was bewitching. Even the hyacinths were amused I think. Yet even to prolong the novelty of the situation there was certainly no time to be lost about Rollins. "Truly Jack," I besought him, "this Rollins man has got to be suppressed." "Oh, not to-day--surely?" pleaded my Husband. "Not on the one engagement day of his life? Poor Rollins--when he's having such a thrill?" "Well--not to-day perhaps," I conceded with some reluctance. "But to-morrow surely! We never have been used you know to starting off the day with Rollins! And two breakfasts in succession? Well, really, it's almost more than the human heart can stand. Far be it from me," I argued, "to condone poor Allan John's lapse from sobriety or advocate any plan whatsoever for the ensnaring of the very young or the unwary; but all other means failing," I argued, "I should consider it a very great mercy to the survivors if Rollins should wake to-morrow with a slight headache. No real cerebral symptoms you understand--nothing really acute. Just----!" "Oh, stop your fooling!" said my Husband. "What I came in here to talk to you about was Miss Woltor." "'Woltor' or 'Stoltor'?" I questioned. "Who said 'Stoltor'?" jerked my Husband. "Oh, sometimes you say 'Woltor' and sometimes you say 'Stoltor'!" I confided. "And it's so confusing. Which is it--really?" "Hanged if I know!" said my Husband. "Then let's call her Ann," I suggested. With an impulse that was quite unwonted in him my Husband stepped suddenly forward to my biggest, rosiest, most perfect pot of pink hyacinths, and snapping a succulent stem in two thrust the great gorgeous bloom incongruously into his button-hole. Never in fifteen years had I seen my Husband with a flower in his button-hole. Neither, in all that time, had I ever seen him flush across the cheek-bones just exactly the shade of a rose-pink Hyacinth. I could have hugged him! He looked so confused. "Oh, I say--" he ventured quite abruptly, "Miss Woltor and I, you know,--we never went near the dentist yesterday!" "So I inferred," I said, "from Rollins's observation. What _were_ you doing?" Truly I didn't mean to ask, but the long-suppressed wonder most certainly slipped. "Why we were just arguing!" groaned my Husband. "Round and round and round!" "Round--what?" I questioned--now that the slipping had started. "Round and round the country?" "Country, no indeed!" grinned my Husband unhappily. "We never left the place!" "Never--left the place?" I stammered. "Why, where in Creation were you?" "Why, first," said my Husband, "we were down at the end of the driveway right there by the acacia trees, you know. She was crying so I didn't exactly like to strike the state highway for fear somebody would notice her. And then afterward--when I saw that she really couldn't stop----" "Crying?" I puzzled. "Ann Woltor--crying?" "And then afterward," persisted my Husband, "we went over to the Bungalow on the Rock and commenced the argument all over again! Fortunately there was some tea there and crackers and sardines and enough firewood. But it was the devil and all getting over! We ran the car into the boat-house and took the punt! I thought the surf would smash us, but----" "But what was the 'argument'?" I questioned. "Why about her coming back!" said my Husband. "She was so absolutely determined not to come back! I never in my life saw such stubbornness! And if she once got away I knew perfectly well that she never would come back! That she'd drop out of sight just as--And such crying!" he interrupted himself with apparent irrelevance. "Everything smashed up altogether at once!--Hadn't cried before, she said, for eight years!" "Well, it's time she cried, the poor dear!" I affirmed sincerely. "But----" "But I couldn't bring her back to the house!" insisted my Husband. "Not crying so, not arguing so!" "No, of course not," I agreed. "I kept thinking she'd stop!" shivered my Husband. "Jack," I asked quite abruptly, "Who is Ann Woltor?" "Search me!" said my Husband, "I never saw her before." "You--never saw her--before!" I stammered. "Why--why you called her by name!--you----" "I knew her face," said my Husband. "I've seen her picture. In London it was. In Hal Ferry's studio. Fifteen years ago if it's a day. A huge charcoal sketch all swoops and smouches.--Just a girl holding up a small hand-mirror to her astonished face.--'_The woman with the broken tooth_' it was called." "Fifteen years ago?" I gasped. "'_The--the woman with the broken tooth_!' What a--what a name for a picture! "Yes, wasn't it?" said my Husband. "And you'd have thought somehow that the picture would be funny, wouldn't you? But it wasn't! It was the grimmest thing I ever saw in my life! Sketched just from memory too it must have been. No man would have had the cheek to ask a woman to pose for him like that,--to reduplicate just for fun I mean that particular expression of bewilderment which he had by such grim chance surprised on her unwitting face. Such shock! Such _astonishment_! It wasn't just the astonishment you understand of Marred Beauty worrying about a dentist. But a look the stark, staring, chain-lightning sort of look of a woman who, back of the broken tooth, linked up in some way with the accident of the broken tooth, saw something, suddenly, that God Himself couldn't repair! It was horrid, I tell you! It haunted you! Even if you started to hoot you ended by arguing! Arguing and--wondering! Ferry finally got so that he wouldn't show it to anybody. People quizzed him so." "Yes, but Ferry?" I questioned. "No," said my Husband. "It was only by the merest chance that I heard the name Ann Stoltor associated in any way with the picture. Hal Ferry never told anything. Not a word. But he never exhibited the picture, I noticed. It was a point of honor with him, I suppose. If one lives long enough, of course, one's pretty apt to catch every friend off guard at least once in his facial expression. But one doesn't exhibit one's deductions I suppose. One mustn't at least make professional presentation of them." "Yes, but Ann Woltor--Stoltor," I puzzled. "When she tried to bolt so? Was it because she knew that you knew Hal Ferry? When you called her Stoltor and dropped the lantern so funnily when you first saw her, was it then that she linked you up with this something--whatever it is that has hurt her so?--And determined even then to bolt at the very first chance she could get? But why in the world should she want to bolt?" I puzzled. "Certainly she's had to take us on faith quite as much as we've taken her. And I?--I _love_ her!" In the flare of the open doorway George Keets loomed quite abruptly. "Oh, is this where you bad people are?" he reproached us. "We've been searching the house for you." "Oh, of course, if you really need us," conceded my Husband. "But even you, I should think, would know a flirtation when you saw it and have tact enough not to butt in." "A flirtation?" scoffed Keets. "You? At ten o'clock in the morning? All trimmed up like an Easter bonnet! And acting half scared to death? It looks a bit fishy to me, not to say mysterious!" "All Husbands move in a mysterious way their flirtations to perform," observed my Husband. From one pair of half-laughing eyes to the other George Keets glanced up with the faintest possible suggestion of a sigh. "Really, you know," said George Keets, "there are times when even _I_ can imagine that marriage might be just a little bit jolly." "Oh never jolly," grinned my Husband, "but there are times I frankly admit--when it seems a heap more serious than it does at other times." "Less serious, you mean," corrected Keets. "More serious," grinned my Husband. "Oh, for goodness sake, let's stop talking about us," I protested, "and talk about the weather!" "It was the weather that I came to talk about," exclaimed George Keets. "Do you think it will clear to-day?" he questioned. For a single mocking instant my Husband's glance sought mine. "No, not to-day, George," he said. "U---m!" mused George Keets. "Then in that case," he brightened suddenly, "if Mrs. Delville is really willing to put up a water-proof lunch we think it would be rather good sport to go back to the cave and explore a bit more of the beach perhaps and bring home Heaven knows what fresh plunder from the shipwrecked trunk." "Oh, how jolly!" I agreed. "But will Mrs. Brenswick go?" "Mrs. Brenswick isn't exactly keen about it," admitted Keets. "But she says she'll go. And Brenswick himself and Miss Woltor and Allan John--" It was amusing how everybody called Allan John "Allan John" without title or subterfuge or self-consciousness of any kind. With their arms across each other's shoulders the Bride and Bridegroom came frolicking by on their way to the foot of the stairs. "Oh, Miss Davies!--Miss Davies!" they called up teasingly. "Are you willing that Allan John should go to the cave to-day?" Smiling responsively but not one atom teased, the May Girl jumped up from her tableful of shells and came out to the edge of the balustrade to consider the matter. "Allan John! Allan John!" she called. "Do you really want to go?" "Why, yes," admitted Allan John, "if everybody's going." Behind the May Girl's looming height and loveliness the little squat figure of Rollins shadowed suddenly. "Miss Davies and I are not going," said Rollins. "Not--going?" questioned the May Girl. "Not going," chuckled Rollins, "unless she walks with me!" He didn't say "arm-in-arm." He didn't need to. That inference was entirely expressed by the absurdly triumphant little glint in his eye. I don't think the May Girl intended to laugh. But she did laugh. And all the laugh in the world seemed suddenly "on" Rollins. "No--really, People," rallied the May Girl, "I'd heaps rather stay here with Mr. Rollins and work on these perfectly darling shells. One--on one side of the table--and one on the other." "We are going to have lunch up here--in fact," counterchecked that rascally Rollins with a blandness that was actually malicious. "There is a magnificent specimen here I notice of 'Triton's Trumpet'. The Pacific Islanders I understand use it very successfully for a tea-kettle. And for tea-cups. With the aid of one or two Hare's Ears which I'm almost sure I've seen in the specimen cabinet----" "'Hare's Ears'?" gasped the May Girl. "It's the name of a shell, my dear,--just the name of a shell," explained Rollins with some unctuousness. "Very comfortable here we shall be, I am sure!" beamed Rollins. "Very cosy, very scientific, very ro-romantic, if I may take the liberty of saying so. Very----" "Oh, Shucks!" interrupted George Keets quite surprisingly. "If Miss Davies isn't going there's no good in anybody going!" "Thank--you," murmured Ann Woltor. At the astonishingly new and relaxed timbre of her voice everybody turned suddenly and stared at her. It wasn't at all that she spoke meltingly, but the fact of her speaking meltedly, that gave every one of us that queer little gasp of surprise. Still icy cold, but fluid at last, her voice flowed forth as it were for the very first time with some faint suggestion of the real emotion in her mind. "Thank you--Mr. Keets," mocked Ann Woltor, "for your enthusiasm concerning the rest of us." "Oh, I say!" deprecated George Keets. "You know what I meant!" His face was crimson. "It--it was only that Miss Davies was so awfully keen about it all yesterday! Everybody, you know, doesn't find it so exhilarating." "No-o?" murmured Ann Woltor. In the plushy black somberness of her eyes a highlight glinted suddenly. Suppressed tears make just that particular kind of glint. So also does suppressed laughter. "I was out in a storm--once," drawled Ann Woltor, "I found it very--exhilarating." With a flash of rather quizzical perplexity I saw my Husband's glance rake hers. Wincing just a little she turned back to me with a certain gesture of appeal. "Cry one day and laugh another, is it?" she ventured experimentally. "Going to the dentist isn't very jolly--you're quite right," interposed the Bride. "No, it certainly isn't," sympathized every body. It was perfectly evident that no one in the party except my Husband and myself knew just what had happened to the dentistry expedition. And Ann Woltor wasn't quite sure even yet, I could see, whether I knew or not. The return home the night before had been so late the commotion over Allan John's whistle so immediate--the breakfast hour itself such a chaos of nonsense and foolery. Certainly there was no object in prolonging her uncertainty. I liked her infinitely too much to worry her. Very fortunately also she had a ready eye, the one big compensating gift that Fate bestows on all people who have ever been caught off their guard even once by a real trouble. She never muffed any glance I noticed that you wanted her to catch. "Oh, I hate to think, Ann dear," I smiled, "about there being any tears yesterday. But if tears yesterday really should mean a laugh to-day----" "Oh, to-day!" quickened Ann Woltor. "Who can tell about to-day!" "Then you really would like to go?" said George Keets. Across Ann Woltor's shoulders a little shrug quivered. "Why, of course, I'm going!" said Ann Woltor. "Good! Famous!" rallied George Keets. "Now that makes how many of us?" he reckoned. "Kennilworth?" "No, let's not bother about Kennilworth," said my Husband. "You?" queried George Keets. "Yes, I'm going," acquiesced my Husband. "And you, Mrs. Delville, of course?" "No, I think not," I said. "Just the Brenswicks then," counted George Keets. "And Allan John and----" Once again, from the railing of the upper landing, the May Girl's wistfully mirthful face peered down through that amazing cloud of gold-gray hair. "Allan John--Allan John!" she called very softly. "I'd like to have you dress warmly--you know! And not get just too absolutely tired out! And be sure and take the whistle," she laughed very resolutely, "and if anybody isn't good to you--you just blow it hard--and I'll come." As befitted the psychic necessities of a very cranky Person-With-a-Future, young Kennilworth was not disturbed for lunch. And Rollins, it seemed, was grotesquely genuine in his desire to picnic up-stairs with the May Girl and the shells. Even the May Girl herself rallied with a fluttering sort of excitement to the idea. The shell table fortunately was quite large enough to accommodate both work and play. Rollins certainly was beside himself with triumph, and on Rollins's particular type of countenance there is no conceivable synonym for the word "triumph" except "ghoulish glee." Really it was amazing the way the May Girl rallied her gentleness and her patience and her playfulness to the absurd game. She opposed no contrary personality whatsoever even to Rollins's most vapid desires. Unable as he was either to simulate or stimulate "the light that never was on land or sea," it was Rollins's very evident intention apparently to "blue" his Lady's eyes and "pink" his Lady's cheeks by the narration at least of such sights as "never were on land or sea"! Flavored by moonlight, rattling with tropical palms, green as Arctic ice, wild as a loon's hoot, science and lies slipped alike from Rollins's lips with a facility that even I would scarcely have suspected him of! Lands he had never visited--adventures he had never dreamed of cannibals not yet born--babble--babble--_babble_--_babble_! As for the May Girl herself, as far as I could observe, not a single sound emanated from her the entire day, except the occasional clank of her hugely over-sized "betrothal ring" against the Pom dog's collar, or the little gasping phrase, "Oh, no, Mr. Rollins! Not _really_?" that thrilled now and then from her astonished lips, as, elbows on table, chin cupped in hand, she sat staring blue-eyed and bland at her--tormentor. It must have been five o'clock, almost, before the beach party returned. Gleaming like a great bunch of storm-drenched jonquils, the six adventurers loomed up cheerfully in the rain-light. Once again George Keets and the Bridegroom were dragging the Bride by her hand. Ann Woltor and my Husband followed just behind. Allan John walked alone. Even young Kennilworth came out on the porch to hail them. "Hi, there!" called my Husband. "Hi, there, yourself!" retaliated Kennilworth. "Oh, we've had a perfectly wonderful day! gasped the Bride. "Found the cave all right!" triumphed Keets. "Allan John found a--found an old-fashioned hoop-skirt!" giggled the Bride. "The devil he did!" hooted Rollins. "But we never found the trunk at all!" scolded the Bridegroom. "Either we were way off in our calculations or else the sand----" In a sudden gusty flutter of white the May Girl came round the corner into the full buffet of the wind. It hadn't occurred to me before just exactly how tired she looked. "Why, hello, everybody--" she began, faltered an instant--crumpled up at the waist-line--and slipped down in a white heap of unconsciousness to the floor. It was George Keets who reached her first, and gathering her into his long, strong arms, bore her into the house. It was the first time in his life I think that George Keets had ever held a woman in his arms. His eyes hardly knew what to make of it. And his tightened lips, quite palpably, didn't like it at all. But after all it was those extraordinarily human shoulders of his that were really doing the carrying? Very fortunately though for all concerned the whole scare was over in a minute. Ensconced like a queen in the deep pillows of the big library sofa the May Girl rallied almost at once to joke about the catastrophe. But she didn't want any supper, I noticed, and dallied behind in her cushions, when the supper-hour came. "You look like a crumpled rose," said the Bride. "Like a poor crumpled--white rose," supplemented Ann Woltor. "Like a very long-stemmed--poor crumpled--white rose," deprecated the May Girl herself. Kennilworth brought her a knife and fork, but no smiles. George Keets brought her several different varieties of his peculiarly tight-lipped smile, and all the requisite table-silver besides. Paul Brenswick sent her the cherry from his cocktail and promised her the frosting from his cake. The Bride sent her love. Ann Woltor remembered the table napkin. Allan John watched the proceedings without comment. It was Rollins who insisted on serving the May Girl's supper. "It was his right," he said. More than this he also insisted on gathering up all his own supper on one quite inadequate plate, and trotting back to the library to eat it with the May Girl. This also was his right, he said. Truly he looked very funny there all huddled up on a low stool by the May Girl's side. But at least he showed sense enough now not to babble very much. And once, at least, without reproof I saw him reach up to the May Girl's fork and plate and urge some particularly nourishing morsel of food into her languidly astonished mouth. It was just as everybody drifted back from the dining-room into the library that the May Girl wriggled her long, silken, childish legs out of the steamer-rug that encompassed her, struggled to her feet, wandered somewhat aimlessly to the piano, fingered the keys for a single indefinite moment and burst ecstatically into song! None of us, except my Husband, had heard her sing before. None of us indeed, except my Husband and myself, knew even that she could sing. The proof that she could smote suddenly across the ridge of one's spine like the prickle of a mild electric shock. My Husband was perfectly right. It was a typical "Boy Soprano" voice, a chorister's voice--clear as flame--passionless as syrup. As devoid of ritual as the multiplication table it would have made the multiplication table fairly reek with incense and Easter lilies! Absolutely lacking in everything that the tone sharks call "color"--yet it set your mind a-haunt with all the sad crimson and purple splendors of memorial windows! Shadows were back of it! And sorrows! And mysteries! Bridals! And deaths! The prattle alike of the very young and the very old! Carol! And Threnody! And a fearful Transiency as of youth itself passing! She sang-- "There is a Green Hill far away Without a city wall, Where our dear Lord was crucified, Who died to save us--all." and she sang "From the Desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire! And the winds are not more fleet Than the wings of my de-sire!" Like an Innocent pouring kerosene on the Flame-of-the-World the young voice soared and swelled to that lovely, limpid word "desire." (In the darkness I saw Paul Brenswick's hand clutch suddenly out to his Mate's. In the darkness I saw George Keets switch around suddenly and begin to whisper very fast to Allan John.) And then she sang a little nonsense rhyme about "Rabbits" which she explained rather shyly she had just made up. "She was very fond of rabbits," she explained. "And of dogs, too--if all the truth were to be told. Also cats." "Also--shells!" sniffed young Kennilworth. "Yes, also shells," conceded the May Girl without resentment. "Ha!" sniffed young Kennilworth. "O--h, a--jealous lover, this," deprecated George Keets. "Really, Miss Davies," he condoned, "I'm afraid to-morrow is going to be somewhat of a strain on you." "To-morrow?" dimpled the May Girl. "Ha!--To-morrow!" shrugged young Kennilworth. "It was the rabbits," dimpled the May Girl, "that I was going to tell you about now. It's a very moral song written specially to deplore the--the thievish habits of the rabbits. But I can't seem to get around to the 'deploring' until the second verse. All the first verse is just scientific description." Adorably the young voice lilted into the nonsense--- "Oh, the habit of a rabbit Is a fact that would amaze From the pinkness of his blinkness and the blandness of his gaze, In a nose that's so a-twinkle like a merri--perri--winkle--- And---" Goodness me!--That _voice_!--The babyishness of it!--And the poignancy! Should one laugh? Or should one cry? Clap one's hands? Or bolt from the room? I decided to bolt from the room. Both my Husband and myself thought it would be only right to telephone Dr. Brawne about the fainting spell. There was a telephone fortunately in my own room. And there is one thing at least very compensatory about telephoning to doctors. If you once succeed in finding them, there is never an undue lag in the conversation itself. "But tell me only just one thing," I besought my Husband, "so I won't be talking merely to a voice! This Dr. Brawne of yours?--Is he old or young? Fat or thin? Jolly? Or----?" "He's about fifty," said my Husband. "Fifty-five perhaps. Stoutish rather, I think you'd call him. And jolly. Oh, I----" "Ting-a-ling--ling--_ling_!" urged the telephone-bell. Across a hundred miles of dripping, rain-bejeweled wires, Dr. Brawne's voice flamed up at last with an almost metallic crispness. "Yes?" "This is Dr. Brawne?" "Yes." "This is Mrs. Delville--Jack Delville's wife." "Yes?" "We just thought we'd call up and report the safe arrival of your ward and tell you how much we are enjoying her!" "Yes? I trust she didn't turn up with any more lame, halt, or blind pets than you were able to handle." "Oh no--_no_--not--at all!" I hastened to affirm. (Certainly it seemed no time to explain about poor Allan John.) "But what I really called up to say," I hastened to confide, "is that she fainted this afternoon, and----" "Yes?" crisped the clear incisive voice again. "Fainted," I repeated. "Yes?" "_Fainted_!" I fairly shouted. "Oh, I hardly think that's anything," murmured Dr. Brawne. His voice sounded suddenly very far away and muffled as though he were talking through a rather soggy soda biscuit. "She faints very easily. I don't find anything the matter. It's just a temporary instability, I think. She's grown so very fast." "Yes, she's tall," I admitted. "Everything else all right?" queried the voice. The wires were working better now. "I don't need to ask if she's having a good time," essayed the voice very courteously. "She's always so essentially original in her ways of having a good time--even with strangers--even when she's really feeling rather shy." "Oh, she's having a good time, all right," I hastened to assure him. "Three perfectly eligible young men all competing for her favor!" "Only three?" laughed the voice. "You surprise me!" "And speaking of originality," I rallied instantly to that laugh, "she has invented the most diverting game! She is playing at being-engaged-to-a-different-man--every day of her visit. Oh _very_ circumspectly, you understand," I hastened to affirm. "Nothing serious at all!" "No, I certainly hope not," mumbled the voice again through some maddeningly soggy connection. "Because, you see, I'm rather expecting to marry her myself on the fifteenth of September next." CHAPTER IV SLEEP is a funny thing! Really comical I mean! A magician's trick! "Now you have it--and now you don't!" Certainly I had very little of it the night of Dr. Brawne's telephone conversation. I was too surprised. Yet staring up through those long wakeful hours into the jetty black heights of my bedroom ceiling it didn't seem to be so much the conversation itself as the perfectly irrelevant events succeeding that conversation that kept hurtling back so into my visual consciousness--The blueness of the May Girl's eyes! The brightness of her hair!--Rollins's necktie! The perfectly wanton hideousness of Rollins's necktie!--The bang--_bang_--_bang_ of a storm-tortured shutter way off in the ell somewhere. Step by step, item by item, each detail of events reprinted itself on my mind. Fumbling back from the shadowy telephone-stand into the brightly lighted upper hall with the single desire to find my Husband and confide to him as expeditiously as possible this news which had so amazed me, I had stumbled instead upon the May Girl herself, climbing somewhat listlessly up the stairs toward bed, Rollins was close behind her carrying her book and a filmy sky-blue scarf. George Keets followed with a pitcher of water. "Oh, it isn't Good Night, dear, is it?" I questioned. "Yes," said the May Girl. "I'm--pretty tired." She certainly looked it. Rollins quite evidently was in despair. He was not to accomplish his 'kiss' after all, it would seem. All the long day, I judged, he had been whipping up his cheeky courage to meet some magic opportunity of the evening. And now, it appeared, there wasn't going to be any evening! Even the last precious moment indeed was to be ruined by George Keets's perfidious intrusion! It was the Bride's voice though that rang down the actual curtain on Rollins's "Perfect Day." "Oh, Miss Davies!--Miss Davies!" called the Bride. "You mustn't forget to return your ring, you know!" "Why, no, so I mustn't," rallied the May Girl. Twice I heard Rollins swallow very hard. Any antique was sacred to him, but a family antique. Oh, ye gods! "K--K--Keep the ring!" stammered Rollins. It was the nearest point to real heroism surely that funny little Rollins would ever attain. "Oh, no, indeed," protested the May Girl. Very definitely she snapped the silken threads, removed the clumsy bauble from her finger, and handed it back to Rollins. "But--but it's a beautiful ring!" she hastened chivalrously to assure him. "I'll--I'll keep the orchids!" she assented with real dimples. On Rollins's sweating face the symptoms of acute collapse showed suddenly. With a glare that would have annihilated a less robust soul than George Keets's he turned and laid bare his horrid secret to an unfeeling Public. "I'd rather you kept the _ring_," sweated Rollins. "The--The orchids have got to go back!--I only hired the orchids!--That is I--I bribed the gardener. They've got to be back by nine o'clock to-night. For some sort of a--a party." "To-night?" I gasped. "In all this storm f Why, what if the May Girl had refused to--to----?" In Rollins's small, blinking eyes, Romance and Thrift battled together in terrible combat. "I gotta go back," mumbled Rollins. "He's got my watch!" "Oh, for goodness sake you mustn't risk losing your watch!" laughed the May Girl. George Keets didn't laugh. He hooted! I had never heard him hoot before, and ribald as the sound seemed emanating from his distinctly austere lips, the mechanical construction of that hoot was in some way strangely becoming to him. The May Girl quite frankly though was afraid he had hurt Rollins's feelings. Returning swiftly from her bedroom with the lovely exotics bunched cautiously in one hand she turned an extravagantly tender smile on Rollins's unhappy face. "Just--Just one of them," she apologized, "is crushed a little. I know you told me to be awfully careful of them. I'm very sorry. But truly," she smiled, "it's been perfectly Wonderful--just to have them for a day! Thank you!--Thank you a whole lot, I mean! And for the day itself--it's--it's been very--pleasant," she lied gallantly. Snatching the orchids almost roughly from her hand Rollins gave another glare at George Keets and started for his own room. With his fingers on the door-handle he turned and glared back with particular ferocity at the May Girl herself. "Pleasant?" he scoffed. "_Pleasant_?" And crossing the threshold he slammed the door hard behind him. Never have I seen anything more boorish! "Why--Why, how tired he must be," exclaimed the May Girl. "Tired?" hooted George Keets. He was still hooting when he joined the Bride and Bridegroom in the library. It must have been fifteen minutes later that, returning from an investigation of the banging blind, I ran into Rollins stealing surreptitiously to the May Girl's door. Quite unconsciously, doubtless, but with most rapacious effect, his sparse hair was rumpled in innumerable directions, and the stealthy boy-pirate hunch to his shoulders added the last touch of melodrama to the scene. Rollins, as a gay Lothario, was certainly a new idea. I could have screamed with joy. But while I debated the ethics of screaming for joy only, the May Girl herself, as though in reply to his crafty knock, opened her door and stared frankly down at him with a funny, flushed sort of astonishment. She was in her great boyish blanket-wrapper, with her gauzy gold hair wafting like a bright breeze across her neck and shoulders, and the radiance of her I think would have startled any man. But it knocked the breath out of Rollins. "P-p-pleasant!" gasped Rollins, quite abruptly. "It was a--a _Miracle_!" "--Miracle?" puzzled the May Girl. "Wall-papers!" babbled Rollins. "Suppose it had been true?" he besought her. "To-day, I mean? Our betrothal?" With total unexpectedness he began to flutter a handfull of wall-paper samples under the May Girl's astonished nose. "I've got a little flat you know in town," babbled Rollins. "Just one room and bath. It's pretty dingy. But for a long time now I've been planning to have it all repapered. And if you'd choose the wallpaper for it--it would be pleasant to think of during--during the years!" babbled Rollins. "_What_?" puzzled the May Girl. Then quite suddenly she reached out and took the papers from Rollins's hand and bent her lovely head over them in perfectly solemn contemplation. "Why--why the pretty gray one with the white gulls and the flash of blue!" she decided almost at once, looked up for an instant, smiled straight into Rollins's fatuous eyes, and was gone again behind the impregnable fastness of her closed door, leaving Rollins gasping like a fool, his shoulders drooping, his limp hands clutching the sheet of white gulls with all the absurd manner of an amateur prima donna just on the verge of bursting into song! And all of a sudden starting to laugh I found myself crying instead. It was the expression in Rollins's eyes, I think. The one "off-guard" expression perhaps of Rollins's life! A scorching flame of self-revelation, as it were, that consumed even as it illuminated, leaving only gray ashes and perplexity. Not just the look it was of a Little-Man-Almost-Old-who-had-Never-Had-a-Chance-to-Play. But the look of a Little-Man-Almost-Old who sensed suddenly for the first time that he never _would_ have a chance to play! That Fate denying him the glint of wealth, the flash of romance, the scar even of tragedy, had stamped him merely with the indelible sign of a Person-Who-wasn't-Meant-to-be-Liked! Truly I was very glad to steal back into my dark room for a moment before trotting downstairs again to join all those others who were essentially intended for liking and loving, so eminently fitted, whether they refused or accepted it, for the full moral gamut of human experience. On my way down it was only human, of course, to stop in the May Girl's room. Rollins or no Rollins it was the May Girl's problem that seemed to me the only really maddening one of the moment. What in creation was life planning to proffer the May Girl?--Dr. Brawne?--Dr. Brawne?--It wasn't just a question of Dr. Brawne! But a question of the May Girl herself? She was still in her blanket-wrapper when I entered the room, but had hopped into bed, and sat bolt-up-right rocking vaguely, with her knees gathered to her chin in the circle of her slender arms. "What seems to be the matter?" I questioned. "That's what I don't know," she dimpled almost instantly. "But I seem to be worrying about something. "Worrying?" I puzzled. "Well,--maybe it's about the Pom dog," suggested the May Girl helpfully. "His mouth is so very--very tiny. Do you think he had enough supper?" "Oh, I'm sure he had enough supper," I hastened to reassure her. Very reflectively she narrowed her eyes to review the further field of her possible worries. "That cat--that your Husband said he sent away just before I came for fear I'd bring some--some contradictory animals--are you quite sure that he's got a good home?" she worried. "Oh, the best in the world," I said. "A Maternity Hospital!" "Kittens?" brightened the May Girl for a single instant only. "Oh, you really mean kittens? Then surely there's nothing to worry about in that direction!" "Nothing but--kittens," I conceded. "Then it must be Allan John," said the May Girl. "His feet! Of course, I can't exactly help feeling pretty responsible for Allan John. Are you sure--are you quite sure, I mean, that he hasn't been sitting round with wet feet all the evening? He isn't exactly the croupy type, of course, but--" With a sudden irrelevant gesture she unclasped her knees, and shot her feet straight out in front of her. "Whatever in the world," she cried out, "am I going to do with Allan John when it comes time to go home! Now gold-fish," she reflected, "in a real emergency,--can always be tucked away in the bath-tub. And once when I brought home a Japanese baby," she giggled in spite of herself, "they made me keep it in my own room. But----" "But I've got a worry of my own," I interrupted. "It's about your fainting. It scared me dreadfully. I've just been telephoning to Dr. Brawne about it." Across the May Girl's supple body a curious tightness settled suddenly. "You--told--Dr. Brawne that--I fainted?" she said. "You--you oughtn't to have done that!" It was only too evident that she was displeased. "But we were worried," I repeated. "We had to tell him. We didn't like to take the responsibility." With her childish hands spread flatly as a brace on either side of her she seemed to retreat for a moment into the gold veil of her hair. Then very resolutely her face came peering out again. "And just what did Dr. Brawne--tell _you_?" asked the May Girl. "Why something very romantic," I admitted. "The somewhat astonishing news, in fact, that you were engaged--to him." "Oh, but you know, I'm _not_!" protested the May Girl with unmistakable emphasis. "No--No!" "And that he was hoping to be married next September. On the 15th to be perfectly exact," I confided. "Well, very likely I _shall_ marry him," admitted the May Girl somewhat bafflingly. "But I'm not engaged to him now! Oh, I'm much too young to be engaged to him now! Why, even my grandmother thinks I'm much too young to be engaged to him now!--Why, he's most fifty years old!" she affirmed with widely dilating eyes. "--And I--I've scarcely been off my grandmother's place, you know, until this last winter! But if I'm grown-up enough by September, they say--you see I'll be eighteen and a half by September," she explained painstakingly, "so that's why I wanted to get engaged as much as I could this week!" she interrupted herself with quite merciless irrelevance. "If I've got to be married in September--without ever having been engaged or courted at all--I just thought I'd better go to work and pick up what experience I could--on my own hook!" "Dr.--Dr. Brawne will, of course, make you a very distinguished husband," I stammered, "but are you sure you love him?" "I love everybody!" dimpled the May Girl. "Yes, dogs, of course," I conceded, "and Rabbits--and horses and----" "And kittens," supplemented the May Girl. "Your mother is--not living?" I asked rather abruptly. "My father is dead," said the May Girl. "But my mother is in Egypt." Her lovely face was suddenly all excitement. "My mother ran away!" "Oh! An elopement, you mean?" I laughed. "Ran away with your father. Youngsters used to do romantic things like that." "Ran away _from_ my father," said the May Girl. "And from me. It was when I was four years old. None of us have ever seen her since. It was with one of Dr. Brawne's friends that she ran away. That's one reason, I think, why Dr. Brawne has always felt so sort of responsible for me." "Oh, dear--oh, dear, this is very sad," I winced. "N-o," said the May Girl perfectly simply. "Maybe it was bad but I'm almost sure it's never been sad. Dr. Brawne hears from her sometimes. Mother's always been very happy, I think. But everybody somehow seems to be in an awful hurry to get me settled." "Why?" I asked quite starkly, and could have bitten my tongue out for my impertinence. "Why--because I'm so tall, I suppose," said the May Girl. "And not so very specially bright. Oh, not nearly as bright as I am tall!" she hastened to assure me with her pretty nose all crinkled up for the sheer emphasis of her regret. "Life's rather hard, you know, on tall women," she confided sagely. "Always trying to take a tuck in them somewhere! Mother was tall," she observed; "and Father, they say, was always and forever trying to make her look smaller--especially in public! Pulling her opinions out from under her! Belittling all her great, lovely fancies and ideas! Not that he really meant to be hateful, I suppose. But he just couldn't help it. It was just the natural male-instinct I guess of wanting to be the everythinger--himself!" "What do you know of the natural male 'instinct'?" I laughed out in spite of myself. "Oh--lots," smiled the May Girl. "I have an uncle. And my grandmother always keeps two hired men. And for almost six months now I've been at the Art School. And there are twenty-seven boys at the Art School. Why there's Jerry and Paul and Richard and--and----" "Yes, but your father and mother?" I pondered. "Just how----?" "Oh, it was when they were walking downtown one day past a great big mirror," explained the May Girl brightly. "And Mother saw that she was getting round-shouldered trying to keep down to Father's level--it was then that she ran away! It was then that she began to run away I mean! To run away in her mind! I heard grandmother and Dr. Brawne talking about it only last summer. But I?" she affirmed with some pride, "oh, I've known about being tall ever since I first had starch enough in my knees to stand up! While I stayed in my crib I don't suppose I noticed it specially. But just as soon as I was big enough to go to school. Why, even at the very first," she glowed, "when every other child in the room had failed without the slightest reproach some perfectly idiotic visitor would always pipe up and say, 'Now ask that tall child there! The one with the yellow hair!' And everyone would be as vexed as possible because I failed, too! It isn't my head, you know that's tall," protested the May Girl with some feeling, "it's just my neck and legs! "You certainly are entrancingly graceful," I smiled. How anybody as inexpressibly lovely as the May Girl could be so oblivious of the fact was astonishing! But neither smile nor compliment seemed to allay to the slightest degree the turmoil that was surging in the youngster's mind. "Why, even at the Art School," she protested, "it's just as bad! Especially with the boys! Being so tall--and with yellow hair besides--you just can't possibly be as important as you are conspicuous! And yet every individual boy seems obliged to find out for himself just exactly how important you are! But no matter what he finds," she shrugged with a gesture of ultimate despair, "it always ends by everybody getting mad!" "Mad?" I questioned. "Yes--very mad," said the May Girl. "Either he's mad because he finds you're not nearly as nice as you are conspicuous, or else, liking you most to death, he simply can't stand it that anyone as nice as he thinks you are is able to outplay him at tennis or--that's why I like animals best--and hurt things!" she interrupted herself with characteristic impetuosity. "Animals and hurt things don't care how rangy your arms are as long as they're loving! Why if you were as tall as a tree," she argued, "little deserted birds in nests would simply be glad that you could reach them that much sooner! But men? Why, even your nice Mr. Keets," she cried; "even your nice Mr. Keets, with his fussy old Archaeology, couldn't even play at being engaged without talking down--down--down at me! Tall as he is, too! And funny little old Mr. Rollins," she flushed. "Little--_little_--old Mr. Rollins--Mr. Rollins really liked me, I think, but he--he'd torture me if he thought it would make him feel any burlier! "And Claude Kennilworth," I questioned. The shiver across the May Girl's shoulders looked suddenly more like a thrill than a distaste. "Oh, Claude Kennilworth," she acknowledged quite ingenuously. "He's begun already to try to 'put me in my place'! Altogether too independent is what he thinks I am. But what he really means is 'altogether too tall'!" Once again the little shiver flashed across her shoulders. "He's so--so awfully temperamental!" she quickened. "Goodness knows what fireworks he'll introduce tomorrow! I can hardly wait!" "Is--is Dr. Brawne--tall?" I asked a bit abruptly. "N--o," admitted the May Girl. "He's quite short! But--his years are so tall!" she cried out triumphantly. "He's so tall in his attainments! I've thought it all out--oh very--very carefully," she attested. "And if I've got to be married in order to have someone to look out for me I'm almost perfectly positive that Dr. Brawne will be quite too amused at having so young a wife to bully me very much about anything that goes with the youngness!" "Oh--h," I said. "Yes,--exactly," mused the May Girl. With a heart and an apprehension just about as gray and as heavy as lead I rose and started for the door. "But, May Girl?" I besought her in a single almost hysterical desire to rouse her from her innocence and her ignorance. "Among all this great array of men and boys that you know--the uncle--yes, even the hired men," I laughed, "and all those blue-smocked boys at the Art School--whom do you really like the best?" So far her eyes journeyed off into the distance and back again I thought that she had not heard me. Then quite abruptly she answered me. And her voice was all boy-chorister again. "The best?--why, Allan John!" she said. Taken all in all there were several things said and done that evening that would have kept any normal hostess awake, I think. The third morning dawned even rainier than the second! Infinitely rainier than the first! It gave everybody's coming-down-stairs expression a curiously comical twist as though Dame Nature herself had been caught off-guard somehow in a moment of dishabille that though inexpressibly funny, couldn't exactly be referred to--not among mere casual acquaintances--not so early in the morning, anyway! Yet even though everybody rushed at once to the fireplace instead of to the breakfast-table nobody held us responsible for the weather. Everyone in fact seemed to make rather an extra effort to assure us that he or she--as the case might be, most distinctly did not hold us responsible. Paul Brenswick indeed grew almost eloquent telling us about an accident to the weather which he himself had witnessed in a climate as supposedly well-regulated as the climate of South Eastern Somewhere was supposed to be! Ann Woltor raked her cheerier memories for the story of a four days' rain-storm which she had experienced once in a very trying visit to her great aunt somebody-or-other on some peculiarly stormbound section of the Welsh coast. George Keet's chivalrous anxiety to set us at our ease was truly heroic. He even improvised a parody about it: "Rain," observed George Keets, "makes strange umbrella-mates!" A leak had developed during the night it seemed in the ceiling directly over his bed--and George, the finicky, the fastidious, the silk-pajamered--had been obliged to crawl out and seek shelter with Rollins and his flannel night-cap in the next room. And Rollins, it appeared, had not proved a particularly genial host. "By the way, where is Mr. Rollins this morning?" questioned the Bride from her frowning survey of the storm-swept beach. "Mr. Rollins," confided my Husband, "has a slight headache this morning." "Why, that's too bad," sympathized Ann Woltor. "No, it isn't a bad one at all," contradicted my Husband. "Just the very mildest one possible--under the circumstances. It was really very late when he got in again last night. And very wet." From under his casually lowered eyes a single glance of greeting shot out at me. "Now, there you are again!" cried George Keets. "Flirting! You married people! Something that anyone else would turn out as mere information,--'The Ice Man has just left two chunks of ice!' or 'Mr. Rollins has a headache'!--you go and load up with some mysterious and unfathomable significance! Glances pass! Your wife flushes!" "Mysterious?" shrugged my Husband. "Unfathomable? Why it's clear as crystal. The madam says, 'Let there be a headache'--and there _is_ a headache!" As Allan John joined the group at the fireplace everybody began talking weather again. From the chuckle of the birch-logs to the splash on the window-pane the little groups shifted and changed. Everybody seemed to be waiting for something. On the neglected breakfast table even the gay upstanding hemispheres of grapefruit rolled over on their beds of ice to take another nap. In a great flutter of white and laughter the May Girl herself came prancing over the threshold. It wasn't just the fact of being in white that made her look so astonishingly festal; she was almost always in white. Not yet the fact of laughter. Taken all in all I think she was the most radiantly laughing youngster that I have ever known. But most astonishingly festal she certainly looked, nevertheless. Maybe it was the specially new and chic little twist which she had given her hair. Maybe it was the absurdly coquettish dab of black court-plaster which she had affixed to one dimply cheek. "Oh, if I'm going to be engaged to-day to a real artist," she laughed, "I've certainly got to take some extra pains with my personal appearance. Why, I've hardly slept all night," she confided ingenuously, "I was so excited!" "Yes, won't it be interesting," whispered the Bride to George Keets, "to see what Mr. Kennilworth will really do? He's so awfully temperamental! And so--so inexcusably beautiful. Whatever he does is pretty sure to be interesting. Now up-stairs--all day yesterday--wouldn't it----?" "Yes, wouldn't it be interesting," glowed Ann Woltor quite unexpectedly, "if he'd made her something really wonderful? Something that would last, I mean, after the game was over? Even just a toy, something that would outlast Time itself. Something that even when she was old she could point to and say, 'Claude Kennilworth made that for me when--we were young'." "Why, Ann Woltor!" I stammered. "Do you feel that way about him? Does--does he make you feel that way, too!" "I think--he would make--anyone feel that way--too," intercepted Allan John quite amazingly. In three days surely it was the only voluntary statement he had made, and everybody turned suddenly to stare at him. But it was only too evident from the persistent haggardness of his expression that he had no slightest intention in the world of pursuing his unexpected volubility. "And it isn't just his good looks either!" resumed the Bride as soon as she had recovered from her own astonishment at the interpolation. "Oh, something, very different," mused Ann Woltor. "The queer little sense he gives you of--of wires humming! Whether you like him or not that queer little sense of 'wires humming' that all really creative people give you! As though--as though--they were being rather specially re-charged all the time from the Main Battery!" "The 'Main Battery,'" puzzled the Bridegroom, "being----?" "Why God,--of course!" said the Bride with a vague sort of surprise. "When women talk mechanics and religion in the same breath," laughed the Bridegroom, "it certainly----" "I was talking neither mechanics nor religion," affirmed the Bride, with the faintest possible tinge of asperity. "Oh, of course, anyone can see," admitted the Bridegroom, "that Kennilworth is a clever chap." "Clever as the deuce!" acquiesced George Keets. With an impatient tap of her foot the May Girl turned suddenly back from the window. "Yes! But where _is_ he?" she laughed. "That's what I say!" cried my Husband. "We've waited quite long enough for him!" "Dallying up-stairs probably to put a dab of black court-plaster on _his_ cheek!" observed George Keets drily. With one accord everybody but the May Girl rushed impulsively to the breakfast table. "Seems as though--somebody ought to wait," dimpled the May Girl. "Oh, nonsense!" asserted everybody. A little bit reluctantly she came at last to her place. Her face was faintly troubled. "On--on an engagement morning," she persisted, "it certainly seems as though--somebody ought to wait." In the hallway just outside a light step sounded suddenly. It was really astonishing with what an air of real excitement and expectancy everybody glanced up. But the step in the hall proved only the step of a maid. "The young gentleman upstairs sent a message," said the maid. "Most particular he was that I give it exact. 'It being so rainy again,' he says, 'and there not being anything specially interesting on the--the docket as far as he knows, he'll stay in bed--thank you.'" For an instant it seemed as though everybody at the table except Allan John jerked back from his plate with a knife, fork or spoon, brandished half-way in mid air. There was no jerk left in Allan John, I imagine. It was Allan John's color that changed. A dull flush of red where once just gray shadows had lain. "So he'll stay in bed, thank you," repeated the maid sing-songishly. "What?" gasped my Husband. "W-w-what?" stammered the May Girl. "Well--of all the--nerve!" muttered Paul Brenswick. "Why--why how extraordinary," murmured Ann Woltor. "_There's_ your 'artistic temperament' for you, all right!" laughed the Bride a bit hectically. "Peeved is it because he thought Miss Davies----?" "Don't you think you're just a bit behind the times in your interpretation of the phrase 'artistic temperament'?" interrupted George Keets abruptly. "Except in special neurasthenic cases it is no longer the fashion I believe to lay bad manners to the artistic temperament itself but rather to the humble environment from which most artistic temperaments are supposed to have sprung." "Eh? What's that?" laughed the Bride. Very deliberately George Keets lit a fresh cigarette. "No one person, you know, can have everything," he observed with the thinnest of all his thin-lipped smiles. "Three generations of plowing, isn't it, to raise one artist? Oh, Mr. Kennilworth's social eccentricities, I assure you, are due infinitely more to the soil than to the soul." "Oh, can your statistics!" implored my Husband a bit sharply, "and pass Miss Davies the sugar!" "And some coffee!" proffered Paul Brenswick. "And this heavenly cereal!" urged the Bride. "Oh, now I remember," winced the May Girl suddenly. "He said 'she'll wait all right'--but, of course, it does seem just a little--wee bit--f-funny! Even if you don't care a--a rap," she struggled heroically through a glint of tears. "Even if you don't care a rap--sometimes it's just a little bit hard to say a word like f-funny!" "Damned hard," agreed my Husband and Paul Brenswick and George Keets all in a single breath. The subsequent conversation fortunately was not limited altogether to expletives. Never, I'm sure, have I entertained a more vivacious not to say hilarious company at breakfast. Nobody seemed contented just to keep dimples in the May Girl's face. Everybody insisted upon giggles. The men indeed treated them selves to what is usually described as "wild guffaws." Personally I think it was a mistake. It brought Rollins down-stairs just as everybody was leaving the table in what had up to that moment been considered perfectly reestablished and invulnerable glee. Everybody, of course, except poor Allan John. No one naturally would expect any kind of glee from Allan John. In the soft pussy-footed flop of his felt slippers none of us heard Rollins coming. But I--I saw him! And such a Rollins! Stripped of the single significant facial expression of his life which I had surprised so unexpectedly in his eyes the night before, Rollins would certainly never be anything but just Rollins! Heavily swathed in his old plaid ulster with a wet towel bound around his brow he loomed cautiously on the scene bearing an empty coffee cup, and from the faintly shadowing delicacy of the parted portieres affirmed with one breath how astonished he was to find us still at breakfast, while with the next he confided equally fatuously, "I thought I heard merry voices!" It was on Claude Kennilworth's absence, of course, that his maddening little mind fixed itself instantly with unalterable concentration. "What ho! The--engagement?" he demanded abruptly. "There isn't any engagement," said my Husband with a somewhat vicious stab at the fire. From his snug, speculative scrutiny of the storm outside, George Keets swung round with what quite evidently was intended to be a warning frown. "Mr. Kennilworth has--defaulted," he murmured. "Defaulted!" grinned Rollins. Then with perfectly unprecedented perspicacity his roving glance snatched up suddenly the unmistakable tremor of the May Girl's chin. "Oh, what nonsense!" he said. "There are plenty of other eligible men in the party!" "Oh, but you see--there are not!" laughed Paul Brenswick. "Mr. Delville and I are Married--and our wives won't let us." "Oh, nonsense!" grinned Rollins. Once again his roving glance swept the company. Everybody saw what was coming, turned hot, turned cold, shut his eyes, opened them again, but was powerless to avert. "Why, what's the matter with trying Allan John?" grinned Rollins. The thing was inexcusable! Brutal! Blundering! Absolutely doltish beyond even Rollins's established methods of doltishness. But at last when everybody turned inadvertently to scan poor Allan John's face--there was no Allan John to be scanned. Somewhere through a door or a window--somehow between one blink of the eye and another--Allan John had slipped from the room. "Why--why, Mr. Rollins!" gasped everybody all at once. "Whatever in the world were you thinking of?" "Maybe--maybe--he didn't hear it--after all!" rallied the Bride with the first real ray of hope. "Maybe he just saw it coming," suggested the Bridegroom. "And dodged in the nick of time," said George Keets. "To save not only himself but ourselves," frowned my Husband, "from an almost irretrievable awkwardness. "Why just the minute before it happened," deprecated Ann Woltor, "I was thinking suddenly how much better he looked, how his color had improved,--why his cheeks looked almost red." "Yes, the top of his cheeks," said the May Girl, "were really quite red." Her own cheeks at the moment were distinctly pale. "Where do you suppose he's gone to?" she questioned. "Don't you think that--p'raps--somebody ought to go and find him?" "Oh, for heaven's sake leave him alone!" cried Paul Brenswick. "Leave him alone," acquiesced all the other men. In the moment's nervous reaction and letdown that ensued it was really a relief to hear George Keets cry out, with such poignant amazement from his stand at the window: "Why what in the world is that red-roof out on the rocks?" he cried. In the same impulse both my Husband and myself ran quickly to his side. "Oh, that's all right!" laughed my Husband. "I thought maybe it had blown off or something. Why, that's just the 'Bungalow on the Rocks,'" he explained. "My Husband's study and work-room," I exemplified. "'Forbidden-Ground' is its real name! Nobody is ever allowed to go there without an invitation from--himself!" "Why--but it wasn't there yesterday!" asserted George Keets. "Oh, yes, it was!" laughed my Husband. "It was not!" said George Keets. The sheer unexpected primitiveness of the contradiction delighted us so that neither of us took the slightest offense. "Oh, I beg your pardon, of course," George Keets recovered himself almost in an instant--"that right here before our eyes--that same vivid scarlet roof was looming there yesterday against the gray rocks and sea--and none of us saw it?" "Saw what?" called Paul Brenswick. "Where?" And came striding to the window. "Gad!" said Paul Brenswick. "Victoria! Come here, quick!" he called. With frank curiosity the Bride joined the group. "Why of all things!" she laughed. "Why it never in the world was there yesterday!" A trifle self-consciously Ann Woltor joined the group. "Bungalow?" she questioned. "A Bungalow out on the rocks." Her face did certainly look just a little bit queer. Anyone who wanted to, was perfectly free of course, to interpret the look as one of incredulity. "No, of course not! Miss Woltor agrees with me perfectly," triumphed George Keets. "It was not there yesterday!" "Oh, but it must have been!" dimpled the May Girl. "If Mr. and Mrs. Delville say so! It's their bungalow!" "It--was--not there--yesterday," puzzled George Keets. More than having his honor at stake he spoke suddenly as though he thought it was his reason that was being threatened. With her cheeks quite rosy again the May Girl began to clap her hands. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. "Oh, I don't care whether it was there yesterday or not!" she triumphed. "It's there to-day! Let's go and explore it! And if it's magic, so much the better! Oh, loo--loo--look!" she cried as a great roar and surge of billows broke on the rocks all around the little red roof and churned the whole sky-line into a chaos of foam. "Oh, come--_come_!" she besought everybody. "Oh, but, my dear!" I explained, "How would you get there? No row-boat could live in that sea! And by way of the rocky ledge there's no possible path except at the lowest tide! And besides," I reminded her, "it's named 'Forbidden Ground', you know! No body is supposed to go there without----" With all the impulsiveness of an irresponsible baby the May Girl dashed across the room and threw her arms round my neck. "Why, you old dear," she laughed, "don't you know that that's just the reason why I want to explore it! I want to know why it's 'Forbidden Ground'! Oh, surely--surely," she coaxed, "even if it is a work-room, there couldn't be any real sin in just prying a little?" "No, of course, no real sin," I laughed back at her earnestness. "Just an indiscretion!" Quite abruptly the May Girl relaxed her hug, and narrowed her lovely eyes dreamily to some personal introspection. "I've--never yet--committed a real indiscretion," she confided with apparent regret. "Well, pray don't begin," laughed George Keets in spite of himself, "by trying to explore something that isn't there." "And don't you and Keets," flared Paul Brenswick quite unexpectedly, "by denying the existence of something that is there!" "Well, if it is there to-day," argued George Keets, "it certainly wasn't there yesterday!" "Well, if it wasn't there yesterday, it is at least there to-day!" argued Paul Brenswick. "Rollins! Hi there--Rollins!" they both called as though in a single breath. From his humble seat on the top stair to which he had wisely retreated at his first inkling of having so grossly outraged public opinion, Rollins's reply came wafting some what hopefully back. "H--h--iii," rallied Rollins. "That red roof on the rocks--" shouted Paul Brenswick. "Was it there--yesterday?" demanded George Keets. "Wait!" cackled Rollins. "Wait till I go look!" A felt footstep thudded. A window opened. The felt footstep thudded again. "No," called Rollins. "Now that I come to think of it--I don't remember having noticed a red roof there yesterday." "Now!" laughed George Keets. "But, oh, I say!" gasped Rollins, in what seemed to be very sudden and altogether indisputable confusion. "Why--why it must have been there! Because that's the shack where we've catalogued the shells every year--for the last seven years!" "Now!" laughed Paul Brenswick. Without another word everybody made a bolt for the hat-rack and the big oak settle, snatched up his or her oil-skin clothes--anybody's oil-skin clothes--and dashed off through the rain to the edge of the cliff to investigate the phenomenon at closer range. Truly the thing was almost too easy to be really righteous! Just a huge rock-colored tarpaulin stripped at will from a red-tiled roof and behold, mystery looms on an otherwise drab-colored day! And a mystery at a houseparty? Well--whoever may stand proven as the mother of invention--_Curiosity_, you know just as well as I do, is the father of a great many very sprightly little adventures! Within ten minutes from the proscenium box of our big bay-window, my Husband and I could easily discern the absurd little plot and counterplots that were already being hatched. It was the Bride and George Keets who seemed to be thinking, pointing, gesticulating, in the only perfect harmony. Even at this distance, and swathed as they were in hastily adjusted oil-skins, a curiously academic sort of dignity stamped their every movement. Nothing but sheer intellectual determination to prove that their minds were normal would ever tempt either one of them to violate a Host's "No Trespass" sign! Nothing academic about Paul Brenswick's figure! With one yellow elbow crooked to shield the rain from his eyes he stood estimating so many probable feet of this, so many probable feet of that. He was an engineer! Perspectives were his playthings! And if there was any new trick about perspectives that he didn't know--he was going to solve it now no matter what it cost either him or anybody else! More like a young colt than anything else, like a young colt running for its pasture-bars, the May Girl dashed vainly up and down the edge of the cliff. Nothing academic, nothing of an engineer--about any young colt! If the May Girl reached "the Bungalow on the Rocks" it would be just because she wanted to! Ann Woltor's reaction was the only one that really puzzled me. Drawn back a little from the others, sheltered transiently from the wind by a great jagged spur of gray rock but with her sombre face turned almost eagerly to the rain, she stood there watching with a perfectly inexplainable interest the long white blossomy curve of foam and spray which marked the darkly submerged ledge of rock that connected the red-tiled bungalow with the beach just below her. Ann Woltor certainly was no prankish child. Neither was it to be supposed that any particular problem of perspective had flecked her mind into the slightest uneasiness. Ann Woltor knew that the bungalow was there! Had spent at least nine hours in it on the previous day! Lunched in it! Supped in it! Proved its inherent prosiness! Yet even I was puzzled as she crept out from the shelter of her big boulder to the very edge of the cliff, and leaned away out still staring, always at that wave-tormented ledge. From the hyacinth-scented shadows just behind me I heard a sudden little laugh. "I'll wager you a new mink muff," said my Husband quite abruptly, "that Ann Woltor gets there first!" CHAPTER V IN this annual _Rainy Week_ drama of ours, one of the very best parts I "double" in, is with the chambermaid, making beds! Once having warned my guests of this occasional domestic necessity, I ought, I suppose, to feel absolutely relieved of any embarrassing sense of intrusion incidental to the task. But there is always, somehow, such an unwarrantable sense of spiritual rather than material intimacy connected with the sight of a just deserted guest-room. Particularly so, I think, in a sea-shore guest-room. A beach makes such big babies of us all! Country-house hostesses have never mentioned it as far as I can remember. Mountains evidently do not recover for us that particular kind of lost rapture. Nor even green pine woods revive the innocent lusts of the little. But in a sea-shore guest-room, every fresh morning of the world, as long as time lasts, you will find on bureau-top desk or table, mixed up with chiffons and rouges, crowding the tennis rackets or base balls, blurring the open sophisticate page of the latest French novel, that dear, absurd, ever-increasing little hoard of childish treasures! The round, shining pebbles, the fluted clam shell, the wopse of dried sea-weed, a feather perhaps from a gull's wing! Things common as time itself, repetitive as sand! Yet irresistibly covetable! How do you explain it? Who in the world, for instance, would expect to find a cunningly contrived toy-boat on Rollins's bureau with two star-fish listed as the only passengers! Or Paul Brenswick's candle thrust into a copperas-tinted knot of water-logged cedar? In the snug confines of a small cigar box on a lovely dank bed of maroon and gray sea-weed Victoria Brenswick had nested her treasure-trove. Certainly the quaint garnet necklace could hardly have found a more romantic and ship-wrecky sort of a setting. Even Allan John had started a little procession of sand-dollars across his mantelpiece. But there was no silver whistle figuring as the band, I noticed. What would Victoria Brenswick have said, I wondered, what would Allan John have thought if they had even so much as dreamed that these precious "ship-wreck treasures" of theirs had been purchased brand new in Boston Town within a week and "planted" most carefully by my Husband with all those other pseudo mysteries in the old trunk in the sand? But goodness me, one's got to "start" something on the first day of even the most ordinary house-party! With so much to watch outside the window, figures still moving eagerly up and down the edge of the cliff, and so much to think about inside, all the little personal whims and fancies betrayed by the various hoards, the bed-making industry I'm afraid was somewhat slighted on this particular morning. Was my Husband still standing at that down-stairs window, I wondered, speculating about that bungalow on the rocks even as I stood at the window just above him speculating on the same subject? Why did he think that Ann Woltor would be the one to get there first? What had Ann Woltor left there the day before that made her specially anxious to get there first? Truly this _Rainy Week_ experiment develops some rather unique puzzles. Maybe if I tried, I thought, I could add a little puzzle of my own invention! Just for sheer restiveness I turned and made another round of the guest-rooms. Now that I remembered it there was a bit more sand oozing from the Bride's necklace box to the mahogany bureau-top than was really necessary. The rest of the morning passed without special interest. But the luncheon hour developed a most extraordinary interest in the principles of physical geography which beginning with all sorts of valuable observations concerning the weight of the atmosphere or the conformation of mountains or the law of tides, ended invariably with the one direct question: "At just what hour this evening, for instance, will the tide be low again?" My Husband was almost beside himself with concealed delight. "Oh, but you don't think for a moment, do you--" I implored him in a single whisper of privacy snatched behind the refilling of the coffee urn. "You don't think for a moment that anybody would be rash enough to try and make the trip in the big dory?" "Well--hardly," laughed my Husband. "If you'd seen where I've hidden the oars!" The oars apparently were not the only things hidden at the moment from mortal ken. Claude Kennilworth and Ego still persisted quite brutally in withholding their charms from us. Rollins had retreated to the sacristy of his own room to complete his convalescence. And even Allan John seemed to have wandered for the time being beyond the call of either voice or luncheon bell. Allan John's deflection worried the May Girl a little I think, but not unduly. It didn't worry the men at all. "When a chap wants to be alone he wants to be alone!" explained Paul Brenswick with unassailable conciseness. "It's a darned good sign," agreed my Husband, "that he's ready to be alone! It's the first time, isn't it?" "Yes, that's all right, of course," conceded the May Girl amiably, "if you're quite sure that he was dressed right for it." "Maybe a hike on the beach at just this moment, whether he's dressed right for it or not," asserted George Keets, "is just the one thing the poor devil needs to sweep the last cobweb out of his brain." "I agree with you perfectly," said Victoria Brenswick. It was really astonishing in a single morning how many things George Keets and the Bride had discovered that they agreed on perfectly. It teased the Bridegroom a little I think. But anyone could have seen that it actually puzzled the Bride. And women, when they are puzzled, I've noticed, are pretty apt to insist upon tracing the puzzle to its source. So that when George Keets suggested a further exploration of the dunes as the most plausible diversion for the afternoon, it wouldn't have surprised me at all if Victoria Brenswick had not only acquiesced in the suggestion for herself and her Bridegroom but exacted its immediate fulfillment. She did not, however. Quite peremptorily, in fact, she announced instead her own and her Bridegroom's unalterable intent to remain at home in the big warm library by the apple-wood fire. It was the May Girl who insisted on forging forth alone with George Keets into the storm. "Why, I shall perish," dimpled the May Girl, "if I don't get some more exercise to-day!--Weather like this--why--why it's so glorious!" she thrilled. "So maddeningly glorious!--I--I wish I was a seagull so I could breast right off into the foam and blast of it! I wish--I wish----!" But what page is long enough to record the wishes of Eighteen? My Husband evidently had no wish in the world except to pursue the cataloging of shells in Rollins's crafty company. Ann Woltor confessed quite frankly that her whole human interest in the afternoon centred solely on the matter of sleep. Hyacinths, of course, are my own unfailing diversion. Tracking me just a little bit self-consciously to my hyacinth lair, the Bride seemed rather inclined to dally a moment, I noticed, before returning to her Bridegroom and the library fire. Her eyes were very interesting. What bride's are not? Particularly that Bride whose intellect parallels even her emotions. "Maybe," she essayed quite abruptly, "Maybe it was a trifle funny of me not to tramp this afternoon. But the bridge-building work begins again next week, you know. It's pretty strenuous, everybody says. Men come home very tired from it. Not specially sociable. So I just made up my mind," she said, in a voice that though playfully lowered was yet rather curiously intense. "So I just made up my mind that I would stay at home this afternoon and get acquainted with my Husband." Half-proud, half-shamed, her puzzled eyes lifted to mine. "Because it's dawned on me very suddenly," she laughed, "that I don't know my Husband's opinion on one solitary subject in the world except--just me!" With a rather amusing little flush she stooped down and smothered her face in a pot of blue hyacinths. "Oh--hyacinths!" she murmured. "And May rain! The smell of them! Will I ever forget the fragrance of this week--while Time lasts?" But the eyes that lifted to mine again were still puzzled. "Now--that Mr. Keets," she faltered. "Why in just an hour or two this morning, why in just the little time that luncheon takes, I know his religion and his Mother's first name. I know his philosophies, and just why he adores Buskin and disagrees with Bernard Shaw. I know where he usually stays when he's in Amsterdam and just what hotel we both like best in Paris. Why I know even where he buys his boots, and why. And I buy mine at the same place and for just exactly the same reason. But my Husband." Quite in spite of herself a little laugh slipped from her lips. "Why--I don't even know how my Husband votes!" she gasped. In some magic, excitative flash of memory her breath began to quicken. "It--It was at college, you know, that we met--Paul and I," she explained. "At a dance the night before my graduation." Once again her face flamed like a rose. "Why, we were engaged, you know, within a week! And then Paul went to China!--Oh, of course, we wrote," she said, "and almost every day, too. But----" "But lovers, of course, don't write a great deal about buying boots," I acquiesced, "nor even so specially much about Buskin nor even their mothers." In the square of the library doorway a man's figure loomed a bit suddenly. "Vic! Aren't you ever coming?" fretted her impatient Bridegroom. Like a homing bird she turned and sped to her mate! Yet an hour later, when I passed the library door, I saw Paul Brenswick lying fast asleep in the depth of his big leather chair. Fire wasted--books neglected--Chance itself forgotten or ignored! But the Bride was nowhere to be seen. I was quite right though when I thought that I should find her in her room. Just as I expected, too, she was standing by the window staring somewhat blankly out at the Dunes. But the eyes that she lifted to me this time were not merely puzzled--they were suffering. If Paul Brenswick could have seen his beloved at this moment and even so much as hoped that there was a God, he would have gone down on his knees then and there and prayed that for Love's sake the very real shock which he had just given her would end in laughter rather than tears. Yet her speech, when it came at last, was perfectly casual. "He--he wouldn't talk," she said. "Couldn't, you mean!" I contradicted her quite sharply. "Husbands can't, you know! Marriage seems to do something queer to their vocal chords." "Your husband talks," smiled the Bride very faintly. "Oh--beautifully," I admitted. "But not to me! It doesn't seem to be quite compatible with established romance somehow, this talking business, between husbands and wives." "Romance?" rallied the Bride. "Would you call Mr. Delville ex--exactly romantic!" "Oh--very!" I boasted. "But not conversationally." "But I wanted to talk," said the Bride, very slowly. "Why, of course, you did, you dear darling!" I cried out impulsively. "Most brides do! You wanted to discuss and decide in about thirty minutes every imaginable issue that is yet to develop in all the long glad years you hope to have together! The friends you are going to build. Why you haven't even glimpsed a child's picture in a magazine, this the first week of your marriage, without staying awake half the night to wonder what your children's children's names will be." "How do you know?" asked the Bride, a bit incisively. "Because once I was a Bride myself," I said. "But this Paul of yours," I insisted. "This Paul of yours, you see, hasn't finished wondering yet about just you----!" "For Heaven's sake," called my own husband through the half open doorway, "what's all this pow-wow about?" "About husbands," I answered, quite frankly. "An argument in fact as to whether taken all in all a husband is ever very specially amusing to talk to." "Amusing to talk to?" hooted my Husband. "Never! The most that any poor husband can hope for is to prove amusing to talk about!" "Who said Paul?" called that young person himself from the further shadows of the hallway. "No one has," I laughed, "for as much as two minutes." A trifle flushed from his nap, and most becomingly dishevelled as to hair, the Bridegroom stepped into the light. I heard his Bride give a little sharp catch of her breath. "I--I think I must have been asleep," said the Bridegroom. Twice the Bride swallowed very hard before she spoke. "I--I think you must have, you rascal!" she said. It was a real victory! Really my Husband and I would have been banged in the door if we hadn't jumped out as fast as we did! George Keets and the May Girl came in from their walk just before supper. Judging from their personal appearances it had at least been a long walk if not a serene one. George Keets indeed seemed quite unnecessarily intent in the vestibule on taking the May Girl to task for what he evidently considered her somewhat careless method of storing away her afternoon's accumulation of pebble and shell. Every accent of his voice, every carefully enunciated syllable reminded me only too absurdly of what the May Girl had confided to me about "boys always trying to make her feel small." He was urging her now, I inferred, to stop and sort out her specimens according to some careful cotton-batting plan which he suggested. "Whatever is worth doing at all, you know, Miss Davies," he said, "is worth doing well." The May Girl's voice sounded very tired, not irritable, but very tired. "Oh, if there's anything in the world that I hate," I heard her cry out, "it's that proverb! What people really mean by it," she protested, "is, 'Whatever's worth doing at all is worth doing _Swell_.' And it isn't either! I tell you I like simple things best! All I ever want to do with my shells tonight is just to chuck 'em behind the door!" Truly if Claude Kennilworth hadn't turned up for supper all in white flannels and looking like a young god, I don't know just what I should have done. Everybody seemed either so tired or so distrait. The tide would be low at ten o'clock. It was eight when we sat down to supper. Ann Woltor I'm sure never took her eyes from the clock. But to be perfectly frank everybody else at the table except the May Girl seemed to be diverting such attention as he or she retained to the personal appearance of Claude Kennilworth. Truly it wasn't right that anyone who had been so hateful all day long should be able to look so perfectly glorious in the evening. "Where did you get the suit?" said Rollins. "Is it your own?" "And the permanent wave?" questioned the Bride. "I think you and the ocean must patronize the same hair dresser." "Dark men always do look so fine in white flannels," whispered Ann Woltor to my Husband. "Personally," beamed Paul Brenswick, "you look to me like a person who had imported his own Turkish bath." "Turkish?" scoffed George Keets. "Nobody works up a shine like that by being washed only in one language! Russian, too, it must be! Flemish----" "Flemish are rabbits," observed the May Girl gravely. But even with this observation she did not lift her eyes from her plate. Whether she was consciously and determmingly ignoring Claude Kennilworth's only too palpable efforts to impress her with the fact that now at last he was ready to forgive her and subjugate her, or whether she really hadn't noticed him, I couldn't quite make out. And then quite suddenly at the end of her first course she put down her knife and fork and folded her hands in her lap. "Where is Allan John?" she demanded. "Why, yes, that's so! Where is Allan John!" questioned everybody all at once. "Some walk he's taking," reflected Paul Brenswick. "Not too long I hope," worried my Husband very faintly. "Hang it all, I do like that lad," acknowledged George Keets. "Who wouldn't?" said Young Kennilworth. "Yes, but why?" demanded Keets. "It's his eyes," said the Bride. "Eyes nothing!" scoffed young Kennilworth. "It's the way he came out of his fuss without fussing! To make a fool of yourself but never a fuss--that's my idea of a fellow being a good sport!" "It was his tragedy that I was thinking of," said George Keets very quietly. "Yes, where in the world," questioned my Husband with quite unwonted emotion, "would you have found another chap in the same harrowing circumstances, even among your own friends, I mean, a chum, a pal, who could have dropped in here the way he has, without putting a damper on everything? Not intentionally, of course, but just in the inevitable human nature of things. But I don't get the slightest sense somehow of Allan John being a damper!" "'Damper?'" said the Bride. "Why he's like a sick man basking in the sun. Hasn't a word to say himself, not a single prance in his own feet. But I'd as soon think of shutting out the sun from a sick man as shutting out a laugh from Allan John. Why, Allan John needs us!" attested the Bride, "and Allan John knows that he needs us!" With a sideways glance at the vacant chair George Keets's thin lips parted into a really sweet smile. "Where in creation is the boy!" he insisted. "Frankly I think we rather need him." "All of which being the case," conceded my Husband, "it behooves me even once more, I should say, to tell Allan John that the next time he speaks about moving on I shall hide his clothes. Certainly I haven't trusted him yet with even a quarter. He's so extraordinarily fussy about thinking that he ought to clear out." It was just at that moment that the telephone rang. I decided to answer it myself, for some reason, from the instrument upstairs in my own room, rather than from the library. A minute's delay, and I held the transmitter to my lips. "Yes," I called. "Is this Mrs. Jack Delville?" queried the voice. "Yes. Who's speaking?" "It's Allan John," said the voice. "Why, Allan John!" I laughed. "Of course it would be you! We were just speaking about you, and that's always the funny way that things happen. But wherever in the world are you? We'd begun to worry a bit!" "I'm in town," said Allan John. "In town," I cried. "Town! How did you get there?" In Allan John's voice suddenly it was as though tone itself was fashion. "That's what I want to tell you," said Allan John. "I've done a horrid thing, a regular kid college-boy sort of thing. I've taken something from your house, that silver salt cellar you know that I forgot to give back, and left it with a man in the village as security for the price of a railroad ticket to town, and a telegram to my brother and this phone message. I didn't have a cent you know. But the instant I hear from my brother----" "Why, you silly!" I cried. "Why didn't you speak to my Husband?" "Oh, your Husband," said Allan John, just a bit drily, "would have given me the whole house. But he wouldn't let me leave it! And it was quite time I was leaving," the voice quickened sharply. "I had to leave some time you know. And all of a sudden I--I had to leave at once! Rollins, you know! His break about the little girl. After young Kennilworth's cubbishness I simply couldn't put another slight on that lovely little girl. But--" His voice was all gray and again spent, like ashes. "But I just couldn't play," he said. "Not that!" "Why of course you couldn't play," I cried. "Nobody expected you to! Rollins is a--a horror!" "Oh, Rollins is all right enough," said Allan John. "It's life that is the horror." "Yes, but Allan John--!" I parried. "You people have been angels to me," he interrupted me sharply. "I shall never forget it. Nor the lovely little girl. I'm going back to Montana to see how my ranch looks. I can't talk now. Not to anybody. For God's sake don't call anybody. But if I get straightened out again, ever, you'll hear from me. And if I don't----" "But, Allan John," I protested. "Everybody will be desolated, your going off like this! Why, you're not even equipped in the simplest way! Not a single bit of baggage! Not a personal possession!" Across the buzzing wires it seemed suddenly as though I could actually hear Allan John making one last really desperate effort to smile. "I've got my little silver whistle," said Allan John. As though in confirmation of the fact he lifted the silver bauble to his lips and blew a single flutey note across the sixty miles. "Goodbye!" he said. Before I had fairly dropped the receiver back into its place, the May Girl was at my elbow. Her lovely childish eyes were strangely alert, her radiant head cocked ever so slightly to one side as though she held a shell to her listening ear. But there was no shell in her hand. "What was that?" cried the May Girl. "I thought I heard Allan John's whistle!" CHAPTER VI WERE you ever in a theatre, right in the middle of a play, on the very verge of an act that you were really quite curious about, and just as the curtain started to go up it was suddenly yanked down again instead, and a woman behind the scenes screamed--oh, horridly, and a man came rushing out in front of the curtain waving his arms and trying to tell everybody something, but everybody all of a sudden was so busy screaming for himself that even God, I think, couldn't have made you hear just what the trouble was? It isn't a pleasant thing to have happen. But that is almost exactly what happened to our _Rainy Week_ play on this the fourth night of events just as I was waiting for the curtain to rise on the most carefully staged scene which we had prepared, the scene designated as "_The Bungalow on the Rocks_." And the woman who screamed was the May Girl. And the man who came rushing back to try and explain was Rollins. And the May Girl it proved was screaming because she was drowning! And if it hadn't been for the silly little Pom dog that Claude Kennilworth had been silly enough to bring way from New York "for a week's outing at the sea shore" just to please the extraordinarily silly girl who occupied the studio next to his, the May Girl would have drowned! It makes one feel almost afraid to move, somehow, or even not to move, for that matter, afraid to be silly indeed, or even not to be silly, lest it foil or foul in some bungling way the plot of life which the Biggest Dramatist of All had really intended. It was Ann Woltor who gave the only adequate explanation. Everybody had at least pretended that night the unalterable intention of going to bed early. Claude Kennilworth of course having absented himself from the breakfast table didn't know anything about the bungalow discussion. But pique alone at the May Girl's persistent yet totally unexcited rebuff of his patronage had retired him earlier than anyone to the seclusion of his own room. And Rollins's unhappy propensity of always and forever butting into other people's plans had been most efficiently thwarted, as far as we could see, by dragging him upstairs and slamming his nose into a brand new and very profusely illustrated tome on the subject of "The Violet Snail." By half past ten, Ann Woltor confessed she had found the whole lower part of the house apparently deserted. For the same reason, best known even yet only to herself, she was still very anxious it appeared to get to the bungalow before any of her house-companions should have forestalled her. The trip, I judged, had not proved unduly hard. By the aid of a pocket flashlight she had made the descent of the cliff without accident, and after a single confusion where a blind trail ended in the water discovered the jagged path that twisted along the ledge to the very door of the bungalow. Once in the bungalow she had dallied only long enough to search out by the aid of the flashlight the particular object or objects which she had come for. Startled by a little sound, the sound of a man humming a little French tune that she hadn't heard for fifteen years, she had grabbed up her treasure, whatever it was, and bolted precipitously for the house, not knowing she had sprung the trap of our concealed phonograph when she opened the door. Even once back in the safe precincts of the house, however, she was further startled and completely upset by running into the May Girl. The May Girl was on the stairs, it seemed, just coming down. And she didn't look "quite right," Ann Woltor admitted. That is, she looked almost as though she was walking in her sleep, or a bit dazed, a bit bewildered, and certainly, dressed as she was, just a filmy night-gown with her warm blanket wrapper merely lashed across her shoulders by its sleeves, her pretty feet bare, her gauzy hair floating like an aura all around her, it certainly wasn't to be supposed that she was just starting off on a prankish endeavor to solve the bungalow mystery. Even her eyes looked unreal to Ann Woltor. Even her voice, when she spoke, sounded more than a little bit queer. "I--I thought I heard Allan John whistle" she said. "I--I promised, you know, that if he ever needed me I'd come." Ann Woltor nearly collapsed. "Nonsense!" she explained. "Allan John is in town! Don't you remember? He telephoned while we were at supper. Mrs. Delville delivered his messages and good-byes to us." "Why, yes, of course!" roused the May Girl, almost instantly. "How silly!--I guess I must have been asleep! And just dreamed it!" "Why, of course, you were asleep and just dreamed it." Ann Woltor assured her. "You're asleep now! Get back to bed before you catch your death of cold! Or before anybody sees you!" Ann Woltor, on the verge of hysterics herself, quite naturally was not at all anxious that those dazed, bewildered eyes should clear suddenly and with inevitable questioning upon her own distinctly drenched and most wind-blown and generally dishevelled appearance. A single little shove of the shoulders had proved enough to herd the May Girl back to her bed-room while she herself had escaped undetected to her own quarters. But the May Girl had _not_ been satisfied, it appeared, with Ann Woltor's assurances concerning Allan John. An hour or more later, roused once again to a still somewhat dazed but now unalterable conviction that Allan John had whistled, and fully equipped this time to combat whatever opposition or weather she might meet, she crept from the house out into the storm with the little Pom dog sniffing at her heels. Just what happened afterwards nobody knows. Just how it happened or exactly when it happened, nobody can even guess. Maybe it was the brilliantly lighted bungalow my Husband had fixed for the setting of the "Bunga low Scene" just after Ann Woltor's surreptitious visit that incited her. Maybe to a mind already stricken with feverishness the rising tide did suck through the bungalow rocks with a sound that faintly suggested a rather specially agonized sort of whistle. Who can say? The fact remains that to all intents and purposes she seemed to have ignored the ledge that even yet, in spite of its drenching spray, would have been perfectly safe for another half hour at least, and plunged forth down the blind trail, off the rocks into the water below. Resolutely she refused to cry for help. Perhaps the shock of the cold water chilled the cry in her throat. She grasped the slippery seaweed clinging to the rocks--moaning a little--crying a little--the pitiful struggle setting the Pom dog nearly crazy. How long she clung there she couldn't tell. She was mauled and bruised by the threshing waves. Still some complex inhibition prevented her crying out for help. Ages passed, her bruised arms and numb fingers refused to hold the grip on the elusive seaweed forever and she eventually let go her hold. A receding wave took her and tossed her poor exhausted body still struggling against another ledge of rock well out of reach from shore. Then, for the first time, the May Girl seemed to realize fully her peril--and she shrieked for help. Ann Woltor, rousing sluggishly from her sleep, heard the black Pom dog barking furiously on the beach. Reluctant at first to leave her snug bed it must have been several minutes at least before sheer curiosity and irritation drove her to get up and peer from the window. Out of that murky blackness of course not a single outline of the little dog met her sight. Just that incessant yap-yap-yap-yap of a tiny creature almost frenzied with excitement. But what really smote Ann Woltor's startled vision, and for the first time, was the flare of lights, which made the bungalow seem as if ablaze. And as she stared aghast into that flare of light which seemed to point so accusingly at her across the intervening waters, she either sensed or saw the May Girl's unmistakable head and shoulders banging into the single craggy rock that still jutted up from the depths saw an arm reach out heard that one blood-curdling scream! Rollins must have thought she was mad! Dragging him from his bed, with her arms around his neck, her lips crushed to his ear,--even then she could hardly articulate or make a sound louder than a whisper. Rollins fortunately did not lose his voice. Rollins bellowed. Rushing out into the hall just as he was, pajamas, nightcap and all, Rollins lifted his voice like a baying hound. In a moment all hands were on deck. My Husband rushed for the dory--George Keets with him, Paul Brenswick, Kennilworth, Rollins! The women huddled on the beach. "Hold on! Hold on!" we shouted into space. "Just a minute more!--Just one minute more!" We might just as well have shouted into a saw-dust pile.--The wind took the words and rammed them down our throats again till we sickened and choked! Young Kennilworth came running. He was still in his white flannels. He looked like a ghost. "There's been some hitch about the oars!" he cried. "Is she still there?" In the flare of our lantern light I turned suddenly and stared at him. He looked so queer. In a moment so awful, it seemed almost incredible that any human face could have summoned so much EGO into it. From those gay, pleasure-roaming feet, it must have come hurtling suddenly--that expression! From those facile self-assured finger tips that were already coaxing the secrets of line and form from the Creator!--From that lusty, hot-blooded young heart that was even now accumulating its "Pasts!"--From the arrogant, brilliant young brain that knew only too well that it had a "FUTURE!"--And even as I watched, young Kennilworth stripped the white flannels from his body. And the pleasure. And the triumph. And all the little pasts. And all the one big future. And he who had come so presumptuously to us to make an infinitesimal bronze replica of the sea--went forth very humbly from us to make a man-sized model of sacrifice. For an instant only as he steadied for the plunge a flash of the old mockery crossed his face. "Of course I'm stronger than the ocean," he called back. "But if it shouldn't prove so--don't forget my Old Man's birthday!" Ann Woltor fainted as his slim body struck the waves. Hours passed--ages, aeons--before the dory reached them! Yet my husband says that it way only minutes. By the merciful providence of darkness we were at least spared some of the visual stages of that struggle. Minutes or aeons--there were not even seconds to spare, it proved by the time help actually arrived. Claude Kennilworth had a broken arm, but was at least conscious. The May Girl looked as though she would never be conscious again. Against the ghastly pallor of her skin the brutal bruises loomed like love's last offering of violets. The flexible finger-tips had clawed themselves to pulp and blood. The village doctor came on the wings of the wind! We telephoned Dr. Brawne, but he was away on a business trip somewhere and could not be located! The rest of the night went by like a brand-new battle for life, but in the full glare of lamp-light this time! By breakfast-time, if one can compute hours so on a morning when nobody eats, Claude Kennilworth was almost himself again. But the May Girl's vitality failed utterly to rally. White as the linen that encompassed her she lay in that dreadful stupor among her pillows. Only once she roused herself to any attempt at speech and even then her words were almost inaudible. "Allan John," she struggled to say. "Was trying--to find him." "Has she had any shock before this!" puzzled the Doctor. "Any recent calamity? Any special threat of impending illness?" "She fainted day before yesterday," was all the information anybody could proffer. "She is subject to fainting spells, it seems. Last night Miss Woltor thought she looked a little bit dazed as though with a touch of fever." "We've got to rouse her some way," said the Doctor. "Oh, if we could only find Allan John," cried the Bride. "Allan John--and his whistle," she supplemented with almost shamefaced playfulness. My Husband and George Keets tore off to town in the little car! They raked the streets, the hotels, the telegraph offices, the railroad station, God knows what before they found him. But they did find him. That's all that really matters! It was ten o'clock at night before they all reached home again. Allan John asked only one question as he crossed the threshold. His forehead was puckered with perplexity. "Is--everybody--in the world going to die?" he said. They took him directly to the May Girl's room and put him down in a chair just opposite her bed, with the whistle in his hands. "Spring and Youth and the Pipes of Pan!" But such a sorry Pan! All the youth that was left in him seemed to have been wrung out anew by this latest horror. In the grayness of him, the hopelessness, the pain, he might have been fifty, sixty, himself, instead of the scant twenty-eight or thirty years that he doubtless was. A little bit shakily he lifted the whistle to his lips. "Not that I put a great deal of credence in it," admitted the Doctor. "But if you say it was a sound--a signal that she had been waiting for----" Softly Allan John fluted the silver note. A little shiver--a struggle, passed across the figure on the bed. "Again!" prompted the Doctor. Once more Allan John lifted the whistle to his lips. The May Girl opened her eyes and struggled vainly to raise herself on her elbow. When she saw Allan John a vague sort of astonishment flushed across her face and an odd apologetic little laugh slipped weakly from her lips. "I--I came just as soon as I could, Allan John," she said, and sinking back into her pillows began quite unexpectedly to cry. It was the Doctor himself who sat by her side and wiped her tears away. Ann Woltor shared the watches with me through the rest of the night. Allan John never left the room. Towards dawn I sent even Ann Woltor to her sleep and Allan John and I met the new day alone. By the time it was really light the May Girl, weak as she was, seemed to have recovered a certain amount of talkativeness. Recognizing thoroughly the presence and activity of both my hands and my feet, she seemed to ignore entirely the existence of either my eyes or my ears. Her puzzled wonderments were directed at Allan John alone. "Allan John--Allan John," I heard her call softly. "Yes," said Allan John. "It's a lie," said the May Girl, "what people say about drowning, that as you go down you remember every little teeny weeny thing that has ever happened to you in your life! All your past, I mean! All the dreadful--wicked things that you've ever done! Oh, it's an awful lie!" "Is it?" said Allan John. "Yes, it certainly is;" attested the May Girl. "Why, I never even remembered the day I bit my grandmother." "N--o," shivered Allan John. "No, indeed!" insisted the May Girl. "The only things that I thought of were the things I had planned to do!--The--the--PLANS that were drowning with me! One of them," she flushed suddenly, "one of the plans I mean I didn't seem to care at all when I saw it go down and the plan about going to Europe some time. Oh, I don't think that suffered so terribly. But the farm. The farm I was planning to have. The cows. The horses. The dogs. The chickens. The rabbits. Why, Allan John, I counted seventeen rabbits!" Very softly to herself she began to cry again. "S--s--h. S--s--h," cautioned Allan John. "Things that have never happened you know can't die." "Of that," reflected the May Girl through her tears, "I am--not so perfectly sure. Is--is it going to clear up?" she asked quite irrelevantly. "Oh, yes, _surely_!" rallied Allan John. He would have told her it was Christmas I think if he had really thought that that was what she wanted him to say. Very expeditiously instead he began to shine up the silver whistle with the corner of his handkerchief. With an almost amusing solemnity the May Girl lay and watched the proceeding. Under the heavy fringe of her lashes her eyes looked very shy. Then so gently, so childishly, that even Allan John didn't wince till it was all over, she asked him the question that no other person in the world probably could have asked him at that moment, and lived. "Allan John," she asked, "do you suppose that you will ever marry again?" "Oh, my God, no!" gasped Allan John. "Men--do," mused the May Girl. "Men do," conceded Allan John. With the sweat starting on his brow he jumped up and strode to the window. From the window he turned back slowly with a curious look of perplexity on his face. "Why--do you ask--that?" he said. "Oh, I don't know!" said the May Girl. "I was just wondering," she sighed. "Wondering what?" said Allan John. "Wondering," mused the May Girl, "if you would ever want to marry me." For a moment Allan John did not seem to understand--for a moment he gazed aghast at the May Girl's impassive face. "Why--child," he stammered. "Why Honey-Dear," I intercepted wildly. It was the strangest wooing I ever saw or dreamed of. The wooing by a person who didn't even know she was wooing--of a person who didn't even know he was being wooed. "Well--all right--perhaps it doesn't matter," said the May Girl. "I was only thinking how sad it would be--if Allan John ever did need me for his wife and I was already married to somebody else." When the Doctor came at noon he reported with eminent satisfaction a decided improvement in both his patients. Claude Kennilworth, contrary to one's natural expectations, was proving himself an ideal patient despite his painful injury which he steadfastly refused to acknowledge. Even the May Girl's more subtle and mystifying complications seemed to have cleared up most astonishingly, he felt, since his previous visit. "Oh, she's coming out all right," he assured us. "Fresh air, plenty of range, freedom from all emotional concern or distress," were the key-notes of his advice. "She's only a baby, grown woman-sized in an all too brief eighteen years," he averred. Words, phrases, judgments, rioted only too confusedly through my mind that was already so inordinately perplexed with the whole chaotic situation. As I said "good-bye," and turned back from the front door, I was surprised to see both my Husband and Ann Woltor standing close beside me. The constrained expressions on their faces startled me. "You heard what the Doctor said," I exclaimed. "You heard his exact words--'great big overgrown baby,' he said. 'Ought to be turned out to play in a sand-pile for at least two years more.' Just a baby," I protested, "And she'll be tending her own babies before the two years are over! They are planning to marry her in September you know to a man old enough to be her grandfather--almost. To Doctor Brawne," I stormed! "To whom?" gasped Ann Woltor. Her face was suddenly livid. "To whom?" A horrid chill went through me. "What's Doctor Brawne to you?" I asked. "It's time you told her," interposed my Husband, quietly. "What is Doctor Brawne to you!" I demanded. "Doctor Brawne? Nothing!" cried Ann Woltor. "But the girl--the girl is my girl--my own little girl--my own big little girl." "What!" I gasped. "What!" As though my knees had turned to straw I sank into the nearest chair. With the curious exultancy of a long strain finally relaxed, I saw Ann Woltor's immobile face flame suddenly with amusement. "Did you think I was talking just weather with your husband all that first harrowing day and evening? In the car? In the bungalow? Oh, no--not weather!" she exclaimed. "Not even just the 'May Girl,' as you call her, but--everything! Your husband discovered it that first morning in the car," she annotated hurriedly. "I dropped my watch. It had a picture in it. A picture of May taken last year. Dr. Brawne sent it to me." "Yes, but Dr. Brawne?" I puzzled. "Oh, I knew that May was to be married," she frowned. "And to a man a good deal older than herself. Dr. Brawne wrote me that. But what he quite neglected to mention,--" once again the frown deepened, "was that the old man was himself. I like Dr. Brawne. He is a very brilliant man. But I certainly do not approve of him as my daughter's husband. There are reasons. One need not go into them now," she acknowledged. "At least they do not specially concern his age. My daughter would hardly be happy with a boy I think. Boys do not usually like simplicity. It takes a mature man to appreciate simplicity." "Yes, but the discovery?" I fretted. "Your own discovery?--Just when?" "In the train of course, coming down that first night!" cried Ann Woltor. "I thought I should go mad. I thought at every station I would jump off. And then Rollins's bungling remark the next day about my tooth gave me the chance, as I supposed, to get away. Except for that awkward accident to my watch I should have gotten away. Your husband implored me for my own sake, for everyone's sake, to stop and consider. There was so much to consider. I had all my proofs with me, my letters, my papers, my marriage certificate. We went to the Bungalow. We thrashed it all out. I was still mad to get away. I had no other wish in the world except to get away! Your husband persuaded me that my duty was here--to watch my girl--to get acquainted with my girl--before I even so much as attempted meeting my other problems. I was very rattled. I left my broken watch in the bungalow! The picture was still in it! That's why I went back! I wasn't sure eyen then that I would disclose my identity even to my daughter! For that reason alone I made your husband promise that he would not betray my secret even to you. If I decided to tell all right. But I wished no such decision forced upon me!" "Oh, Ann, Ann dear," I cried, "don't tell me any more, you've suffered enough. Just Rollins's bungling alone--the impudence of him----!" "Rollins?--Rollins?" intercepted that pestiferous gentleman's voice suddenly. "Do I hear my name bandied by festive voices?" In another moment the Pest himself stood beside us. My Husband is by no means a swearing man, but I distinctly heard from his unwonted lips at that moment a muttered blasphemy that would make a stevedore blush for shame. Despite all her terrible stress and strain Ann Woltor smiled--actually smiled. My Husband gasped. The cause of that gasp was only too evident. Once again we saw Rollins's ominous gaze fixed with unalterable intent on Ann Woltor's face. What was meant to be an ingratiating smile quickened suddenly in his eyes. "Truly, Miss Woltor," he said, "_tell me_, why don't you get it fixed!" For an instant I thought Ann Woltor would scream. For an instant I thought Ann Woltor would faint, then quicker than chain lighting, right there before our eyes we saw her make her great decision. It was as though her brain was glass and we could see its every working. "All right," said Ann Woltor, very quietly. "All right--you--Damn fool--I _will_ tell you! I will tell everybody!" For the first time in his life I saw Rollins stagger! But Rollins could not remain prostrate even under such a rebuff as this. "Why--er--thank you--thank you very much," he rallied with his first returning breath. "Shall I--shall I call the others?" "By all means, call them quickly," said Ann Woltor. "Oh, Ann!" I protested. "I mean it," she said. Her face was strangely quiet. "The time has come--I've made up my mind at last." From the door of the porch we heard Rollins's piping voice. "Mr. Brenswick! Mr. Keets! Kennilworth! Allan John!--Come on! Miss Woltor's going to tell us a story!" With vaguely responsive interest, the people came trooping in. "A story?" brightened the Bride. "Oh, lovely--what is it about?" "The story of my broken tooth," said Ann Woltor, very trenchantly, "told by request--Mr. Rollins's request," she added. With a single comprehensive glance at my tortured face--at my Husband's--at Ann Woltor's, Claude Kennilworth turned sharply on his heel and started to leave the room. "What, don't you want to hear the story?" piped Rollins. "No, not by a damn sight," snapped Kennilworth. "But I want you to hear it," said Ann Woltor, still in that deadly quiet but absolutely firm voice. George Keets's lips were drawn suddenly to a mere thin white line. "One has no desire to intrude, Miss Woltor," he protested. "It is no intrusion," said Aim Woltor. For a single hesitating moment her sombre eyes swept the waiting group. Then, without further break or pause, she plunged into her narrative. "I am the May Girl's mother," she said. "I ran away from the May Girl's father. I ran away with another man. I don't pretend to explain it. I don't pretend to condone it. This is not a discussion of ethics but a mere statement of history. All that I insist upon your understanding--is that I ran away from a legalized life of incessant fault-finding and criticism to an unlegalized life of absolute approval and love. "I cannot even admit, after the first big wrench, of course, that I greatly regretted the little child I left behind. Mothers are always supposed to regret such things I know, but I was not perhaps a normal mother. I suffered, of course, but it was a suffering that I could stand. I could not stand, it seems, the suffering of living with my child's father. "My husband followed us after a few months, not so much for outraged love, I think, as for vindictiveness. We met in a cafe, the three of us. My husband and my lover were both cool-blooded men. My lover was a Quaker who had never yet lifted his hand against any man. The two men started arguing. I came of a hot- blooded family. I had never seen men arguing only about a woman before. More than that I was vain. I was foolish. The biggest portrait painter of the hour had chosen me for what he considered would be his masterpiece. I taunted my lover and my husband with the fact that neither of them loved me. John Stoltor struck my husband. It was the first blow. My husband made a furious attack on him. I tried to intervene. He struck me instead, with such damage as you note. Enraged beyond all sanity at the sight, John Stoltor killed him. "Even then, so overwrought as I was, so bewildered with my mouth all cut and bleeding, I snatched up a mirror to gauge the extent of my ruin. John Stoltor spoke to me--the only harsh words of his life. "Your damage can be repaired in an hour," he said--"but his--mine--_never_!" "It was at that moment they took him away--almost fifteen years--it has been. He did not have to pay the extreme penalty. There were extenuating circumstances the judge thought. His time expires next month. I am waiting for him. I have been waiting for fifteen years. At least he will see that I have subjugated my vanity. I swore that I would never mend my damage until I could help him mend his." With a little gesture of fatigue she turned to Rollins. "This is the story of the broken tooth," she finished, quite abruptly. "Wasn't Allan John even listening?" I thought. With everyone else's eyes fairly glued to Ann Woltor's arresting face, even now, at the supreme climax of her narrative, his eyes seemed focussed far away. Instinctively I followed his gaze. At the top of the stairs, her arms holding tight to the banisters for support, sat the May Girl! In the almost breathless moment that ensued, Rollins swallowed twice only too audibly. "All the same"--insisted Rollins hesitatingly, "all the same--I really do think that----" With a little cry that might have meant almost anything, the Bride jumped up suddenly and threw her arms around Ann Woltor's neck. Even at twilight time everybody was still discussing the problem of the May Girl. Certainly there was plenty of problem to discuss. The question of an innocent young girl on the very verge of her young womanhood. The question of a practically unknown mother. The question of a shattered unrelated man coming fresh to them from fifteen years in prison. The question even of Dr. Brawne. Everybody had his or her own impractical or unsatisfactory solution to suggest. Everybody, that is, except Allan John. Allan John as usual had nothing to say. Upstairs, in the privacy of her own room, Ann Woltor and the May Girl, without undue emotion, were very evidently threshing out the problem for themselves. Yet when they came down and joined us just before supper-time, it was only too evident from their tired faces that they had reached no happier conclusion than ours. George Keets and my Husband brought the May Girl down. Claude Kennilworth, quite in his old form, save for his splinted arm, superintended the expedition. "It's her being so beastly long," scolded Kennilworth, "that makes the job so hard!" In the depths of the big leather chair the May Girl didn't look very long to me, but she did look astonishingly frail. With a gesture of despair. Ann Woltor turned to her companions, as if she had read our thoughts. "There isn't any solution," she said. Why all of us turned just then to Allan John I don't know, but it became perfectly evident to everyone at that moment that Allan John was about to speak. "It seems quite clear to me," said Allan John simply. "It seems quite natural to me somehow," he added, "that you should all come home with me to my ranch in Montana. The little girl needs it--the big outdoors--the animals--the life she craves. You need it," he said, turning to Ann Woltor, "the peace of it, the balm of it. But most of all John Stoltor will need it when it is time for him to come. Far from prying eyes, safe from intrusive questionings, that certainly will be the perfect chance for you all to plan out your new lives together. How much it would mean to me not to have to go back alone I need not say." Startled at his insight, compelled by his sincerity, Ann Woltor saw order dawn suddenly out of the chaos of her emotions. From her frankly quivering lips a single protest wavered. "But Allan John," she cried, "you've only known us four days." Across Allan John's haggard face flickered the faintest possible suggestion of a smile. "I was a stranger--and you took me in." With the weirdest possible sense of supernatural benediction, the dark room flooded suddenly with light. From the window, just beyond me, I heard my Husband's astonished exclamation: "Look, Mary," he cried, "come quickly." At an instant I was at his side. Across the murky western sky the tumultuous storm-clouds had broken suddenly into silver and gold. In a blaze of glory the setting sun fairly streamed into our faces. Struggling up from the depths of her chair to view it--even the May Girl's pallid cheeks caught up their share of the radiance. "Oh, Allan John," she laughed, "just see what you have done--you've shined up all the world." With a curiously significant expression on his face my Husband leaned toward me quickly. "Ring down the curtain, quick," he whispered. "The Play's done--_Rainy Week_ is over." 
40463	----	[Illustration: Cover] THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HOLIDAYS (Trade Mark) Works of ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON The Little Colonel Series (_Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of._) Each one vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated The Little Colonel Stories $1.50 (Containing in one volume the three stories, "The Little Colonel," "The Giant Scissors," and "Two Little Knights of Kentucky.") The Little Colonel's House Party 1.50 The Little Colonel's Holidays 1.50 The Little Colonel's Hero 1.50 The Little Colonel at Boarding-School 1.50 The Little Colonel in Arizona 1.50 The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation 1.50 The Little Colonel: Maid of Honor 1.50 The Little Colonel's Knight Comes Riding 1.50 The above 9 vols., _boxed_ 13.50 _In Preparation_--A New Little Colonel Book 1.50 * * * * * The Little Colonel Good Times Book 1.50 Illustrated Holiday Editions Each one vol., small quarto, cloth, illustrated, and printed in colour The Little Colonel $1.25 The Giant Scissors 1.25 Two Little Knights of Kentucky 1.25 Big Brother 1.25 Cosy Corner Series Each one vol., thin 12mo, cloth, illustrated The Little Colonel $.50 The Giant Scissors .50 Two Little Knights of Kentucky .50 Big Brother .50 Ole Mammy's Torment .50 The Story of Dago .50 Cicely .50 Aunt 'Liza's Hero .50 The Quilt that Jack Built .50 Flip's "Islands of Providence" .50 Mildred's Inheritance .50 Other Books Joel: A Boy of Galilee $1.50 In the Desert of Waiting .50 The Three Weavers .50 Keeping Tryst .50 The Legend of the Bleeding Heart .50 Asa Holmes 1.00 Songs Ysame (Poems, with Albion Fellows Bacon) 1.00 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 200 Summer Street Boston, Mass. [Illustration: "AUNT CINDY DARTED AN ANGRY LOOK AT HER SWORN ENEMY." (_See Page 25_)] The Little Colonel's Holidays By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON Author of "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," "The Story of Dago," "The Little Colonel's House Party," etc. Illustrated by L. J. BRIDGMAN [Illustration] BOSTON L. C. PAGE & COMPANY PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1901_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ _Twelfth Impression, March, 1908_ TO "The Little Captain" and his sisters WHOSE PROUDEST HERITAGE IS THAT THEY BEAR THE NAME OF A NATION'S HERO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE MAGIC KETTLE 11 II. THE END OF THE SUMMER 17 III. BACK TO THE CUCKOO'S NEST 31 IV. TO BARLEY-BRIGHT 46 V. A TIME FOR PATIENCE 60 VI. MOLLY'S STORY 74 VII. A FEAST OF SAILS 91 VIII. EUGENIA JOINS THE SEARCH 105 IX. LEFT BEHIND 116 X. HOME-LESSONS AND JACK-O'-LANTERNS 129 XI. A HALLOWE'EN PARTY 146 XII. THE HOME OF A HERO 164 XIII. THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING 180 XIV. LLOYD MAKES A DISCOVERY 200 XV. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS 216 XVI. A PEEP INTO THE FUTURE 231 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE "AUNT CINDY DARTED AN ANGRY LOOK AT HER SWORN ENEMY" (_see page 25_) _Frontispiece_ "TO THEIR EXCITED FANCY SHE SEEMED A REAL WITCH" 57 "THE PICTURE PASSED AROUND THE CIRCLE" 103 "THE PLAN WORKED LIKE A CHARM" 130 "SHE BEGAN THE OLD RHYME" 159 THE BUTTERFLY CARNIVAL 183 "'OH, _WHAT_ IS YOUR NAME?'" 208 "THE LITTLE HAND HELD HERS" 226 THE LITTLE COLONEL'S (_Trade Mark_) HOLIDAYS. CHAPTER I. THE MAGIC KETTLE. ONCE upon a time, so the story goes (you may read it for yourself in the dear old tales of Hans Christian Andersen), there was a prince who disguised himself as a swineherd. It was to gain admittance to a beautiful princess that he thus came in disguise to her father's palace, and to attract her attention he made a magic caldron, hung around with strings of silver bells. Whenever the water in the caldron boiled and bubbled, the bells rang a little tune to remind her of him. "Oh, thou dear Augustine, All is lost and gone," they sang. Such was the power of the magic kettle, that when the water bubbled hard enough to set the bells a-tinkling, any one holding his hand in the steam could smell what was cooking in every kitchen in the kingdom. It has been many a year since the swineherd's kettle was set a-boiling and its string of bells a-jingling to satisfy the curiosity of a princess, but a time has come for it to be used again. Not that anybody nowadays cares to know what his neighbour is going to have for dinner, but all the little princes and princesses in the kingdom want to know what happened next. "What happened after the Little Colonel's house party?" they demand, and they send letters to the Valley by the score, asking "Did Betty go blind?" "Did the two little Knights of Kentucky ever meet Joyce again or find the Gate of the Giant Scissors?" Did the Little Colonel ever have any more good times at Locust, or did Eugenia ever forget that she too had started out to build a Road of the Loving Heart? It would be impossible to answer all these questions through the post-office, so that is why the magic kettle has been dragged from its hiding-place after all these years, and set a-boiling once more. Gather in a ring around it, all you who want to know, and pass your curious fingers through its wreaths of rising steam. Now you shall see the Little Colonel and her guests of the house party in turn, and the bells shall ring for each a different song. But before they begin, for the sake of some who may happen to be in your midst for the first time, and do not know what it is all about, let the kettle give them a glimpse into the past, that they may be able to understand all that is about to be shown to you. Those who already know the story need not put their fingers into the steam, until the bells have rung this explanation in parenthesis. (In Lloydsboro Valley stands an old Southern mansion, known as "Locust." The place is named for a long avenue of giant locust-trees stretching a quarter of a mile from house to entrance gate, in a great arch of green. Here for years an old Confederate colonel lived all alone save for the negro servants. His only child, Elizabeth, had married a Northern man against his wishes, and gone away. From that day he would not allow her name to be spoken in his presence. But she came back to the Valley when her little daughter Lloyd was five years old. People began calling the child the Little Colonel because she seemed to have inherited so many of her grandfather's lordly ways as well as a goodly share of his high temper. The military title seemed to suit her better than her own name, for in her fearless baby fashion she won her way into the old man's heart, and he made a complete surrender. Afterward when she and her mother and "Papa Jack" went to live with him at Locust, one of her favourite games was playing soldier. The old man never tired of watching her march through the wide halls with his spurs strapped to her tiny slipper heels, and her dark eyes flashing out fearlessly from under the little Napoleon cap she wore. She was eleven when she gave her house party. One of the guests was Joyce Ware, whom some of you have met, perhaps, in "The Gate of the Giant Scissors," a bright thirteen-year-old girl from the West. Eugenia Forbes was another. She was a distant cousin of Lloyd's, who had no home-life like the other girls. Her winters were spent in a fashionable New York boarding-school, and her summers at the Waldorf-Astoria, except the few weeks when her busy father could find time to take her to some seaside resort. The third guest, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, or Betty, as every one lovingly called her, was Mrs. Sherman's little god-daughter. She was an orphan, boarding on a backwoods farm on Green River. She had never been on the cars until Lloyd's invitation found its way to the Cuckoo's Nest. Only these three came to stay in the house, but Malcolm and Keith MacIntyre (the two little Knights of Kentucky) were there nearly every day. So was Rob Moore, one of the Little Colonel's summer neighbours. The four Bobs were four little fox terrier puppies named for Rob, who had given one to each of the girls. They were so much alike they could only be distinguished by the colour of the ribbons tied around their necks. Tarbaby was the Little Colonel's pony, and Lad the one that Betty rode during her visit. After six weeks of picnics and parties, and all sorts of surprises and good times, the house party came to a close with a grand feast of lanterns. Joyce regretfully went home to the little brown house in Plainsville, Kansas, taking her Bob with her. Eugenia and her father went to New York, but not until they had promised to come back for Betty in the fall, and take her abroad with them. It was on account of something that had happened at the house party, but which is too long a tale to repeat here. Betty stayed on at Locust until the end of the summer in the House Beautiful, as she called her godmother's home, and here on the long vine-covered porch, with its stately white pillars, you shall see them first through the steam of the magic caldron.) * * * * * Listen! Now the kettle boils and the bells begin the story! CHAPTER II. THE END OF THE SUMMER. "Oh, the sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home, 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay, The corn-top's ripe and the meadows are in bloom, And the birds make music all the day." IT was Malcolm who started the old tune, thrumming a soft accompaniment on his banjo, as he sat leaning against one of the great white pillars of the vine-covered porch. Then Betty, swinging in a hammock with a new _St. Nicholas_ in her lap, began to hum with him. Rob Moore, sitting on the step below, took it up next, whistling it softly, but the Little Colonel and Keith went on talking. It was a warm September afternoon, and all down the long avenue of giant locust-trees there was scarcely a leaf astir. Keith fanned himself with his hat as he talked. "I wish schools had never been invented," he exclaimed, "or else there was a law that they couldn't begin until cold weather. It makes me wild when I think of having to go back to Louisville to-morrow and begin lessons in that hot old town. Lloyd, I don't believe that you are half thankful enough for being able to live in the country all the year round." "But it isn't half so nice out heah aftah you all leave," answered the Little Colonel. "You don't know how lonesome the Valley is with you all gone. I can't beah to pass Judge Moore's place for weeks aftah the house is closed for the season. It makes me feel as if somebody's dead when I see every window shut and all the blinds down. When Betty goes home next week I don't know how I shall stand it to be all by myself. This has been such a lovely summah." "We've had some jolly good times, that's a fact," answered Keith with a sigh, to think that they were so nearly over. Then beating time with his foot to the music of Malcolm's banjo, he began to sing with the others: "'Oh, weep no more, my lady, weep no more to-day. We will sing one song for my old Kentucky home, For my old Kentucky home far away.'" Something in the mournful melody, coupled with the thought that this was the end of the summer, and the last of such visits to beautiful old Locust for many a long day, touched each face with a little shade of sadness. For several minutes after the last note of the song died away no one spoke. The only sounds were the bird-calls, and the voices of the cook's grandchildren, who were playing on the other side of the house. As in many old Southern mansions, the kitchen at Locust was a room some distance back from the house. In the path that led from one to the other, three little darkies were romping and tumbling over each other like three black kittens. Fat old Aunt Cindy, waddling into the pantry to flour-bin or sugar-barrel, glanced at them occasionally through the open window to see that they were in no mischief, and then went calmly on with her baking. She knew that they were not like white children who need a nurse to watch every step. They had taken care of themselves and each other from the time that they had learned to crawl. In Aunt Cindy's slow journeys around the kitchen, she stopped from time to time to open the oven door and peep in. Finally she flung it wide open, and, with a satisfied grunt, took out a big square pan. A warm delicious odour filled the kitchen, and floated out around the house to the group on the porch. "I smell gingerbread!" exclaimed Rob, starting up and sniffing the air excitedly with his short freckled nose. "Me too!" exclaimed Keith. "It's the best thing I ever smelled in my life. Doesn't it make you hungry?" "Fairly starved!" answered Malcolm. Lloyd tiptoed to the end of the porch and listened. "If Aunt Cindy's singin' one of her old camp-meetin' tunes then I'd know she was feelin' good, and I wouldn't mind tellin' her that we wanted the whole pan full. But if she happened to be in one of her black tempahs I wouldn't da'h ask for a crumb. She always grumbles if she has to cut a cake while it's hot. She says it spoils them. No, she isn't singin' a note." "Somebody might slip it out while she isn't looking," suggested Rob. "I'd offer to try, but Aunt Cindy seems to have a grudge against me. She cracked me over the head one day with a gourd dipper, because I spilled molasses on the pantry floor. We wanted to make some candy, and Lloyd sent me in through the window to get it. I dropped the jug, and Aunt Cindy charged at me so furiously that I went out of that window a sight faster than I came in. Whew! I can feel that whack yet!" he added, screwing up his face, and rubbing his head. "You'd better believe I've kept out of her reach ever since." "I'll tell you what let's do," suggested Keith, growing hungrier every minute as he snuffed that tantalising fragrance. "Let's play that Aunt Cindy is an ogre, a dreadful old fat black ogre, and the gingerbread is some kind of a magic cake that will break the spell she has cast over us, if we can only manage to get it and eat some." "Oh, yes," agreed Rob, eagerly. "Don't you remember the story that Joyce used to tell us about the Giant Scissors that could do anything they were bidden, if the command were only given in rhyme? Whoever rescues the cake will be the magic Scissors. We can draw lots to see who will be it. Make up a rhyme somebody." "Giant Scissahs, so bewitchin', Get the cake out of the kitchen!" ventured the Little Colonel after a moment's thought. "Giant Scissors, for our sake Will you please to take the cake." added Malcolm, while Betty followed with the suggestion: "Giant Scissors, rush ahead And bring us back the gingerbread." "That's the best one," said Rob, "for that calls the article that we're starving for by name. Now we'll draw lots and see who has to play the part of the Scissors and storm old Gruffanuff's castle." Carefully arranging five blades of grass between his thumbs, he passed around the circle, saying, "The one who draws the shortest piece has to be 'it.'" There was a shout from all the others and a groan from himself when he discovered that the shortest piece had been left between his own thumbs. "I'll have to put on my thinking cap and plan some way to get it by strategy," he exclaimed, dropping down on the steps again to consider. "I wouldn't brave Aunt Cindy in single combat any more than I'd beard a lion in his den. Help me think of something, all of you." Just then the three little pickaninnies, who had been playing in the path by the kitchen door, ran around the corner of the porch in hot pursuit of a grasshopper. "Here, Pearline," called Rob, beckoning to the largest and blackest of them. The child stopped and came slowly toward him. Her head, with its tight little braids of wool sticking out in all directions like tails, was tipped shyly to one side. One finger was in her mouth. With the other hand she was nervously plucking at the skirt of her red calico dress. "What's your gran'mammy doing now?" inquired Rob. "Beatin' aigs in de kitchen." Pearline was wriggling and screwing her little black toes around in the dust as she answered, almost overcome with embarrassment. "Pearline," said Rob, lowering his voice impressively, "do you think that you could slip into the kitchen as e-easy as a creep-mouse and tiptoe into the pantry behind your gran'mammy's back and pass that pan of gingerbread out through the window to me while she isn't looking? I'll give you a nickel if you'll try." Pearline gave a swift inquiring look toward the Little Colonel, and seeing her nod consent, she turned to Rob with a delighted flash of white teeth and eye-balls. "Yessa, Mist Rob. I kin do it if you'll come whilst she's makin' a racket beatin' aigs. But she'll bus' my haid open suah, if she cotch me." "Mothah doesn't care if we have the gingahbread," said the Little Colonel, and Rob added, reassuringly, "We won't let her touch you. Now I'm going all the way around by the spring-house, so she can't see me, for I'm her sworn enemy. When I get under the pantry window I'll call like some bird--say a pewee. When you hear that, Pearline, you just come a-jumping. She always sets the things out on that shelf under the pantry window to cool, and you slip in and pass that gingerbread out to me before she has time to guess what's happened." Rob started off, and a moment later the clear call of "pewee" floated up from under the pantry window, to the waiting group on the porch. "Come on, let's see the ogre get him," called Keith. Just as they rushed around the corner of the house they heard a scream, and then a mighty clatter of falling tinware in the kitchen made them pause. There was a scurry of flying feet through the orchard, and a snapping of dry twigs. Rob had made his escape with the gingerbread, but hapless Pearline had fallen into the clutches of the ogre. Only for a moment, however. Through the window came a flash of red calico, and up the path two bare black legs went flying like run-away windmills. The broad slap-slap of Aunt Cindy's pursuing slipper soles followed, but it was an uneven race. Pearline, wasting not a single breath in outcry, fled around the house and down the avenue like a swift black shadow, and her panting pursuer was left to hold her fat sides in helpless wrath. "Just you wait till I get my hands on you, chile," she called with an angry toss of her white-turbaned head. "I'll make you sma't! I'll learn you to come carryin' off white folkses vittles an' scarin' me out of my seven senses!" "No, Aunt Cindy, you sha'n't touch her! You mustn't do a thing to Pearline," called the Little Colonel, meeting her squarely in the path and stamping her foot. "It's all ou' fault, because we sent her, and it was Rob who carried off the gingahbread. There he comes now." Aunt Cindy darted an angry look at her sworn enemy, as he came up with hands and mouth both full. Then facing the children, with her hands on her hips, she launched into such a scolding as only an old black mammy, who has faithfully served three generations of a family, is permitted to give. "For mercy sakes, Aunt Cindy, what are you making such a fuss for?" exclaimed Keith. "It's all your own fault. You know as well as we do that nobody in the Valley can make cake as good as yours. You oughtn't to have tempted us with such delicious gingerbread. It's the best I ever tasted." Here he stuffed his mouth full again, with an ecstatic "_Yum_, but that's good," and passed the plate back to Betty. There was no resisting the flattery of Keith's expression as he swallowed the stolen sweets. A grim smile twitched Aunt Cindy's black face, but to hide the fact that her vanity had been touched by the chorus of unstinted praise which followed Keith's compliments, she began flapping her face with her gingham apron. "Oh, you go 'long!" she exclaimed, in a gruff voice. But knowing Aunt Cindy, they knew that they had appeased her, and even Pearline need no longer fear her wrath, although she grumbled loudly all the way back to her savoury kitchen. They carried the plate around to the porch, followed by the three Bobs in their big bows of yellow, pink, and green, who tumbled around their feet, begging for crumbs until the last one was eaten, and then curled up in the hammock beside Betty. "I wonder what we'll be doing ten years from now," said Malcolm, as he picked up his banjo again and began striking soft chords. He was looking dreamily down the long locust avenue where the afternoon shadows were lengthening across the lawn. "I'll be through college by that time, and Rob and Keith will be starting back for their junior year. You girls will be out in society probably, and old Aunt Cindy will surely be dead and gone. I wonder if we'll ever sit here together again and talk about old times and laugh over this afternoon--the way Pearline flew through that window. Wasn't it funny?" "I am more interested in what I may be doing ten weeks from now," said Betty. "I haven't an idea whether I'll be in London or Paris or the Black Forest. I don't know where Cousin Carl expects to take us first. But I'd rather not know. The whole trip is sure to be full of delightful surprises as a fruit-cake is of goodies. I'd rather happen on them as they come, than crumble it up to find what there'll be ten bites ahead." "Well, I know what I'll be doing," said the Little Colonel, decidedly. "School begins then, and it will be the same old things ovah and ovah again. Music lessons, practice an' school; school an' practice an' music lessons. Oh, I know what is ahead of me. All plain cake without a single plum in it." "Don't be so sure of that, little daughter," said a pleasant voice in the doorway, and looking up, they saw Mrs. Sherman standing there with an open letter in her hand. "We can never be sure of our to-morrows, or even our to-days, and here is a surprise for you to begin with, Lloyd." Malcolm sprang up to bring her a chair, and Lloyd tumbled the Bobs out of the hammock that she might take their place beside Betty, while she listened to the reading of the letter. "It is from Mrs. Appleton--from your Cousin Hetty," began Mrs. Sherman, turning to Betty. "I wrote her that you wanted to go back to the farm a little while before starting abroad with Eugenia and her father, and this is her answer. She has invited Lloyd and me to go with you for a short visit." "Oh, godmother! And you'll go?" cried Betty, nearly spilling Lloyd out of the hammock as she sprang up in joyful surprise. "You don't know how I've dreaded leaving you and dear old Locust. It will not be half so hard if you can go with me, and I want you both to see Davy and all the places I've talked about so often." "But how can I miss school, mothah?" cried the Little Colonel. "I'll fall behind in all my classes." "Not so far but that you can make it up afterward by a little extra study. Besides, you will be going to school every day that you are away. I don't mean the kind you are thinking of," she hastened to say, seeing the look of wonder in Lloyd's eyes. "But every day will be a school day and you'll learn more of some things than all your books can teach you. There are all sorts of lessons waiting for you in the Cuckoo's Nest." Lloyd and Betty gave each other a delighted hug while Rob remarked, mournfully, "I wish my father and mother wanted me to have some school days that are all holidays. Think of it, boys, not a line of Latin." The five o'clock train came rumbling down the track with a shrill warning whistle, as it passed the entrance gate at Locust. "It is time to go, Keith," exclaimed Malcolm. "You know we promised grandmother and Aunt Allison to be back at half-past five. We must say good-bye now, for ten whole months." "It will be longer than that for me," said Betty, wistfully, as the boys came up to shake hands. "There is no telling what will happen with the ocean between us. But no matter where I go, I'll never forget how lovely you have all been to me this summer, and I'll always think of this as the dearest spot on earth,--my old Kentucky home." They watched the three boys go strolling off down the avenue, shoulder to shoulder, feeling that all the good times were disappearing with them. Then they fell to talking of the Cuckoo's Nest, and making plans for their visit. But what happened there must wait to be told at the second bubbling of the caldron and another ringing of the bells. CHAPTER III. BACK TO THE CUCKOO'S NEST. IT was very early on a bright September morning that Mrs. Sherman, Betty, and Lloyd took the train for the Cuckoo's Nest; but there was such a long time to wait at the little way station where they changed cars, that it was nearly sundown when they came to the end of their journey. Mr. Appleton was waiting for them with the big farm wagon, into which he lifted Betty's Bob, whining in his hamper, Mrs. Sherman's trunk, and then Betty's shabby little leather one that had gone away half empty. It was coming back now, nearly bursting with all that her godmother had packed into it with the magic necklace, "for love's sweet sake." "Shall we have to wait long for the carriage?" asked Lloyd, shading her eyes with her hand to look down the dusty road. "There is nothing in sight now." Mr. Appleton gave a hearty laugh as he pointed with his whip to the wagon. "That's the kind of a carriage folks ride in out here," he said. "I reckon you never rode in one before. Well, it will be a new experience for you, for it jolts considerable. I couldn't put in more than one spring seat on account of the trunks, but there's room enough for you and your ma beside me, and I brought along a little stool for Betty to sit on." Lloyd's face flushed at her mistake, and she was very quiet as they drove along. The wagon did "jolt considerable," as Mr. Appleton said, and she wondered if she should find everything as queer during her visit as this ride from the railroad station to the house. The spring seat was so high that her feet dangled helplessly. She could not touch the floor of the wagon bed even with her toes. Every time they went down a hill she had to clutch her mother's arm to keep from pitching forward on top of Betty, seated on the low stool at her feet. Betty was quiet, too, thinking how much had happened in the three months since she had passed along that road. She had gone away in a sunbonnet, with an old-fashioned brown wicker basket on her arm, and a feeling in her frightened little heart that the world was a great jungle, full of all sorts of unknown terrors. She was coming back now, in a hat as stylish as Lloyd's own, with a handsome little travelling satchel in her hands, and a heartful of beautiful memories; for she had met nothing but kindness, so far as she had travelled in the world's wide jungle. "There's the schoolhouse," she cried, presently, with a thrill of pleasure as they passed the deserted playground, overgrown with weeds. It was still vacation time in this country district. "There's our playhouse under the thorn-tree," she added, half rising from the stool to point it out to Lloyd. "And that bare spot by the well-shed is where we play vineyard and prisoner's base. We always have so much fun at recess." The Little Colonel looked where Betty pointed, but the weather-beaten schoolhouse, the weeds, and the trampled spot of ground did not suggest any good times to her. It seemed the lonesomest, dreariest place she had ever seen, and she turned away with a slight shrug of the shoulders. Not so slight, however, but Betty saw it. Then, suddenly she began to look at everything through the Little Colonel's eyes. Somehow everything began to appear ragged and gone-to-seed and little and countrified and common. So she did not exclaim again when they passed any of the other old landmarks that had grown dear to her from long acquaintance. There was the half-way tree, and the bridge where they always stopped to lean over the railing and make rings in the water below, by dropping pebbles into the clear pools. And there was the flat rock where they could nearly always find a four-leaf clover, and, farther along, the stile where a pet toad lived. She and Davy always pretended that the toad was a toll-gate keeper who would not let them climb the stile unless they paid him with flies. All these places were dear to Betty, and she had intended to point them out to Lloyd as they went along; but after that shrug, she felt that they would have no interest for any one but herself. So she sat quietly on the little stool, wishing that Lloyd could enjoy the ride home as much as she was doing. "Oh, how lonesome looking!" exclaimed Lloyd, as they turned the last corner and came to the graveyard, with its gleaming tombstones. Betty only smiled in reply. They were like old friends to her, but of course Lloyd could not understand that. She had never strolled among them with Davy on summer afternoons, or parted the tangled grass and myrtle vines to read the names and verses on the mossy marbles, or smelled the pinks and lilies growing over the neglected mounds. The wild rose was gone, that had hung over the old gray picket-fence to wave good-bye to Betty the morning she went away, but the same bush held out a long straggling branch that almost touched her face as they drove past, and the sunset glow shone pink across it. Beside it was the headstone with the marble hand for ever pointing to the place in the marble book where were deeply carven the letters of the text, "_Be ye also ready_." With that familiar greeting Betty felt that at last she had really reached home, and indeed that she had scarcely been away. For everything was just as she had left it, from the spicy smell of the cedar boughs, to the soft cooing of a dove in a distant woodland. Cow-bells jingled in the lane, and the country quiet and contentment seemed to fill the meadows, as the sunset glow filled all the evening sky. "There's Davy," said Mr. Appleton, as a chubby, barefoot boy came racing down the lane to open the gate for them, and then hang on the back of the wagon as it rattled along to the house. "He has been talking about you all week, Betty. He couldn't eat any dinner to-day, he was so excited about your coming." Betty smiled back at the beaming little face, as shining as yellow soap and perfect happiness could make it, and her conscience smote her that she had not missed him more, and written to him oftener while she was away from him. But however great his loneliness might have been, it was all forgotten at the sight of her, and his delight was unbounded when the hamper was unstrapped and Bob came tumbling out to frisk over his bare toes. "Now Betty will have two shadows," laughed Mr. Appleton. "That boy follows her everywhere." Betty led the way into the house. On the porch steps Lloyd stopped her to whisper: "Mercy, Betty! How many children are there?" Several tow heads like Davy's were peering around the corner of the house, and a two-year-old baby toddled across the porch, squeezing a kitten in his arms. "There are six, altogether," answered Betty. "Scott is just Rob Moore's age, but he is so bashful that you'll not see much of him. Then there's Bradley. He is such a tease that we keep out of his way as much as possible. Davy comes next. He's the nicest in the bunch. Then Morgan is six, and Lee is four, and that's the baby over there. They haven't named him yet, so the boys just call him Pudding." "And is that your cousin Hetty?" whispered Lloyd, as a tall, thin woman came out on the porch to greet her guests. In that greeting Betty forgot that Mrs. Appleton was only a fourth cousin, her welcome was so warm; she thought only how nice it was to have a family to come back to. Looking into the woman's tired face with eyes that had grown wiser in the summer's absence, the child saw that it was hard work and care that had made it grow old before its time, and realised that the tenderness she had longed for had been withheld only because her cousin Hetty had been too overworked to take time to show it. "Maybe she might have been as bright and sweet as godmother, if she hadn't had to work so hard," thought Betty. "Still I can't imagine godmother saying snappy cross things, no matter how tired she might get." "Supper's 'most ready," said Mrs. Appleton, ushering them into the house. "I reckon you'll want to tidy up a bit after that long ride on the dusty cars. Well, Molly didn't forget to fill the water-pitcher, after all, though she usually forgets everything, unless I'm at her heels every blessed minute to remind her." "Molly!" repeated Betty, in surprise. "Who is she?" "Oh, I forgot you didn't know. She is an orphan I took from the asylum soon after you left. It's been such a hard summer that I had to have somebody to help, so Mr. Appleton went to St. Joseph's orphan asylum and picked me out this girl. She's fourteen, and big for her age, but as wild as a Comanche Indian. So I can't say she's been as much help as I'd hoped for. But she's good to the baby, and she can wash dishes. They taught her that at the asylum. I tell you I've missed _you_, Betty. I didn't realise how many steps you saved me until you were gone. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Sherman, I'll go and see about supper. You'll find your room just as you left it, Betty." As the door closed behind her and Betty, the Little Colonel turned to her mother with a puzzled face. "Did you evah see anything so queah in all yo' life?" she asked. "A bed in the pahlah! What if somebody should come to call aftah I've gone to sleep. Oh, I think this place is awful! I don't see how people can be happy, living in such an odd way." "That is your first holiday lesson," said Mrs. Sherman, beginning to unpack her travelling bag. "You'll have to learn that our way of living is not the only way, and that people can be just as good and useful and happy in one place as another. Some people are so narrow-minded that they never learn that. They are like car-wheels that can move only when they have a certain kind of track to run on. You can be that kind of a person, or you can be like a bicycle, able to run on any road, from the narrowest path to the broadest avenue. I've found that people who can fit themselves to any road they may happen to be on are the happiest, and they are the easiest to live with. That is one of the greatest accomplishments any one can have, Lloyd. I'd rather have my little daughter able to adapt herself gracefully to all circumstances, than to sing or paint or model or embroider. "You are going to find things very different here from what you have been accustomed to at home, but it wouldn't be polite or kind to appear to notice any difference. For instance, some of the best people I ever knew think it is silly to serve dinner in courses, as we do. They like to see everything on the table at once,--soup, salad, meats, and desserts." "I hate everything all higgledy-piggledy!" muttered the Little Colonel, with her face in a towel. "I'll try not to show it, mothah, but I'm afraid I can't help it sometimes." Meanwhile, Betty, with Davy tagging after her, and Bob frisking on ahead, had started up the steps to her own little room in the west gable. As she turned on the landing, the door at the foot of the stairs moved slightly, and she caught the gleam of a pair of sharp gray eyes peering at her through the crack. "It's Molly!" whispered Davy, catching Betty's skirts, and scrambling after her as fast as his short fat legs would allow. "Say, Betty, did you know that she's a _witch_? She says that she can go through keyholes, and that on dark nights she sails away over the chimney on a broomstick with a black cat on her shoulder. Even Scott and Bradley are afraid of her. They dasn't do anything she tells them not to." "Sh!" whispered Betty, warningly, with a backward glance over her shoulder. The girl behind the door had stepped out on the landing for a better view, but she darted back to her hiding-place as Betty turned, and their eyes met. "She looks like a gypsy," thought Betty, noticing her straight black hair hanging around her eyes. "And she seems ready to dodge at a word." "She tells us ghost stories every night after supper," exclaimed Davy. They had reached the gable room, and, while Betty hung up her hat and unlocked her trunk, he curled himself up comfortably on the foot of her bed. "She can make you shiver no matter how hot a night it is." Betty scarcely noticed what the boy was saying. At any other time she would have been surprised at his talking so much. Just now she was looking around her with a feeling of strangeness. Everything seemed so much smaller than when she had left the place. Her room had not seemed bare and cheerless before she went away, because she had seen no better. But now, remembering the pretty room that had been hers in the House Beautiful, the tears came into her eyes. For a moment the contrast made her homesick. Instead of the crystal candlesticks, here was a battered tin one. Here were no filmy curtains at the windows, no white fur rugs on a dark polished floor. Only a breadth of faded rag carpet, spread down on bare unpainted boards. Here was no white toilet-table with furnishings of gold and ivory; no polished mirror in which she could see herself from head to foot. She looked mournfully into the tiny looking-glass that was so small that she could see only one-half of her face at a time. Then from force of habit she stood on tiptoe to see the other half. The mouth was not smiling as it used to in the old days. She was recalled from her homesick reverie by Davy's voice again. "Molly didn't want you and that other girl to come here," he confided. "She said you'd be snobs; that all rich people were. Bradley asked Molly what a snob was, and said if it was anything bad that she shouldn't call you that, 'cause you wasn't one, and always tied his fingers up when he cut hisself, and helped him with his mul'plication tables and everything. And Molly said she'd call you what she pleased, and treat you just as mean as you deserved, and if we dared say a word she'd shut the first one that tried it up in the smoke-house in the dark; then she'd say _abra-ca-dab-ra_ over us." Davy's voice sank to a frightened whisper as he rolled the dread word over his tongue in unconscious imitation of Molly. He was quivering with excitement, and his cheeks were unusually red. He had talked more in the few minutes than he often did in days. "Why, Davy, what's the matter?" cried Betty. "What do you mean by abracadabra?" "Hush! Don't say it so loud," he begged earnestly. "It's Molly's hoodoo word. Bradley says she can conjure you with it, same as coloured folks when they put a rabbit's foot on you. I had to tell, 'cause I'm afraid Molly's going to do something mean to you." "Does your mother know that she tells you those silly things?" demanded Betty, turning on him quickly. But Davy had lost his tongue, now that his confession was made, and only shook his head in reply. "Then don't listen to her any more, Davy boy," she said, taking him by the ears and kissing him playfully, first on one dimpled cheek and then on the other. "Poor Molly doesn't know any better, and she must have lived with dreadful people before she went to the orphan asylum. You stay with Lloyd and me, after this, and don't have anything more to do with her when she tells you such stories." "That's just what she said you'd do," said Davy, finding his voice again. "She said that you and that other girl would be stuck up and wouldn't play with her, or let us either, and that she'd always be left out of everything. But she'd get even with you for coming in with your high and mighty airs and fine clothes to turn us against her." "That's the silliest thing I ever heard," answered Betty, indignantly. Then a puzzled look crept into her brown eyes, as she stood pouring out the water to wash her face. "I'll ask godmother about it," she said to herself. "She'll tell us how we ought to treat her." But there was no opportunity that evening. Molly sat down to the supper-table with them, much to the surprise of the Little Colonel, unused to the primitive customs of farm life, where no social difference is made between those who are served and those who do the serving. Remembering her mother's little sermon, she did not show her surprise by the smallest change of expression. After supper Betty offered to help with the dishes as usual, but her cousin Hetty sent her away, saying it would not do to soil her pretty travelling dress; that she was company now, and to run away and entertain Lloyd. So Betty, with a sigh of relief, went back to the porch, where Mr. Appleton, with Pudding in his lap, was talking with Mrs. Sherman. Betty hated dish-washing, and after her long holiday at the house party it seemed doubly hard to go back to such unpleasant duties. She did not see the swift jealous look that followed her from Molly's keen eyes, or the sullen pout that settled on the older girl's lips, as, left to herself, she rattled the cups and plates recklessly, in her envious mood. Out on the porch Betty sank into a comfortable rocking-chair, and sat looking up at the stars. "Isn't it sweet and still out here, godmother?" she asked, after awhile. "I love to hear that owl hooting away off in the woods, and listen to the pine-trees whispering that way, and the frogs croaking down in the meadow pond." "Oh, I don't," cried the Little Colonel, with something like a sob in her voice, as she nestled her head closer against her mother's shoulder. "It makes me feel as lonesome as when Mom Beck sings 'Fa'well, my dyin' friends.' I think they're the most doleful sounds I evah heard." Presently, when Mr. Appleton went in to carry the sleepy baby to bed, the Little Colonel put her arms around her mother's neck, whispering, "Oh, mothah, I wish we were back at Locust. I'm so homesick and disappointed in the place. Can't we go home in the mawnin'?" "I think my little girl is so tired and sleepy that she doesn't know what she wants," whispered Mrs. Sherman, in reply. "Come, let me take you to bed. You'll think differently in the morning. Do you remember the old song? "'Colours seen by candle-light Never look the same by day.'" CHAPTER IV. "TO BARLEY-BRIGHT." THE next few days went by happily for the Little Colonel, for Betty took her to all her favourite haunts, and kept her entertained from morning till night. Once they stayed all day in the woods below the barn, building a playhouse at the base of a great oak-tree, with carpets of moss, and cups and saucers made of acorns. Scott and Bradley joined them, and for once played peaceably, building a furnace in the ravine with some flat stones and an old piece of stove pipe. There they cooked their dinner. Davy was sent to raid the garden and spring-house, and even Lee and Morgan were allowed a place at the feast, when one came in with a hatful of guinea eggs that he had found in the orchard, and the other loaned his new red wheelbarrow, to add to the housekeeping outfit. "Isn't this fun!" exclaimed the Little Colonel, as she watched Betty, who stood over the furnace with a very red face, scrambling the eggs in an old pie-pan. "I bid to be the cook next time we play out here, and I'm going to make a furnace like this when I go back to Locust." High above them, up the hill, on the back porch of the farmhouse, Molly stood ironing sheets and towels. Whenever she glanced down into the shady hollow, she could see Lloyd's pink dress fluttering along the ravine, or Betty's white sunbonnet bobbing up from behind the rocks. The laughing voices and the shouts of the boys came tantalisingly to her ears, and the old sullen pout settled on her face as she listened. "It isn't fair that I should have to work all day long while they are off having a good time," she muttered, slapping an iron angrily down on the stove. "I s'pose they think that because I'm so big I oughtn't to care about playing; but I couldn't help growing so fast. If I _am_ nearly as big as Mrs. Appleton, that doesn't keep me from feeling like a little girl inside. I'm only a year older than Scott. I _hate_ them! I wish that little Sherman girl would fall into a brier patch and scratch her face, and that a hornet would sting Betty Lewis smack in the mouth!" By and by a tear sizzled down on the hot iron in her hand. "It isn't fair!" she sobbed again, "for them to have everything and me nothing, not even to know where my poor little sister is. Maybe somebody's beating her this very minute, or she is shut up in a dark closet crying for me." With that thought, all the distressing scenes that had made her past life miserable began to crowd into her mind, and the tears sizzled faster and faster on the hot iron, as she jerked it back and forth over a long towel. There had been beatings and dark closets for Molly many a time before she was rescued by the orphan asylum, and the great fear of her life was that there was still the same cruel treatment for the little sister who had not been rescued, but who had been hidden away by their drunken father when the Humane Society made its search for her. Three years had passed since they were lost from each other. Molly was only eleven then, and Dot, although nearly seven, was such a tiny, half-starved little thing that she seemed only a baby in her sister's eyes. Many a night, when the wind moaned in the chimney, or the rats scampered in the walls, Molly had started up out of a sound sleep, staring fearfully into the darkness, thinking that she had heard Dot calling to her. Then suddenly remembering that Dot was too far away to make her hear, no matter how wildly she might call, she had buried her face in her pillow, and sobbed and sobbed until she fell asleep. The matron of the asylum knew why she often came down in the morning with red eyes and swollen face, and the knowledge made her more patient with the wayward girl. Nobody taxed her patience more than Molly, with her unhappy moods, her outbursts of temper, and her suspicious, jealous disposition. She loved to play, and yelled and ran like some wild creature, whenever she had a chance, climbing the highest trees, making daring leaps from forbidden heights, and tearing her clothes into ribbons. But she rebelled at having to work, and in all the time she was at the asylum the matron had found only one lovable trait in her. It was her affection for the little lost sister that made her gentle to the smaller children on the place and kind to the animals. She had been happier since coming to the Appleton farm, where there were no rules, and the boys accepted her leadership admiringly. She found great pleasure in inventing wild tales for their entertainment, in frightening them with stories of ghosts and hobgoblins, and in teaching them new games which she had played in alleys with boot-blacks and street gamins. All that had stopped with the arrival of the visitors. Their coming brought her more work, and left her less time to play. The sight of Lloyd and Betty in their dainty dresses aroused her worst jealousy, and awoke the old bitterness that had grown up in her slum life, and that always raged within her whenever she saw people with whom fortune had dealt more kindly than with herself. All that day, while the seven happy children played and sang in the shady woodland, she went around at her work with a rebellious feeling against her lot. Everything she did was to the tune of a bitter refrain that kept echoing through her sore heart: "It isn't fair! It isn't fair!" Late in the afternoon a boy came riding up from the railroad station with a telegram for Mrs. Sherman. It was the first one that had ever been sent to the farm, and Bradley, who had gone up to the house for a hatchet, waited to watch Mrs. Sherman tear open the yellow envelope. "Take it to Lloyd, please," she said, after a hurried reading. "Tell her to hurry up to the house." Thrusting the message into his hand, she hurried out of the room, to find Mrs. Appleton. Bradley felt very important at being the bearer of a telegram, and ran down the hill as fast as his bare feet could carry him over the briers and dry stubble. He would have teased Lloyd awhile by making her guess what he had, before giving it to her, if it had not been for Mrs. Sherman's request to hurry. Lloyd read the message aloud. "_Aunt Jane alarmingly ill; wants to see you. Come immediately._" "Oh, how provoking!" she exclaimed. "I s'pose we'll have to start right off. We always do. We nevah plan to go anywhere or do anything without Aunt Jane gets sick and thinks she's goin' to die. She's an old, old lady," she hastened to explain, seeing Betty's shocked face. "She's my great-aunt, you know, 'cause she's my grandmothah's sistah. I wouldn't have minded it so much when we first came," she confessed, "but I don't want to leave now, one bit. We've had a lovely time to-day, and I hate to go away befo' I've seen the cave you promised to take me to and the Glenrock watahfall, and all those places." It never occurred to the Little Colonel that she might be left behind, until she reached the house and found her mother with her hat on, packing her satchel. "I've barely time to catch the next train," she said, as Lloyd came running into the room. "It is a two-mile drive to the station, you know, and there's not time to get you and all your things ready to take with me. It wouldn't be wise, anyhow, for everything is always in confusion at Aunt Jane's when she is ill. Mrs. Appleton will take good care of you, and you can follow me next week if Aunt Jane is better. Betty will come with you, and we'll have a nice little visit in the city while she does her shopping and gets ready for her journey. I'll write to you as soon as I can decide when it will be best for you to come. Aunt Jane's illness is probably half scare, like all her others, but still I feel that I must never lose a moment when she sends for me, as she might be worse than we think." Mrs. Sherman packed rapidly while she talked, and almost before Lloyd realised that she was really to be left behind, a light buckboard was at the door, and Mr. Appleton was standing beside the horse's head waiting. There was not even time for Lloyd to cling around her mother's neck and be petted and comforted for the sudden separation. There was a hasty hug, a loving kiss, and a whispered "Good-bye, little daughter. Mother's sorry to go without her little girl, but it can't be helped. The time will soon pass--only a week, and remember this is one of your school days, and the lesson set for you to learn is _Patience_." Lloyd smiled bravely while she promised to be good and not give Mrs. Appleton any trouble. Her mother, looking back as they drove away, saw the two little girls standing with their arms around each other, waving their handkerchiefs, and thought thankfully, "I am glad that Lloyd is here with Betty instead of at Locust. She'll not have time to be lonesome with so many playmates." It was hard for Lloyd to keep back the tears as the carriage passed out of sight around the corner of the graveyard. But Bradley challenged her to a race down-hill, and with a loud whoop they all started helter-skelter back to the ravine to play. She had been busy making some pine-cone chairs for the little parlour at the roots of the oak-tree, when the telegram called her away, and now she went back to that delightful occupation, working busily until the supper-horn blew to call the men from the field. It was always a pleasure to Lloyd to hear that horn, and several times she had puffed at it until she was red in the face, in her vain attempts to blow it herself. All the sound she could awaken was a short dismal toot. It was a cow's horn, carved and polished, that had been used for nearly forty years to call the men from the field. When Mrs. Appleton puckered her lips to blow it, her thin cheeks puffed out until they were as round and pink as the baby's, and the long mellow note went floating across the fields, clear and sweet, till the men at work in the farthest field heard it and answered with a far-away cheer. "Let's get Molly to play Barley-bright with us to-night," said Bradley, as they trudged up the hill. "It is a fine game, and if we help her with the dishes, she'll get done in just a few minutes, and we'll have nearly an hour to play before it gets dark." The same thought was in Molly's mind, for after supper she called the boys aside and whispered to them. She wanted to slip away from the girls and not allow them to join in the game; but Bradley would not listen to such an arrangement. He insisted that the game would not be any fun without them. Then Molly, growing jealous, turned away with a pout, saying that she might have known it would be that way. They had had plenty of fun before the girls came, but to go ahead and do as they pleased. It didn't make any difference to _her_. _She_ could get on very well by herself. Lloyd had gone down to the spring-house with Mrs. Appleton, but Betty heard the dispute and put an end to it at once. "Here!" she cried, catching up a towel. "Everybody come and help, and we'll be through before you can say Jack Robinson. Pour out the hot water, Molly. Get another towel, Bradley. We'll wipe, and Davy can carry the dishes to the pantry. We'll be through before Scott has half filled the wood-box." Molly could not keep her jealous mood and sulky frowns very long in the midst of the laughing chatter that followed, and in a very few minutes Betty had talked her into good humour with herself and all the world. Such light work did the many hands make of the dish-washing, that the sky was still pink with the sunset glow when they were ready to begin the game. "We always go down to the hay-barn to play Barley-bright," said Bradley. "I never cared for it when we played it at school in the day-time, but when we play it Molly's way it is the most exciting game I know. We usually wait till it begins to get dark and the lightning-bugs are flying about. [Illustration: "TO THEIR EXCITED FANCY SHE SEEMED A REAL WITCH."] "Molly and I will stand the crowd, this time. Our base will be here at the persimmon-tree in front of the barn, and yours will be the pasture bars down yonder. The barn will be Barley-bright, and after we call out the questions and answers, you're to try to run around our base to the barn, and back again to yours, without being caught by a witch. There are six of you, so you can have six runs to Barley-bright and back, and if by that time we have caught half of you the game is ours. The witch has the right to hide and jump out at you from any place she chooses, but I can't touch you except when you pass my base. Now shut your eyes till I count one hundred, while the witch hides." Six pairs of hands were clasped over six pairs of eyes, while Bradley slowly counted, and Molly, darting away from his side, hid behind the straw-stack. "One--hun-dred--all eyes open!" he shouted. They looked around. The fireflies were flashing across the pasture and the dusk was beginning to deepen. Then six voices rang out in chorus, Bradley's shrill pipe answering them. "How many miles to Barley-bright?" "_Three score and ten!_" "Can I get there by candle-light?" "_Yes, if your legs are long and light_-- _There and back again!_ _Look out! The witches will catch you!_" Molly was nowhere in sight, so with a delicious thrill of excitement, not knowing from what ambush they would be pounced upon, the six pilgrims to Barley-bright started off at the top of their speed. Across the pasture they rushed, around Bradley's base at the persimmon-tree, and up to the big barn door, which they were obliged to touch before they could turn and make a wild dash back to the pasture bars. Just as they reached the barn door, Molly sprang out from behind the straw-stack; but they could not believe it was Molly, she was so changed. To their excited fancy she seemed a real witch. Her black hair was unbraided, and streamed out in elfish wisps from under a tall pointed black hat. A hideous mask covered her face, and she brandished the stump of an old broom with such effect that they ran from her, shrieking wildly. Some heavy wrapping paper, a strip of white cotton cloth, and coal-soot from the bottom of a stove lid had changed an ordinary girl of fourteen into a nameless terror, from which they fled, shrieking at the top of their voices. The boys had been through the performance many times, but they enjoyed the cold thrill it gave them as much as Betty and Lloyd, who were feeling it for the first time. Lee was caught in that first mad race, and Morgan in the second, and they had to go over to the enemy's base, where Bradley stood guard under the persimmon-tree. As they came in from the third run, Lloyd leaned against the pasture bars, out of breath. "Oh, I believe I should drop dead," she panted, "if that awful thing should get me. I can't believe that it is only Molly. She seems like a real suah 'nuff witch." She glanced over her shoulder again with a little nervous shudder as the others began calling again: "_How many miles to Barley-bright?_" Betty was caught this time, and Lloyd, to whom the game was becoming a terrible reality, stood with her heart beating like a trip-hammer and her eyes peering in a startled way through the dusk. This time the witch popped up from behind the pasture bars, and Lloyd, giving a startled look over her shoulder as she flew, saw that the broomstick was flourished in her direction, and the hideous black and white mask was almost upon her. With an ear-splitting scream she redoubled her speed, racing around and around the barn, instead of touching the door and turning back, when she saw that she was followed. Finally, with one sharp scream of terror after another, she darted into the great dark barn, in a blind frenzy to escape. She heard the voices of the children outside, the bang of the broomstick against the door, and then plunging forward, felt herself falling--falling! There was just an instant in which she seemed to see the faces of her mother and Papa Jack. Then she remembered nothing more, for her head struck something hard, and she lay in a little heap on the floor below. She had fallen through a trap-door into an empty manger. CHAPTER V. A TIME FOR PATIENCE. THEY thought at first that she was hiding in the barn, afraid to come out, lest Molly might be lying in wait to grab her. So they began calling: "Come on, Lloyd! King's X! King's excuse! Home free! You may come home free!" But there was no answer, and Betty, suddenly remembering the trap-door, grew white with fear. The children played in the barn so much that Mr. Appleton's first order, when he hired a new man, was that the trap-door must always be closed and fastened the moment he finished pitching the hay down to the manger below. The children themselves had been cautioned time and again to keep away from it, but Lloyd, never having played in the barn before, was not aware of its existence. "Lloyd, Lloyd!" called Betty, hurrying into the twilight of the big barn. There was no answer, and peering anxiously ahead, Betty saw that the trap-door was open, and on the floor below was the gleam of the Little Colonel's light pink dress, shining white through the dusk. Betty's startled cry brought the other children, who clattered down the barn stairs after her, into the straw-covered circle where the young calves were kept. They met Mr. Appleton, coming in from the corn-crib with a basket on his shoulder, and all began to talk at once. The words "Lloyd" and "trap-door" were all he could distinguish in the jumble of excited exclamations, but they told the whole story. Hastily dropping his basket, he strode across to the manger that Betty pointed out, with a look of grave concern on his face. They all crowded breathlessly around him as he bent over the quiet little figure, lifting it gently in his arms. It was a solemn-faced little company that followed him up the hill with his unconscious burden. A cold fear seized Betty as she walked along, glancing at the Little Colonel's closed eyes, and the tiny stream of blood trickling across the still white face. "Oh, if godmother were only here!" she groaned. "There's no telling how badly Lloyd is hurt. Maybe she'll be a cripple for life. Oh, I wish I'd never heard of such a game as Barley-bright." If the accident had happened at Locust, a doctor would have been summoned to the spot, as fast as telephones and swift horses could bring him, and the whole household would have held its breath in anxiety. But very little fuss was made over accidents at the Cuckoo's Nest. It was a weekly occurrence for some of the children to be brought in limp and bleeding from various falls. Bradley had once sprained his neck turning somersaults down the hay-mow, so that he had not been able to look over his shoulder for two weeks. Scott had been picked up senseless twice, once from falling out of the top of a walnut-tree, and the other time because a high ladder broke under him. Every one of the boys but Pudding had at some time or another left a trail of blood behind him from barn to house as he went weeping homeward with some part of his body to be bandaged. So Lloyd's fall did not cause the commotion it might have done in a less adventurous family. "Oh, she's coming around all right," said Mr. Appleton, cheerfully, as her head stirred a little on his shoulder, and she half opened her eyes. "Here you are," he added a moment later, laying her on the bed in the parlour. "Scott, run call your mother. Bring a light, Molly. We'll soon see what is the matter." There were no bones broken, and in a little while Lloyd sat up, white and dizzy. Then she walked across the room, and looked at herself in the little mirror hanging over a shelf, on which stood a bouquet of stiff wax flowers. It was hung so high and tilted forward so much, and the wax flowers were in the way, so that she could not get a very satisfactory view of her wounds, but she saw enough to make her feel like an old soldier home from the wars, with the marks of many battles upon her. A bandage wet with arnica was tied around her head, over a large knot that was rapidly swelling larger. Several strips of court-plaster covered the cut on her temple. One cheek was scratched, and she was stiff and sore from many bruises. "But not half so stiff as you'll be in the morning," Mrs. Appleton assured her, cheerfully. "All that side of your body that struck against the manger is black and blue." "I think I'll go to bed," said the Little Colonel, faintly. "This day has been long enough, and I don't want anything else to happen to me. Fallin' through a trap-doah and havin' my mothah leave me is enough fo' one while. I think I need her moah than Aunt Jane does. You'll have to sleep with me to-night, Betty. I wouldn't stay down heah alone fo' anything." It was very early to go to bed, scarcely more than half-past seven, when Betty blew out the candle and climbed in beside the Little Colonel. She lay for a long time, listening to the croaking of the frogs, thinking that Lloyd had forgotten her troubles in dreamland, until a mournful little voice whispered, "Say, Betty, are you asleep?" "No; but I thought you were." "I was, for a few minutes, but that dreadful false face of Molly's woke me up. I dreamed it was chasing me, and I seemed to be falling and falling, and somebody screamed at me '_Look out! The witches will catch you!_' It frightened me so that I woke up all a tremble. I know I am safe, here in bed with you, but I'm shaking so hard that I can't go to sleep again. Oh, Betty, you don't know how much I want my mothah! I'll nevah leave her again as long as I live. My head aches, and I'm so stiff and soah I can't tu'n ovah!" "Do you want me to tell you a story?" asked Betty, hearing the sob in Lloyd's voice, and divining that her pillow had caught more than one tear under cover of the darkness. "Oh, yes!" begged the Little Colonel. "Talk to me, even if you don't say anything but the multiplication table. It will keep me from hearin' those dreadful frogs, and seein' that face in the dark. I'm ashamed to be frightened at nothing. I don't know what makes me such a coward." "Maybe the fall was a sort of shock to your nerves," said Betty, comfortingly, reaching out to pat the trembling shoulders with a motherly air. "There, go to sleep, and I'll stay awake and keep away the hobgoblins. I'll recite the Lady Jane, because it jingles so beautifully. It goes like a cradle." A little groping hand reached through the darkness and touched Betty's face, then buried itself in her soft curls, as if the touch brought a soothing sense of safety. In a slow, sing-song tone, as monotonous as the droning of a bee, Betty began, accenting every other syllable with a sleepy drawl. "The _la_-dy _Jane_ was _tall_ and _slim_, The _la_-dy _Jane_ was _fair_. Sir _Thomas_ her _lord_ was _stout_ of _limb_, His _cough_ was _short_ and his _eyes_ were _dim_, And he _wore_ green _specs_ with a _tortoise_ shell _rim_, And his _hat_ was re-_mark_-ably _broad_ in the _brim_, And _she_ was un-_common_-ly _fond_ of _him_, And _they_ were a _lov_-ing _pair_. And the _name_ and the _fame_ of this _knight_ and his _dame_ Were _every_-where _hailed_ with the _loud_-est ac-_claim_." But it took more than the Lady Jane to put the restless little listener to sleep that night. Maud Muller was recited in the same sing-song measure, and Lord Ullin's daughter followed without a pause, till Betty herself grew sleepy, and, like a tired little mosquito, droned lower and lower, finally stopping in the middle of a sentence. * * * * * They woke in the morning, to hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Betty, peeping through the curtains, announced that the sky was gray with clouds, and she thought that it must surely begin to rain soon. Lloyd, so stiff and sore from the effects of her fall that she could scarcely move, sat up with a groan. "Oh, deah!" she exclaimed. "What is there to do heah on rainy days? No books, no games, no piano! Mothah said that the lesson set fo' me to learn was patience, but I'd lose my mind, just sitting still in front of a clock and watching the minutes go by. I don't see how Job stood it." "Job didn't do that way," said Betty, soberly, as she looked up from lacing her shoes. "They didn't have any clocks in those days, and besides, patience isn't just sitting still all day without fidgeting. It's putting up with whatever happens to you, without making a fuss about it. The best way to do it is not to think about it any more than you can help." "I'd like to know how I'm goin' to keep from thinkin' about my bruises and cuts," groaned the Little Colonel, limping stiffly across the room to look again in the little mirror, at her bandaged forehead, her scratched cheek, and her temple, criss-crossed with strips of court-plaster. "What _would_ Papa Jack say if he could see me now?" She repeated Betty's definition of patience to her reflection in the mirror, making a wry face as she did so. "'Puttin' up with whatevah happens to you, without makin' a fuss about it.' Well, I'll try, but it's mighty hard to do when one of the happenings is fallin' through a trap-doah, and gettin' as stiff and soah as I am." She thought about the definition more than once during the long morning that followed; when the hash was too salty at breakfast, and the oatmeal was scorched; when Betty was busy in the spring-house, and she was left all alone for awhile with nothing to entertain herself with but the almanac and a week-old paper. The thunder, that had been only a low muttering over the distant hills when they awoke, was coming nearer, and the damp air was heavy with the approaching storm. "I'll have one little run out-of-doahs befo' it begins to rain," thought Lloyd, and started up to skip across the porch; but her skipping changed to a painful walk as her aching muscles reminded her of her fall, and she limped slowly down the lane toward the gate. A strong wind suddenly began lashing the cherry-trees that lined the lane, and sent a gust of dust and leaves into her face. She stopped a moment to rub her eyes, and as she did so something fluttering on the hedge-row broke loose from the thorns that held it, and came blowing toward her. It was something soft and gray, and it fluttered along uncertainly, like a bit of fleecy thistledown, as the wind bore it to her feet. "Oh, it's mothah's gray veil!" she exclaimed. "It was on the back of the seat when she waved good-bye to me, and they were drivin' so fast it must have blown away." She picked up the dainty piece of silk tissue, soft and filmy as a cloud, and held it against her cheek. Then she hurried into the house with it, lest some of the boys should see her and notice the tears in her eyes. But inside the dark closet, where she climbed to lay the veil on a shelf, the lonely feeling was too strong for her to overcome. Crouching down in a corner, with her face hidden in the soft violet-scented veil, she cried quietly for a long time. Then something came to her mind that had happened when she was only five years old, before she had gone to Locust to live. It was that first lonesome evening when she had been left to spend the night at her grandfather's, and she grew so homesick as twilight fell that she decided to run away. And while she stood with her hand on the latch of the great gate, peering through the bars at the darkening world outside, Fritz (the wisest little terrier that ever peeped through tangled bangs) found something in the dead leaves at her feet. It was a little gray glove that her mother had dropped, when she stooped to kiss her good-bye. Lloyd remembered how she had squeezed it, and cried over it, and fondled it as if it held the touch of her mother's hand, and then, baby though she was, she had tucked it into her tiny apron pocket as a talisman to help her be brave. Then she walked back to the house without another tear. "That visit had a beautiful ending," thought Lloyd, tenderly folding the veil. "Then I had only Fritz for company, but now I have Betty. I'll just stop wishin' I could run away from the Cuckoo's Nest, and I'll have all the good times that I can get out of this visit." She felt better now. The tears seemed to have washed away the ache in her throat. Bradley was calling her, and only stopping at the wash-stand a moment to bathe her red eyes, she went out to see what he wanted. His freckled face was all alight with a beaming smile, as if he were the bearer of good news. His hands were behind his back, and as he came toward her he called out, in the pleasantest of voices, "Which will you take, Lloyd, right or left?" Forgetting that Betty had cautioned her about his love of teasing, and remembering the apples he had brought her the day before, she answered, with a friendly smile, "I choose what's in the right hand." "Then shut your eyes, and hold fast all I give you." Squinting her eyelids tightly together, Lloyd held out her unsuspecting little hand, only to receive a squirming bunch of clammy, wriggling fishing worms. She gave a loud shriek, and wrung the hand that the worms had touched, as if it had been stung. "Oo-ooh! Bradley Appleton! You horrid boy!" she cried. "How could you be so mean? There's nothing I _hate_ like worms. I could touch a mouse or even a snake soonah than those bare crawly things! Oh, I'll nevah, nevah be able to get the feel of them off my hands, even if I should scrub them a week. I don't mind things with feet, but the feel of the squirmin' is awful!" Bradley laughed so loudly over the success of his joke, that Betty came out smiling to see what was the matter, and was surprised to see Lloyd marching indignantly into the house, her head held high and her face very red. "Well, I didn't do anything but give her a handful of angleworms," said Bradley, in reply to Betty's demand for an explanation. "Molly heard her say that she despised worms, and that nothing could make her touch one or put it on a hook. I was just showing her for her own good that there is nothing to be afraid of in a harmless little fishing-worm, and she had to go off and get mad. Girls are such touchy things. They make me tired." Long experience had taught Betty that the best thing to do, when Bradley was in a teasing mood, was to keep out of his way, so she turned without a word and went in search of Lloyd. As she did so, the rain that they had been expecting all morning came dashing against the window-panes in torrents. Suddenly it grew so dark one could scarcely see to read without lighting a lamp. "Come up to my room, Lloyd," called Betty, stopping at the parlour door, with Davy tagging behind her. "It's lighter up there, and I love to be close up under the roof when the rain patters on it." "Wait till I finish washing my hands," answered Lloyd, looking up with a disgusted face. "Ugh! I can't wash away that horrid squirmin' feelin', even with a nail-brush." As Davy climbed the stairs after them he caught Lloyd by the dress. "Say!" he exclaimed in a half whisper, "it was Molly that told Bradley to put those worms on you. She dared him to, and they're laughing about it now, down in the kitchen." It was on the tip of Lloyd's tongue to say, "They're both of them mean, hateful things, and I'll get even with them if it takes all the rest of my visit to do it." But before the words could slip out she remembered the definition, "Putting up with anything that happens to you without making a fuss about it." "There couldn't anything nastier happen than fishin'-worms," she said to herself, "so this must be one of the times I need patience the very most." Although the lesson was remembered in time to keep her from getting into a rage, it did not put her into a good humour. It was a very unhappy little face that looked out of the gable window, against which the autumn rain was dashing. Her head ached from all its bumps and bruises, and her eyes wore as forlorn an expression as if she were some unhappy Crusoe, cast away on a desert island with no hope of rescue. Davy perched himself on the trunk and awaited developments. Betty looked around the room in search of something to brighten the dull day; but the bare walls offered no suggestion of entertainment. Lloyd's fingers drumming restlessly on the window-pane, and the patter of the rain on the roof, were the only sounds in the room. "I wondah if it's rainin' where Joyce and Eugenia are," said the Little Colonel, after awhile, breaking the long silence. "Oh, let's write to them," cried Betty, eagerly. "One can write East and one can write West, and we'll tell them all that has happened in the Cuckoo's Nest since we came back to it." Davy slid off the trunk in silent disapproval when the writing material was brought out, and the girls began their letters. The scratching of the pens across the paper and the dismal dripping of the rain was too monotonous for him, and he felt forced to go below in search of livelier companionship. CHAPTER VI. MOLLY'S STORY. THEY had been writing a long time, when the Little Colonel looked up with a mischievous smile. "Joyce will think that this is a wondahful place," she said. "I've told her all about my bein' chased by a Barley-bright witch, and how ugly she was, and what Davy said about her goin' through keyholes. It sounds so real when I read it ovah that I could half-way make myself believe that she is one. I'm goin' to slip across into her room now, and see if I can't find the broomstick that she rides around on at night. If there'd just be a black cat sittin' on her pillow, I could almost believe what Davy said about her hoodoo word. Wouldn't she be mad if she knew what was in this letter? I told Joyce how mean she'd acted about the fishin'-worms too, and how she's scowled at us evah since we came." Betty looked up with a preoccupied smile, for she had long ago finished her letter to Eugenia and was busy with some verses that she was trying to write about the rain. The rhymes were falling into place almost as easily and musically as the rain-drops tinkling down the eaves, and her face was flushed with the pleasure of it. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she did not understand what Lloyd was saying, and smiled a reply without the faintest idea of what it was that she proposed to do. Lloyd laid down her pen, and, tiptoeing across the narrow passage that divided Betty's room from Molly's, opened the door and looked in. She had thought that the parlour bedroom down-stairs was queer, and that Betty's room was pitifully bare and common, but such cheerlessness as this she had certainly never seen before, and scarcely imagined. It was an attic-like room over the kitchen, with such a low sloping ceiling that she could touch it with her hand, except when she stood in the middle of the room. There was a rough, unpainted floor, a cot, a dry-goods box covered with newspaper, on which stood a tin basin and a broken-nosed water-pitcher. Some nails, driven along the wall, held a row of clothes, and a chair with both rockers broken off was propped against the wall. Lloyd looked around her with a shiver. The only bright spot in the room was a bunch of golden-rod in a bottle, and the only picture, a page torn from an illustrated newspaper, and pinned to the wall. Wondering what kind of a picture such a creature as the Barley-bright witch would choose to decorate her room, Lloyd walked across to examine it. It was the front page from an old _Harper's Weekly_. The date caught her eye first: December 25, 1897. And then she found herself looking into a room still more pitiful than the one in which she stood, for the pictured room was part of an old New York tenement, and sobbing in the corner was a ragged, half-starved little waif, heartbroken because Santa Claus had passed her by, and she had found an empty stocking on Christmas morning. Lloyd could not see the face hidden in the tattered apron, which the disappointed little hands held up. She could not hear the sobs that she knew were shaking the thin little shoulders, but she felt the misery of the scene as forcibly as if the real child stood before her. As she stood and looked, she knew that if all the troubles and disappointments of her whole life could be put together, they would be as only a drop compared to the grief of the poor little creature in the picture. "Oh, Betty!" she called. "Come heah quick! I want to show you something." The distress in Lloyd's voice made Betty hurry across the passage with her pen in her hand, wondering what could be the matter. "Look!" exclaimed Lloyd, pointing to the picture. "How can Molly keep such a thing in her room? Do you s'pose she was evah like that? It's enough to make her cry every time she looks at it." "Maybe she used to be like that," said Betty, examining the picture carefully, "and maybe she keeps it here to remind her how much better off she is now than she used to be." "I can't see that her room is much nicer," said Lloyd, looking around with an expression of disgust. "It always has been used as a sort of storeroom," explained Betty. "This is the first time I've been in here since I came back, and I didn't know how it had been fixed for Molly. Cousin Hetty hasn't any time or money to spend making it look nice. Besides, she is only in here for a little while. She is to have my room when I go away. If I'm abroad all winter, and with Joyce next summer, and at Locust going to school the year after, as godmother has planned, I suppose I'll never be back here again to really live. I'm going to make a new pincushion and a cover for my bureau, and put a white curtain at the window before I leave. Maybe it will look as fine to Molly as my white and gold room did to me at the House Beautiful. It isn't any wonder she feels jealous of us, when she hasn't a single nice thing in the whole world." "Maybe I oughtn't to have written such spiteful things about her to Joyce," said Lloyd, whose heart began to soften and whose conscience pricked as she turned again to the picture. But even while they were planning the changes they would make in the gable room for Molly, there was a stealthy step on the stairs, and Molly herself stood in the door, glaring at them like an angry tigress. "How _dare_ you!" she cried, stamping her foot in a furious rage. "How dare you come in here spying on me and making fun of my things and looking at my picture! You sha'n't look at my little Dot when she is so miserable. You sha'n't put eyes on her again!" With a white angry face she dashed past them, tore the picture from the wall, and with it held tightly against her threw herself face downward on the cot. "We were not spying on you," began Lloyd, indignantly. "We were not making fun of your things!" "I know better. Get out of this room, both of you! This minute!" cried Molly, lifting her white face in which her angry eyes burned like flames. Then she buried her head in her pillow, sobbing bitterly: "If y-you were an or-orphan--and hadn't but one thing in the world, you wouldn't want p-people to come sp-spying on _you_, that way." Puzzled and almost frightened at such an outburst, the girls retreated to the doorway, and then as she continued to storm at them they went back to Betty's room. They could hear her sobbing even with the door shut. Presently Betty said: "I'm going in there again, and see if I can find out what's the matter. I am an orphan, too, and maybe I can coax her to tell me, when she knows how sorry I am for her." People wondered sometimes at Betty's way of walking into their hearts; but sympathy is an open sesame to nearly all gates, and sympathy was Betty's unfailing key. It was always ready in her loving little hand. Presently, when Molly's wild burst of angry sobbing had subsided somewhat, Betty ventured back to her. Lloyd heard a low murmuring of voices, first Betty's and then Molly's, as one little orphan poured out her story to the other. It was nearly an hour before Betty came back to her room. Lloyd had written another letter while she waited, and now sat leaning against the window-sill, listening to the monotonous drip-drop-drip-drop from a leaky spout above the window. "Well, what was it?" she asked, eagerly, as Betty opened the door. "Oh, you never heard anything so pitiful," exclaimed Betty, sitting down on her bed and drawing her feet up under her comfortably before she began. "It is just like a story in a book. "Molly says that when she was little her father was a railroad conductor, and she and her mother and grandmother and baby sister lived in a little house at the edge of town. It was near enough the railroad track for them to wave to her father, from the front door, whenever his train passed. He could come home only once a week. She and Dot thought he was the best father anybody ever had, for he never came home without something in his pockets for them, and he rode them around on his shoulders and played with them all the time he was in the house. He was always bringing things to their mother, too, a pretty cup and saucer or a pot of flowers, or something to wear; and as for the old grandmother, she spent her time telling the neighbours how good her son was to her. "But Molly says one summer they moved away from the house by the railroad track and took a smaller one in town, where there wasn't any garden and trees, and where there wasn't even any grass, except a narrow strip in the front yard. Her father had lost his place as a conductor, and was out of work for a long time. By and by they sold their piano and the carpets and the nicest chairs. Then they moved again. This time it was to a cottage without even a strip of grass. The front door opened out on the pavement and there was no place for them to play except on the streets. Their father never brought anything home to them any more, and never played with them. They couldn't understand what made him so cross, or what made their mother cry so much, until one day she heard some of their neighbours talking. "She and Dot were waiting in the corner grocery for a loaf of bread, and she heard one woman say to another, in a low tone, 'Those are Jim Conner's children, poor little kids. My man says he used to be one of the best conductors on the road, but he lost his job when he took to getting drunk every Saturday night. He's going down-hill now, fast as a man can go. Heaven only knows what'll become of his family if he doesn't put on the brakes soon.' "Then Molly knew what was the matter, and she didn't make her mother cry by asking any more questions when they moved again the next week. That time they had only two rooms up-stairs over a barber shop, and Molly's mother died that summer. Then her father drank harder than ever, and never brought any money home, and by fall they had sold nearly everything that was left, and moved into one room in an old tenement-house, up two flights of stairs. "Their grandmother had to go away every morning to look for work. She was too old to wash, or she might have had plenty to do. Sometimes she got odd jobs of cleaning, and sometimes she made buttonholes for a pants factory. It took nearly all the money she could make to pay the rent of that room, and often and often, Molly said, there were days when they had nothing but scraps of stale bread to eat. Sometimes there wasn't even that, and she and Dot would be so cold and hungry that they would huddle together in a corner and cry. She said it made her feel so awful to hear poor little Dot sobbing for something to eat, that she would have gone out on the streets and begged, but their grandmother always locked them up when she went away." "What for?" interrupted Lloyd, who was listening with breathless attention. "She was afraid that their father would come home drunk and find them alone. He didn't live with them any more, but several times, before she began locking them up, he staggered in, and frightened them dreadfully. Their ragged clothes and their half-starved looks seemed to make him furious. It hurt his conscience, I suppose, and that made him want to hurt somebody. Molly says he beat them sometimes till the neighbours interfered. More than once he shut them up in a dark closet, trying to make them tell where their grandmother kept her money. They couldn't tell him, for she didn't have any money, but he kept them shut up in the dark, hours at a time. "One night he came in crosser than they had ever seen him, and threw things around dreadfully. He struck his old mother in the face, beat Molly, and threw a stick of wood at little Dot. It just missed putting out her right eye, and made such a deep cut over it that they had to send for a doctor to sew it up. He said she would carry the scar all her life, and he could not see how the blow had missed killing her. "It nearly broke the old grandmother's heart. She sat up all night, and Molly says she remembers that time like a dreadful dream. Half the time the old woman was rocking Dot in her arms, crying over her, and half the time she was walking the floor. "Molly says that now, when she shuts her eyes at night, she can hear her saying, over and over, 'Oh, my Jimmy! My Jimmy! To think that my only child should come to this! Oh, my Jimmy! The baby boy that was my sunshine, how can it be that _you've_ become the sorrow of my life!' Then she'd walk up and down the room as if she were crazy, calling out, 'But it's the drink that did it! It's the drink, and a curse be on everything that helps to bring it into the world.' "Molly says that she looked so terrible, with her white hair streaming over her shoulders, and her eyes staring, that she hid her face in the bedclothes. But she couldn't shut out the words. She shouted them so loud that the family in the next room couldn't sleep, and knocked on the wall for her to stop. But she only went on walking and wringing her hands and calling, 'A curse on all who buy and all who brew! A curse on every distiller! On every saloon-keeper! On every man who has so much as a finger in this business of death! May all the shame and the sin and the sorrow they have sown in other homes be reaped a hundredfold in their own!' "I suppose it made such a strong impression on Molly, hearing her grandmother take on so terribly, that she remembered every word, and will as long as she lives. She said the rain poured that night till it leaked down on the bed, and she and Dot had to snuggle up together at the foot, to keep dry. Her grandmother walked the floor till daylight. The neighbours complained of her, and said that her troubles had unsettled her mind, and that she would have to be sent some place to be taken care of. All she could talk about was the drink that had ruined her Jimmy, and the awful things she prayed would happen to anybody who had anything to do with making or selling whiskey. "She couldn't work any longer, and they were almost starving. One day she was taken to the almshouse, and the family in the next room took care of Molly and Dot until arrangements could be made to send them to an orphan asylum. It was hard to get them into one, you know, because their father was living. "They stayed several weeks with those people, and Molly helped take care of the baby, for she was a big girl, eleven years old, then. Dot was seven, but so little and starved that she looked scarcely half that old. She couldn't do much to help, but they sent her on errands sometimes. "One day she went to the meat-shop around the corner, and _she never came back_. Molly hunted in all the alleys and courtyards for her, until some one brought her a message from her father, that he had taken Dot away to another town. He didn't care what became of Molly, he said. She had been saucy to him, but no orphan asylum should have his baby. He'd hide her where she wouldn't be found in a hurry. "Molly says she would have liked it at the asylum if Dot could have been with her, but because she couldn't it made her hate everything and everybody in the world. There was a big distillery in sight of her window. She could see the roof the first thing in the morning, when she opened her eyes, and the last thing at night. Many a time before she got out of bed she'd think of her grandmother's words and repeat them just like it was her prayers. She'd think 'It's drink that put me here, and it's what separated me from Dot,' and then she'd say, 'A curse on those who sell, and those who make it, and on every hand that helps to bring it into the world! Amen.'" "How dreadful!" exclaimed the Little Colonel, with a shudder. "She is as bad as a heathen." "But you can't wonder at it," said Betty. "We would have felt the same way in her place. Suppose it was your Papa Jack that had been made a drunkard, and that he'd begin to be mean to you, and make so much trouble that godmother would die, and you'd have to leave the House Beautiful and be sent to an asylum, and all on account of the saloons. Wouldn't _you_ hate them and everything that helped keep them going?" Lloyd only shivered at the thought, without answering. It was not possible for her to suppose such a horrible thing about her beloved father, but she felt the justice of Betty's view. "While she was at the asylum," continued Betty, "some one sent a pile of old magazines, and among them she found the picture that we saw. She says that it looks exactly like Dot, and that is the way she used to stand and cry sometimes when she was cold and hungry, and there wasn't anything in the house to eat. It makes her perfectly miserable whenever she looks at it, but it is so much like Dot that she can't bear to give it up. Now you see why she didn't like us. It didn't seem fair to her that we should have so much to make us happy, when she has so little. She has had a hard enough time to spoil anybody's disposition, I think." Lloyd was in tears by this time, and reaching across the table for the letter she had written about the Barley-bright witch, she began tearing it into pieces. "Oh, if I'd only known," she said, "I never would have written those things about her. I'll write another one this afternoon, and tell Joyce all about her. Is she still crying in there, Betty?" "No, she stopped before I left. I told her we would all try to find her little sister, and that I was sure godmother could do it, even if everybody else failed. But she didn't seem to think that there was much hope." "Did you tell her about Fairchance?" asked Lloyd, "or Joyce's finding Jules's great-aunt Desiré, that time she went to the Little Sisters of the Poor?" "No," said Betty. "Then let me tell her," cried the Little Colonel, starting up eagerly. She ran on into Molly's room, while thoughtful Betty slipped down-stairs to offer her services in Molly's place, that she might listen undisturbed to Lloyd's tale of comfort,--all about Jonesy and his brother, and the bear, who had found a fair chance to begin life again, in the home that the two little knights built for them, in their efforts to "right the wrong and follow the king." All about old great-aunt Desiré, who had been found in a pauper's home and brought back to her own again, through the Gate of the Giant Scissors, on Christmas Day in the morning. "It is too good to be true," sighed Molly, when Lloyd had finished. "It might happen to some people, but it's too good to happen to me. It sounds like something out of a story-book." "Most of the things in story-books had to happen first before they were written about," answered the Little Colonel. "You've got so many friends now that surely some of them will be able to do something to find her." Presently Molly looked up, saying, in a hesitating way, "Several people have been good to me before, but I never thought about them doing it because they were my _friends_. I thought they treated me kindly just because they pitied me, and that made me cross." Lloyd was turning the little ring that Eugenia had given her around on her finger, and something in the touch of the little lover's knot of gold recalled all that she had resolved about the "Road of the Loving Heart." It was the ring that made her say, gently, "You mustn't think that about Betty and me. We'll be your really truly friends just as we are Joyce's and Eugenia's." Then to Molly's great surprise the Little Colonel's pretty face leaned over hers an instant, and she felt a quick kiss on her forehead. She lay there a moment longer without speaking, and then sat up, a bright smile flashing across her tear-swollen face. "Somehow the whole world seems different," she cried. "It seems so queer to think I've really got _friends_ like other people." There was a warm glow in the Little Colonel's heart when she went back to Betty's room. The consciousness that she had carried comfort and sunshine into another's life brightened the rainy day until it no longer seemed dark and dreary. That comfortable consciousness was still with her in the afternoon, when she sat down to write another letter to Joyce,--a letter, not filled this time with her own mishaps and misfortunes, but so full of sympathy for Molly's troubles that no one who read it could fail to be touched and interested. CHAPTER VII. A FEAST OF SAILS. NOW ring your merriest tune, ye silver bells of the magic caldron. 'Tis a birthday feast that awakes your chiming, so make your key-note joy. And now if the little princes and princesses will thrust their curious fingers into the steam as the water bubbles again, it will take them far away from the Cuckoo's Nest. They will see the village of Plainsville, Kansas, and the little brown house where the Ware family lived. * * * * * The day that the Little Colonel's letter reached Joyce was Holland's tenth birthday. One would not have dreamed that there was a party of ten boys in the parlour that bright September afternoon, for the shutters were closed, and every blind tightly drawn. Jack had darkened the room to give them a magic lantern exhibition, while Joyce was spreading the table under an apple-tree in the side yard. Mary, her funny little braids with their big bows of blue ribbon continually bobbing over her shoulders, was helping to carry out the curious dishes from the house that had taken all morning to prepare. There was never much money to spend in entertainments in the little brown house, but birthdays never passed unheeded. Love can always find some way to keep the red-letter days of its calendar. Joyce and her mother had planned a novel supper for Holland and his friends, thinking it would make a merry feast for them to laugh over now, and a pleasant memory by and by, when three score years had been added to his ten. Looking back on the day when somebody cared that it was his birthday, and celebrated it with loving forethought, would kindle a glow in his heart, no matter how old and white-haired he might live to be. The little mother could not take much time from her sewing, but she suggested and helped with the verses, and came out when the table was nearly ready, to add a few finishing touches. A Feast of Sails, Joyce called it, saying that, if Cinderella's godmother could change a pumpkin into a gilded coach, there was no reason why they should not transform an ordinary luncheon into a fleet of boats, for a boy whose greatest ambition was to be a naval officer, and who was always talking about the sea. These were the invitations, printed in Jack's best style, and decorated by Joyce with a little water-colour sketch of a ship in full sail: Please come, hale and hearty, To Holland Ware's party, September, the twenty-first day, And partake in a bunch Of a queer birthday lunch, And afterward join in a play. The things which we'll eat Will be boats, sour and sweet, With maybe an entrée of whales. Will you please to arrive Awhile before five, The hour that this boat-luncheon sails. The invitations aroused great interest among all Holland's friends, and every boy was at the gate long before the appointed hour, curious to see the "boats sour and sweet" that could be eaten. But even Holland did not know what was in store for them. Joyce had driven him out of the kitchen while she was preparing the surprise, and would not begin to set the table until Jack had marshalled every boy into the dark parlour and begun his magic lantern show. The baby was with them, a baby no longer, he stoutly declared, as he had that day been promoted from kilts to his first pair of trousers, and he insisted on being called henceforth by his own name, Norman. As he and Jack were to be added to the party of ten, the table was set for twelve. It was a gay sight when everything was ready. From the mirror lake in the middle, on which a dozen toy swans were afloat, arose a lighthouse made of doughnuts. It was surmounted by a little lantern from which floated a tiny flag. At one end of the table a huge watermelon cut lengthwise, and furnished with masts and sails of red crêpe paper, looked like a brig just launched. At the other end rose the great white island of the birthday cake, with its ten red candles. All down the sides of the table was a flutter of yellow and green and white and blue sails, for at each plate was a little fleet sporting the colours of the rainbow. It had been an interesting task to make the dressed eggs into canoes, to cut the cheese into square rafts, and hollow out the long cucumber pickles into skiffs, fitting sails or pennons to each broomstraw mast. It had been still more interesting to change a bag of big fat raisins into turtles, by poking five cloves and a bit of stem into each one for the head, legs, and tail. Joyce took an artistic pleasure in arranging the orange boats around the table. She had made them by cutting an orange in two, and putting a stick of peppermint candy in each half for a mast, and they had a foreign, Chinese look with their queer sails, flaming with little red-ink dragons. Jack had drawn them. Here and there, over the sea of white tablecloth, she had scattered candy fish and the raisin turtles. At the last moment there were potato chips to be heated, and islands of sandwiches and jelly to distribute, and the can of sardines to open. Mary had insisted on having the sardines to personate whales, and she herself served one to each guest on a little shell-shaped plate belonging to her set of doll dishes. It had taken so long to prepare all these boats, that Joyce had had no time to decorate the menu cards as she had planned, but Jack had cut them in the shape of an anchor, and stuck a fish-hook through each one for a souvenir. This was what was printed on them: MENU. An egg Canoe A Skiff of pickle A Cheese Raft too. Your taste to tickle. Turtles galore, Entrée of Whales Found alongshore. (A la sardine tails). Chips in a pile, and A Sandwich Island. The Brig _Watermelon_ An orange boat last With sails all a-swellin'. With a candy mast. The Island of Cake With fish from Sweet Lake. Mary gave the signal when everything was ready, a long toot on an old tin whistle that sounded like a fog-horn. She blew it through the keyhole of the parlour door, expecting a speedy answer, but was not prepared for the sensation her summons created. The door flew open so suddenly that she was nearly taken off her feet, and the boys fell all over each other in their race for the table. When they were all seated, Norman, standing up at the foot of the table, repeated the rhyme which Joyce had carefully taught him: "Heave ho, my hearties, let these boats Sail down the Red Sea of your throats." "They're surely obeying orders," said Mary, mournfully, a few minutes later, when she hurried into the kitchen for another Sandwich Island. "They're swallowing up those boats quicker'n the real Red Sea swallowed up old Pharaoh and all his chariots. There'll be nothing left for us but the rinds and the broom-straws." "Oh, yes, there will," said Joyce, cheerfully, opening the pantry door and showing her three plates on the lower shelf. "There is our supper. I put it aside, for boys are like grasshoppers. They'll eat everything in sight. I didn't take time to put sails in my boats or in mother's, but you've got one of every kind just like the boys, even to a menu-card with a fish-hook in it." There was a broad smile on Mary's beaming little face as she surveyed her part of the feast, and popping one of the fat raisin-turtles into her mouth, she hurried back to her duties as waitress. Joyce followed to pass around the birthday cake, telling each boy to blow out a candle as he took a slice, and to make a birthday wish. Just as she finished there was a click of the gate-latch, and one of her schoolmates came up the path. It was Grace Link, one of her best friends, yet Joyce wished she had not happened in at that particular time. Grace had a way of looking around her with a very superior air. It may have been due to her effort to keep her eye-glasses in position, but Joyce found it irritating at times. The glances made her feel how shabby the little brown house must look in comparison to the Links' elegant home, and she resented Grace's apparent notice of the fact. "In just a minute, Grace," she called, thinking she would pass the cake around once more, and leave the boys to finish quietly by themselves. But she did not have a chance to do that. With a whoop as of one voice, each boy started up, grabbing another slice of cake in one hand as he passed the plate, and all the candy fish he could scoop up with the other, and was off for a noisy game of hum-bum in the back yard. "My gracious! what a noisy lot," exclaimed Grace, recognising her own small brother among them, and making mental note of a lecture she meant to give him after awhile. "Oh, you ought to have seen how beautiful everything looked when they sat down," cried Mary, noticing Grace's critical glances, as she surveyed the wreck they had made of the table. "They've eaten up the lighthouse all but the lantern and the flag, and the watermelon ship was _so_ pretty. Here's what the little boats looked like." She dashed into the pantry for her own gay little fleet of egg and orange and pickle boats with their many-coloured sails. "How cunning!" said Grace, looking admiringly from the boats to the row of raisin-turtles. "But what a lot of time and trouble you all must have taken for those kids. Do you think boys appreciate it? I don't." "My brothers do," said Joyce, stoutly. "We can't afford to have ices and fine things from the confectioner's, so we have to think up all sorts of odd surprises to take their place. Mother began it long ago when Jack and I were little, and she gave us our first Valentine tea. She said it was no more trouble to cut the cookies and sandwiches heart-shaped than to make them round, and it took very little time to decorate the table to look like a lace-paper valentine, but it made a world of difference in our enjoyment. Jack and I have dozens of bright spots to remember because she made gala days of all our birthdays and holidays, and it's no more than right that we should do it for Mary and Holland and the baby, now that she is so busy." "We have something for every month in the year," chimed in Mary, "counting our five birthdays and Washington's, and New Year and Decoration Day and Christmas and Hallowe'en and Valentine and Thanksgiving." "There are more than that," added Joyce, "for there's always the Fourth of July picnic, you know, and the eggs and rabbits and flowers at Easter." "Yes, and April fool's day," Mary called out triumphantly after them, as the two girls walked slowly toward the house. "That makes fifteen." "Can't you go over to Elsie Somers's with me, Joyce?" asked Grace. "That's what I stopped by for. It is only half-past five. I want to look at the centrepiece she is embroidering before I begin mine, and ask her about the stitch. Then I can begin it this evening after supper." "Oh, I don't believe I can," answered Joyce, sitting wearily down on the doorstep, and making room for Grace beside her. "There's all that mess to clean up, and the boys will be coming in soon when it begins to get dark, for their bonfire stories. Do you see that enormous pile of leaves over there? We're going to have a jolly big bonfire after awhile, and sit around it telling stories. That is Holland's idea, and part of our way of keeping birthdays is to let the one who celebrates choose what he would like to do." "_Hum, bum! Here I come!_" shouted several voices from the stable roof and alley fence, and Jack repeated it at the top of his voice, as he dashed around the corner of the house. "Here, Joyce," he cried, pitching a letter toward her. "It came in the last mail, and I forgot to give it to you when I came back from the post-office. Just thought of it," and off he went again. "It is from the Little Colonel," said Joyce, in a pleased tone. "Don't you want to hear it?" Grace, who had heard so much about the happenings at the house party that she almost felt as if she had been one of the guests, promptly settled herself to listen, and at Joyce's call, Mrs. Ware, who was still stitching beside the dining-room window, laid down her sewing, and came out to be part of the interested audience. "Oh, goody! Betty has written, too," said Joyce, as she unfolded the closely written pages. "I've wondered so often what Lloyd would think of life at the Cuckoo's Nest, and if it would seem the same to Betty after her visit at Locust." But there was nothing of the Little Colonel's experience, in either letter. Not a word about Aunt Jane's illness, or the game of barley-bright, or the trap-door accident. They had just come from listening to Molly's pitiful story, and both letters were full of it. The story-telling gift, that was to make Betty famous in after years, showed in the pathetic little tale she wrote Joyce, and so real did she make the scene that Joyce could scarcely keep a tremble out of her voice as she read it aloud. "Wouldn't you love to see the picture that looks so much like Molly's little lost sister?" asked Mary, drawing a deep breath when the letter was done. "Maybe we've got it at home," said Grace, eagerly. "We've taken the _Harper's Weekly_ for years, and there is a pile of them in the attic. Some of them have been lost or torn up, but if I can find the picture I'll bring it over. What did Betty say is the date of that number?" [Illustration: "THE PICTURE PASSED AROUND THE CIRCLE."] "December twenty-fifth, ninety-seven," said Joyce, referring to the letter. "Well, as you can't go over to Elsie's with me now, I'll wait till some other time. I'll go home now and look for that picture before dark." "Come back in time for the bonfire," said Joyce cordially. "We have some fine stories ready." "All right," responded Grace. "I'd love to." "In the meantime we'll clear away the wreck, and eat our supper," said Joyce, as Grace went down the path and Mary followed the little mother into the pantry. They had just hung up the last tea towel and called Jack to light the bonfire, when Grace came back. She had the picture with her, and they looked long and earnestly at the little bunch of misery, sobbing in the corner. "What if Dot's father has brought her out West!" exclaimed Mary, impulsively, as she continued to gaze at the forlorn little figure. "What if she should come to our house begging some day, and we should find her! Wouldn't it be grand? and wouldn't Molly and the girls be glad?" [Illustration: "THE PICTURE PASSED AROUND THE CIRCLE."] "It makes me want to cry," said Joyce. "If I were rich I'd go out and hunt for all the poor little children like this that I could find, and do something to make them happy. Surely somebody of all the thousands who have seen that picture must have been moved to pity by it. No telling how much good that artist has done, by making people see some of the misery in the world that they can help. That is the kind of an artist I hope to be some day." There were many stories told that evening around the birthday bonfire, which Jack kept ablaze, not only with leaves, but with pine cones and hickory knots. Giants and ghosts and hobgoblins, Indians and burglars and wild beasts, took their turns in the thrilling tales. But none made such a profound impression as the story of Molly's little lost sister, who perhaps at that very moment was locked in a dark closet by a drunken father, or sobbing herself to sleep, bruised and hungry. For one reason, it was real, and for another, the picture passed around the circle in the light of the glowing bonfire appealed to every child heart there. "I wish the Giant Scissors were real," said Holland, referring to his favourite tale. "They'd find her. Joyce, what would you have to say to them to make them go in search?" "Giant Scissors, rise in power! Find little Dot this very hour! And then they would go rushing away over mountains and dales," continued Joyce, who knew how greatly Holland enjoyed these variations of his favourite story. "Through streets and through alleys they'd go, through mansions and tenements until they found her and brought her back to Molly. Then, hand in hand, the big sister and the little one would follow the Scissors back to the home of Ethelred, because, like him, the only kingdom that they crave is the kingdom of a loving heart and a happy fireside. There would be feasting and merrymaking for seventy days and seventy nights, with the Scissors keeping guard at the portal of Ethelred, so that only those who belong to the kingdom of loving hearts and gentle hands might enter in." Strangely moved by the story, little Norman got up from his seat and ran to Joyce, burying his head in her lap. "I hope I'll never be losted from _my_ big sister," he cried, his voice quivering, despite the fact that he no longer wore kilts. "Me, too," said Holland, sliding along the bench a little closer to her. "Fellows that haven't got any sisters to get up birthday parties for 'em and everything don't know what they miss." Joyce looked over at Grace with a smile that seemed to say, "What did I tell you? These kids, as you call them, do appreciate what their sisters do for them." Long after the bonfire was out and the birthday guests had departed, Holland turned restlessly on his pillow. The many boats he had eaten may have had something to do with his restlessness, but the thought of the lonely little child for whom Molly was grieving was still in his mind, when his mother looked in an hour later, to see if all was well for the night. "I'm thankful for the party," he announced unexpectedly, as she bent over him, "and I'm thankful for most everything I can think of, but I'm most thankfullest because we aren't any of us in this house lost from each other." "Please God you may say that on all your birthdays," whispered his mother, kissing him. Then she went away with the light, and silence reigned in the little brown house. CHAPTER VIII. EUGENIA JOINS THE SEARCH. CITY towers rise now in the steam of the bubbling caldron, smoky chimney tops and high roof gardens. The clang and roar and traffic of crowded streets jangle through the silver chiming of the magic bells. * * * * * Eugenia Forbes, sitting near an open window in one of the handsomest apartments of the Waldorf-Astoria, heard none of the city's noise, saw nothing of the panorama in the restless streets below. The bell-boy had just brought her a letter, and she was reading it aloud to her maid. Patient old Eliot had taken such a deep interest in all that belonged to Lloydsboro Valley since their journey to Locust, that it was a pleasure to confide in her. Even if Eugenia had had any one else to confide in, she could have found no one who had her interest at heart more than this sensible, elderly woman, who had taken care of her for so many years. Eugenia had not gone back to boarding-school as a regular pupil. It had scarcely seemed worth while, since she was to leave so soon for her trip abroad. But Riverdale Seminary, being in the suburbs, was not such a great distance from the hotel but that she could go out every morning for her French lesson. Knowing that she would soon have practical use for the language, she was doing extra work in French, and taking a greater interest in it than she had ever shown before in any study. If the three girls who had been her devoted friends the year before had come back to Riverdale at the beginning of the term, she would have insisted on taking her place in the boarding-hall as a regular pupil, in order to be with them as long as possible. But the summer vacation had brought many changes. The day that Eugenia reached New York on her return from the house party, a letter had come saying that Molly Blythe would never be back at the school. There had been an accident on the mountain where she had gone to spend the summer with her family. A runaway team, a wild dash down the mountainside, and the merry picnic had ended in a sad accident. She was lying now in a long, serious illness that would either leave her a cripple for life, or take her away in a little while from the devoted family that was nearly distracted by the thought of losing her. Kell, still in the Bermudas, was not coming back to school until after Christmas, and Fay, while she still called Eugenia her dearest, divided her affections with a blonde girl from Ohio. They had passed the summer on the same island in the St. Lawrence, and Eugenia felt that her place was taken by this stranger. With Molly and Kell away, and Fay so changed, Eugenia would have lost all interest in the school, had it not been that she wanted to acquire as much French as possible before going abroad. In most things she was not so overbearing and thoughtless in her treatment of poor old Eliot, since her visit to Locust. The ring she wore was a daily reminder of the Road of the Loving Heart that she was trying to leave behind her in everybody's memory. But Eliot still found her patience sorely tried at times. Missing the girls at school, Eugenia was lonely, and wished a hundred times a day that she were back at the house party. Sometimes she grumbled and moped until the atmosphere around her was as gloomy and depressing as a London fog. "Nothing to do is a dreadful complaint," Eliot had said a few moments before the boy brought up the letter. "You break one of the commandments every day you live, Miss Eugenia." "How can you say such a thing?" demanded Eugenia, indignantly. "I don't lie or steal or murder, or do any of those things it says not to." "It isn't any of the 'thou shalt nots,'" said Eliot, determined to speak her mind, now that she had started. "It is a _shalt_. 'Six days shalt thou labour and do all thy work.' It is plain talk, Miss Eugenia, but there's nobody else to say it, and I feel that it ought to be said. More than three-fourths of your life you are miserable because you are doing nothing but grumbling and trying to kill time. You needn't be unhappy at all if you'd look around you and see some of the world's work lying around waiting for just such hands as yours to take hold of it." "Oh, don't be so preachy!" pouted Eugenia, impatiently. It was just at this point that the Little Colonel's letter was brought in, and the sight of the familiar handwriting made Eugenia's face brighten as if by magic. "One from Betty, too," she cried, as a second closely written sheet dropped into her lap. Then forgetting her impatience with Eliot's preaching, she began reading aloud the news from the Cuckoo's Nest. It was the same pathetic little tale that had touched the hearts of the birthday banqueters, circled around the glowing bonfire, and it moved Eugenia to pity, just as it had moved all who listened at the little brown house. Eugenia folded up the letters, and slipped them back into the envelope. "If I were down there at the Cuckoo's Nest with Lloyd and Betty, there would be something for me to do. I'd find Molly's sister even if I had to spend all my year's allowance to employ a detective. Poor, lonesome little thing! I've taken a fancy to that girl. Maybe it is on account of her name being the same as Molly Blythe's. Even for no other reason than that I would be glad to help her." "You don't have to go travelling to find lonely people, Miss Eugenia," said Eliot, who seemed to have much on her mind that afternoon, and a determination to share it with Eugenia. "All the aching hearts don't belong to little orphans, and some of the loneliest people in the world touch elbows with you every day." "Who, for instance?" demanded Eugenia, unbelievingly. "I never saw them." Then, without waiting for an answer, she sprang up and glanced into the mirror, and gave a few hasty touches to her hair and belt. "Bring me my hat, Eliot, and get into your bonnet. I'm going out to Riverdale. I'm sure I can find the picture they wrote about somewhere in the seminary library. They always save the old files of illustrated papers. I'm wild to see what that picture looks like that Molly made such a fuss about, and it will give me some amusement for the afternoon." Little Miss Gray, the librarian at the Riverdale Seminary, looked up in surprise when Eugenia came rustling into the reading-room an hour later. It was the first time she had been in that term. It was a half-holiday, and up to that time no one had come in all the afternoon. Sitting by the window, cataloguing new books, Miss Gray had looked out from time to time, wishing that she, too, could have a half-holiday, and that she could change places with some of the care-free schoolgirls outside on the campus. She could see them strolling along the shady avenues by twos and threes and fours, never one alone. The sight made her feel even more lonely than usual. She looked up eagerly at the sound of the approaching footsteps, glad of any companionship, but shrank back timidly when she saw who was rustling toward her. Eugenia had always had such a supercilious air in asking for a book, that she disliked to wait on her. But to-day Eugenia came forward so intent on her errand that she forgot to be haughty, and asked for the old volume of _Harper's Weeklies_ as eagerly as a little girl asking for a picture-book. "That's the date," she said, handing Miss Gray a slip of paper. "Oh, I do hope you have it. You see the girls wrote such an interesting account of the little waif that I'm anxious to have the picture. It will be so nice to know that I'm looking at the same thing they saw in Molly's room. "What a little morsel of misery!" she exclaimed, as Miss Gray opened the volume. "Isn't it pitiful? I never would have imagined that a real child could be so forlorn and miserable as this if the girls hadn't written about it. I thought such tales were made up by newspapers and magazines, just for something to write about." Before she realised that she was taking the little librarian into her confidence, she was pouring out the story of Molly and Dot as if she were talking to one of the girls. When she finished Miss Gray turned her head away, but Eugenia saw two tears splash down on the table. "Excuse my taking it so much to heart," said Miss Gray, with a smile, as she wiped away the tell-tale drops, "but it seems so real to me that I couldn't help it. I'm like the little lost sister, you know. Not ragged and torn and poverty-stricken like the waif in the picture, for this position gives me all the comforts of life, but I'm just as much alone in the world as she. When I am busy I never think of it; but sometimes the thought sweeps over me like a great overwhelming wave,--I'm all alone in this big, strange city, only a drop in the bucket, with nobody to care whether I fare ill or well." Eugenia did not know how to answer. She thought this must be one of the people whom Eliot meant, who touched elbows with her every day. Stirred by a great pity and a desire to comfort this gentle-faced little woman whose big blue eyes were as appealing as a baby's, and whose voice was as mournful as a dove's, Eugenia stood a moment in awkward silence. She wished that Betty could be there to say the right thing at the right time, as she always did, or that, better still, she had Betty's way of comforting people. Then a thought came to her like an inspiration. "Oh, Miss Gray! Maybe if you have so much sympathy for the little lost child, you'd take an interest in helping me find her. Nobody knows where her father took her. He sent word that he had left Louisville, and there is no telling where he has drifted. They are as likely to be here in New York as anywhere. Maybe if we went around to all the orphanages and hospitals and free kindergartens we could find some trace of her. Papa won't let me go out in the city alone, and Eliot is such a stick about going to strange places. She always loses her head and gets flustered and makes a mess of everything. Oh, _would_ you mind going?" "Any day after four o'clock," exclaimed Miss Gray eagerly, "and on Wednesdays the library closes at one." "We'll begin next Wednesday," said Eugenia. "Come and take lunch with me at the Waldorf, and we can get an early start. Oh, I'll be so much obliged to you." Before Miss Gray could say anything more, she had rustled out into the hall where Eliot sat waiting. The little librarian was left to clasp her hands in silent delight over the thought of such a lark as a lunch at the Waldorf and an afternoon's outing with the wealthiest and most exclusive girl in the Seminary. "We are on the track, too," wrote Eugenia to Betty, some time after. "Miss Gray and I are playing private detective on the trail of little Dot. We haven't found any trace of her yet, but we're haunting all sorts of places where we think there is any prospect of coming across her. We have found plenty of other children who need help, and papa gave me a big check last night to use for a little cripple that we became interested in. Miss Gray is lovely. We've been to several things together, a matinee and a concert and an art exhibition. I showed her my ring the day she was here to lunch, and told her all about the time when you were blind and what you said to me about the Road of the Loving Heart. And she said, 'Tell that blessed little Betty that she has given me an inspiration for life. Instead of thinking of my own loneliness I shall begin to think more of other people's and to leave a memory behind me, too, as enduring as Tusitala's.'" * * * * * One other person took the trouble to hunt up an old file of papers, and find the picture like the one pinned on Molly's wall. That was Mrs. Sherman. The morning that Lloyd's letter came, she happened to be passing the city library, and went in to ask for it. The sight of the poor little creature haunted her all morning, and remembering Molly's sullen face, she longed to do something to give it a happier expression. That afternoon she went down to an art store to choose a picture for Lloyd to hang in Molly's room beside the pitiful little newspaper clipping. It was a picture of the Good Shepherd, carrying in his arms a little stray lamb that had wandered away from the shelter of the sheepfold. CHAPTER IX. LEFT BEHIND. EVERY evening for a week, at the Cuckoo's Nest, a fire had been kindled on the sitting-room hearth, for the autumn rains made the nights chilly. Here until half-past eight the boys could play any game they chose. Hop-scotch left chalk marks on the new rag carpet, and tag upset the furniture as if a cyclone had swept through the room, but never a word of reproof interrupted their sport, no matter how boisterous. Lloyd wondered sometimes that the roof did not tumble in around their ears when she and Betty and Molly joined the five boys in a game of blind man's buff. "It is nice to have old furniture and stout rag carpets," she confided to Betty, in a breathless pause of the game. "We couldn't romp in the house this way at Locust. I like the place now, it doesn't seem a bit queah. I wouldn't care if mothah would write for us to stay heah anothah week." But the summons to leave came next day. A howl went up from all the little Appletons as the letter was read aloud. It had been the most exciting week of their lives, for Betty and the Little Colonel were on the friendliest terms with Molly, and the three together introduced new games into the Cuckoo's Nest with an enthusiasm that made the evening playtime a delight. The charades and tableaux and private theatricals were something to enjoy with keen zest at the moment, and dream of for weeks afterward. "We will have one more jolly old evening together, anyhow," said Bradley. "I'll go out and get the firewood now." But when supper was over, and the two trunks stood in a corner, packed and strapped for their morrow's journey, nobody seemed in a mood for romping. The boys squatted on the hearth-rug as solemnly as Indians around a council-fire. As the shadows danced on the ceiling, Betty reached down from the low stool where she sat, to stroke the puppy stretched across her feet. "What do you all want me to bring you from Europe?" she asked, playfully. "Pretend that I could bring you anything you wanted. Only remember the story of Beauty and the Beast, and don't anybody ask for a white rose. Molly, you are the oldest, you begin, and choose first." Molly's gray eyes gazed wistfully into the embers. "Oh, you know that there is only one thing in the whole world that I ever wish for, and that is Dot. But of course she isn't in Europe." "You don't know," interrupted Lloyd. "I've read of stranger things than that. I have a story at home about a boy that was kidnapped, and yeahs aftah he was found strollin' around in a foreign country with a band of gypsies. They'd taken him across the ocean with them." "And there's a piece in my Fourth Reader," added Scott, eagerly, "about a child that was stolen by Indians when she was so young that she soon forgot how to talk English. She grew up to look just like a squaw. When the tribe was captured, her own mother did not recognise her. Her mother was an old white-haired woman then. But there was a queer kind of scar that had always been on the girl's arm, and when her mother saw that she knew it was her daughter, and she began to sing a song that she used to sing when she rocked her children to sleep. And the girl remembered it, and it seemed to bring back all the other things she had forgotten, and she ran up to her mother and put her arms around her." "Dot has a scar," said Molly. "I could tell her anywhere by that mark over her eye where the stick of wood hit her." "S'pose Betty should find her somewhere abroad," said Lloyd, her eyes shining like stars at the thought. "S'pose they'd be driving along in Paris, and a little flower girl would come up with a basket of violets, and Eugenia would say, 'Oh, papa, please stop the carriage. I want some of those violets.' And while they were buying them Betty would talk to the little flower girl, and find out that she was Dot. Of co'se Cousin Carl would take her right into the carriage, and they'd whirl away to the hotel, and aftah they'd bought her a lot of pretty clothes they'd take her travellin' with them, and finally bring her back to America just as if it were in a fairy tale." "Or Eugenia might find her in New York before we leave," suggested Betty. "You know she wrote that she is hunting, and that her father promised to ask the police force to look, too." "Joyce is lookin', too," said Lloyd. "Dot is as apt to wandah west as east. There's so many people interested now in tryin' to find her. I do wondah who'll be the one." "Godmother, most likely," said Betty. "Wouldn't it be lovely if she should? Suppose she'd find her about Christmas time, and she'd send word to Molly to hang up two stockings, because she was going to send her a present so big that it wouldn't go into one. And Christmas morning Molly would run down here to the chimney where she'd hung them, and there would be Dot standing in her stockings." "Oh, _don't_!" said Molly, imploringly, with a little choke in her voice. "You make it seem so real that I can't bear to talk about it any more." There was silence in the room for a little space, and only the shadows moved as the flames leaped and flickered on the old hearthstone. Then Lloyd, leaning forward, took hold of one of Betty's long brown curls. "Tell us a story, Tusitala," she said, coaxingly. "It will be the last one before we go away." "Why did you call her that?" asked the inquisitive Bradley. "Tusitala? Oh, that means tale-teller, you know. That is the name the Samoan chiefs gave to Robert Louis Stevenson when he went to live on their island, and that is the name we gave Betty when we thought she was going blind, the time we all had the measles." "Why?" asked Bradley again. "Because mothah said Betty writes stories so well now, that she will be known as the children's Tusitala some day. Besides, she told us the tale about the Road of the Loving Heart, and Eugenia gave us each a ring to help us remembah it. See? They are just alike." She laid her hand against Betty's a moment, to compare the little twists of gold, each tied in a lover's knot, and then slipped hers off, passing it around the circle, that each might see the name "Tusitala" engraved inside. "Tell them about it, Betty," she insisted. "There isn't much to tell," began Betty, clasping her hands around her knees. "Only Stevenson was so good to those poor old Samoan chiefs, visiting them when they were put in prison, and treating them so kindly in every way he could think of, that they called him their white brother. They wanted to do something to show their appreciation, for they said, 'The day is not longer than his kindness.' They had heard him wish for a road across part of the island, so they banded together and began to dig. It was hard work, for the heat was terrible there in the tropics, and they were weak from being in prison so long; but they worked for days and days, almost fainting. When it was done, they set up an inscription over it, calling it the Road of the Loving Heart that they had built to last for ever." Betty paused a moment, twisting the little ring on her finger, and then repeated what she had confessed to Joyce, the afternoon that she thought she must be blind all the rest of her life. "I wanted to build a road like that for godmother. Of course I couldn't dig one like those chiefs did, and she wouldn't have wanted it even if I could; but I thought maybe I could leave a memory behind me of my visit, that would be like a smooth white road. You know, remembering things is like looking back over a road. The unpleasant things that have happened are like the rocks we stumble over. But if we have done nothing unpleasant to remember, then we can look back and see it stretched out behind us, all smooth and white and shining. "So, from the very first day of my visit, I tried to leave nothing behind me for her memory to stumble over. Not a frown or a cross word or a single disobedience. Nothing in all my life ever made me so happy as what she said to me the day I left Locust. I knew then that I had succeeded." There was nothing preachy about Betty. She did not apply the story to her hearers, even in the tone in which she told it; but the silence that followed was uncomfortable to one squirming boy at least. Bradley remembered the fishing-worms, and was in haste to change the subject. "Say, Betty, what are you going to do with Bob when you go away?" "I have been trying for some time to make up my mind," said Betty. "First I thought I would take him back to Locust, and let him stay with his brothers; but I'll be away so long that he won't know me when I come back, and this afternoon I decided to give him to Davy." "Oh, really, truly, Betty?" cried the child, tumbling forward at her feet in a quiver of delight, for he had loved the frolicsome puppy at first sight, and had kept it with him every waking moment since it came. "Really, truly," she repeated, picking up the puppy and dropping him into Davy's arms. "There, sir! Go to your new master, you rascal, and remember that your name isn't Bob Lewis any longer. It is Bob Appleton now." Davy squeezed the fat puppy so close in his arms that his beaming face was nearly hidden by the big bow of yellow ribbon. He had never been so happy in all his life. The road that Betty had left in her godmother's memory was not the only one that stretched out white and shining behind her. No matter how long she might be gone from the Cuckoo's Nest, or how the years might pile up between them, in Davy's heart she would be the dearest memory of his childhood. With Bob she had given him its crowning joy, a reminder of herself, to live and move and frisk beside him; to keep pace with every step, and to bring her to his loving remembrance with every wag of its stumpy tail, and every glance of its faithful brown eyes. Again it was early morning, with dew on the meadows, as it had been when Betty first ventured out into the world. Now she fared forth on another and a longer pilgrimage, but this time there was no lonely sinking of the heart when she waved good-bye to the group on the porch. She was sorry to leave them, but the Little Colonel was with her, her godmother was to meet them at the junction, and just beyond was the wonderland of the old world, through which Cousin Carl was to be her guide. It was one o'clock when they reached Louisville. The afternoon was taken up in shopping, for there were many things that Betty needed for her voyage. But by six o'clock the new steamer trunk, with all the bundles, was aboard the suburban train, and Betty, with the check in her purse, followed her godmother and Lloyd into the car for Lloydsboro Valley. Then there were three more nights to go to sleep in the white and gold room of the House Beautiful; three more days to wander up and down the long avenue under the locusts, arm in arm with the Little Colonel, or to go riding through the valley with her on Lad and Tarbaby; three more evenings to sit in the long drawing-room where the light fell softly from all the wax tapers in the silver candelabra,--and Lloyd, standing below the portrait of the white-gowned girl with the June rose in her hair, played the harp that had belonged to her beautiful grandmother Amanthis. Then it was time to start to New York, for Mr. Sherman's business called him there, and Betty was to go in his care. It seemed to the Little Colonel that the week which followed, that last week of September, was the longest one she had ever known. Since the beginning of the house party she had not been without a companion. Now as she wandered aimlessly around from one old haunt to another, not knowing how to pass the time, it seemed she had forgotten how to amuse herself. She was waiting until the first of October to start to school. At last Betty's steamer letter came, and she dashed home from the post-office as fast as Tarbaby could run, to share it with her mother. The letter was dated "On board the _Majestic_," and ran: "DEAREST GODMOTHER AND LLOYD:--Everybody is in the cabin writing letters to send back by the pilot-boat, so here is a little note to tell you that we are starting off in fine style. The band is playing, the sun is shining, and the harbour is smooth as glass. I have been looking over the deck-railing, and the deep green water, rocking the little boats out in the harbour, makes me think of the White Seal's lullaby that godmother sang to us when we had the measles. "'The storm shall not wake thee, Nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.' "I know that I shall think of that many times during the passage, and am sure we are going to enjoy every minute of it. Eugenia sends lots of love to you both. She is writing to Joyce. The next time we write it will be from Southampton. If you could only be with us I should be perfectly happy. Good-bye, till you hear from me from the other side. "Lovingly, BETTY." There was a hasty postscript scribbled across the end. "Be sure you let me know the minute you hear anything from Dot. If anybody finds her, Cousin Carl says cable the word '_found_,' and we will know what you mean." For a few minutes after the reading of the letter, the Little Colonel stood by the window, looking out without a word. Then she began: "I wish I'd nevah had a house party. I wish I'd nevah known Joyce or Eugenia or Betty. I wish I'd nevah laid eyes on any of them, or been to the Cuckoo's Nest, or--or _nothin'_!" "What is the trouble now, Lloyd?" asked her mother, wonderingly. "Then I wouldn't be so lonesome now that everything is ovah. I despise that 'left behind' feelin' moah than anything I know. It makes me so _misah'ble_! They've all gone away and left me now, and I'll nevah be as happy again as I've been this summah. I'm suah of it!" "'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone. All her lovely companions are faded and gone,'" sang Mrs. Sherman, gaily, as she came and put an arm around Lloyd's drooping shoulders. "Every summer brings its own roses, little daughter. When the old friends go, look around for new ones, and you'll always find them." "I don't want any new ones," exclaimed the Little Colonel, gloomily. "There'll nevah be anybody that I'll take the same interest in that I do in Betty and Joyce and Eugenia." Yet even as she spoke, there were coming toward her life, nearer and nearer as the days went by, other friends, who were to have a large part in making its happiness, and who were to fill it with new interests and new pleasures. CHAPTER X. HOME-LESSONS AND JACK-O'-LANTERNS. IT was hard for the Little Colonel to start back to school after her long holiday. Hard, in the first place, because she was a month behind her classes, and had extra home-lessons to learn. Hard, in the second place, because a more gorgeous October had never been known in the Valley, and all out-doors called to her to come and play. In the lanes the sumach flamed crimson, and in the avenues the maples turned gold. In the woods, where the nuts were dropping all day long, the dogwood-trees hung out their coral berries, and every beech and sweet gum put on a glory of its own. "Oh, mothah, I can't study," Lloyd declared one afternoon. "I don't care whethah the Amazon Rivah rises in South America or the South Pole; an' I think those old Mexicans were horrid to give their volcanoes an' things such terrible long names. They ought to have thought about the trouble they were makin' for all the poah children in the world who would have to learn to spell them. I nevah can learn Popocatepetl. Why didn't they call it something easy, like--like Crosspatch!" she added, closing her book with a bang. "That's the way it makes me feel, anyhow. It is going to take all afternoon to get this one lesson." [Illustration: "THE PLAN WORKED LIKE A CHARM."] "Not if you put your mind on it. Your lips have been saying it over and over, but your thoughts seem to be miles away." "But everything interrupts me," complained Lloyd. "The bumble-bees an' the woodpeckahs an' the jay-birds are all a-callin'. I'm goin' in the house an' sit on the stair steps an' put my fingahs in my yeahs. Maybe I can study bettah that way." The plan worked like a charm. In less than ten minutes she was back again, glibly reciting her geography lesson. After that all her home-lessons were learned on the stairs, where no out-door sights and sounds could arrest her attention. She was in the midst of her lessons one afternoon, her book open on her knees, and her hands over her ears, when she felt, rather than heard, the jar of a heavy chair drawn across the porch. Dropping her hands from her ears, she heard her mother say: "Take this rocker, Allison. I'm so glad you have come. I have been wishing that you would all afternoon." "Oh, it is Miss Allison MacIntyre!" thought Lloyd. "I wish I didn't have to study while she is heah. I love to listen to her talk." Thinking to get through as soon as possible, she turned her attention resolutely to her book, but, after a few moments, she could not resist stopping to lift her head and listen, just to find out what subject they were discussing. Although Miss Allison was her mother's friend, Lloyd claimed her as her own especial property. But all children did that. Such was the charming interest with which she entered into comradeship with every boy and girl in the Valley, that they counted her one of themselves. A party without Miss Allison was not to be thought of, and a picnic was sure to be a failure unless she was one of the number. The two little knights, Keith and Malcolm, were privileged, by reason of family ties, to call her auntie, but there were many like Lloyd who put her on a pedestal in their affections, and claimed a kinship almost as dear. Presently Lloyd caught a word that made her prick up her ears, and she leaned forward, listening eagerly. "Sister Mary's children are coming out next Saturday. I was lying awake last night, wondering what I could do to entertain them, when it popped into my head that Saturday will be the last day of October, and of course they'll want to celebrate Hallowe'en." "Sister Mary's children," repeated Lloyd to herself, with a puzzled expression, that suddenly turned to one of joyful recollection. "Oh, she means the little Waltons! I wondah how long they've been back in America?" Her geography slipped unnoticed to the floor, as she sat thinking of her old playmates, whom she had not seen since their departure for the Philippines, and wondering if they had changed much in their long absence. There were four of them, Ranald (she remembered that he must be fourteen now, counting by his cousin Malcolm's age) and his three younger sisters, Allison, Kitty, and Elise. Some of the happiest days that Lloyd could remember had been the ones spent with them in the big tent pitched on the MacIntyre lawn; for no matter how far west was the army post at which their father happened to be stationed, they had been brought back every summer to visit their grandmother in the old Kentucky home. Lloyd had not seen them since their father had been made a general, and they had gone away on the transport to the strange new life in the Philippines. Although many interesting letters were sent back to the Valley, in which the whole neighbourhood was interested, it happened that Lloyd had never heard any of them read. Her old playmates seemed to have dropped completely out of her life, until one sad day when the country hung its flags at half-mast, and the black head-lines in every newspaper in the land announced the loss of a nation's hero. Lloyd remembered how strange it seemed to read the account, and know it was Ranald's father who was meant. She thought of them often in the weeks that followed, for Papa Jack could not pick up a newspaper without reading some touching tribute to the brave general's memory, some beautiful eulogy on his heroic life, but somehow the strange experiences her little playmates were passing through seemed to set them apart from other children in Lloyd's imagination, and she thought of them as people in a book, instead of children she had romped with through many a long summer day. As she listened to the voice on the porch she found that Miss Allison was talking about her sister, and telling some of the interesting things that had happened to the children in Manila. It was more than the Little Colonel could endure, to sit in the house and hear only snatches of conversation. "Oh, mothah, _please_ let me come out and listen," she begged. "I'll study to-night instead, if you will. I'll learn two sets of lessons if you'll let me put it off just this once." There was a laughing consent given, and the next moment Lloyd was seated on a low stool at Miss Allison's feet, looking up into her face with an expectant smile, ready for every word that might fall from her lips. "I was telling your mother about Ranald," began Miss Allison. "She asked me how it came about that such a little fellow was made captain in the army." "Oh, was he a _really_ captain?" cried Lloyd, in surprise. "I thought it was just a nickname like mine that they gave him, because his father was a general." "No, he was really a captain, the youngest in the army of the United States Volunteers, for he received his appointment and his shoulder-straps a few weeks before his twelfth birthday. He'll never forget that Fourth of July if he lives to be a hundred; for those shoulder-straps meant more to him than all the noise and sky-rockets and powder-burns of all the boys in America put together. You see he had been under fire at the battle of San Pedro Macati. He had gone out with his father, a short time after they landed in Manila, and the general in command invited them out on the firing line. Before they realised their peril, they suddenly found themselves under a sharp fire from the enemy. One of the staff said afterward that he had never seen greater coolness in the face of as great danger, and all the officers praised his self-possession. For a little while the bullets whizzed around him thick and fast. One hit the ground between his feet. Another grazed his hat, but all he said as one hummed by was, 'Oh, papa, did you see that? It looked like a hop-toad.' "It was a terrible sight for a child's eyes, for he saw war in all its horrors, and his mother did not want him to take the risks of any more battle-fields, but he was a true soldier's son, and insisted on following his father wherever it was possible for him to go. At the battle of Zapote River he was in no danger, for he had been put in a church tower overlooking the field. But that was a terrible ordeal, for all day long he stood by the window, expecting any minute to see his father fall. All day long he looked for him, towering above his men, and whenever he lost sight of him for awhile, he leaned out to watch the litters the men were carrying into the church below where they brought the dead and dying. It was always with the sickening dread that the still figure on some one of them might be that of his beloved father. Sister Mary sent me a copy of the official announcement, that gave him the rank of captain. It mentions his coolness under fire. You may imagine I am quite proud of that little document, for I always think of Ranald as he was when I had him with me most, a sensitive little fellow with golden curls and big brown eyes, as silent and reserved as his father. You see I know that his courage has no element of daring recklessness. So many things he did showed that, even when he was a baby. It is just quiet grit that takes him through the things that hardier boys might court. That, and his strong will. "At first he was appointed aide-de-camp on his father's staff, and went with him on all his expeditions, and rode on a dear little Filipino pony. The natives called him the Pickaninny Captain. He was under fire again at the capture of Calamba, and soon after he was made an aide on Gen. Fred. Grant's staff. Once while under him he was ordered back in charge of some insurgents' guns that had fallen into the hands of the Americans, to be turned in at headquarters. So you see he was a 'really' captain as you called him." "Oh, tell some more, Miss Allison," begged Lloyd, thinking that the subject might be dropped, when Miss Allison paused for a moment. "Well, I hardly know what else to tell. His room is full of relics and trophies he brought home with him,--shells and bullets and bolos--great savage knives with zigzag two-edged blades--flags, curios,--all sorts of things that he picked up or that the officers gave him. His mother can tell you volumes of interesting experiences he has had, but he is as shy and modest as ever about his own affairs, and maybe he'll never speak of them. He'll tell you possibly of the deer which the English consul gave him, and the pet monkey that followed him everywhere, even when it had to swim out through a rice swamp after him; maybe he'll mention the Filipino pony that the officers gave him when he came back to America, but he rarely speaks of those graver experiences, those scenes of battle and bloodshed." "It doesn't seem possible that it is Ranald who has seen and done all those things," said the Little Colonel, thoughtfully. "When you play with people and fuss with them, and slap their faces when they pull your hair, or throw away their marbles when they break your dolls, as we did, when we were little, it seems so queah to think of them bein' _heroes_." Miss Allison laughed heartily. "That's a universal trouble," she said. "We never can be heroes to our family and neighbours. Even brass buttons and shoulder-straps cannot outshine the memory of early hair-pullings." "Tell about the girls," said Lloyd, fearing that if a pause were allowed in the conversation Miss Allison would begin talking about something less entertaining than her nephew and nieces. "Do they still love to play papah dolls and have tableaux in the barn?" "Yes, I am sure they do. They didn't have as exciting a time as Ranald, for of course they stayed at home with their mother in the palace at Manila. But it was interesting. It had queer windows of little sliding squares of mother-of-pearl, that were shut only when it rained. They could peep through and see the coolies in their capes and skirts of cocoa-nut fibre, and the big hats, like inverted baskets, that made them look as if they had stepped out of Robinson Crusoe's story. "On one side of the palace was the Pasig River, where the natives go by in their long skiffs. On the other side were the sights of the streets. Sometimes it was only an old peanut vendor whom they watched, or a man with fruit or boiled eggs or shrimps or dulce. Sometimes it was the seller of parched corn, squatting beside the earthen pot of embers which he constantly fanned, as he turned the ears laid across it to roast. And sometimes the ambulances went by on their way to the hospital, reminding them that life on the island was not a happy play-day for every one. I am sure that the Lady of Shalott never saw more entertaining pictures in her magic mirror than the panorama that daily passed those windows of mother-of-pearl. "Time never dragged there, you may be sure. Sometimes they were invited to spend an afternoon on the English war-ship, and the young officers gave them a spread and a romp over the ship. Allison still keeps an old hat with the ship's ribbon on it for a hat-band, which a gallant little midshipman gave her to remind her of the good times they had had together on the vessel. The English consul and vice-consul frequently invited them to tiffin or to parties, and their garden of monkeys was open to their little American neighbours at all times. "Coming home the transport stopped in a Japanese harbour for a week. The faithful old Japanese servants, Fuzzi and her husband, who had lived with them in California and followed them to the Philippines, were with them on the transport. This place where they stopped happened to be their native town, so they took the children on land every day and gave them a glimpse behind the scenes of Japanese life, which few foreigners see. "Then Allison had a birthday, while they were homeward bound, away out in the middle of the Pacific, and the ship's cook surprised her by making her a magnificent birthday cake with her name on it in icing. Oh, they've had all sorts of unusual experiences, and many, no doubt, that I have never heard of, although they have been back in America a year. But now that they have taken a house in town I expect to have them with me a great deal. And that brings me to the matter I came up to see you both about. They are coming out Saturday, and I want you to help me give them a Hallowe'en party." "Another holiday!" exclaimed Lloyd, clapping her hands. "I had forgotten that there was anything to celebrate between Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. I never went to a Hallowe'en party in my life, but it sounds as if it would be lots of fun." "Do you remember the old house at Hartwell Hollow that has been vacant so long?" asked Miss Allison. "The coloured people say it is haunted. Of course we do not believe such foolish things, or any of the foolishness of Hallowe'en in fact, but as long as we're going to resurrect the old superstitions, it is appropriate to have a haunted house for the purpose. The landlord says that it is that report which keeps it vacant. I saw him this morning, and got his permission to use it for the party. I think we can make an ideal spot of it. I'll have it swept and cleaned, and on Saturday afternoon I want you both to come and help me decorate it." "Of course the only lights must be Jack-o'-lanterns," said Mrs. Sherman, entering into the plan as heartily as if she had been Lloyd's age. "The corn-field is full of pumpkins. Walker can make lanterns all day if necessary. It will take nearly a hundred, will it not, Allison?" "I think so, although we will light only the down-stairs rooms, but there ought to be some large ones on the porches. We'll try all the old charms that we tried when we were children; bake a fate cake, melt lead, bob for apples, and observe every silly old custom that we can think of. The house is unfurnished except for an old stove in the kitchen, but I can easily send over enough tables and chairs." Miss Allison went away soon, after they had finished all their plans, and Lloyd stood looking after her as long as she was in sight. "How can I wait until Saturday?" she asked, with a wriggle of impatience. "I'm so glad she asked us to help. Getting ready for things is nearly as much fun as the things themselves. But Hallowe'en pahties and home-lessons don't mix very well. I'll be thinking about that now, instead of my lessons. Oh, mothah, it seems to me I nevah can learn to spell that old volcano. I knew how last week, but I missed it again yestahday when we had review in spelling." "I have thought of a way to mix Hallowe'en and home-lessons in such a way that you will never forget one word, at least," said her mother. "Tell Walker to bring the largest, roundest pumpkin that he can find in the field, and put it on the bench by the spring-house. Call me when he is ready." Wondering what pumpkins and volcanoes had to do with each other, but charmed with the novelty of her mother's way of teaching spelling, Lloyd went skipping down the path to give the order to Walker. It was only a little while until she was back again. "It is the biggest pumpkin I evah saw," she reported. "It was too big fo' Walkah to carry. He had to bring it up on a wheelbarrow." Taking a carving-knife as she passed through the kitchen, Mrs. Sherman caught up her dainty skirts and followed Lloyd down the path to the spring-house. It was late in the afternoon and a touch of frost was in the air. The yellow maple leaves were floating softly down from the branches above the path, and wherever the sun touched them on the ground lay a carpet of shining gold. "See, mothah, isn't it a whoppah?" cried Lloyd, trying to put her arms around the mammoth pumpkin on the bench. "It is a beauty," answered Mrs. Sherman, as she began deftly outlining a face on one side of it, with the sharp carving-knife. First she drew two large circles in the yellow skin where the eyes were to be cut, a triangle for the nose, and a grinning crescent just below for the mouth. "Now," she said, passing the knife to Lloyd, "carve the letters P-O in each circle. It does not matter if they are crooked. They are to be cut out with the circle afterwhile. Now in the triangle put the word CAT and the letter E after it, and in the crescent the word PET and the letter L. Now what does the face say to you?" "The eyes say popo, the nose cat-e and the mouth pet-l," answered Lloyd, laughing at the comical face outlined on the pumpkin. "Shut your eyes and spell Popocatepetl," said Mrs. Sherman. "Why, it is just as easy," cried Lloyd, as she rattled it off. "I can see each syllable grinning at me, one aftah the othah. I am suah I'll nevah fo'get it now. I like your way of teaching, bettah than anybody's." Presently, as she scooped out the seeds while her mother made a mandarin hat of the slice she had cut off below the stem, she said, "Old Popocatepetl will make the biggest Jack-o'-lantern of them all. It's a good name for him, too, because he'll be all smoke and fiah inside aftah the candles are lighted. We can put him ovah the front doah. I wondah what Allison and Kitty and Elise will think of him. Oh, mothah, do you remembah the time that Kitty set all the clocks and watches in the house back a whole hour and made everybody late fo' church? And the time she folded a grasshoppah up in everybody's napkin, the night the ministah was invited to Mrs. MacIntyre's to dinnah, and what a mighty hoppin' there was as soon as the napkins were unfolded?" Once started on Kitty's pranks, Lloyd went on with a chapter of don't you remember this and don't you remember that, until the sun went down behind the western hills and old Popocatepetl grinned in ugly completeness even to the last tooth in his wide-spread jaw. CHAPTER XI. A HALLOWE'EN PARTY. NOTHING worse than rats and spiders haunted the old house of Hartwell Hollow, but set far back from the road in a tangle of vines and cedars, it looked lonely and neglected enough to give rise to almost any report. The long unused road, winding among the rockeries from gate to house, was hidden by a rank growth of grass and mullein. From one of the trees beside it an aged grape-vine swung down its long snaky limbs, as if a bunch of giant serpents had been caught up in a writhing mass and left to dangle from tree-top to earth. Cobwebs veiled the windows, and dead leaves had drifted across the porches until they lay knee-deep in some of the corners. As Miss Allison paused in front of the doorstep with the keys, a snake glided across her path and disappeared in one of the tangled rockeries. Both the coloured women who were with her jumped back, and one screamed. "It won't hurt you, Sylvia," said Miss Allison, laughingly. "An old poet who owned this place when I was a child made pets of all the snakes, and even brought some up from the woods as he did the wild flowers. That is a perfectly harmless kind." "Maybe so, honey," said old Sylvia, with a wag of her turbaned head, "but I 'spise 'em all, I sho'ly do. It's a bad sign to meet up wid one right on de do'step. If it wasn't fo' you, Miss Allison, I wouldn't put foot in such a house. An' I tell you p'intedly, what I says is gospel truth, if I ketch sound of a han't, so much as even a rustlin' on de flo', ole Sylvia gwine out'n a windah fo' you kin say _scat_! Don't ketch dis ole niggah foolin' roun' long whar ghos'es is. Pete's got to go in first an' open de house." But not even the rats interrupted Sylvia in her sweeping and garnishing, and by four o'clock all the rooms which were to be used were as clean as three of Mrs. MacIntyre's best trained servants could make them. "Even ole Miss would call that clean," said Sylvia, looking around on the white floors and shining window-panes with a satisfied air. Mrs. Sherman had driven down some time before, with a carriage-load of Jack-o'-lanterns, and was now arranging them in rows on all the old-fashioned black mantels. She looked around as Sylvia spoke. "It would have been spookier to have left the dust and cobwebs," she said, "but this is certainly nicer and more cheerful." Fires were blazing on every hearth, in parlour, dining-room, and hall, to dissipate the dampness of the long unused rooms. A kettle was singing on the kitchen stove, and tables and chairs had been brought over and arranged in the empty rooms. All that the woods could contribute in the way of crimson berries, trailing vines, and late autumn leaves, had been brought in to brighten the bare walls and festoon the uncurtained windows. The chestnuts, the apples, the tubs of water, the lead, and everything else necessary for the working of the charms was in readiness; the refreshments were in the pantry, and on the kitchen table Lloyd was arranging the ingredients for the fate cake. "There couldn't be a bettah place for a Hallowe'en pahty," she said, looking around the rooms when all was done. "No mattah how much we romp and play, there's nothing that can be hurt. Won't it look shivery when all the Jack-o'-lanterns are lighted? Just as if some old ogah of a Bluebeard lived heah, who kept the heads of all his wives and neighbours sittin' around on all the mantels an' shelves." It was in the ruddy glow of the last bright October sunset that they drove away from the house to go home to dinner. Even then the grounds looked desolate and forlorn; but it was doubly gruesome when they came back at night. The Little Colonel and her mother were first to arrive. They had offered to come early and light the lanterns, as Miss Allison was expecting all her nieces and nephews on the seven o'clock train, and wanted to go down to meet them. The wind was blowing in fitful gusts, rustling the dead leaves and swaying the snaky branches of the grape-vine until they seemed startlingly alive. Now and then the moon looked out like a pale bleared eye. "It is a real Tam O'Shanter night," said Miss Allison, as she led the way up the winding walk to the front door. "I can easily imagine witches flying over my head. Can't you?" she asked, turning to the little group surrounding her. There were eight children. For not only Ranald and his sisters had come with Malcolm and Keith, but Rob Moore and his cousin Anna had been invited to come out from town to try their fortunes at Hartwell Hollow, and spend the night in the Valley where they always passed their happy summers. "Oh, auntie! What's that?" cried little Elise, holding tightly to Miss Allison's hand, as she caught sight of Lloyd's old Popocatepetl, grinning a welcome by the front door. He looked like a mammoth dragon, spouting fire from nose, eyes and mouth. Elise clung a little closer to Miss Allison's side as they drew nearer. "What awful teeth it's got, hasn't it?" "Nothing but grains of corn, dear. Lloyd stuck them in. You haven't forgotten the Little Colonel, have you? She is inside the house now, waiting to see you." Then Miss Allison turned to the others. "Step high, children, every one of you, when you come to this broomstick lying across the door-sill. Be sure to step over it, or some witch might slip in with you. It is the only way to keep them out on Hallowe'en. Step high, Elise! Here we go!" "That's one of the nice things about auntie," Kitty confided to Anna Moore as they followed. "She acts as if she really believes those old charms, and that makes them seem so real that we enjoy them so much more." The Little Colonel, waiting in the hall for the guests to arrive, had been feeling a little shy about renewing her acquaintance with Ranald and his sisters. It seemed to her that they must have seen so much and learned so much in their trip around the world, that they would not care to talk about ordinary matters. But when they all came tumbling in over the broomstick, they seemed to tumble at the same time from the pedestals where her imagination had placed them, back into the old familiar footing just where they had been before they went away. Lloyd had thought about Ranald many times since Miss Allison's account of him had made him a hero in her eyes. She could not think of him in any way but as dressed in a uniform, riding along under fluttering flags to the sound of martial music. So when Miss Allison called, "Here is the captain, Little Colonel," her face flushed as if she were about to meet some distinguished stranger. But it was the same quiet Ranald who greeted her, much taller than when he went away, but dressed just like the other boys, and not even bronzed by his long marches under the tropical sun. The year that had passed since his return had blotted out all trace of his soldier life in his appearance, except, perhaps, the military erectness with which he held himself. Kitty, after catching Lloyd by the shoulders for an impulsive hug and kiss, started at once to examine the haunted house. "There'll be mischief brewing in a little bit, I'll promise you," said Miss Allison, as Kitty's head with its short black hair dodged past her, and there was a flash of a red dress up the stairway. "She is looking for the 'ghos'es' that Sylvia told her were up there." Elise clung to Allison's hand, for the little sister wanted the protection of the big one, in those ghostly-looking rooms, lighted only by the fires and the yellow gleam of those rows of weird, uncanny Jack-o'-lantern faces. Like Kitty, both Allison and Elise had big dark eyes that might have been the pride of a Spanish señorita, they were so large and lustrous. Kitty's curls had been cut, but theirs hung thick and long on their shoulders. The sight of them moved Rob to a compliment. "You and Anna Moore make me think of night and morning," he said, looking from Anna's golden hair to Allison's dusky curls. "One is so light and one is so black. You ought to go around together all the time. You look fine together." "Rob is growing up," laughed Anne. "Two years ago he wouldn't have thought about making pretty speeches about our hair; he'd just have pulled it." "Here comes a whole crowd of people," exclaimed Allison, as the door opened again. "I wonder how many of the girls I'll know. Oh, there's Corinne and Katie and Margery and Julia Forrest. Why, nobody seems to have changed a bit. Come on, Lloyd, let's go and speak to them." "I'm glad that everybody is coming early," said Lloyd, "so that we can begin the fate cake." That was the first performance. When the guests had all arrived, they were taken into the kitchen. Under the ban of silence (for the speaking of a word would have broken the charm) they stood around the table, giggling as the cake was concocted, out of a cup of salt, a cup of flour, and enough water to make a thick batter. A ring, a thimble, a dime, and a button were dropped into it, and each guest gave the mixture a solemn stir before the pan was put into the oven, and left in charge of old Mom Beck. By that time the two tubs of water had been carried into the hall. Several dozen apples were set afloat in them, with a folded strip of paper pinned to each bearing a hidden name. By the time these had been lifted out by their stems in the teeth of the laughing contestants, the lead was melted ready to use. They tried their fate with that next, pouring a little out into a plate of water, to see into what shapes the drops would instantly harden. Strangely enough, Ranald's took the shape of a sword. Malcolm's was a lion and Keith's a ship, the Little Colonel's a star and Rob's a spur. Some could have been called almost anything, like the one little Elise found in her plate. She could not decide whether to call it a sugar-bowl or a chicken. But Miss Allison explained them all, giving some funny meaning to each, and setting them all to laughing with the queer fortunes she declared these lead drops predicted. They tried all the old customs they had ever heard of. They popped chestnuts on a shovel, they counted apple-seeds, they threw the parings over their heads to see what initials they would form in falling. They blindfolded each other and groped across the room to the table, on which stood three saucers, one filled with ashes, one with water, and one standing empty, to see whether life, death, or single blessedness awaited them in the coming year. In the midst of these games Kitty beckoned the boys aside and led them out on the porch. "What do you think?" she whispered. "After all the trouble auntie has taken to plan different entertainments, Cora Ferris isn't satisfied. I heard her talking to some of the older girls. She told Eliza Hughes that she expected some excitement when she came, and that she was dying to go down cellar backward with a looking-glass in one hand and a candle in the other. You know if you do that, the person whom you're to marry will come and look over your shoulder, and you can see him in the glass. "The girls begged her not to, and told her that she'd be frightened to death if she saw anybody, but she whispered to Eliza that she knew she wouldn't be scared, for she was sure Walter Cummins was her fate, and would have to be down in the cellar if she tried the charm, and that she wouldn't be afraid of going into a lion's den if she thought Walter would be there. And Eliza giggled and threatened to tell, and Cora got red and put her hand over Eliza's mouth, and carried on awfully silly. It made me tired. But she's bound to go down cellar after awhile, and somebody has told Walter what she said, and he's going, just for fun. Now I think it would be lots of fun to watch Walter, and keep him from going, on some excuse or another, and then one of you boys look over her shoulder." "Rob, you're the biggest, and almost as tall as Walter. You ought to be the one to go," suggested Keith. "Down in that spook cellar?" demanded Rob. "Not much, Keithie, my son. I might see something myself, without the help of a looking-glass or candle. I am not afraid of flesh and blood, but I vow I'm not ready to have my hair turn white in a single night. I have been brought up on stories of the haunts that live in that cellar. My old black mammy used to live here, and she has made me feel as if my blood had turned to ice-water, lots of times, with her tales." "You go, captain," said Malcolm, turning to Ranald. "You've been under fire, and oughtn't to be afraid of anything. You've got a reputation to keep up, and here is a chance for you to show the stuff you are made of." "I am not afraid of the cellar," said the little captain, stoutly, "but I'm not going to be the one to look over her shoulder into the looking-glass. I don't want to run any risk of marrying that fat Cora Ferris." A shout of laughter went up at his answer. "You won't have to, goosey," said Rob. "There's nothing in those old signs." "Well, I am not going to take any chances with her," he persisted, backing up against the wall. That settled it. They could have moved the rock foundation of the house itself easier than the captain, when he took that kind of a stand. Looking at it from Ranald's point of view, none of the boys were willing to go down cellar, for they could easily imagine how the others would tease them afterward. Kitty's prank would have fallen through, if she had not been quicker than a weasel at planning mischief. "What's to hinder fixing up a dummy man, and putting him down there?" she suggested. "You boys can run home and get Uncle Harry's rubber boots, and his old slouch hat, and some pillows, and that military cape that Ginger's father left there, and she'll think it is an army officer that's she's going to marry. Won't she be fooled?" The boys were as quick to act as Kitty was to plan. A noisy game of blind man's buff was going on inside the house, so no one missed the conspirators, although they were gone for some time. "We just ran home a minute for something," was Keith's excuse, when he and Malcolm and Ranald came in, red-faced and breathless. Rob and Kitty were still in the cellar, putting the finishing touches to the army officer. Kitty was recklessly fastening the dummy together with big safety-pins, regardless of the holes she was making in her Uncle Harry's high rubber hunting-boots. "Isn't he a dandy!" exclaimed Rob, putting the slouched hat on the pillow head at a fierce angle, and fastening the military cape up around the chin as far as possible. "Come on now, Kitty, let us make our escape before anybody comes." [Illustration: "SHE BEGAN THE OLD RHYME."] Meanwhile, the boys had corralled Walter Cummins, and Cora, seeing him leave the room, thought that the proper time had come. Slipping the hand-mirror from the dressing-table in the room where they had left their wraps, she took a candle from one of the Jack-o'-lanterns on the side porch, and signalled the girls who had agreed to follow her. She was nearly sixteen, but the three girls who groped their way across the courtyard in the flickering light of her candle were much younger. The cellar was entered from the courtyard, by an old-fashioned door, the kind best adapted to sliding, and it took the united strength of all the girls to lift it. A rush of cold, damp air greeted them, and an earthy smell that would have checked the enthusiasm of any girl less sentimental than Cora. "I am frightened to death, girls," she confessed at the last moment, her teeth chattering. Yet she was not so frightened as she would have been had she not been sure that Walter had gone down the steps ahead of her. "Hold the door open," she said, preparing to back slowly down. Her fluffy light hair stood out like an aureole in the yellow candle-light, and the face reflected in the hand-mirror was pretty enough to answer every requirement of the old spell, despite the silly simper on her lips. When she was nearly at the bottom of the cellar steps she began the old rhyme: "If in this glass his face I see, Then my true love will marry me." But the couplet ended in a scream, so terrifying, so ear-splitting, so blood-curdling, that Katie dropped in a cold, trembling little heap on the ground, and Eliza Hughes sank down on top of Katie, weak and shivering. Cora had seen the pillow-man in the cellar. Dropping the looking-glass with a crash, but clinging desperately to the candle, she dashed up the steps shrieking at every breath. Just at the top she stepped on the front of her skirt, and fell sprawling forward. She dropped the candle then, but not before it had touched her hair and set it afire. The soft fluffy bangs blazed up like tow, and too terrified to move, Eliza Hughes still sat on top of Katie, screaming louder than Cora had done. The sight brought Katie to her senses, however, and scrambling up from under Eliza, she flew at Cora and began beating out the fire with her bare hands. Cora, who had not discovered that her hair was ablaze, did not know what to make of such strange treatment. Her first thought was that Katie had gone crazy with fright, and that was why she had flown at her and begun to beat her on the head. It was all over in an instant, and the fire put out so quickly that only Cora's bangs were scorched, and Katie's fingers but slightly burned. But the screams had reached through the uproar of blind man's buff, and the whole party poured out into the courtyard to see what had happened. There was great excitement for a little while, and Kitty, enjoying the confusion she had stirred up, giggled as she listened to Cora's startling description of the man that had peeped over her shoulder. "He didn't look like any one I'd ever seen before," she declared. "He was tall and handsome and dressed like a soldier." "Oh, surely not, Cora," answered Miss Allison, who saw that some of the little girls gathered around her were badly frightened. "That couldn't be, you know. The cellar is quite empty. Give me the candle, and I'll go down and show you." "Oh, no, please, auntie, don't go down," cried Kitty, seeing that the time had come to confess. "It is just a Hallowe'en joke. We didn't suppose that Cora would be scared. We just wanted to tease her because she seemed so sure that she would find Walter down there. Go and bring him up, boys." Ranald and Rob started down the stairs, with Keith carrying a candle, and Malcolm calling for Walter to come on and help carry out his rival. The four boys, picking up the dummy as if it had been a real man, carried it up the steps and laid it carefully on the ground. So comical did it look with its pudgy pillow face, that everybody laughed except Cora. She was furiously angry, and not all Kitty's penitent speeches or the boys' polite apologies could appease her. If it had not been for Miss Allison she would have flounced home in high displeasure. But she as usual poured oil on the troubled waters, and talked in such a tactful way of her harum-scarum niece's many pranks, that there was no resisting such an appeal. She allowed herself to be led back to the house, but she would not join in any of the games. "Mom Beck says I'll have bad luck for seven years because I broke that looking-glass," she said, mournfully. "Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Miss Allison. "Don't give it another thought, dear, it is only an old negro superstition." She might have added that it was to herself and brother the ill luck had come, since it was her silver mirror that was broken, and Harry's rubber boots that would be henceforth useless for wading because of the holes thoughtless Kitty had made in them with safety-pins, when she fastened them to the pillows. Refreshments were served soon after they went back to the house. Not the cakes and ices that usually attended parties in the Valley, but things suggestive of Hallowe'en. Pop-corn, nuts, and apples, doughnuts and molasses candy. Then the fate cake was cut, and everybody took a slice to carry home to dream on. "Eat it the last thing before you retire," said Miss Allison. "Then walk to bed backwards without taking a drink of water or speaking another word to-night. It is so salty that it is likely you will dream of being thirsty, and of somebody bringing you water. They say if you dream of its being brought in a golden goblet you will marry into wealth. If in a tin cup poverty will be your lot. The kind of vessel you see in your dream will decide your fate. Ah, Walter got the button in his slice. That means he will be an old bachelor and sew his own buttons on all his life." Anna Moore got the dime, and Eliza Hughes the ring, which foretold that she would be the first one in the company to have a wedding. The thimble fell to no one, as it slipped out between two slices in the cutting. "That means none of us will be old maids," said little Elise. Miss Allison slipped it on Kitty's finger. "To mend your mischievous ways with," she said, and everybody who had enjoyed the pillow-man laughed. The moon was hiding behind a cloud when at last the merry party said good-night, so Miss Allison provided each little group with a Jack-o'-lantern to light them on their homeward way. As the grotesque yellow heads with their grinning fire-faces went bobbing down the lonely road, it was well for Tam O'Shanter that he need not pass that way. All the witches of Allway Kirk could not have made such a weird procession. Well, too, for old Ichabod Crane that he need not ride that night through the shadowy Valley. One pumpkin, in the hands of the headless rider, had been enough to banish him from Sleepy Hollow for ever. What would have happened no one can tell, could he have met the long procession of bodiless heads that straggled through the gate that Hallowe'en, from the haunted house of Hartwell Hollow. CHAPTER XII. THE HOME OF A HERO. WITH November came heavier frosts and the first light snowfall of the season, a skim of ice on the meadow-ponds, shorter days, and long cheerful evenings around the library fire. More than that, it brought the end of the extra home-lessons, for by this time the Little Colonel had not only caught up with her classes, but stood at the head of most of them. "I think she deserves a reward of merit," said Papa Jack when she came home one day, proudly bearing a record of perfect recitations for a week. And so it came about that the next Friday afternoon she had a reward of her own choosing. Allison, Kitty, and Elise were invited out to stay until Monday. So for two happy days four little girls raced back and forth under the bare branches of the locusts, where usually one lonely child walked to and fro by herself. And because the daylight did not last half long enough, and because bedtime seemed to come hours too soon, they were invited to come out next week also. "It is almost like having Betty back again to have Allison," Lloyd confided to her mother. "She is so sensible, and has the same sweet little ways that Betty had of thinking of other people's pleasure first. Sometimes I forget and call her Betty. I wish they could all come out again next week." "Have you looked at the calendar to see what comes next week, Lloyd?" "No, mothah. What is it? Anybody's birthday?" "What do we always have the last Thursday in November?" "Oh, Thanksgiving!" exclaimed Lloyd, joyfully. "Anothah holiday! How fast they come!" Usually Thanksgiving was made a great occasion at Locust, and the house was full of guests; but this year Mr. Sherman was obliged to be in New York all week, and the old Colonel was in Virginia. Lloyd and her mother were planning to celebrate alone when Aunt Jane sent for them to spend the Thanksgiving vacation with her in town. Lloyd never enjoyed her visits to her great-aunt Jane. The house was too big and solemn with its dark furniture and heavily curtained windows. The chairs were all so tall that they lifted her feet high above the floor. The books in the library were all heavy volumes with dull, hard names that she could not pronounce. The tedious hours when she sat in the invalid's dimly lighted room and listened to the details of her many ailments, or to tales of people whom she had never seen, seemed endless. This Thanksgiving Day it was unusually cheerless. "All so grown-up and grumbly!" thought Lloyd. "Seems to me the lesson set for me to learn on every holiday is patience. I'm tiahed of being patient." Aunt Jane had her Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of the day. Much turkey and plum-pudding made Lloyd drowsy, and the hour that followed was a stupid one. She sat motionless in a big velvet armchair listening to more of Aunt Jane's long stories of unknown people. Now and then she stifled a yawn, wishing with all her heart that she could change places with the little newsboy, calling papers in the street below the window, or with the stumpy-tailed dog frisking by in the snow. She fairly ached with sitting still so long, and wondered how her mother could be so interested in all that Aunt Jane was telling. She could have clapped her hands for joy when the maid broke the tediousness of the hour by asking Mrs. Sherman to step out into the hall. Mrs. Walton wanted to speak to her at the telephone. Lloyd slipped from her chair and followed her mother out of the room, thankful for any excuse to make her escape. She wished she could hear what Mrs. Walton was saying, instead of only one side of the conversation. This is what she heard her mother say: "Is that you, Mary?" "Yes; we came in for the Thanksgiving holidays, and expect to stay until Saturday afternoon." "A Butterfly Carnival? How lovely!" "No, I couldn't possibly leave for any length of time, thank you. Aunt Jane is counting on my staying with her; but I'll gladly accept for Lloyd if she is willing to stay away all night without me. Wait a moment, please, I'll ask her." "Lloyd," she said, turning from the instrument, "Mrs. Walton has just telephoned me that you are included in the invitation that Anna Moore has given the girls to the Butterfly Carnival at the Opera House to-morrow afternoon. It is for the benefit of the free kindergarten in which Mrs. Moore is interested, and she has taken a box at the matinée for Anna and her friends. Anna is going to give a butterfly luncheon just before the performance. She heard that you were in town and thought that you were visiting Allison, so she called at Mrs. Walton's to invite you. Mrs. Walton has asked you to stay all night with the girls. Would you like to go?" Mrs. Sherman could not help laughing at the expression of delight on Lloyd's face as she began noiselessly clapping her hands. "Oh, if it wouldn't be rude to Aunt Jane," she exclaimed, in a whisper, "I'd just _squeal_, I'm so glad to get out of this dismal place. It is all so grown-up and grumbly heah, and a Buttahfly Cahnival has such a delicious sound." Mrs. Sherman turned to the receiver again, and Lloyd listened eagerly to one side of a short conversation about what to wear and when to go. Then Mrs. Sherman hung up the receiver, saying, "Allison and Kitty are coming for you. They will start on the next car. I'll ask Aunt Jane to send the man over with your clothes in a little while, and I'll call in the morning." Twenty minutes later two bright faces smiled up at the window, two little muffs waved an excited greeting, and Kitty and Allison ran up the front steps to meet the Little Colonel. "We're going to have the best time that ever was," cried Kitty. "Malcolm and Keith and Rob are invited, too. So is Ranald, but he went out to grandmother's directly after dinner to-day. He said he wouldn't miss the good times he'd have in the country for forty old Butterfly Carnivals. But the lunch is going to be beautiful, and it will be so nice to go to the Carnival afterward, and all sit in the same box." Mrs. Sherman, watching from an upper window, breathed a sigh of relief as she saw the three girls going gaily down the street together. She knew that Lloyd's vacation time could not fail to be a happy one if spent in the home of her old friend, Mary Walton. "I feel so queah," said the Little Colonel, as she followed Kitty and Allison into the house and up the stairs to their rooms. "It is just as if some one had waved a wand, and said, 'Presto! change!' Only half an hour ago I was in a big dark house that was as quiet as a deaf and dumb person. But heah, it seems as if the very walls were talkin', and I can't take a step without seeing something curious. I am sure that there is a story about that Indian tomahawk and peace-pipe on the wall, and all those pretty things hanging ovah the doah." "There is," answered Allison, pausing to point over the bannister to the curios arranged in the hall below. "Papa brought them back from that Indian campaign, when he was out so long, and captured that dreadful old Apache chief, Geronimo. The things in that other corner are relics of the Cuban War, and the other things are from the Philippines." Lloyd lingered a moment on the stairs, leaning over the bannister to peep into the library, where a flag, a portrait, and a sword shrined the memory of one of the nation's best belovèd. It was only a glimpse she caught, but with it came the impressive thought that she was in the home of a hero; and a queer feeling, that she could not understand, surged over her, warm and tender. It was as if she were in a church and ought to tread softly, and move reverently in such a presence. "Come on," called Allison, throwing open the door into her room. "How different this is from the Cuckoo's Nest," was Lloyd's next thought, as she looked about the interesting room, filled with toys and souvenirs from all parts of the world. "I'd lots rathah look at these things than play," she said, when a choice of entertainment was offered her. "Oh, what a darling book!" It was a quaint little volume of Japanese fairy tales she pounced upon, printed on queer, crinkly paper, with pictures of amazing dragons and brilliant birds, such as only the Japanese artists can paint. But before she could examine that, Kitty had brought her a tortoise-shell jinrikisha, and Allison a toy Filipino bed. Elise marshalled out a whole colony of dolls, from Spanish soldiers to fur-clad Esquimaux babies. Each brought out her special treasures, and all talked at once. They piled the floor around her with interesting things, they filled her lap, they covered the chairs and tables. And for every article there was an interesting tale of the time or place where it had come into their possession. Outside the snow began to fall again. The electric cars passed and repassed with whirr and rush and clang. The short winter day ended in sudden dusk, and the maid came in to light the gas. "Why, how could it get dark so soon!" exclaimed Lloyd, looking up in surprise as she suddenly realised that it was night. "It doesn't seem to me that I have been heah any time at all. I have enjoyed it so much." After the big Thanksgiving dinner nobody was very hungry, but they all followed Mrs. Walton down to the dining-room for a light lunch. Here Lloyd found herself in another treasure-house of interesting things. She could not turn her head without a glimpse of something to arouse her curiosity, the quaint Chinese ladle on the sideboard, the gay procession of elephants and peacocks around the border of the table-cover, the old army chest, the silver candlesticks that had lighted the devotions of many a Spanish friar in the gray monasteries of Cuba, and the exquisite needlework of the nuns of far-away Luzon. Mrs. Walton was the tale-teller now, and Lloyd listened with an intense eagerness that made her dark eyes grow more starlike than ever, and brought the delicate wild-rose pink flushing up into her cheeks. Seeing what pleasure it was giving her little guest, Mrs. Walton took her into the library afterward and opened the cabinets, pointing out one object of interest after another. But the things that pleased Lloyd most were the bells in the hall. Near the foot of the stairs, in an oaken frame placed there for the purpose, swung three Spanish bells, that had been presented to Mrs. Walton as trophies of war. They had been taken from different church towers on the island of Luzon, by the Filipino insurgents, when they were sacking the villages and taking everything before them. These bells had been captured from the insurgents by the soldiers of the general's division. A thrill went through the Little Colonel as Mrs. Walton told her their history, and swung one of the great iron tongues back and forth till the hall echoed with the clear ringing. Several times during the evening Lloyd slipped out into the hall again to stand before these mute witnesses of the ravages of war, and tap the rims with light finger tips. She tapped so lightly that only the faintest echo sounded in the hall, but from her rapt face Mrs. Walton knew that the note awakened other voices in the Little Colonel's imagination. She had known Lloyd ever since she had gone to live at Locust, and she remembered the child's quaint habit of singing to herself. All the words that pleased her fancy she strung together on the thread of a soft minor tune, in a crooning little melody of her own. "Oh, the buttercups an' daisies," she had heard her sing one time, standing waist-high in a field of nodding bloom. "Oh, the buttercups an' daisies, all white an' gold an' yellow. They're all a-smilin' at me! All a-sayin' howdy! howdy!" And another time when the August lilies, standing white and waxen in the moonlight, had moved the old Colonel to speak tenderly of the wife of his youth, Mrs. Walton had seen a smile cross his face, when the baby voice, unconscious of an audience, crooned softly from the doorstep, "Oh, the locus'-trees a-blowin', an' the stars a-shinin' through them, an' the moonlight an' the lilies, an' Amanthis! An' Amanthis!" Now, curious to know what thoughts the bells were awakening, Mrs. Walton bent her head to listen as the Little Colonel chanted to herself in a half-whisper, "Oh, the bells, the bells a-tolling, and the tales they ring for evah, of the battle-flags an' victory, an' their hero! An' their hero!" The tears sprang to Mrs. Walton's eyes as she listened to the child's interpretation of the voices of the bells, and presently, when she looked up and saw Lloyd standing in front of the general's portrait, gazing reverently into the brave, calm face, she crossed the room and put an arm around her. "Do you know," said the Little Colonel, in a confiding undertone, "when I look up at that, I know just how Betty feels when she writes poetry. She heahs voices inside, and thinks things too beautiful to find words for. There's something in his face, and about that sword that he used for his country, and the flag that he followed, and the bells that ring for his memory, that make me want to cry; and yet there's a glad, proud feelin' in my heart because he was so brave, as if he sort of belonged to me, too. It makes me wish I could be a man, and go out and do something brave and grand. What do you suppose makes me feel both ways at the same time?" "It is a part of patriotism," said Mrs. Walton, with a caressing hand on her hair. "I didn't know I had any," said Lloyd, seriously, looking up with wondering eyes. "I always took grandfathah's side, you know, because the Yankees shot his arm off. I hated 'em for it, and I nevah would hurrah for the Union. I've despised Republicans and the Nawth from the time I could talk." "Don't say that, Lloyd," said Mrs. Walton, still caressing her soft hair. "What have we to do with that old quarrel? Its time has long gone by. I, too, am a daughter of the South, Lloyd, but surely such lives as his have not been sacrificed in vain." She pointed impressively to the portrait. "That, if nothing else, would make me want to forget that North and South had ever been arrayed against each other. Surely such lives as his by their high loyalty should inspire a love of country deep enough to make America the guiding star of the nations." Bedtime came long before Lloyd was ready for it. "Do you want to tell your mother good night?" asked Mrs. Walton, stopping at the telephone as they passed through the upper hall. "Oh, yes," cried Lloyd. "How different it is from the Cuckoo's Nest. You can't get homesick when you know you're at one end of a wiah, and yo' mothah is at the othah." Mrs. Walton called up Aunt Jane's number, and, putting the receiver into Lloyd's hand, passed on into her room. "Oh, mothah," Allison heard her say, "it's like livin' in that fairy tale, where everything in the picture was made alive. Don't you remembah? The birds sang, and the fishes swam, and the rivah ran. Everything in the picture acted as if it were alive and out of its frame. Everything in the house talks, for it has a story of its own. All the family have been tellin' me stories, and I've had a lovely Thanksgiving Day." There was a long pause while Mrs. Sherman answered, then Allison heard Lloyd's voice again. "The lesson is a beautiful one this time. It isn't patience any moah. It is _Patriotism_. Good night. Can you catch a kiss? Heah it is." Allison heard the noise of her lips, and then a laughing good night as she hung up the receiver. They often had what they called night-gown parties at the Waltons, and they had one that night, when they were all ready for bed. The little group of white-robed figures gathered on the hearth rug at Mrs. Walton's feet, counting their causes for thankfulness, and chattering sociably of many things. Presently, across the merry conversation, fell a recollection that rested on Lloyd's mind like a shadow. She remembered Molly in her bare little bedroom over the kitchen, at the Cuckoo's Nest. Poor little Molly, who could never know a happy Thanksgiving so long as Dot was away from her! Here was shelter and home-light and mother-love, but Molly had none of the latter to be thankful for. Lloyd could not drive away the thought, and when there came a pause in the conversation she began telling Molly's story to her interested listeners. It had the same effect on them that it had on Joyce and Eugenia, and presently Allison slipped down to the library to bring up a volume of bound magazines that the girls might see the picture that reminded Molly of Dot. The grief of the poor little waif seemed very real to Elise, who hung over the picture, calling attention to every detail of the shabby room. "Look at the old broken stool," she said, "and her thin little arms. And her shoes are all worn out, too. I wish she had a pair of mine." Long after she was tucked away in her little white bed she called out through the darkness, "Mamma, do you s'pose Dot knows how to say her prayers?" "I don't know, darling," came the answer. "It has been a long time since she had any one to teach her." There was a pause, then another whispered call. "Mamma, do you s'pose it would do any good if I'd say them for her?" "Yes, love, I am sure it would." There was a rustling of bedclothes. Two bare feet struck the floor, and Elise knelt down in the dark, saying, softly: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee, Lord, her soul to keep. If she should die before I wake, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take. Please, God, help poor little lost Dot to get back to her sister. Amen. There, I guess he'll know, even if it did sound sort of mixed up," she said, climbing back to bed with a sigh of mingled relief and satisfaction. "That's the kind he loves best, little one," said her mother, coming into the room to tuck her in once more. "It doesn't make any difference about the pronouns. The more we mix our neighbours with ourselves in our prayers, the better he is pleased." CHAPTER XIII. THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING. "THERE! You are ready at last!" said Mrs. Sherman, as she finished buttoning Lloyd's gloves, and fastened the jewelled clasp of her long party cloak. She had come over to help the Little Colonel dress for the Butterfly Luncheon at Anna Moore's. Feeling very elegant in her unusual party array, Lloyd surveyed herself in the mirror with a satisfied air, and sat down beside Allison to wait for the carriage that Mrs. Moore had promised to send for them. Mrs. Walton was tying Kitty's sash, and in the next room Elise was buzzing around like an excited little bee. "Hold still! Do now!" they heard Milly say, impatiently. "I'll never get the tangles brushed out of your curls, and the others will go off and leave you, and you'll have to miss the party." Presently there was a long protesting wail from Elise. "Oh, Milly, what did you put that ribbon on my hair for? It isn't pink enough to match my stockings." "There's scarcely any difference at all in the shades," answered Milly. "Sure it would take a microscope to tell, even if they were side by side, and your head is too far away from your heels for anybody to notice." "Oh, but it won't do at all!" cried Elise, breaking away from her to run into the next room. "See, mamma, they don't match." In her eagerness Elise leaned over, bending herself like a little acrobat, till the pink bow on her hair was on a level with the pink silk stockings. "There's barely a shade difference," laughed Mrs. Walton. "The difference is so slight that nobody will notice it unless you expect to double up occasionally like a jack-knife and call attention to it." "Of course I don't expect to do that," said Elise, with such a funny little air of injured dignity that her mother caught her up with a hasty kiss. "You're a dear little peacock, even if you do think too much of your fine feathers. But you can't stop to make a fuss about your ribbons now. It would be making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Run back to Milly for your hat. I hear the carriage stopping out in front." "What a lot of things I'll have to write about in my next letter to the girls," thought Lloyd, as they rolled along in the carriage a few minutes later. "Joyce and Betty will like to hear about the general's home and all the interesting things in it, and Eugenia will enjoy this part of my visit most." [Illustration: THE BUTTERFLY CARNIVAL.] It was with a view to impressing Eugenia with the elegance of her friends, that Lloyd noticed every detail of the beautiful luncheon. She intended that Eugenia should hear about it all. Gay butterflies, so lifelike that one could not believe that human hands had made them, were poised everywhere, on the flowers, the candle-shades, the curtains. The menu cards were decorated with them, the fine hand-painted china bore swarms of them around their dainty rims, and even the ices were moulded to represent them. The little hostess herself, fluttering around among her guests as gracefully as if she too were a winged creature, wore a gauzy dress of palest blue, embroidered in butterflies, and there were butterflies caught here and there in her golden curls. The Little Colonel could scarcely eat for admiring her. She felt very elegant and grown up to be the guest at such an entertainment, and as she took her place at the table between Malcolm and Rob, she wished with all her heart that Eugenia could peep in and see her. It was time to start to the Butterfly Carnival almost immediately when luncheon was over, and again Lloyd felt very elegant and grown up rolling along in the carriage to the matinee. Mrs. Moore ushered the party into the box she had taken for Anna and her little friends, and more than one person in the audience turned to ask his neighbour, "Who are those lovely children? Did you ever see such handsome boys? They have such charming manners. It is like a scene from some old court-play." The Little Colonel, sitting beside Anna, with the two little knights leaning forward to talk to her, to pick up her fan, or adjust her lorgnette, was all unconscious that any one in the audience was watching her admiringly, but she wished again that Eugenia could see her. When the curtain went up the scene on the stage was so absorbing that she forgot Eugenia. She forgot where she was, for the play carried her bodily into fairy-land. The queen of the fairies was there with her star-tipped wand and all her spangled court, and Lloyd looked and listened with breathless attention, while the naughty Puck played pranks on all the butterflies, and, finally catching them at play in a moonlighted forest, took all the gauzy-winged creatures captive. It was as entrancing as looking into a living fairy tale, and when at last the queen released the prisoners with a wave of her star-tipped wand, and to the soft notes of the violins, the butterflies danced off the stage, Lloyd drew a long breath and came down to earth with a sigh. She could have listened gladly for hours more. But the curtain was down, the people were rising all over the house, and Keith was holding her party cloak for her to slip into. Mrs. Moore turned to Allison. "Elise is wild to see behind the scenes," she said. "I am going to keep her with me a little while. Your cousin Malcolm says that he and Keith can take you home in their carriage with Lloyd and Kitty. So I'll send Anna and Rob home in mine and wait here until it comes back. Tell your mother I'll take good care of Elise and bring her home as soon as I attend to my little protegés behind the scene." Many of the children who had taken part in the performance were from the free kindergarten, and Elise, holding fast to Mrs. Moore's hand, watched the transformation behind the scenes, from gauzy wings to gingham gowns, with wondering eyes. "It is like when Cinderella lost her glass slipper," she said. "The clock struck twelve, and her silks turned to rags." All the glitter and glory of fairy-land had disappeared with the footlights. In the wintry light of the late afternoon, some of the faces were pitifully thin and wan. "Here are three little butterflies that must go back home and be grubs again," said Mrs. Moore, as she beckoned to the children whom she had promised to take home in her carriage. Elise looked at them, wondering if it could be possible that they were the same children, who, fifteen minutes before, had looked so radiantly beautiful in their spangled costumes on the stage. They were shy little things who could scarcely find words to answer Mrs. Moore's questions, but they seemed to enjoy the drive in the warm closed carriage, behind the team of prancing bays. Elise chatted on gaily, telling Mrs. Moore how much she had enjoyed the carnival, how she had admired the fairy queen, and how she longed for a real live fairy. She had looked for them often in the morning-glories and the lily-bells. If she could find one maybe it would tell her where to look for Dot. Presently they turned into a side street among unfamiliar tenement-houses, and paused at an alley entrance. "I am going to the top of the stairs with the children," said Mrs. Moore, preparing to step out of the carriage. "I want to inquire about the baby, who is sick. I'll be back in a moment, Elise." As the carriage door closed behind her she spoke to the coachman. "Wait here a moment, Dickson." The man on the box touched his hat and then turned his fur collar higher around his ears. There was a cold wind whistling through the alley. Elise pressed her face against the glass and looked out into the wintry street. Mrs. Moore's moment stretched out into five. The baby up-stairs was worse, and she was making a list of the many things it needed for its comfort. There was little of interest to watch from the carriage window. Few people were passing along the narrow pavement, and Elise wondered impatiently why Mrs. Moore did not come. Presently, down the street came a ragged child with its arm held up over its eyes, sobbing and sniffling as it shuffled along in a pair of wornout shoes many sizes too large for its little feet. Elise's heart gave a great thump, and she started forward eagerly. "Molly's little lost sister!" she exclaimed aloud. "It must be, for she looks just like the girl in the picture. Oh, I must call her!" She was fumbling at the knob of the carriage door, but before she could get it open, the child turned and started up the dirty alley, still sobbing aloud, with her arm over her face. "Oh, I must call her back," thought Elise. "Everybody will be so glad if she is found. I mustn't let her get away." It took all her strength to turn the knob, but with another desperate wrench she got the door open, and climbed out to the pavement. The coachman, half asleep in his great fur collar and heavy lap-robes, did not hear the tap of the little pink boots, as she ran up the dark alley between the high, rickety buildings, with their bad smells and dirty sewers. "Oh, she is going so fast!" panted Elise. "I'll never catch up with her!" The pretty pink boots were wet and snowy now, the silk stockings splashed with muddy water. Her big velvet hat was tipped over one eye and her curls were blowing in tangles over the wide collar of her fur-trimmed cloak. But forgetting all about her fine feathers, she ran on, around corners, into strange passages, across unfamiliar streets, following the flutter of a tattered gown. All of a sudden she paused, looking around in bewilderment. The child she was following had disappeared. With a bitter sense of disappointment swelling in her little heart, she turned to go back to the carriage, and then stood still in bewilderment. She could not tell which way she had come. She was lost herself! For a few minutes the little pink boots trudged bravely on, then the tears began to gather in her big black eyes. "They'll feel so bad at home," she thought, "when they hunt and hunt and can't find me anywhere. Oh, what if I'd stay lost, and get to look all ragged and dirty like Dot, and just have to stand in a corner and cry. If there was any nice stores along here, I'd go in and ask the man to send me home, but these places look so dreadful I'm afraid." She was in a disreputable part of the town, where second-hand clothing stores and pawn-shops were crowded in between saloons and cheap restaurants, and she dared not venture into any of them to ask for help. Little as she was, she felt that she was safer on the streets than inside those crowded, dirty quarters, where half-drunken negroes and coarse, brawling white men quarrelled and swore in loud tones. "It's the saloons that brought all the trouble to Molly and Dot," thought Elise, shrinking away from a group of noisy loafers, as they straggled out of one. "They made their father mean and their mother die and their grandmother go crazy and them lose each other. They're worse than wild beasts, and I'm afraid of 'em. Maybe if I walk far enough I'll come to a nice policeman, but I'm so tired now." Her lip quivered as she whispered the words. "Oh, it seems as if I'd drop! And I'm so cold I am nearly frozen." As she walked on, across her way an electric arch suddenly shot its cold white light into the street. Then another and another appeared, and as far as she could see in any direction the streets were brilliantly illuminated. "Oh, it's night!" she sobbed. "I'll freeze to death before morning if somebody doesn't come and find me." Still she dragged on, growing more tired and frightened at every step, until she could walk no longer. At the end of a long block she sat down on a doorstep, and huddled up in one corner out of the wind. A dismal picture came to her mind of the little match-seller in Hans Andersen's fairy tales. The little match-seller who had frozen to death on Christmas eve, on the threshold of somebody's happy home. "She had a box of matches to warm herself with," sobbed Elise. "I haven't even that. Oh, it's awful to be lost!" With the tears trickling down her face she pictured to herself the grief of the family in case they should never find her. "Mamma will stand in the door and look out into the dark and call and call, but her little Elise will never answer. And Allison and Kitty will feel so bad that they won't want to play. They'll divide my things between them to remember me by, and for a long time it'll make them cry whenever they see my dolls and books, or my place at the table, or my little wicker chair in the library, that I'll never sit in any more. Ranald won't cry, 'cause he's a captain and he's brave. But he'll be just as sorry. Oh, I wish Ranald wasn't out in the country! He could find me if he was at home." It was growing colder and colder on the doorstep. The child's teeth chattered and her lips were blue. Still she sat there, until an evil-looking man in the next house slouched out on to the street with a lean spotted dog at his heels. Suddenly, for no reason that Elise could discover, for she did not know that he was half drunk, he turned and kicked the poor beast, cursing it violently. It shrank away, yelping with pain. Seeing that the man was coming toward her, Elise sprang up in terror, and with one frightened glance over her shoulder, darted around the corner. Once out of his sight, she stopped running, but fear kept her moving, and she walked wearily on and on. Every step carried her farther away from home. Through unwashed windows she could see the yellow lamplight streaming over dingy rooms. Most of the sights were unattractive, but in one house, cleaner than the rest, she saw a crowd of clamouring children seated around a supper-table, all reaching their spoons and plates toward a big steaming platter in the middle. It reminded her that she was hungry herself, and she lingered a moment, looking wistfully in at the cheerful scene. Then on she started again. Once she stumbled and fell in the slush of a snowy crossing, but scrambled bravely up again, walking on and on. Meanwhile Allison, Kitty, and the Little Colonel, who had gone ahead in the carriage with the boys, had stopped at Klein's for a box of candy, and at a book store for a dissected game they had been discussing at the luncheon. When they reached Mrs. Walton's, Malcolm sent the carriage home, and both the boys went into the house with the girls. "Tell mamma we'll come up-stairs in a few minutes and tell her all about the carnival," said Allison to the maid who opened the door. The five children went into the library with their candy and game, and Mrs. Walton, busy with many letters, did not notice how Allison's few minutes lengthened out, until it grew so dark that she had to lay down her pen. As she did so, a carriage drove rapidly up to the house, Mrs. Moore hurried up the steps, and there was a hasty dialogue at the door between her and Allison. Mrs. Walton did not hear the frightened cry, "Oh, mamma! Elise is lost!" that went up from Allison. And impetuous Kitty, hearing no answer, and feeling that she must summon help in some way, began beating madly on the bells of Luzon, as if she were trying to call out the whole fire department. As the clangour startled her, Mrs. Walton's first thought was that the house must be on fire, and she hurried out to the head of the stairs and looked over the bannister. Kitty was still beating on the bells with an umbrella that she had snatched from the rack. "Stop, Kitty!" she called. "Tell me what is the matter?" "Elise is lost!" repeated Allison, and Mrs. Walton, with a white face, hurried down to hear Mrs. Moore's explanation. She had been detained some time in the tenement-house, listening to the tale of woe that the sick baby's mother poured out to her; but she had felt no uneasiness about Elise, knowing that the foot-stove in the carriage would keep her warm and comfortable. When she came down, to her utter amazement the carriage door stood open, and the child was gone. The sleepy coachman, who roused himself from his cold doze when he heard her coming, was as surprised as she, and declared he had not heard the carriage door open or the child slip out. He had no idea what could have become of her. They made inquiries of people all along the block, but nobody had seen a child answering to the description of Elise. Then Mrs. Moore thought that the child must have grown tired of waiting, and for some reason had started to walk home. She had driven out to the house with the hope that she might find her there, or might overtake her on the way. Mrs. Walton acted quickly. "Telephone to your father, Malcolm," she cried, "and to the police station. Oh, my poor baby, out in the cold streets with night coming on. I must look for her without losing a minute." She started up the stairs to call Milly to help her dress for the search. "Get my furs," she called, "and my heaviest coat. It will be a cold night." But Malcolm stopped her. "Don't go, Aunt Mary," he cried. "Papa is on his way here now, and we boys will go in your place. The policemen are being notified all over the city, and it will do more good for you to stay here ready to answer any questions that may come." "I'll wait until Mr. MacIntyre comes," said Mrs. Moore, "so that I can take him straight back to that tenement district if he thinks best to go." While they were still standing, an anxious little group in the hall, Mr. MacIntyre came in, and after a hurried consultation he and Mrs. Moore drove in one direction, and the boys started in another. None of them like to remember the three hours that followed. The news spread like wild-fire, and the telephone bell rang constantly with friendly messages. Each time they hoped that some one of the searching party was calling them up, but each time they were disappointed. At intervals one of the girls stole to the front door to look out into the night and listen. Every voice made them start, every footstep. Every roll of carriage wheels along the avenue made them hold their breath in suspense until it had passed. Presently, Kitty, leaving her mother at the telephone, and Allison and Lloyd on the stairs, strolled down to the kitchen, where Milly and the cook were talking about Charlie Ross and all the children they had ever heard of who had mysteriously disappeared from home. "An' it's just the loikes av her they'd be afther taking," said the cook, wiping her eyes. "She was that pretty wid her long currls, an' eyes shparklin' loike black dimonts, an' her swate little mouth wid its smile fit for a cherub. I moind the very last toime I saw her. Only this afthernoon she coom down here to show me her foine clothes she was wearin' to the parrty. There's no doubt in me moind but that somebody's stolen her on account av them same illigent clothes. Mebbe they think there'll be a big reward offered. Bless the two little pink shoes av her! It'll be a sorry day for this house if they niver coom walking into it again." Kitty stole out of the kitchen cold with this new horror, and went back to whisper it to Allison and Lloyd, as they sat on the stairs ready to spring forward at the first sound of coming footsteps. "Now if it had been Allison who was lost," thought Mrs. Walton, "she could have found her way home without any difficulty. She is such a sensible, womanly child, always to be trusted for doing the right thing in the right place. Kitty might not act so wisely, but she would bang ahead and come out all right in the end. She is the kind one might expect to see come home in almost any style, from a coal cart to a triumphal car. But my baby Elise is so little and so timid, my heart aches for her. She will be so sorely frightened." Dinner was put on the table and carried out again. Nobody could eat, and as the moments dragged by the girls still sat on the stairs, and the anxious mother sprang to the telephone at every tinkle of the bell, praying for a hopeful message from the police-station. Elise, stumbling on down strange streets, exhausted, hungry, and cold, stopped on a street corner and looked around her. She had strayed down among the warehouses now, and the little feet, numb with cold, were too tired to go much farther. Down here few people were passing. A big tobacco warehouse, looming up tall and dark above her, made her feel so tiny and lost, that the last bit of her courage ebbed away, and she began to sob aloud. Out of the shadow just ahead a man was coming toward her. So tall and broad-shouldered he looked, that he seemed a giant to her terrified eyes. She put her little gloved hands over her eyes to shut out the sight, and crouched close against the wall, her baby heart fluttering like a frightened bird's. On he came, with slow, heavy tread, his footsteps ringing through the silent street with a strange metallic echo. As he passed out from the black shadow of the warehouse, into the light of the street-crossing, Elise peeped between her fingers again, and then smiled through her tears. It was a big, burly policeman. The next instant she was running toward him, calling, "Oh, Mister Policeman, I'm lost! _Please_ take me home!" It was a safe haven she had run into. The policeman had just come from home to go on his beat, and in a little cottage not many blocks away were three children who were still in his thoughts. They had followed him to the door to swarm over him and kiss him, and had called after him down the snowy street, "Good night, daddy!" The childish voices were still ringing in his ears. As tenderly as if she had been one of his own, he lifted Elise in his strong, fatherly arms, wiped her tear-stained face, and began to question her. She told him her name, but in her confusion could not remember the name of the street where she lived. It was the work of only a moment to carry her into a drug-store around the corner, ring up headquarters, and report his discovery, and it was only a few moments after that until they were on an electric car, homeward bound. Elise was not the first lost child the big, tender-hearted policeman had taken home, but he had never had such a royal welcome as the one that awaited him in the hall when the joyful family met him. He glanced around him curiously, seeing on every side the relics of victorious battle-fields, the grim weapons of warfare that stood as mute witnesses of a brave soldier's life. Beyond in the library he caught a glimpse of the portrait, the flag, and the sword, and then suddenly realised in whose presence he stood. "Don't mention it, madam," he said, awkwardly, as the grateful mother tried to express her thanks. "Don't you know that this is about the proudest moment of my life? To know that it was _his_ little one I found, and brought back with her arms around my neck! I read everything there was about him in the papers (he nodded toward the portrait), and I always did say he was exactly my idea of a hero. But I never thought the day would come when I'd stand in his house and see all the things he touched and looked at." "That's the way everybody seems to feel about the general," thought the Little Colonel, glancing from the blue-coated policeman to the portrait. "It's grand to be a hero." Elise was too tired and sleepy to talk about her adventures that night, and asked to be put to bed as soon as she had had the bowl of oyster soup that was being kept hot for her. When the cook brought it in, loudly blessing all the saints in the calendar that the child had been found, all the family remembered that they were hungry and the long delayed dinner was brought on again. Elise fell asleep at the table before she finished the soup, but she opened her drowsy eyes as they were carrying her away to bed to say, "You all won't feel very bad, will you, if I give you just a teenty weenty Christmas present this year? 'Cause I want to save most of my money to buy something nice for that big policeman that brought me home. Being found is the very best thing in all the world, and I would have been lost yet, if it hadn't been for him." CHAPTER XIV. LLOYD MAKES A DISCOVERY. "IT _was_ Molly's little lost sister, I'm sure of it!" insisted Elise next morning, stopping in the middle of her dressing to argue the matter with Lloyd and Allison. "Of course I couldn't see her face, for she had her apron up over it, crying. But neither can you see the little girl's face in the picture, Allison Walton, and the rest of her was exactly like the picture. See?" She ran across the room for the magazine that had been brought up from the library on the night of Thanksgiving, and which still lay open on the table. "They have the same thin little arms and ragged clothes and everything. Oh, I am sure it was Dot that I ran after, and now that I know how awful it is to be lost, I'd do anything to find her. I dreamed about her last night, and I can't think about anybody else." So positive was she, that Lloyd could hardly wait for ten o'clock to come, the hour that her mother had promised to call for her. They were to begin their Christmas shopping that morning, for the calendar showed them that whatever gifts they intended sending Betty and Eugenia must soon be started on their way, in order to reach them in time. Lloyd was so excited over the prospect of finding Dot that she wanted to postpone the shopping, and start at once for the tenement district where Elise had wandered away from her carriage. "I know that Betty and Eugenia would rather do without any Christmas gifts," she declared almost tearfully, "than miss this chance of finding her. Betty used to talk about it all the time, and if we don't go this morning, something may happen that we may never find her." "But be reasonable, dear," answered Mrs. Sherman. "It would be like hunting for a needle in a hay-stack. You have such a slight clue, Lloyd. That picture is _not_ a picture of Molly's sister. It is only one that reminded Molly of her, and there are thousands of poor little waifs in the world that look like that. I will see the Humane Society about her, and the teachers of the free kindergarten who work in that district, and we will report the case to the police. It would be useless for us to go wandering aimlessly around, up one flight of dirty stairs and down another." Lloyd had to be content with that, but all the time she was going around among the shops, trying to choose gifts appropriate to send across the sea, she kept thinking of Molly as she had seen her that rainy day, lying face downward on her cot and sobbing out her misery in the little attic room of the Cuckoo's Nest. They went back to Mrs. Walton's for lunch, where Elise was still talking of her adventure of the night before. "I wish Dot had some of this good plum-pudding," she remarked. "She looked so cold and hungry. Maybe she was crying because she didn't have anything to eat." Mrs. Walton shook her head in perplexity. "Everything leads straight back to that subject," she exclaimed. "The child has talked of nothing else all morning. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you, Lloyd. Mrs. Moore called while you were out this morning, and promised Elise she would take her through all those tenements next week. She is very charitable, and has helped so many poor people in that part of the city that they will do anything for her. She thinks that there really may be some possibility of finding the child." Lloyd's face shone as if she had come into the possession of a fortune. She was sure now that Dot would be found in time to keep Christmas with them, and she could scarcely wait until she reached home to write to Betty about the search that was to be made. She went back to her Aunt Jane's that afternoon to wait until train time, much to the disappointment of Allison and Kitty, who were arranging some tableaux. "You'll write to me if they find out anything about Dot, won't you?" she asked Allison at parting. "Yes, the very next breath," answered Allison. So the Little Colonel went away quite hopeful, and for days she haunted the post-office. Before school, after school, at recess, sometimes the last thing before dark, she made a pilgrimage to the post-office, to stand on tiptoe and see if anything was in their box. But the days went by, and the long-looked-for letter never came. There were papers and magazines, thick letters from Joyce, and thin foreign-stamped ones from Betty and Eugenia, but none that told of a successful search for Dot. Two weeks before Christmas there came a letter from Allison, inviting her to spend the following Saturday in town. On the opposite page her mother had pencilled a postscript almost as long as the letter itself, saying: "Do come in with Lloyd. Sister Elise usually makes a merry Christmas for the little ones at the Children's Hospital, but this year she will be so busy with other things that she has asked us to take her place. Malcolm and Keith have asked for an unusually big celebration at Fairchance this Christmas, and she will have her hands full trying to carry out all their plans. "I have promised to take her place here, and we have planned a tiny individual Christmas tree for each child in the hospital. I am going to take the girls down there Saturday and let them talk to the children, and find out, as far as possible, what gift would make each one happy. Be sure to come in with Lloyd. Even if we have failed in our efforts to find little Dot, we may have a hand in making twenty other little souls supremely happy on Christmas Day. Come on the early train, and we will go to the hospital first, and spend the rest of the day in shopping." Luckily it was late in the week when the letter arrived, or Lloyd would have had a hard time waiting for Saturday. So impatient was she for the holiday to come that she began to count the hours and then even the minutes. "Two whole days and nights!" she exclaimed. "That makes forty-eight hours, and there's sixty minutes in an hour, and sixty seconds in a minute. That makes--let me see." It was too big a sum to do in her head, so she ran for pencil and paper and began multiplying carefully, putting down the amount in neat little figures. "One hundred and seventy-two thousand eight hundred seconds," she announced, finally. "What a terrible lot. The clock has to tick that many times before I can go." "But remember, part of that time you will be asleep," suggested Papa Jack. "Over fifty thousand of these seconds will be ticked off when you know nothing about it." That was some comfort, and the Little Colonel, putting on her warmest winter wrappings, went out to make some of the other seconds go by unnoticed, by rolling up snowballs for a huge snow-man on the lawn. It had been a dull week in the hospital. Gray skies and falling snow is a dreary outlook for children who can do nothing but lie in their narrow beds and look wearily out of the windows. This Saturday morning the nurses had given the little invalids their baths and breakfasts, the doctors had made their rounds, and in each ward were restless little bodies who longed to be amused. Those who were well enough to be propped up in bed fingered the games and pictures that had entertained them before; but a dozen pairs of eyes in search of some new interest turned expectantly toward the door every time it opened. Suddenly a stir went through the ward where the convalescents lay, and the wintry morning seemed to blossom into June-time. Four little girls, each with her arms full of great red roses, with leafy stems so long that it seemed the whole bush must have been cut down with them, passed down the room, leaving one at each pillow. "My Aunt Elise sent them," said the smallest child, pausing at the first white bed. "She asked us to bring them 'cause she couldn't come herself. They're American Beauties and they always make me think of my Aunt Elise." "She must be a dandy, then," was the response of Micky O'Brady, on whom she bestowed one, taking it up awkwardly in his left hand. His right one was still in a sling, and one leg had just been taken out of a plaster cast, for he had been run over by a heavy truck, and narrowly escaped being made a cripple for life. Elise stopped to question him about his accident, and found that despite his crippled leg a pair of skates was what he wished for above all things. While she was chattering away to him like a little magpie, Kitty and Allison went on down the room with their roses. It was not the first time they had been there, and they knew some of the children by name. But it was all new to Lloyd. In the next room the sight of the white little faces, some of them drawn with pain, almost brought the tears to her eyes. There were only six beds in this ward, and at the last one Lloyd laid a rose down very softly, because in that bed the little invalid lay on one side as if she were asleep. But as the perfume of the great American Beauty reached her, she opened her eyes and smiled weakly. Lloyd was so startled that she dropped the rest of the roses to the floor and clasped both hands around the bedpost. For the eyes that smiled up at her, keen and gray with their curly black lashes, might have been Molly's own, they were so like hers. The black hair brushed back from the white face waved over the left temple exactly as Molly's did. There were the same straight black eyebrows and the familiar droop of the pretty little mouth, and it seemed to Lloyd, as she stared at her with a fascinated gaze, that it was Molly herself who lay there white and wan. Only a much smaller Molly, with a sad, hopeless little face, as if the battle with life had proved too hard, and she was slowly giving it up. [Illustration: "'OH, _WHAT_ IS YOUR NAME?'"] The child, still smiling, weakly raised her bony little hand to lift the rose from the pillow, and even the gesture with which she laid it against her cheek was familiar. "Oh, _what_ is your name?" cried Lloyd, forgetting that she had been told not to talk in that room. "The people I lived with last called me Muggins," said the child, faintly, "but a long time ago it used to be Dot." As she spoke she turned her head so that both sides of her face were visible, and Lloyd saw that across the right eyebrow was a thin white scar. "Oh, I knew it!" cried Lloyd, under her breath. "I knew it the minute I looked at you!" Then to the child's astonishment, without waiting to pick up the fallen roses, she ran breathlessly into the hall. "Mothah! Mrs. Walton!" she cried, breaking into their conversation with one of the nurses. "Come quick, I've found her! It's really, truly Dot! She says that is her name, and she looks exactly like Molly. Oh, do come and see her!" She wanted to rush back to the child with the news that she knew her sister Molly and that they should soon be together, but the nurse said it would excite her too much if it were really so. Then she wanted to send a telegram to Molly and a cable to Betty saying that Dot had been found, but nobody except herself was sure that this little Dot was Molly's sister. "We must be absolutely sure of that first," said Mrs. Sherman, who saw the same strong resemblance to Molly that had startled the Little Colonel, but who knew how often such resemblances exist between entire strangers. "Think how cruel it would be to raise any false hopes in either one. Think how sure Elise was that the child she followed was Molly's sister. You both couldn't be right, for this one was brought to the hospital before Elise was lost." The nurse could tell very little. The child had been picked up on the street so ill that she was delirious, and all their investigating had proved little beyond the fact that she had been deserted by her drunken father. Her illness was evidently caused by lack of proper food and clothing. Nobody knew her by any other name than Muggins. While they were still discussing the matter in the hall, Allison had a bright idea. "Why couldn't you telephone for Ranald to bring his camera and take a picture of her and send that to Molly. If she says it is Dot that will settle it." The nurse thought that would be a sensible thing to do, but they had to wait until one of the doctors was consulted. As soon as he gave his permission, they began to make arrangements. Ranald answered his mother's summons promptly, and it was not long before he was setting up his tripod in the room where the child lay. A pleased smile came over the child's face when she discovered what was to be done. "Put in all the things that have made me so happy while I have been in the hospital," she said to the nurse, "so that when I leave here I can have the picture of them to look at." So they laid a big wax doll in her arms, that had been her constant companion, and around her on the counterpane they spread the games and pictures she had played with before she grew so weak. On her pillow was the queen-rose, and close beside the bed they wheeled the little table that held a plate of white grapes and oranges. Just as Ranald was ready to take the picture, the matron came in with a plate of ice-cream. "Oh, put that in, too," cried Muggins "Miss Hale sends it every day, and it's one of the happiest things to remember about the hospital. It is like heaven, isn't it?" she exclaimed, glancing around at the luxuries she had never known until she came to the hospital, and that smile was on her face when Ranald took the picture. "I'll develop it as soon as I get home, and print one for you this afternoon," he promised. "You shall have one to-morrow." "Will you print me one, too?" inquired the Little Colonel, anxiously, when they had bidden Muggins good-bye, and were going through the hall. "I want one to send to Betty and Eugenia, and one to send to Joyce, and one to keep." "I'll print a dozen next week if you want them," promised Ranald, "but the first one must be for that little Dot or Muggins, or whatever you call her, and the next one for Molly." It was Mrs. Sherman who wrote the letter that carried the picture to Molly. By the same mail there went a note to Mrs. Appleton, saying that in case Molly recognised it as her sister, they would send for her to come and spend Christmas with her in the hospital, for the nurse had said it would probably be the child's last Christmas, and they wanted to do all they could to make it a happy one. In a few days the answer came. Molly was almost wild with joy, and would start as soon as the promised railroad ticket reached her. The photograph of little Dot was scarcely out of her hands, Mrs. Appleton said. She propped it up in front of her while she washed the dishes. It lay in her lap when she was at the table, and at night she slept with it under her pillow to bring her happy dreams. The day that Mrs. Appleton's letter came, Allison went up to her mother's room and stood beside her desk waiting for her pen to come to the end of a page. "Mamma," she said, as Mrs. Walton finally looked up, "I've thought of such a nice plan. Have you time to listen?" Mrs. Walton smiled up at the thoughtful face of her eldest daughter. "You should have been named Pansy, my dear. _Pensee_ is for thought, you know, and I'm glad to say you are always having thoughts of some sensible way to help other people. I'm very busy, but I am sure your plan is a good one, so I'll let the letters wait for awhile." She leaned back in her chair, and Allison, dropping down on the rug at her feet, began eagerly. "Out at the hospital, mamma, there is a little empty room at the end of a side hall. It is a dear little room with a fireplace and a sunny south window. It has never been furnished because they haven't enough money. I asked one of the nurses about it, and she said they often need it for cases like Dot. It would be so much pleasanter to have her away from all the noise. And I've been thinking if it could be fixed up for Dot to spend Christmas in, how much nicer it would be for her and Molly both. It wouldn't cost very much to furnish it, just enough to get the little white bedroom set and the sheets and towels and things. Anyhow, it wouldn't be much more than you've often spent on my Christmas presents. And I wanted to know if you wouldn't let me do that this year instead of your giving me a Christmas present. Please, mamma, I've set my heart on it. If I got books they'd soon be read, and jewelry or games I'd get tired of after awhile, and things to wear, no matter how pretty, would be worn out soon. But this is something that would last for years. I could think every day that some poor little soul who has never known anything but to be sick or sad was enjoying my pretty room." "That is as beautiful a _pensee_ as ever blossomed in any heart-garden, I am sure," said Mrs. Walton, softly, smoothing the curly head resting against her knee, "and mother is glad that her little girl's plans are such sweet unselfish ones. We'll go this very afternoon and talk to the matron about it." Aladdin's lamp is not the only thing that can suddenly bring wonderful things to pass. There is a modern magic of telephones and electric cars, and the great Genii of sympathy and good-will are all-powerful when once unbottled. So a few hours wrought wonderful changes in the empty little room, and next morning Allison stood in the centre of it looking around her with delighted eyes. Everything was as white and fresh as a snowdrop, from the little bed to the dainty dressing-table beside the window. A soft firelight shone on the white-tiled hearth of the open fireplace. The morning sun streamed in through the wide south window, where a pot of pink hyacinths swung its rosy bells, and Allison's Japanese canary, Nagasaki, twittered in its gilded cage. She had brought it all the way from Japan. "Of course they won't want it in the room all the time," she said, "but there will be days when the children will love to have it brought in a little while to sing to them." "If you give up Nagasaki then I'll give my globe of goldfish," said Kitty, anxious to do her part toward making a happy time for little Dot. "Afterward, if the child who stays in that room is too sick to enjoy it, it can go into the convalescent ward." It was into this room that Molly came, bringing her picture of the Good Shepherd. She had carried it in her arms all the way, frequently taking it out of its brown paper wrapping, for down in one corner of the frame she had fastened the photograph of Dot. All that morning on the train, the refrain that had gone through her happy heart as she looked at the picture was, "Oh, she's been happy for a month! She's got grapes and oranges, and a doll, and roses in the picture, and _ice-cream_! And there's lace on her nightgown, and she is _smiling_." "Shall we name the room for you, Miss Allison?" asked the nurse, when the picture of the Good Shepherd was hung over the mantel, and Dot lay looking up at it with tired eyes, her little hand clasped in Molly's, and a satisfied smile on her face. "No," whispered Allison, her glance following the gaze of the child's eyes. "Call it _The Fold of the Good Shepherd_. She looks like a poor little lost lamb that had just found its way home." "I wish all the poor little stray lambs might find as warm a shelter," answered the nurse, in an undertone, "and I hope, my dear, that all your Christmases will be as happy as the one you are making for her." CHAPTER XV. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS. THERE was a fortnight's vacation at Christmas time. Lloyd spent nearly all the week before in town, and not once in all that time did it occur to her to wonder what she might find in her own stocking. She was too busy helping get the little trees ready for the children in the hospital. There were twenty of them, each one complete, with starry tapers and glittering ornaments, with red-cheeked candy apples, and sugar animals hung by the neck; with tiny tarlatan stockings of bonbons, with festoons of snowy popcorn, and all that goes to make up the Christmas trees that are the dearest memories of childhood. And somewhere, hidden among the branches of each one, or lying at its base, was the especial book or toy or game that its owner had been known to long for. "I believe that Molly and Dot would rather have theirs together," said Allison. "As they are in a room by themselves we can give them as large a one as we please, and the others will never know it." So it was a good-sized tree that was set aside for "The Fold." The very prettiest of the ornaments were put with it; the brightest coloured candles, and at the top was fastened a glittering Christmas angel and a shining Christmas star. It was not till the day before Christmas that they began to think of their own affairs. Then Kitty brought out four stockings, which the Little Colonel examined with interest. They were long and wide, with tiny sleigh-bells on the top, the heels, and the toes, that jingled musically at the slightest movement. Two were pink and two were blue. What charmed Lloyd the most were the fascinating pictures printed on them. They told the whole story of Christmas. Holly and mistletoe and Christmas trees were on one side, down which ran a road where pranced the reindeer with the magic sleigh, driven by jolly old Santa Claus himself. On the other side of the stocking was the picture of the fireplace and a row of stockings hanging from the mantel. In a cradle near by lay a baby asleep. Down on the toe was printed in fancy letters: "Hang up the baby's stocking, Be sure and don't forget. The dear little dimpled darling Has never seen Christmas yet." "We hang them up every year," explained Kitty. "Ranald and all of us. It wouldn't seem like Christmas if we used any other kind. We had them in Washington and at every army post we've lived at, and they've been around the world with us. If they could talk they could tell of more good times than any other stockings in the world." "Um! I just _love_ mine!" cried Elise, catching hers up with a caressing squeeze, and then swinging it around her head until every little bell was set a-jingling musically. A little while later she said, with a serious face, "I don't s'pose Molly and Dot ever saw a beautiful picture stocking like this. Do you? Gifts seem so much nicer when they come out of it than out of the common kind that I believe I'll lend them mine this year. I know what it is to be lost, you know. I'm so glad that I was found that I'd like to do something to show how thankful I am about it." "But how will Santa Claus know it's to be filled for them?" asked Kitty. "He has always filled it for you, and he might put your things in it, and they'd get them." "I could pin a note on it saying it was mine, but to please put their things in it this one time," said Elise, with a troubled look, as she went over to the window to consider the matter by herself. A little while later she carried her stocking to her mother with this note pinned to it: "DEAR SANTA CLAUS:--This is my stocking. I s'pose you'll recognise it, as I've carried it around the world with me, and you have put lots of pretty things in it for me every year since I was born. But this year please put Molly's and Dot's presents in it, and I shall be a million times obliged to you. "Your loving little friend, "ELISE WALTON." "But what will you do, little one?" asked Mrs. Walton. "Hang up one of my blue silk stockings," said Elise, promptly, as she danced around the room, jingling the bells on heel and toe in time to a gay little tune of her own. Lloyd would not have missed taking part in the Christmas celebration at the hospital for anything, yet she could not give up her usual custom of hanging her stocking beside the old fireplace at Locust. So, in order to give her both pleasures, it was finally decided that the trees should be taken to the hospital at dusk on Christmas eve, and she could go home afterward on the nine o'clock train. Malcolm and Keith were having a great celebration out at Fairchance for Jonesy and all who had been gathered into the home since its founding. Miss Allison was helping them, and could not go into town, much to the disappointment of the girls. "I wish that auntie was twins," said Kitty, mournfully. "Then she could be in both places at once. The boys are always wanting her whenever we do." "Your auntie helped with the celebration last year at the hospital, Kitty-cat," said her mother, "so it is only fair that they should have her in the country this year." "But Malcolm and Keith were with her both times," persisted Kitty, jealously. "I think that it is just too bad that she isn't twins." Rob and Ranald went with the girls to help distribute the trees. It seemed as if a tiny forest had been carried out of fairyland and set in long, glittering rows down the sides of the wards. One twinkled and bloomed beside each little white bed. The children did not stay long in the wards. They were more interested in the little room at the end of the hall,--Allison's room, that was known all over the building now as "The Fold of the Good Shepherd." The room where two little sisters lost from each other so long, but brought together at last, lived through the happy hours, hand in hand. Molly's face had lost every trace of its old sullen pout, and fairly shone with contentment as she sat by Dot's bed, smoothing her pillow, feeding her from time to time as the nurse directed, and singing softly when the tired eyes drooped wearily to sleep. "She would make a fine nurse," said the matron to Mrs. Walton. "She is strong and patient, and seems to have so much sense about what to do for a sick person. Usually we wouldn't think of letting anybody come in as she is doing, but she minds the nurse's slightest nod, and seems to be doing Dot more good than medicine." It had cost Elise a pang to give up her cherished stocking even as a loan, but she was more than repaid by the pleasure it gave the child, who had known no Christmas story and none of its joy since she had been large enough to remember. They went back to their homes as soon afterward as possible, Lloyd to hang up her stocking at Locust, and the children to put theirs by the library fire One plain little blue one hung among the gay pictured ones, no mistletoe upon it, no holly, no jingling bells, no printed rhymes; but as Mrs. Walton gathered Elise's little white gowned form in her arms, she repeated something that made the child look up wonderingly. "Oh, mamma!" she cried. "Does it mean that the little Christ-child counts it just the same--my lending the stocking to Dot and Molly--as if I had loaned it to him?" "Just the same, little one." "And he is glad?" She asked the question in an awed whisper. "I am sure he is; far gladder than they." Somehow the thought that she had really brought joy to the Christ-child made more music in her heart that Christmas eve than all the tinkling of the tiny Christmas bells. It would take too long to tell of all the good times that filled the happy holiday. At Fairchance it was a sight worth travelling miles to see,--those merry little lads, and the two little knights who had gone so far in their trying to "right the wrong and follow the king." At Locust Lloyd spent a happy day in a bewilderment of gifts, for besides all that she found in her overflowing stocking were the packages from Joyce and Eugenia and Betty. There was a new saddle for Tarbaby from her grandfather, and a silver collar from Rob for his frisky namesake, with "Bob" engraved on the clasp. All day there were woolly little heads popping into the hall to say "Chris'mus gif, Miss Lloyd." And then white eye-balls would shine and snowy teeth gleam as she handed out the candy and nuts and oranges reserved for such calls. Every old black mammy or uncle who had ever worked on the place, every little pickaninny who could find the slightest claim, visited the great house at some time during the day for a share of its holiday cheer. In the Walton household there was a chattering in the library long before sunrise, for Kitty, impatient to see what was in her stocking, had stolen down when the clock struck five, and the other girls had followed in her wake. "I got fourteen presents," said Kitty, chattering back to bed in the gray dawn, after a blissful examination of her stocking. "So did I," said Elise. "Everything in the world that I wanted, and lots of things I'd never dreamed of getting, besides. Auntie and Aunt Elise always think of such lovely things." Allison's gifts did not make such a brave showing when spread out with the others, but she thought of the little white room at the hospital with a warm glow in her heart that was worth more than all the gifts that money could buy. Down in the toe of her stocking she found a box from her Aunt Allison, and took it back to bed with her to open. Inside the jeweller's cotton was a little enamelled pansy of royal purple and gold, and in the centre sparkled a tiny diamond like a drop of dew. "Mamma must have told her," thought Allison, as she read the greeting written on the card with it. "For my dear little namesake. May your whole lifetime blossom with such beautiful thoughts for others as has made this Christmas day a joy." * * * * * Out at the hospital, as the day went by, Dot sat with her hand in Molly's, looking from time to time with eyes that never lost their expression of content, at the angel and the star that crowned the tree. She grew weaker and weaker as the hours passed, but, opening her eyes now and then, she smiled at Molly, and squeezed her hand, and looked again from the gay stocking hanging on the foot of her bed to the shining angel atop of the tree. The Japanese canary twittered in his cage; the goldfish flashed around and around in their sunny globe; the deep red roses on the table bloomed as if it were June-time. Outside there was snow and ice and winter winds. Inside it was all cheer and comfort and peace that happy Christmas Day. Mrs. Walton and the girls came down again in the twilight. Dot was too weak to say much, but she asked Mrs. Walton to sing, and wanted the tapers lighted again on the tree. Thoughtful Allison had brought fresh ones with her, which she soon fastened in place. And so, presently, with only the soft firelight in the room, and the starlight of the little Christmas candles, Mrs. Walton began an old tune that she loved. Her beautiful voice had sung it in many a hospital, in the cheerless tents of many a camp. Many a brave soldier, dying thousands of miles away from home, had been soothed and comforted by it. It was "My Ain Countrie" she sang. Not the sweet old Scotch words, with the breath of the moors and the scent of the heather in them, that she loved. She changed them so that the child could understand. Dot opened her eyes and looked up at the picture of the Good Shepherd, hanging over the mantel, as she sang: "'For he gathers in his bosom all the helpless lambs like me, And he takes them where he's going, to my own country.'" There was silence for a moment, and Dot asked suddenly, "Will everything there be as lovely as it is here in the hospital?" When Mrs. Walton nodded yes, she added, with a long, fluttering sigh, "Oh, I've been so happy here. I don't see how heaven could be any nicer. Sing some more, please." [Illustration: "THE LITTLE HAND HELD HERS."] She fell asleep a little later to the soothing refrain of an old lullaby, and never knew when her guests slipped out, with a whispered good night to Molly. An hour went by. The Christmas tapers burned lower and lower, and finally went out, one by one, till there was left only the one above the angel and the star. The fire flickered on the hearth, but Molly did not rise to replenish it, for the little hand held hers, and she did not want to waken such sweet sleep. The nurse looked in at the door once or twice, and slipped out again. Nagasaki, curled up like a feather ball, with his head under his wing, stirred once, with a sleepy twitter, but no other sound broke the stillness of the little room. Again the door opened softly, and the doctor stepped in on his round of evening visits. He laid his finger on the little one's pulse a moment, and then turned away. The last taper on the tree, that lit the star, glowing above the Christmas angel, gave a final flicker and went out. The doctor, stepping into the hall, met one of the nurses. "You'll have to tell her sister," he said. "She is still holding the little one's hand, thinking that she is asleep. But her life went out with the last of the Christmas candles." * * * * * It was not until next day that the children heard what had happened the evening before. The matron had telephoned immediately to Mrs. Walton, but she did not tell the children, or send word to Locust, until next morning. She did not want a single shadow to rest on their glad Christmas Day. "I do not believe in taking children to funerals," she said to her sister Elise, "but death seems so beautiful in this instance that I want them to see it." The reception-room at the hospital had been fitted up like a chapel. An altar, draped in white, was covered with flowers, and before it stood the white casket where Dot's frail little body was tenderly tucked away for its last sleep. All of the children were there; the two little knights, with a sweet seriousness in their handsome faces, wearing in their buttonholes Aunt Allison's badge, the pin that was to remind them that they were trying to wear, also, "the white flower of a blameless life." The little captain stood beside them, thinking, as he looked at the little body the saloons had killed (for nothing but the cruelty and neglect of a drunken father had caused Dot's illness and death), that there were battles to fight for his country at home, as well as those on foreign fields. The manly little shoulders squared themselves with a grave resolution to wear whatever duty the future might lay upon them, in warfare against evil, as worthily as he had worn the epaulets in far-away Luzon. Allison and Kitty and Elise were there, and the Little Colonel, all strongly moved by the unusual scene. It was a very short and simple service. The late afternoon sun shone in aslant through the western window, like a wide bar of gold. The minister read the parable of the ninety and nine, and repeated the burial service. Then there was a prayer, and Miss Allison, seating herself at the organ, touched the keys in soft chords for Mrs. Walton to sing. She sung the lullaby that Dot had asked for the night before; the cradle-song of hundreds of happy home-sheltered children: "'Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless thy little lamb to-night, Through the darkness be thou near me, Keep me safe till morning light. "'Let my sins be all forgiven, Bless the friends I love so well, Take me when I die to heaven, Happy there with thee to dwell.'" When it was all over they filed softly out into the corridor, feeling that they had only said good night to little Dot, and that it was good that one so tired and worn should find such deep and restful sleep. It was not at all like what they had imagined dying to be. "Even Molly didn't cry," said Kitty, wonderingly, as they went home together in the twilight. "No," said Mrs. Walton, "she said to me that she had done all her crying in those dreadful years when they were separated. She said, 'Oh, Mrs. Walton, now that I know that she's comfortable and happy, I can't feel so bad about her as I used to. She's so safe, now. No matter what happens, the saloons can't hurt her, now. There'll be no more hungry days, no more beatings, and it will always be such a comfort to me to think she had such a good time in the hospital. For six weeks she had plenty to eat, and everybody was good to her. Every time I look at her picture, I think of that. She had white grapes and roses even in the winter-time, and she had _ice-cream_! All she wanted. And I made up my mind this morning that when I'm old enough I am going to be a trained nurse and help take care of poor little children the way she was taken care of here. Miss Agnes says she can find room for me right away, for there's all sorts of things that I can do, and I'd love to do it for my poor little Dot's sake.'" "I must write that to Betty," thought the Little Colonel. "That is the most beautiful way of all to build a Road of the Loving Heart." She thought of it all the way home, as the train sped on through the wintry fields, between snow-covered fences. It was dark when the brakeman called "Lloydsboro Valley," but Walker was waiting with the carriage, and they were soon driving in at the great entrance gate. "Oh, mothah," said the Little Colonel, nestling closer under the warm carriage robes. "See how the stars shine through the locust-trees, and how the light streams out from the house, down the avenue to meet us! Somehow, no mattah how happy the holidays are, it always seems so good to get home." CHAPTER XVI. A PEEP INTO THE FUTURE. "AND what happened next?" Ah, that I cannot tell you, for the rest of the story is yet to be lived. Only the swineherd's magic caldron can give you a glimpse into the future. Gather around it, all you curious little princes and princesses, and thrust your fingers into the steam as the water bubbles and the bells begin again. I cannot tell what it will show you. Glimpses of college life, perhaps, and gay vacation times, as Rob and the captain and the two little knights leave their boyhood days behind them and grow up into manly young fellows, ready to take the places waiting for them in the world. Perhaps there will be college days and gay vacation times for the girls, too, with white commencement gowns and diplomas and June roses. And away off in the distance there may be the sound of wedding bells ringing for them all, but if it is too far for the kettle to catch the echo of their chiming, surely _I_ have no right to tell. But no matter what the kettle may show, or what it fails to disclose, you may be sure of this, that none who ever played under the Locusts with the Little Colonel forgot the pleasure of those merry playtimes. And all who shared her joy in finding little Dot were better and more helpful ever after, because of what happened that Christmas-tide, the happiest of all the Little Colonel's holidays. THE END. BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark) _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative, per vol. $1.50 =The Little Colonel Stories.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated. Being three "Little Colonel" stories in the Cosy Corner Series, "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," and "The Giant Scissors," put into a single volume. =The Little Colonel's House Party.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by Louis Meynell. =The Little Colonel's Holidays.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. =The Little Colonel's Hero.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel at Boarding School.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel in Arizona.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel, Maid of Honour.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E B. Barry. =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark) =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= =The Giant Scissors.= =Big Brother.= Special Holiday Editions Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25. New plates, handsomely illustrated, with eight full-page drawings in color. "The books are as satisfactory to the small girls, who find them adorable, as for the mothers and librarians, who delight in their influence."--_Christian Register._ These four volumes, boxed as a four volume set $5.00 =In the Desert of Waiting: THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN.= =The Three Weavers: A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS.= =Keeping Tryst.= =The Legend of the Bleeding Heart.= Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative $0.50 Paper boards .35 There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these four stories, which were originally included in four of the "Little Colonel" books. =Joel: A Boy of Galilee.= By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative. $1.50 A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author's best-known books. =Asa Holmes=; OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS. A sketch of Country Life and Country Humor. By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery. Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00 "'Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while."--_Boston Times._ =The Rival Campers=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY BURNS. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 Here is a book which will grip and enthuse every boy reader. It is the story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast. "The best boys' book since 'Tom Sawyer.'"--_San Francisco Examiner._ =The Rival Campers Afloat=; OR, THE PRIZE YACHT VIKING. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This book is a continuation of the adventures of "The Rival Campers" on their prize yacht _Viking_. An accidental collision results in a series of exciting adventures, culminating in a mysterious chase, the loss of their prize yacht, and its recapture by means of their old yacht, _Surprise_. =The Rival Campers Ashore.= By RUEL PERLEY SMITH, author of "The Rival Campers," "The Rival Campers Afloat," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Rival Campers Ashore" deals with the adventures of the campers and their friends in and around the town of Benton. Mr. Smith introduces a new character,--a girl,--who shows them the way to an old mill, around which the mystery of the story revolves. The girl is an admirable acquisition, proving as daring and resourceful as the campers themselves. =The Young Section-Hand=; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST. By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Marathon Mystery," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by L. J. Bridgman $1.50 Mr. Stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling. =The Young Train Dispatcher.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Young Section-hand," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated. $1.50 The young hero has many chances to prove his manliness and courage in the exciting adventures which befall him in the discharge of his duty. =Captain Jack Lorimer.= By WINN STANDISH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by A. B. Shute $1.50 Jack is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy. He has the sturdy qualities boys admire, and his fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. =Jack Lorimer's Champions=; OR, SPORTS ON LAND AND LAKE. By WINN STANDISH, author of "Captain Jack Lorimer," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 All boys and girls who take an interest in school athletics will wish to read of the exploits of the Millvale High School students, under the leadership of Captain Jack Lorimer. Captain Jack's Champions play quite as good ball as do some of the teams on the large leagues, and they put all opponents to good hard work in other summer sports. Jack Lorimer and his friends stand out as the finest examples of all-round American high school boys and girls. =Beautiful Joe's Paradise=; OR, THE ISLAND OF BROTHERLY LOVE. A sequel to "Beautiful Joe." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe." One vol., library 12mo, cloth, illustrated. $1.50 "This book revives the spirit of 'Beautiful Joe' capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for juveniles--old and young."--_Philadelphia Item._ ='Tilda Jane.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative, $1.50 "It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it--honest! I And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif. "I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly."--_Cyrus Townsend Brady._ =The Story of the Graveleys.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe's Paradise," "'Tilda Jane," etc. Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50 Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. =Born to the Blue.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation. =In West Point Gray.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 West Point forms the background for the second volume in this series, and gives us the adventures of Jack as a cadet. Here the training of his childhood days in the frontier army post stands him in good stead; and he quickly becomes the central figure of the West Point life. =The Sandman: His Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson. Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50 "An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--_Buffalo Express._ =The Sandman: More Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 Mr. Hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of "Sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner. =The Sandman: His Ship Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS, author of "The Sandman: His Farm Stories," etc. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 "Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who put the little ones to bed, and rack their brains for stories, will find this book a treasure."--_Cleveland Leader._ "Children call for these stories over and over again."--_Chicago Evening Post._ =Pussy-Cat Town.= By MARION AMES TAGGART. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors $1.00 "Pussy-Cat Town" is a most unusual delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a pure Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois's beautiful snow-white pet, and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the widow, Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really and truly cats. =The Roses of Saint Elizabeth.= by JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF, author of "The Little Christmas Shoe." Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart. $1.00 This is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of the great castle of the Wartburg, where Saint Elizabeth once had her home. =Gabriel and the Hour Book.= By EVALEEN STEIN. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart. $1.00 Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries. =The Enchanted Automobile.= Translated from the French by MARY J. SAFFORD. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Edna M. Sawyer $1.00 The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy, discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland, where they might visit their story-book favorites. =The Red Feathers.= By THEODORE ROBERTS, author of "Brothers of Peril," etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Red Feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an Indian boy who lived in the Stone Age, many years ago, when the world was young, and when fairies and magicians did wonderful things for their friends and enemies. =The Wreck of the Ocean Queen.= By JAMES OTIS, author of "Larry Hudson's Ambition," etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This story takes its readers on a sea voyage around the world; gives them a trip on a treasure ship; an exciting experience in a terrific gale; and finally a shipwreck, with a mutineering crew determined to take the treasure to complicate matters. But only the mutineers will come to serious harm, and after the reader has known the thrilling excitement of lack of food and water, of attacks by night and day, and of a hand-to-hand fight, he is rescued and brought safely home again,--to realize that it's only a story, but a stirring and realistic one. =Little White Indians.= by FANNIE E. OSTRANDER. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The "Little White Indians" were two families of children who "played Indian" all one long summer vacation. They built wigwams and made camps; they went hunting and fought fierce battles on the war-trail. A bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the "make-believe" instinct in children, and will give them a healthy, active interest in "the simple life." * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 146, "knee-keep" changed to "knee-deep" (lay knee-deep in some) Page 194, word "to" added to the text (call Milly to help her) Final ad pages, sometimes the printer forgot to make an author or sub-heading in a listing set in small-capitals, such as on The Wreck of the Ocean Queen. In such instances as these, small-capitals were added to make the title or author match the rest of the listings. 
25857	----	PATTY'S SOCIAL SEASON by CAROLYN WELLS Author of The TWO LITTLE WOMEN Series The MARJORIE Books etc. Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers New York Copyright, 1913 By Dodd, Mead and Company Printed in the United States of America CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Flowers! 9 II At the Dance 25 III Happy Saturdays 42 IV An Invitation 60 V Happy Guests 76 VI Confidences 94 VII More Making Up 108 VIII A Delightful Invitation 125 IX Fern Falls 141 X Christmas Eve 158 XI The Christmas Spirit 174 XII Coasting 192 XIII Hide and Seek 208 XIV A Proposal 225 XV A Christmas Card 243 XVI Stormbound 260 XVII The Country Club Ball 284 XVIII Back to New York 300 XIX An Exciting Chase 316 XX Bridesmaid Patty 333 CHAPTER I FLOWERS! "Patty, do come along and get your luncheon before everything grows cold!" "'And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgment book unfold,'" chanted Patty, who had just learned this new song, and was apt to sing it at unexpected moments. She sat on the floor in the middle of the long drawing-room of her New York home. To say she was surrounded by flowers, faintly expresses it. She was hemmed in, barricaded, nearly smothered in flowers. They were or had been in enormous florist's boxes, and as fast as Patty opened the boxes and read the cards which accompanied the blossoms, Jane took the boxes away. It was the great occasion of Patty's début, and in accordance with the social custom, all her friends had sent her flowers as a message of congratulation. "You certainly have heaps of friends," said Elise, who was helping arrange the bouquets. "Friends!" cried Patty; "nobody could have as many friends as this! These flowers must be also from my enemies, my casual acquaintances, and indeed from utter strangers! I think the whole hilarious populace of New York has gone mad on the subject of sending flowers!" Even as she spoke, Jane came in with several more boxes, followed by Miller, fairly staggering under an enormous box that was almost too much for one man to carry. Behind him was Nan, who went straight to Patty and held out both hands to assist her to rise. "Patty," she said, "if you don't come out this minute, you never _can_ get out! A few more of these boxes, and the door will be completely blocked up." "That's so, Nan," and Patty scrambled to her feet. "Come on, girls, let's gather our foodings while we may. These flowers will keep; but I shudder to think of the accumulation when we come back from luncheon!" "I didn't know there were so many flowers in the world," said Mona Galbraith, who paused to look back into the drawing-room. "There aren't," said Patty solemnly; "it's an optical illusion. Don't you know how the Indian jugglers make you see flowers growing, when there aren't any flowers there? Well, this is like that." Following Nan, Patty's pretty stepmother, the three girls, arm in arm, danced along to the dining-room, quite hungry enough to do justice to the tempting luncheon they found there. All the morning they had been untying the flower boxes and making a list of the donors. "Just think of the notes of thanks I have to write," said Patty, groaning at the outlook. "Wish we could help you," said Elise, "but I suppose you have to do those yourself." "Yes; and I think it will take me the rest of my natural life! What's the use of 'coming out,' if I have got to go right in again, and write all those notes? Why, there are hundreds!" "Thousands!" corrected Elise. And Mona said, "Looks to me like millions!" "Who sent that last big box, Patty?" asked Nan; "the one that just came." "Dunno, Nancy; probably the Czar of Russia or the King of the Cannibal Islands. But I mean to take time to eat my luncheon in peace, even if the flowers aren't all in place by the time the company comes." "We can't stay very long," said Elise; "of course, Mona and I have to go home and dress and be back here at four o'clock, and it's nearly two, now." "All right," said Patty; "the boys are coming, and they'll do the rest. We couldn't hang the flowers on the wall, anyway." "We ought to have had a florist to attend to it," said Nan, thoughtfully; "I had no idea there'd be so many." "Oh, it'll be all right," returned Patty. "Father's coming home early, and Roger and Ken will be over, and Mr. Hepworth will direct proceedings." Even as she spoke the men's voices were heard in the hall, and Patty jumped up from the table and ran to the drawing-room. "Did you ever see anything like it?" she exclaimed, and her visitors agreed that they never had. "It must be awful to be so popular, Patty," said Roger. "If I ever come out, I shall ask my friends to send fruit instead of flowers." "Patty would have to start a canning factory, if she had done that," said Kenneth, laughing. "Let's open this big box, Patty. Who sent it?" "I haven't an idea, but there must be a card inside." They opened the immense box, and found it full to the brim with exquisite Killarney roses. After some search, Roger discovered a small envelope, with a card inside. The card read, "Mr. William Farnsworth," and written beneath the engraved name was the message, "With congratulations and best wishes." "From Big Bill!" exclaimed Mona. "For goodness' sake, Patty, why didn't he send you more? But these didn't come all the way from Arizona, where he is." "No," said Patty, looking at the label on the box; "he must have just sent an order to a New York florist." "To two or three florists, I should think," said Mr. Hepworth. "What can we do with them all?" But the crowd of merry young people set to work, and in an hour the floral chaos was reduced to a wonderful vision of symmetry and beauty. Under Mr. Hepworth's directions, the flowers were banked on the mantels and window-seats, and hung in groups on the wall, and clustered on the door-frames in a profusion which had behind it a methodical and symmetrical intent. "It's perfectly beautiful!" declared Nan, who, with her husband, was taking her first view of the finished effect. "It's a perfect shame to spoil this bower of beauty by cramming it with a crowd of people, who will jostle your bouquets all to bits." "Well, we can't help it," said Patty. "You see, we invited the people, as well as the flowers, so we must take the consequences. But they can't reach those that are up high, and as soon as the party is over, I'm going to put them all in fresh water----" "What! the party?" and Kenneth looked astounded. "I mean the flowers," said Patty, not deigning to laugh at his foolishness. "And then, to-morrow morning, I'm going to send them all to the hospital." "The people?" said Kenneth again. "That's thoughtful of you, Patty! I have no doubt they'll be in condition to go. I'm about ready, myself." "Well, you may go now," and Patty smiled at him. "Your work is done here, and I'm going away to dress. Good-bye, Ken; this is the last time you'll see me as a little girl. When next we meet, I shall be a young lady, a fully-fledged society lady, whose only thoughts will be for dancing and gaiety of all sorts." "Nonsense," said Kenneth; "you can't scare me. You'll be the same old Patty, foolish and irresponsible,--but sunshiny and sweet as ever." "Thank you, Ken," said Patty, for there was a note of earnestness in Kenneth's voice that the girl was quick to catch. They had been friends since childhood, and while Patty did not take her "coming out" very seriously, yet she realised that it meant she was grown up and a child no longer. "Don't let it all spoil you, Patty." It was Mr. Hepworth who said this, as he was about to follow Kenneth out. "I have a right to lecture you, you know, and I want to warn you----" "Oh, don't do it now, Mr. Hepworth," said Patty, laughing; "the occasion is solemn enough, I'm sure, and if you lecture me, I shall burst into large weeps of tears! Do let me 'come out' without being lectured, and you can come round to-morrow and give me all the warnings you like." "You're right, little Patty," and Hepworth looked at her kindly. "I ought not to spoil one of the happiest days of your life with too serious thought. Yours is a butterfly nature----" "But butterfly natures are nice; aren't they, Mr. Hepworth?" and Patty looked up at him with the roguishness that she could never quite control. "Yes,----" and the man hesitated a moment, as he looked into Patty's blue eyes. Then, suddenly, "Yes, indeed, _very_ nice." And, turning abruptly, he left her. "Now, you girls, skip," ordered Patty. "You haven't more than time to fly home and get dressed, for I don't want you to be late and delay the ceremony." "Gracious! it sounds like a wedding," cried Mona, laughing. "Well, it isn't!" declared Patty. "I may have a wedding some day, but that's in the far, far future; why, I'm only just entering society, and when I'm married, I suppose I shall leave it. I expect to have heaps of fun between this and then." The programme for the occasion was an afternoon reception, from four o'clock until seven. This was really Patty's début. A dinner at eight was to follow, to which were invited about a dozen of her dearest friends, and after this would be a dance, to which a goodly number more were asked. "You ought to have time for an hour's rest, Patty," said Nan, as she drew the girl away from a last look at the beautiful flowers, and took her up to her room. "Well, I haven't, little steppy-mother. It will be just about all Miss Patricia Fairfield can do to get into her purple and fine linen by four o'clock p.m., and methinks you'd better begin on your own glad toilette, or you'll be late yourself." "Was I _ever_ late?" asked Nan, scornfully, and as Patty responded, "never anything but," she ran away to her own room. However, four o'clock found all the members of the reception party in their places. Patty looked adorable in soft white chiffon, untrimmed, save for some fine lace round the slightly low-cut neck. She wore a string of small but perfect pearls which her father had given her for the occasion, and she carried a beautiful bouquet of orchids, which was Nan's gift. Patty had never looked prettier. Her rose-leaf cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement, and her big violet eyes were bright and sparkling. Her golden hair, which was really unusual in texture and quantity, was dressed simply, yet in a manner very becoming to her small, prettily poised head. On her brow and temples it rippled in natural ringlets, which gave her piquant face a charming, childish effect. Patty was certainly a beauty, but she was of such a sweet, unspoiled nature, and of such simple, dainty manners, that everybody loved her. Her father looked at her rather thoughtfully, half unable to realise that his little Patty had really grown up and was taking her place in society. He had no fears for her, he knew her sweet nature too well; but he was earnestly hoping that she was starting out on a life of happiness and well-being. Though healthy and moderately strong, Patty was not of a robust constitution, and there was danger that too much gaiety might result in a nervous breakdown. This, Mr. Fairfield determined to guard against; and resolved that, while Patty should be allowed generally to do as she chose, he should keep a strict eye against her overdoing. Nan had much the same thoughts as she looked at the lovely débutante, so exquisite in her fresh young beauty. Nan's gown of heavy white lace was very becoming, and though a secondary figure, she ably shared the honours of the afternoon with Patty. Mona and Elise assisted in the capacity of "Floaters," and in their pale pink frocks, they were quite in harmony with the floral setting of the picture. And then the guests began to arrive, and Patty learned what it meant to stand and shake hands, and receive the same compliments and congratulations over and over again. It was interesting at first, but she grew very tired as the hours went by. "Now, I say," exclaimed a cheery voice, suddenly, "it can't be that you have to stand here continuously from four to seven! Mrs. Fairfield, mayn't I take Patty to get a cup of tea or an ice, and you stay here and 'come out' until she returns?" It was Philip Van Reypen who made this request, and Nan consented readily. "Yes, indeed, Philip," she said, "do take her off to rest a minute. I think most of the people have arrived; and, anyway, you must bring her back shortly." "I will," and young Van Reypen led Patty through the crowd to the dining-room. "I ought to find you a 'quiet little corner,'" he said, smiling; "but I don't see such a thing anywhere about. So I'll just place you on one of these gimcrack gilt chairs, and I'll ask you to keep this one next, for me, until I make a raid on the table. What will you have?" "I don't really want anything, Philip, but just to sit here a moment and rest. I had no idea coming out was so tiresome! I believe I've said, 'oh, thank you!' a billion times!" "Yes, you said it to me," and Philip laughed at the recollection, "and I can tell you, Patty, it had the real society ring! You said it like a conventionalised parrot." "Well, I don't care if I did! It was the proper thing to say, and nobody could say it a million times in succession, without sounding parrotty! I know now how the President feels when he has to shake hands with the whole United States!" Philip left her, and returned in a moment, followed by a waiter, who brought them hot bouillon and tiny sandwiches. "My, but these are good!" exclaimed Patty, as she nibbled and sipped. "Why, Philip, I believe I was hungry and that's what made me tired! Oh, hello, Mona! Did you get leave of absence, too?" "Yes; the mad rush is pretty much over. Only a few late stragglers now, and Elise is floating them. Here's Roger. He says you wouldn't speak to him this afternoon, except to say, 'oh, thank you!' three times." "I couldn't help it," returned Patty, laughing. "That's all I said to anybody. I felt like a rubber stamp--repeating myself. Well, thank goodness, I'm out!" "But you're not a bit more grown up than when you were in," said Kenneth, joining the group around Patty. "Oh, pshaw, I'm never going to be grown up. Now I'm rested, Philip; please take me back to Nan. She said we must return soon." So Patty went back to the drawing-room, and insisted that her stepmother should go for a little refreshment. "I can hold the fort alone now," she said; "you've no idea how capable I am, now that I'm really out. Run along, Nan, and get some of those sandwiches; they're awfully good." "It isn't romantic, Patty, to think about eating when you're celebrating an occasion like this," reproved Philip. "Well, I'm not romantic," declared Patty, "and I never expect to be. Oh, how do you do, Mr. Galbraith? It's so late, I feared you weren't coming." And Patty held out her hand to Mona's father. "How d'y'do, Patty?" And Mr. Galbraith shook hands heartily. "I suppose I ought to say all sorts of pretty things to you, but you know, I'm not much up in social chat." "I'm glad of it," said Patty, "and then I won't have to say, 'oh, thank you!' to you. Mona is looking beautiful this afternoon, isn't she?" "She's a fine girl--a fine girl." Mr. Galbraith's eyes rested on his daughter a little thoughtfully. He was a Chicago man, who had made his fortune suddenly, and was a little bewildered at his own success. His one interest in life, outside of business matters, was his daughter Mona, for whom he desired every possible good, and to whose wishes and whims he always willingly consented. At her request, he had closed his Chicago home and come to spend the winter in New York, that Mona might be near Patty, whom she adored. The Galbraiths were living for the winter at the Plaza Hotel, and Patty, who had grown fond of Mona, was glad to have her friend so near her. "She's a fine girl," Mr. Galbraith repeated, "and a good-looking girl." He paused a moment, and then added in a sudden burst of confidence, "but, Patty, I wish she had a mother. You know how I idolise her, but I can't do for her what a mother would do. I've urged her to have a chaperon or a companion of some sort, but she won't do it. She says a father is chaperon enough for her, and so we live alone in that big hotel, and I'm afraid it isn't right. Right for her, I mean. I don't care a snap about conventions, but Mona is impulsive, even headstrong, and I wish she had an older woman to guide and advise her." "I wish she did, Mr. Galbraith," said Patty, earnestly, for the two were chatting by themselves, and no one else was within hearing. "I've thought about it, and I've talked with my stepmother about it. Perhaps I could persuade Mona to do as you wish her to." "I hope you can, Patty; I do hope you can. You know, Mona is dignified and all that, and as proud as they make them. Nobody would dare to speak to her if she didn't want them to; but, Patty, here's the trouble. There's a young man at the hotel named Lansing. He's not especially attractive, and yet, somehow, he has gained Mona's favour. I have told my girl that I do not like him, but she only laughs and says carelessly that he's all right. Now, I mustn't detain you longer, my child; there are people waiting to speak to you. But, some time, I want to have a little talk to you about this, and perhaps you can help me in some way. For I believe, Patty, that that Lansing man is trying to win my girl for the sake of her money. He has all the appearances of a fortune-hunter, and I can't let Mona throw herself away on such." "I should think not!" exclaimed Patty, indignantly. And then Mr. Galbraith moved away to give his place to other guests who were arriving. CHAPTER II AT THE DANCE At eight o'clock that same evening, Patty came down to her own dinner party. An hour's rest had freshened her up wonderfully, and she had changed her little white frock for a dinner gown of pale green chiffon, sparkling with silver embroidery. It trailed behind her in a most grown-up fashion, and she entered the drawing-room with an exaggerated air of dignity. "Huh," cried Roger; "look at grown-up Patty! Isn't she the haughty lady? Patty, if you put on such airs, you'll be old before your time!" "Airs, nothing!" retorted Patty, and with a skipping little dance step, she crossed the room, picked up a sofa pillow, and aimed it deftly at Roger, who caught it on the wing. "That's better," he said. "We can't have any of these _grande dame_ airs. Now, who is the lucky man who is to take you out to dinner? Me?" "No, not you," and Patty looked at him, critically; "you won't do, and neither will Kenneth, nor Phil Van Reypen, nor Mr. Hepworth." She looked at them each in turn, and smiled so merrily that they could take no offence. "I think," she said, "I shall select the best-looking and best-natured gentleman, and walk out with him." Whereupon she tucked her arm through her father's, and led the way to the dining-room, followed by the rest of the merry crowd. The dinner was a beautiful one, for Nan had spared no pains or thought to make it worthy of the occasion. At the girls' places were beautiful souvenirs, in the shape of fans of carved ivory with lace mounts, while the men received attractive stick-pins. "Shall you feel like dancing after all this gaiety, Patty?" asked Van Reypen. "Well, rather!" declared Patty. "Why, I'd feel like dancing if I'd been through a--civil war! I could scarcely keep still when the orchestra was playing this afternoon, and I'm crazy for to-night's dance to begin." "Frivolous young person, very," murmured Philip. "Never saw such devotion to the vain follies of life! However, since you're determined to dance, will you honour me with the first one to-night?" "Why, I don't mind, if you don't," said Patty, dimpling at him. "And give me the second," said Kenneth and Roger simultaneously. "I can't do these sums in my head," said Patty; "I'll get all mixed up. Let's wait till we get our dance orders, and fill them up, hit or miss." "You be the miss and I'll try to make a hit," said Philip. "What waggery!" exclaimed Patty, shaking her head. "If you're too clever, Philip, I can't dance with you. When I dance, I keep my mind on my feet, not on my head." "That explains your good dancing," said Mr. Hepworth, laughing. "Perhaps, if I could keep my mind on my feet, I could dance better." "Oh, you're too highminded for such low levels," laughed Patty, while Mona, who was rather practical, said, seriously, "Do you really think about your feet all the time you're dancing, Patty?" "No," returned Patty; "sometimes I have to think about my partner's feet, to keep out of the way of them." When they returned to the drawing-room, they found it had been cleared for the dance, and soon the evening guests began to arrive. Patty again stood by Nan to receive them, and after greeting many people she knew, she was surprised to find herself confronted by a stranger. He was a thick-set, stockily-built man, several years older than most of Patty's friends. He had black hair and eyes and a short black moustache and a round, heavy type of face. His black eyes were of the audacious sort, and he flashed a glance of admiration at Patty. Before she could speak, or even offer her hand, Mona sprang forward, saying, "Patty, this is my friend Mr. Lansing. I took the liberty of inviting him to your dance. Mrs. Fairfield, may I present Mr. Lansing?" Patty was angry. This, of course, must be the man of whom Mr. Galbraith had spoken, and, aside from the fact that he seemed undesirable, Patty felt that Mona had no right to invite him without asking permission from her hostess. But Nan knew nothing of all this, and she cordially greeted the stranger because he was a friend of Mona's. Patty recovered her equilibrium sufficiently to say, "How do you do, Mr. Lansing?" in a non-committal sort of way, but she couldn't refrain from giving Mona a side glance of reproof, to which, however, that young woman paid no attention. In another moment Mona had drifted away, and had taken Mr. Lansing with her. Patty turned to speak to Nan about him, but just then some more guests arrived; and then the dancing began, and Patty had no further opportunity. As Patty had promised, she gave the first dance to Philip Van Reypen; and after that she was fairly besieged by would-be partners. The fact that she was hostess at her own coming-out ball, the fact that she danced beautifully, and the fact that she was so pretty and charming, all combined to make her, as was not unusual, the most popular girl present. "Anything left for me?" asked Roger, gaily, as he threaded the crowds at Patty's side. "I saved one for you," said Patty, smiling at him; "for I hoped you'd ask me, sooner or later." Roger gratefully accepted the dance Patty had saved for him, and soon after he came to claim her for it. "I say, Patty," he began when they were whirling about the floor, "who is that stuff Mona has trailing after her?" "Moderate your language, Roger," said Patty, smiling up at him, and noticing that his expression was very wrathy indeed. "He doesn't deserve moderate language! He's a bounder, if I ever saw one! What's he doing here?" "He seems to be dancing," said Patty, demurely, "and he doesn't dance half badly, either." "Oh, stop your fooling, Patty; I'm not in the mood for it. Tell me who he is." Patty had never known Roger to be so out of temper, and she resented his tone, which was almost rude. Now, for all her sweetness, Patty had a touch of perversity in her nature, and Roger had roused it. So she said: "I don't know why you speak like that, Roger. He's a friend of Mona's, and lives at the Hotel Plaza, where she lives." "The fact that two people live in the same big hotel doesn't give them the right to be friends," growled Roger. "Who introduced them, anyhow?" "I don't know, I'm sure," said Patty, her patience exhausted; "but Mr. Galbraith knows him, so it must be all right." Patty was not quite ingenuous in this speech, for she knew perfectly well, from what Mr. Galbraith had said to her, that it was not all right. But she was irritated by Roger's demeanour, and perversely disagreed with him. "Well, I don't believe he's all right; I don't like his looks a bit, and, Patty, you know as well as I do, that the Galbraiths are not quite competent always to select the people best worth knowing." "Oh, what a fuss you are, Roger; and it's hardly fair when you don't know anything at all about Mr. Lansing." "Do you?" "No," and then Patty hesitated. She did know something,--she knew what Mr. Galbraith had told her. But she was not of a mind to tell this to Roger. "I only met him as I was introduced," she said, "and Mona has never so much as even mentioned him to me." "Didn't she ask you if she might bring him to-night?" "No; I suppose, as an intimate friend, she didn't think that necessary." "It _was_ necessary, Patty, and you know it, if Mona doesn't. Now, look here; you and I are Mona's friends; and if there are any social matters that she isn't quite familiar with, it's up to us to help her out a little. And I, for one, don't believe that man is the right sort for her to be acquainted with; and I'm going to find out about him." "Well, I'm sure I'm willing you should, Roger; but you needn't make such a bluster about it." "I'm not making a bluster, Patty." "You are so!" "I am not!" And then they both realised that they were bickering like two children, and they laughed simultaneously as they swept on round the dancing-room. The music stopped just then, and as they were near a window-seat, Patty sat down for a moment. "You go on, Roger," she said, "and hunt up your next partner, or fight a duel with Mr. Lansing, or do whatever amuses you. My partner will come to hunt me up, I'm sure, and I'll just wait here." "Who is your next partner, Patty?" "Haven't looked at my card; but, never mind, he'll come. You run along." As Roger's next partner was Mona, and as he was anxious to talk to her about her new friend, Roger obeyed Patty's bidding and strolled away. Patty sat alone for a moment, knowing full well who was her next partner, and then Mr. Lansing appeared and made a low bow before her. Now, Patty had not chosen to express to Roger her real opinion of this new man, but in reality she did not approve of him. Though fairly good-looking and correctly dressed, there was about him a certain something--or perhaps, rather, he lacked a certain something that invariably stamps the well-bred man. He stared at Patty a trifle too freely; he sat down beside her with a little too much informality; and he began conversation a little too familiarly. All of these things Patty saw and resented, but as hostess she could not, of course, be openly rude. "Nice, jolly rooms you've got here for a party," Mr. Lansing remarked, rolling his eyes about appreciatively, "and a jolly lot of people, too. Some class to 'em!" Patty looked at him coldly. She was not accustomed to this style of expression. Her friends perhaps occasionally used a slang word or term, but it was done in a spirit of gaiety or as a jest, whereas this man used his expressions as formal conversation. "Yes, I have many kind and delightful friends," said Patty, a little stiffly. "You sure have! Rich, too, most of 'em." Patty made no response to this, and Mr. Lansing turned suddenly to look at her. "I say, Miss Fairfield, do you know what I think? I think you are prejudiced against me, and I think somebody put you up to it, and I think I know who. Now, look here, won't you give me a fair show? Do you think it's just to judge a man by what other people say about him?" "How do you know I've heard anything about you, Mr. Lansing?" "Well, you give me the icy glare before I've said half a dozen words to you! So, take it from me, somebody's been putting you wise to my defects." He wagged his head so sagaciously at this speech, that Patty was forced to smile. On a sudden impulse, she decided to speak frankly. "Suppose I tell you the truth, Mr. Lansing, that I'm not accustomed to being addressed in such--well, in such slangy terms." "Oh, is that it? Pooh, I'll bet those chums of yours talk slang to you once in a while." "What my chums may do is no criterion for an absolute stranger,"--and now Patty spoke very haughtily indeed. "That's so, Miss Fairfield; you're dead right,--and I apologise. But, truly, it's a habit with me. I'm from Chicago, and I believe people use more slang out there." "The best Chicago people don't," said Patty, seriously. Mr. Lansing smiled at her, a trifle whimsically. "I'm afraid I don't class up with the best people," he confessed; "but if it will please you better, I'll cut out the slang. Shall we have a turn at this two-step?" Patty rose without a word, and in a moment they were circling the floor. Mr. Lansing was a good dancer, and especially skilful in guiding his partner. Patty, herself such an expert dancer, was peculiarly sensitive to the good points of a partner, and she enjoyed the dance with Mr. Lansing, even though she felt she did not like the man. And yet he had a certain fascination in his manner, and when the dance was over, Patty looked at him with kinder eyes than she had when they began. But all that he had won of her favour he lost by his final speech, for as the dance ended, he said, brusquely: "Now, I'll tumble you into a seat, and chase my next victim." Patty stood looking after him, almost moved to laughter at what he had said, and yet indignant that a man, and a comparative stranger, should address her thus. "What's the matter, Lady Fair?" and Philip Van Reypen came up to her. "Methinks thou hast a ruffled brow." "No, it's my frock that's ruffled," said Patty, demurely. "You men know so little of millinery!" "That's true enough, and if you will smile again, I'll drop the subject of ruffles. And now for my errand; will you go out to supper with me?" "Goodness, is it supper time? I thought the evening had scarcely begun!" "Alas! look at the programme," and Van Reypen showed her that it was, indeed, time for intermission. "Intermission is French for supper," he said, gravely, "and I'd like to know if you'd rather sit on the stairs in good old orthodox party fashion, or if you'd rather go to the dining-room in state?" "Who are on the stairs?" "I shall be, if you are. You don't want to know more than that, do you?" The young man's gaze was so reproachful that Patty giggled. "You are a great factor in my happiness, Mr. Van Reypen," she said, saucily; "but you are not all the world to me! So, if I flock on the stairs with you, I must know what other doves will be perching there." "Oh, doves!" in a tone of great relief. "I thought you wanted to know what men you would find there,--you inveterate coquette, you! Well, Elise is there waiting for you, and Miss Farley." "And Mona Galbraith?" "I don't know; I didn't see Miss Galbraith. But if you will go with me, I will accumulate for you any young ladies you desire." "And any men?" "The men I shall have to fight off, not invite!" Laughing at each other's chaff, they sauntered across to the hall and found the stairs already pretty well occupied. "Why is it," Mr. Hepworth was saying, "that you young people prefer the stairs to the nice, comfortable seats at little tables in the dining-room?" "Habit," said Patty, laughing, as she made her way up a few steps; "I've always eaten my party suppers on the stairs, and I dare say I always shall. When I build a house I shall have a great, broad staircase, like they have in palaces, and then everybody can eat on the stairs." "I'm going to give a party," announced Van Reypen, "and it's going to be in the new Pennsylvania Station. There are enormous staircases there." "All right, I'll come to it," said Patty, and then Mona and Mr. Lansing came strolling along the hall, and demanded room on the stairs also. "Seats all taken," declared Roger, who had had a real tiff with Mona on the subject of her new friend. The others, too, did not seem to welcome Mr. Lansing, and though one or two moved slightly, they did not make room for the newcomers. Patty was uncertain what she ought to do. She remembered what Mr. Galbraith had said, and she felt that to send Mona and Mr. Lansing away would be to throw them more exclusively in each other's society; and she thought that Mr. Galbraith meant for her to keep Mona under her own eye as much as possible. But to call the pair upon the stairs and make room for them would annoy, she felt sure, the rest of the group. She looked at Roger and at Philip Van Reypen, and both of them gave her an eloquent glance of appeal not to add to their party. Then she chanced to glance at Mr. Hepworth and found him smiling at her. She thought she knew what he meant, and immediately she said, "Come up here by me, Mona; and you come too, Mr. Lansing. We can make room easily if we move about a little." There was considerable moving about, and finally Patty found herself at the top of the group with Mona and Mr. Lansing. Christine and Mr. Hepworth were directly below them, and then Elise and Kenneth. Mr. Van Reypen and Roger Farrington declared their intention of making a raid on the dining-room and kidnapping waiters with trays of supplies. On their return the supper plates were passed up to those on the stairs, and Van Reypen and Roger calmly walked away. Patty knew perfectly well what they meant. They intended her to understand that if she and Mona persisted in cultivating the acquaintance of the man they considered objectionable, they did not care to be of the party. "Which is perfectly ridiculous!" said Patty to herself, as she realised the state of things. "Those boys needn't think they can dictate to me at my own party!" Whereupon, perverse Patty began to make herself extremely and especially agreeable to Mr. Lansing, and Mona was greatly delighted at the turn things had taken. Christine and Mr. Hepworth joined in the conversation, and perhaps because of what Patty had said earlier in the evening, Mr. Lansing avoided to a great extent the use of slang expressions, and made himself really interesting and entertaining. "What a fascinating man he is," said Christine later, to Patty, when Mona and her new friend had walked away to the "extra" supper dance. "Do you think so?" said Patty, looking at Christine in astonishment. "He was rather nicer than I thought him at first, but, Christine, I never dreamed _you_ would approve of him! But you never can tell when a quiet little mouse like you is going to break loose. Why did you like him, Christine?" "I don't know exactly; only he seemed so breezy and unusual." "Yes, he's that," and Patty wagged her head, knowingly; "but I don't like him very much, Christine, and you mustn't, either. Now run away and play." Patty's last direction was because she saw a young man coming to ask Christine for this dance; while two others were rapidly coming toward herself. The rest of the evening was danced gaily away, but neither Roger nor Philip Van Reypen came near Patty. To be sure, she had plenty of partners, but she felt a little offended at her two friends' attitude, for she knew she hadn't really deserved it. But when the dance was over, Patty's good-nights to Roger and Philip were quite as gentle and cordial as those she said to any one else. She smiled her best smiles at them, and though not as responsive as usual, they made polite adieux and departed with no further reference to the troublesome matter. CHAPTER III HAPPY SATURDAYS As was not to be wondered at, Patty slept late the next morning. And when she awakened, she lay, cozily tucked in her coverlets, thinking over the occurrences of the night before. Presently Jane came in with a dainty tray of chocolate and rolls, and then, with some big, fluffy pillows behind her, Patty sat up in bed, and thoughtfully nibbled away at a crust. Then Nan came in, in her pretty morning gown, and, drawing up a little rocker, sat down by Patty's bedside. "Are you in mood for a gossip, Patty?" she asked, and Patty replied, "Yes, indeedy! I want to talk over the whole thing. In the first place, Nan, it was a howling, screaming success, wasn't it?" "Why, yes, of course; how could it be otherwise? with the nicest people and the nicest flowers and the nicest girl in New York City!" "In the whole United States, you mean," said Patty, complacently, as she took a spoonful of chocolate. "Yes, the party in all its parts was all right. There wasn't a flaw. But, oh, Nan, I got into a scrap with the boys." "What boys? and what _is_ a scrap? Patty, now that you're out, you mustn't use those slang words you're so fond of." "Nan," and Patty shook her spoon solemnly at her stepmother, "I've come to realise that there is slang and slang. Now, the few little innocent bits I use, don't count at all, because I just say them for fun and to help make my meaning clear. But that man last night,--that Lansing man,--why, Nan, his slang is altogether a different matter." "Well, Patty, he, himself, seems to be an altogether different matter from the people we know." "Yes, doesn't he? And yet, Nan, he isn't so bad. Well, anyway, let me tell you what Mr. Galbraith says." "That's just it!" declared Nan, after Patty had finished her story. "That man _is_ a fortune-hunter, and he means to try to marry Mona for the sake of her father's money!" "Oh, my!" exclaimed Patty, laughing; "isn't it grand to be grown up! I see I'm mixed up in a matrimonial tangle already!" "Nothing of the sort, you foolish child! There won't be any matrimonial tangle. Mr. Galbraith is quite right; this man must be discouraged, and Mona must be made to see him in his true light." "But, Nan, he isn't so awful. You know, sometimes he was quite fascinating." "Yes, you think that, because he has big dark eyes and rolled them at you." "Goodness! it sounds like a game of bowls. No, I don't mean that; but--well, I'll tell you what I do mean. He said we weren't fair to him, to judge him adversely, not knowing anything about him. And I think so, too, Nan; it doesn't seem fair or right to say a man is a bounder,--that's what Roger called him,--when we don't know anything about him, really." "Patty, you're a goose! Don't you suppose we'll find out about him? Of course, _we_ can't, but your father and Mr. Galbraith,--yes, and Roger Farrington, will soon find out his standing." "Well," said Patty, with a relieved sigh, "then I needn't bother about _him_ any more. But, Nan, I have troubles of my own. Philip and Roger are both mad at me!" "Goodness! Patty, how awful! Do you suppose they'll stay mad all day?" "Oh, it isn't just a momentary tiff; they are up and down angry! Why, neither of them danced with me or even spoke to me after supper last night!" "Well, it was probably your own fault." "My own fault, indeed! It was all because of that horrid Lansing man. Well, if they want to stay mad, they may! _I_ shan't make any advances." "Don't worry, my child. Into each life some little squabbles must fall,--and though you're fairly good-natured, as a rule, you can't expect it always to be smooth sailing." Seeing she could get no sympathy from her stepmother, Patty dropped the subject of her quarrels, and remarked, with a yawn, "Well, I suppose I may as well get up, and begin on those flower notes. What shall I say, Nan, something like this? 'Miss Patricia Fairfield thanks you for your kind donation of expensive blossoms, but as it's such a bother to write the notes of acknowledgment, she really wishes you hadn't sent them.'" "What base ingratitude! Patty, I'm ashamed of you! or I would be, if I thought you meant a word of it, but I know you don't. What are you doing this afternoon?" "Oh, I forgot to tell you. We're going to have a club, just a little club,--only four of us girls. And, Nan, you know there are so many clubs that make an awful fuss and yet don't really _do_ anything. Well, this is going to be a _Doing_ Club. We're going to be real _doers_." "It sounds lovely, Patty. What are you going to do?" "We don't know yet, that's what the meeting's for this afternoon. But we're going to do good, you know--some kind of good. You know, Nan, I always said I didn't want to be just a social butterfly and nothing else. I want to accomplish something that will give some joy or comfort to somebody." Patty's blue eyes looked very earnest and sincere as she said this, and Nan kissed her, saying, "I know you do, Patty, dearest, and I know you'll succeed in your doing. If I can help you in any way, be sure to ask me; and now I'll run away and let you dress." Patty made a leisurely toilette; and then, in a trailing blue silk négligée, she went into her boudoir and began to write her notes. It was not a difficult task, and she did not really mind it, though it was a long list. But Patty had a knack at writing graceful little notes, and although she jested about it, she was really grateful to the kind friends who had sent the flowers. "I don't know _why_ I have so many friends," she said to herself, as she scanned the rows of names. "To be sure, a great many are really friends of father's and Nan's, but there's a lot of our crowd, too, and lots of out of town people. Perhaps it would be a good idea to do the farthest away first, and so work back to New York." Patty picked up Mr. Farnsworth's card, and read again the message on it. "H'm," she said to herself, "it sounds to me a trifle formal and conventional--considering all things. Now, Little Billee is a Western man,--but how different he is from that Lansing person! I wonder what makes the difference. Little Billee isn't formal or conventional a bit, and yet his manners are as far removed from Horace Lansing's as white is from black. Oh, well, I know the reason well enough. It's because Little Billee is a thorough gentleman at heart; and the other one is,--well, I guess he's what Roger called him. Now, what shall I say to Mr. William Farnsworth by way of thanks for his truly beautiful pink roses? I'd like to write a nice, every-day letter, and tell him all about the party and everything; but, as he just sent his visiting card, with a mere line on it, I suppose I must reply very formally." Patty began her formal note, but tore up half a dozen beginnings before she completed one to her satisfaction. This one read, "Miss Patricia Fairfield thanks Mr. William Farnsworth sincerely for his exquisite gift of roses, and for his kind congratulations." Patty gave a little sigh as she sealed this missive and addressed it to her friend in Arizona. With the exception of the roses, Patty had never heard a word from Big Bill since they were at Spring Beach together. She had told her father and Nan of what Mr. Farnsworth had said to her down there, and as they had agreed that Patty was altogether too young even to think of such a thing as being engaged to anybody, it was wiser to hold no correspondence with him at all. Apparently, this in no way disappointed the young man, for he had made no effort on his part to recall himself to Patty's remembrance, until the occasion of sending the flowers. Patty had liked Bill extremely, but as Arizona was far away, and she had no reason to think she would ever see him again, she gave him few thoughts. However, the thoughts, when she did allow them to come, were pleasant ones. Although she had sealed the note she intended to send, she began another one, and the opening words were "Little Billee." This note she wrote in the first person, and thanked him simply and naturally for the flowers. Then, for a signature, she made a carefully and daintily drawn pen-and-ink sketch of an apple blossom. She was clever at flower-sketching, and she sat a moment admiring her own handiwork. Then a flush spread over her pretty face, and she spoke sternly to herself, as was her habit when she disapproved of her own actions. "Patty Fairfield," she said, reprovingly, "you ought to be ashamed to think of sending a personal, lettery sort of a note like that, to a man who sent you the formalest kind of a message! He only sent the flowers, because convention demanded it! He never gave you one single thought after that last time he saw you,--and that's all there is about _that_!" And then, to her great surprise, luncheon was announced, and she found that her whole morning was gone and only one name on her list crossed off! * * * * * The club that met that afternoon in Mona's pretty sitting-room in the Plaza Hotel, consisted of only four girls--Patty, Mona, Elise, and Clementine Morse. It was thought wiser to start with a few earnest members and then enlarge the number later if it seemed advisable. "What a beautiful room!" said Clementine, as she tossed off her furs. "Don't you like it, Mona, to live in a big hotel like this, and yet have your own rooms, like a home all to yourself?" "Yes, I like it in some ways; but I'm alone a great deal. However, I would be that, if father and I lived in a house or an apartment." "You ought to have a companion of some sort, Mona," said Patty, who thought this a good opportunity to urge Mr. Galbraith's wishes. "No, thank you," and Mona tossed her head, disdainfully; "I know what companions are! Snoopy old maids who won't let you do anything, or careless, easy-going old ladies who pay no attention to you. If I could have a companion of my own age and tastes, I'd like that,--but I suppose that wouldn't do." "Hardly," said Elise, laughing; "that would only mean your father would have two troublesome girls to look after instead of one. And I daresay, Mona, you are quite as much as he can handle." "I suppose I am. But he's so good to me I'm afraid he spoils me. But come on, girls, let's organise our club." "Don't let's have too much organisation," said Clementine. "Do you know, I think lots of clubs, especially charity clubs, have so much organisation that they haven't anything else. One club I joined fell to pieces before it was fairly started, because the two vice-presidents squabbled so." "If there's anything I hate," declared Patty, "it's a squabble. Whatever else we girls do, let's try not to have any friction. Now, I know perfectly well that none of us four is _very_ meek or mild." "I am," declared Elise, assuming an angelic expression, which made them all laugh, for Elise was really the one most likely to take offence at trifles, or to flare up impulsively if any one disagreed with her. Patty knew this only too well, and was trying to forestall it by a preliminary treaty of peace. "Well, then, let's be an organisation that doesn't organise," said Mona, "but let's be it _now_." "I think," said Patty, "that our end and aim ought to be to do good to somebody who doesn't expect it. Now, that isn't quite what I mean,--I mean to people who wouldn't accept it if it seemed like charity, but to whom we could give a pleasure that they would really like." "Patty, my child," said Clementine, "I think your ideas are all right, but I must say you don't express them very clearly. Let's get down to something definite. Do you mean to give material things,--like presents or money?" "That's just exactly what I _don't_ mean, Clem! Don't you remember that little club we used to have at school,--the Merry Grigs?" "Indeed I do! All we had to do was to be merry and gay." "Well, that's what I mean,--in a way,--if you know what I mean." "Oh, Patty," cried Mona, "I never knew you to be so hopelessly vague. Now, for instance, how would it be if we gave a lovely motor ride to some poor shop girl, or somebody that never gets into a motor?" "That's it!" cried Clementine, approvingly; "I was thinking of sending flowers to hospitals, but that's so general. Now, your suggestion, Mona, is definite, and just the right sort of thing." "But aren't we going to have a president and treasurer, and things like that?" asked Elise. "No," said Patty; "my mind is clearing now, and I begin to see our club. Instead of a president, we'll all four be presidents, and instead of a treasurer, we'll all four be treasurers. We'll give money when it's necessary, or we'll use our motor cars, or buy flowers, or whatever we like; but we won't have dues and officers and things." "But the shop girls are always busy; how can we take them motoring?" asked Elise. "That was only a suggestion," said Mona; "it needn't be exactly a shop girl; but anybody we know of, who would enjoy a little unexpected pleasure." "The principle is exactly right," said Clementine; "now, let's get it down to practicability. As Mona says, we needn't necessarily choose a shop girl,--but suppose we do, many of them are free Saturday afternoon." "Only in the summer time," objected Elise. "Yes, perhaps, in the big shops; but there are lots of them, in offices,--or even school teachers,--who would be free Saturday afternoons. Well, anyway, here's what I'm thinking of, and you can all say what you think of it. Suppose we try, every week, to give a happy Saturday afternoon to somebody who wouldn't have it otherwise." "The Happy Saturday Afternoon Club!" cried Patty; "that's a lovely name! let's do it!" "But," said Elise, "that would mean giving up our Saturday afternoons. Do we want to do that? What about matinées?" "I think we ought to be willing to sacrifice something," said Patty, thoughtfully; "but I do love Saturday matinées." "Oh, if there's anything especial, we needn't consider ourselves bound to give up the afternoon," said Clementine. "For that matter, we could send a couple of girls for a motor ride without going ourselves." "But that's more like charity," objected Patty: "I meant to go with them, and be real nice and pleasant with them, and make a bright spot in their lives that they would always remember." "They'd always remember you, Patty, if you were the bright spot," declared Mona, who idolised her friend. "But I must confess I do like to be definite about this thing. Now, how's this for a plan? To-day's Thursday. Suppose we begin on Saturday and make a start at something. Suppose we each of us pick out a girl,--or a boy, for that matter,--or a child or anybody, and think what we can do to make them happy on Saturday afternoon." "Now we're getting somewhere," said Elise, approvingly. "I've picked mine already. She's a girl who comes to our house quite often to sew for the children. She's a sweet little thing, but she looks as if she never had a real good time in all her life. Now, can the rest of you think of anybody like that?" "Yes, I have one," said Mona. "Your suggestion made me think of her. She's my manicure girl. She comes here, and sometimes she's so tired she's ready to drop! She works awfully hard, and never takes a day off, because she has to support two little sisters. But I'll make her take a holiday Saturday afternoon, somehow." "There's a girl I'd like to have," said Clementine, thoughtfully; "she's at the ribbon counter in Walker's. She always waits on me there; and she has such a wistful air, I'd like to do her a kindness. I don't suppose she could get off,--but I could go and ask the head of the department, and perhaps he'd let her." "I can't think of anybody," said Patty, "except one person, that I would simply _love_ to have. And that's a very tired and cross-looking lady who gives out embroidery patterns in a dreadful place, way down town. I believe it would sweeten her up for a year to have a little spree with us." "All right," said Mona. "Now we have selected our guests, what shall we do with them? Say, a motor ride and a cup of tea afterward in some pretty tea room?" "I think," said Elise, "that we'd better give them luncheon first. They can't enjoy a motor ride if they're hungry, and they probably will be." "Luncheon where?" said Patty, looking puzzled; "at one of our houses?" "I could have them here, easily enough," said Mona. "Our dining-room here, would really be better than any of the homes of you girls. Because you all have people, and I haven't. Father would just as lieve lunch downstairs, in the main dining-room." "That's lovely of you, Mona," said Patty. "I was going to suggest some small, quiet restaurant, but a luncheon here in your pretty dining-room would indeed be a bright spot for them to remember. But suppose they won't come?" "Then we must ask someone instead," said Clementine; "let's promise each to bring someone with us on Saturday, and if the first one we ask declines, keep on asking till we get somebody. Of course, Mona, we'll share the expense of the luncheon equally." "Nonsense," returned Mona; "I'll be glad to give that." "No," said Patty, firmly; "we'll each pay a quarter of whatever the luncheon costs. And let's have it good and substantial, and yet have some pretty, fancy things too. For, you know, this isn't a charity or a soup kitchen,--it's to give those girls a bright and beautiful scene to look back on." "Oh, it will be lovely!" cried Mona. "I'll have pretty place cards, and favours, and everything." "But we mustn't overdo it," said Clementine. "You know, to the unaccustomed, an elaborate table may prove embarrassing." "That will be all right," said Patty, smiling. "Mona can fix her table, and I'll come over before the luncheon, and if she has too many or too grand flumadiddles, I'll take some of them off. I don't want our guests struck dumb by too much grandeur, but I do want things pretty and nice. Suppose we each bring a favor for our own guest." "Something useful?" said Elise. "No; _not_ a suit of flannel underwear or a pair of shoes! But a pretty necktie or handkerchief, if you like, or even a little gold pin, or a silver one." "Or a picture or cast," said Clementine. "Yes," and Patty nodded approval; "but it ought to be a little thing that would look like a luncheon souvenir and not like a Christmas present. I think they ought to be all alike." "So do I," said Mona, "and I think a little pin in a jeweler's box will be the prettiest; and then a lovely bunch of flowers at each plate, and an awfully pretty place-card." "Oh, it will be beautiful!" cried Patty, jumping up and dancing about the room; "but I must flit, girls,--I have an engagement at five. Wait, what about motors? I'm sure we can use our big car." "And ours," said all the rest together. "Well, we'll need two," said Clementine, "and two of us girls and two guests can go in each. We'll see which cars can be used most conveniently; perhaps our fathers may have something to say on that subject. But we can arrange all such things by telephone to-morrow. The main thing is to get our guests." "Oh, we'll do that," said Patty, "if we have to go out into the highways and hedges after them." CHAPTER IV AN INVITATION The next morning Patty started off in her own little electric runabout with Miller, the chauffeur. She let him drive, and gave the address, as she stepped in, "The Monongahela Art Embroidery Company," adding a number in lower Broadway. The correct Miller could not suppress a slight smile as he said, "Where I took you once before, Miss Patty?" And Patty smiled, as she said, "Yes, Miller." But it was with a different feeling that she entered the big building this time, and she went straight to department B. On her way she met the red-headed boy who had so amused her when she was there a year ago. He greeted her with the same lack of formality that had previously characterised him. "Is youse up against it again?" he inquired, grinning broadly. "I t'ought youse didn't get no cinch, and had to can de whole projick." "I'm not on the same 'projick' now," said Patty, smiling at him. "Is department B in the same place?" "Sure it is," and for some reason the boy added, "miss," after a momentary pause, which made Patty realise his different attitude toward her, now that she wore a more elaborate costume, than when he had seen her in a purposely plain little suit. "And is the same lady still in charge of it?" "Yep; dey ain't nuttin' lessen dynnimite goin' to boost Mis' Greene outen o' here!" "Then Mrs. Greene is the lady I want to see," and Patty threaded her way through the narrow passages between the piled up boxes. "No pass needed; she's a free show," the boy called after her, and in a moment Patty found herself again in the presence of the sharp-faced, tired-looking woman whom she had once interviewed regarding her embroidery work. "This is Mrs. Greene, isn't it?" said Patty, pleasantly. "Yes, I am," snapped the woman. "You don't want work again, do you?" "No," said Patty, smiling, "I come this time on quite a different errand." "Then you don't want to see _me_. I'm here only to give out work. Did Mr. Myers send you?" "No, I came of my own accord. Now, Mrs. Greene, forget the work for a moment, and let me tell you what I want." "If it's subscribin' to any fund, or belongin' to any working woman's club run by you swell ladies, you can count me out. I ain't got time for foolishness." "It isn't anything like that," and Patty laughed so merrily that Mrs. Greene's hard face softened in spite of herself. "Well, what is it?" she asked, in a less belligerent tone. "It's only this," and though Patty's errand had seemed to her simple enough before she came in, she now began to wonder how Mrs. Greene would take it. "Some friends of mine and I are asking three or four people to lunch with us and take a little motor ride on Saturday, and I want you to come as my guest?" "What!" and Mrs. Greene's face was blank with amazement, but her manner betokened an impending burst of wrath. Patty realised that the woman's pride was up in arms at the idea of patronage, and she was at her wit's end how to make the real spirit of her invitation understood. As it chanced, she unwittingly took the right tack. So earnest was she that her lips quivered a little, and her eyes showed a pleading, pathetic expression, as she said, "_Please_ don't misunderstand me, Mrs. Greene. If you would enjoy it, I want you to come to our party on Saturday as our welcome guest. If you wouldn't enjoy it,--just say so,--but--but _don't_ scold me!" Mrs. Greene looked puzzled, and then the hard, stern mouth broke into an actual smile. "Well, I declare," she said, "I do believe you've got a real heart!" "And I do believe that _you_ have!" exclaimed Patty. "And, now that we know the truth about each other, you'll come, won't you?" "Tell me about it," and the speaker seemed still uncertain, though wavering. So Patty told her, honestly and straightforwardly, the circumstances of the party, and wound up by saying, "I truly want you, Mrs. Greene, for the simple reason that I want you to enjoy the afternoon,--and for no other reason." "And I'll come, and be awful glad of the chance! Why, I've never had a ride in a motor car in my life, and I've never eaten in one of those fandangle hotels; and the way you put it, I'm just crazy to go!" "Do you have holiday Saturday afternoon?" "Yes, all these downtown places do." "Very well, then, I shall expect you at the Plaza at one o'clock. Ask for Miss Galbraith, and they will show you right up to her rooms." "Land! it does seem too good to be true! Say, Miss Fairfield, I've only got a black mohair to wear,--will that do?" "Of course it will. Maybe you've a pretty bit of embroidery or something to lighten it up a little." "Yes, I've got a linjerry collar and cuffs that I've just been achin' to wear ever since my sister gave them to me last Christmas." "Then I shall expect you on Saturday, and I'm so glad." With a smiling bow, Patty started away, but she saw by Mrs. Greene's face, there was something left unsaid. "What is it?" she asked, kindly, stepping back again to the counter. "Say, Miss Fairfield," and Mrs. Greene twisted her fingers a little nervously, "don't think this is queer,--but won't you wear one of your real pretty dresses? I do like to see a pretty, stylish dress,--and I never get a chance." "Of course I will," said Patty, heartily; "I've a brand-new one that I've never worn, and I'll honour the occasion with it, on Saturday." And then Patty went away, greatly pleased at her success. "Had quite a buzz, didn't yer?" observed the red-headed boy, looking at Patty with curiosity, as she passed him. "Yes, I did. By the way, young man, what is your name?" "Rosy; should think you'd know without askin'," and he grabbed a bunch of his red hair with a comical grin. "Well, I didn't know whether it was that or Freckles," said Patty, who was moved to chaff him, by reason of his good-natured _camaraderie_. "Might just as well 'a' been," and Rosy grinned wider than ever. Patty nodded a good-bye, and went on, rapidly turning over in her mind a new plan that would include Rosy in some future happy Saturday afternoon. But this plan must wait for development, as the coming Saturday was enough to occupy her thoughts for the present. "Home, Miller," she said, as she took her seat. Miller gave a relieved sigh, for he was always more or less afraid of Patty's escapades; and he didn't like to have her go alone into these strange buildings. They whizzed homeward, and at luncheon time Patty gave Nan a graphic account of her interview with Mrs. Greene. "I think that's the funniest of all," said Nan, "that she should want you to wear your elaborate clothes." "So do I," said Patty. "We girls had planned to wear our plainest dresses, thinking to make our guests feel more at ease. And when Madame Greene spoke of her black mohair, I thought I'd even rip the trimming off my brown waist! But not so,--far otherwise. So I shall get me into that new American Beauty satin, and I hope to goodness it will suit her taste. I expect she's fearfully critical." "Perhaps the other girls' guests won't feel as Mrs. Greene does about this matter. What then?" "Now, Nan, don't stir up trouble! I have only my own guest to look after, and I shall dress my part. The others will have to do as seemeth unto them best. Oh, Nan, it's going to be heaps of fun!" "Yes, if it turns out right,--without any awkwardness or embarrassment." "Oh, you old wet blanket! Now, you know perfectly well, we're doing our best. And if we're awkward, we can't help it. We're going this afternoon to get the favours. What do you think of little pins,--silver gilt, or enamel?" "They'd be all right, or hatpins, either." "No, hatpins everybody has. And they don't show, anyhow. That amethyst one of mine always hides itself behind a bow or a feather. No; I'm sure a nice little round brooch is the best thing." "How about gloves?" "Or overshoes? or knitted wash-cloths? Nan, can't I bang it into your head that this affair is for pleasure, not profit? Would you give _your_ luncheon guests gloves as souvenirs?" "I suppose you're right, Patty. But it _is_ an experiment." "Of course it is! And it's going to be a successful one, and the forerunner of many others!" * * * * * Half an hour before luncheon time, Patty walked into Mona's dining-room. She wore her new gown of American Beauty satin, softly draped with a thin black marquisette, and a soft sash of black satin. Her hat was all black, with a Beauty rose tucked under the brim, and resting against her fair hair. Mona surveyed her with delight. "You look unusually well, Patty,--but that's not saying anything unusual, for you always look unusually well." "Good gracious, Mona, what kind of English is that? And a doubtful compliment beside! But I see you're preoccupied, so I shan't expect much appreciation of my new costume. Simple but tasty, isn't it?" As she spoke, Patty was looking at herself in a long mirror and craning her neck to get a view of her back. She was fond of pretty clothes, and her new gown, though rich, was really simple in line and colouring. "Your table is beautiful, Mona," she said, suddenly bringing her attention from her own raiment to the festal preparation. The girls had decided that, since Christmas was only about a fortnight away, it would be attractive to use Christmas decorations for their party. And so the round table showed crossed strips of broad red ribbon, under bands of lace, and a central decoration of a real Christmas tree, with beautiful fancy ornaments and colored electric lights. At each place was an elaborate bonbonnière of Christmas red, decked with sprays of holly. The place cards were Christmassy; and the little brooches they had bought, were in dainty boxes tied with holly ribbon. "It's perfectly lovely, Mona," said Patty, enthusiastically. "There isn't a bit too much of anything, and it's just as cheery and jolly as it can be." "I thought I wouldn't have any flowers on the table," Mona explained, "for they didn't go with the other things. So, you see, I've these four big bunches of red carnations around the room, and I shall give them each one to take home. Of course, I have boxes ready for them,--and then, Patty, I thought we'd distribute the Christmas tree decorations among them,--and I have the boxes big, so we can put those and the place-cards and candy-boxes and souvenirs all in them. And then, you know, it won't seem like _giving_ them things; for you know yourself how keen people are to take away their place cards and such things." "They are, indeed! I've been _surprised_ the people who have _everything_ will gather up their cards and trumpery boxes after a luncheon! And your thoughtfulness is lovely, Mona. We'll each give them our own place-card and box, too." "Yes; and then, you see, they'll have quite a few little things for their own Christmas, and that will make them remember the 'bright spot' all the more." "Of course it will! Mona, you're a perfect _darling_!" And Patty grasped Mona's shoulders and swung her about in a mad dance of jubilation. "And, Patty," Mona went on, "Mr. Lansing wants to help us with our Happy Saturdays Club. He says he could go with us some afternoon, to take a lot of newsboys to the circus." "Why, Mona Galbraith!" and Patty stared at her friend in astonishment. "Have you been telling _him_ about our club?" "Yes; of course, I have. It's no secret society, is it?" "No; but we don't want men for members." "But, Patty, he would be a help. I'd love to give some of those poor little newsboys a good time, and we couldn't do it, just by ourselves." Suddenly, Patty thought of "Rosy," and her idea of including him in some of their plans. To be sure, it would be better to have a man to help manage such a project. But not Mr. Lansing! "No, Mona," she said; "our club is made up of just us four girls, and we can find plenty to do among girls or women. At least, for this winter. If it's all a success, we can do more next winter, and perhaps get some men to help us then. If we want to take newsboys to the circus, father will go with us. Don't be everlastingly dragging in that Mr. Lansing." "I'm _not_ dragging him in! He kindly offered to help. But of course,--if you don't want him----" "Well, I don't! And, look here, Mona, I wish you'd let him alone, yourself. He's not like the men of our set, and I want you to realise that. Roger says he's a bounder,--if you know what that is." "Pooh! Roger is jealous." "Yes, I think he is. But, aside from that, he's right about Mr. Lansing not being the right kind of a friend for you. Philip Van Reypen says the same thing." "Oh, pshaw! Mr. Van Reypen is an old stuck-up! He thinks nobody is any good if they don't begin their names with a Van." "Now, Mona, don't be silly. I'm sure I don't know what you see so admirable in Mr. Lansing, but I do think you ought to be advised by others who know better than you. Why, your own father doesn't like him." "I know dad doesn't; but--well, all the same, I _do_! Why, Patty, he's awfully interesting, and he brings me flowers and candy and books----" "Now, stop, Mona. You know you don't care for those things! You can have all you want, without Mr. Lansing's gifts. You like him, because he flatters you, and--well, I must admit that he has a way with him." "Oh, yes, Patty, he has! Why, when you know him, he's really fascinating!" "Well, don't let him fascinate you. He's loud, Mona. He's not our sort. Now, do promise me to see less of him, won't you? He seems to be calling on you very often." "Yes, he does. But how can I stop that? I can't be rude to him." "Well, you can be cool. Every girl can discourage a man's attentions, if she wants to." "H'm; you seem to know a great deal about it." "I only know what my common sense tells me. Mona, dear, _do_ drop that man! Why, Roger is worth a dozen of him!" "Roger's all right,--but Mr. Lansing is so,--so,--well, he's different." "He is, indeed! And that's the trouble. The difference is all in Roger's favour, if you only could see it." "Well, I can't! Now, look here, Patty. You know how much I care for you, but I won't have you talking to me like a Dutch Aunt. I made father bring me to New York this winter, so I could be near you, and we could have fun together. But, if you're going to scold me all the time, we won't have any fun at all." Patty began to realise that, though Mona might be coaxed, she could never be driven. So she concluded to drop the subject, and use more thought and tact in her endeavours to break up Mona's new friendship. And then Clementine Morse came, so the matter had to be laid aside. "Is Jenny here?" asked Clementine, as she tossed off her furs. "Jenny who?" "My guest, Jenny Bisbee. She's the ribbon girl I told you about. I had the greatest time to get her off for the afternoon. I had to go to Walker's, you know, and see all sorts of Heads of Departments. My! they acted like Crowned Heads! They said it wouldn't do at all,--it would establish a precedent,--and all sorts of things like that. But, somehow or other, I wheedled them into it, and at last they said Jenny might come. She was just crazy about it. She said, she never has any fun in her life, except looking at the new ribbons when they come in! Oh, girls, isn't it awful _never_ to have any fun? I expect Jenny will be embarrassed, but I'm sure she'll enjoy it all. Oh, how lovely the table looks! Mona, you are a wonder! I never should have thought of all those Christmas fixings." "I'm glad you like them. Say, Clementine, don't you think it would be nice to have men members in our club?" "Why, I don't know. No, I guess not, though my brother Clifford says it's a great game, and he'd like to help us." "Yes, and I know another man who wants to help," said Mona, eagerly, when Clementine interrupted her. "I hope it isn't that strange being you brought to Patty's party! Wherever _did_ you pick up that freak, Mona?" "He _isn't_ a freak! Mr. Lansing is not a rich man, but he's very exclusive. He told me so himself." "Don't you believe it!" and Clementine laughed merrily. "As a rule, people who say themselves that they're exclusive, are _not_. And one glance at that man is enough to show his standing." "What _is_ his standing, then?" said Mona, sulkily. "Outside the pale of society, if not outside the pale of civilisation," retorted Clementine, who was plain-spoken. "Don't let's talk about Mr. Lansing now," broke in Patty, who feared an unpleasant element in their pleasant occasion. "And, anyway, here comes Elise." CHAPTER V HAPPY GUESTS Elise came in, bringing her guest with her. The three girls waiting in the sitting-room were surprised to see the small, dainty person whom Elise introduced as Miss Anna Gorman. She had a sweet, sad little face, and wore a simple one-piece gown of dove-grey voile. Her hat was grey, also; a turban shape, with a small knot of pink roses at one side. Anna was not pretty, but she had a refined air, and a gentle manner. Though embarrassed, she strove not to show it, and tried to appear at ease. Mona greeted her cordially: "How do you do, Anna?" she said, for they had agreed to call the girls informally, by their Christian names. "I am glad to see you. Come with me into the boudoir, and lay off your coat." Mona herself assisted, for she thought it better not to have her maid about. "I'm well, thank you," said Anna, in response to Mona's inquiry, and then she broke out, impulsively: "Oh, I'm so happy to be here! It was so heavenly kind of you young ladies to ask me. You don't _know_ what it means to me!" "Why, I'm very glad," said Mona, touched at the girl's gratitude. "Now, I hope you'll just have the time of your life!" "Oh, I shall, indeed! I know it. I'm enjoying every minute, just being in these lovely rooms, and seeing you kind ladies." Then Mona's manicure girl came. Her name was Celeste Arleson, and she was a tall, slender young woman, garbed all in black. It was the gown she always wore at her work, and, being of French descent, she had an air of charm that made her attractive. "Good-morning, Celeste; come right in," said Mona, and then she introduced her to Anna. The two looked at each other a little shyly, and then Anna said, "Good-morning," in a timid way. Mona felt embarrassed, too, and began to wonder if their party would be a failure, after all. But Patty came in then and, with her ever-ready tact, took the two visitors to the drawing-room, and began to show them some pictures and curios. Then Jenny Bisbee came, the girl from the ribbon counter, whom Clementine had invited. "My, isn't this fine!" she exclaimed, as she met the others. "I just do think it's fine!" "I'm glad we could arrange for you to come," said Clementine, cordially. "Glad! My gracious, I guess I'm glad! Well! if you measured ribbon from morning till night, I guess you'd be glad to get away from it for once. Why, I measure ribbon in my dreams, from night till morning. I can't seem to get away from that everlasting stretching out of thirty-six inches, over and over again." "But the ribbons are so pretty," said Clementine, by way of being agreeable. "Yes; when they first come in. But after a few weeks you get so tired of the patterns. My, I feel as if I could throw that Dresden sash ribbon on the floor and stamp on it, I'm so tired of seeing it! And there's one piece of gay brocade that hits me in the eye every morning. I can't stand that piece much longer." "I'll come round some day, and buy it," said Patty, laughing good-naturedly. "I didn't know the ribbons were so individual to you." "Yes, they are. There's one piece of light blue satin ribbon, plain and wide, that I just love. It's a real comfort to me." Jenny gave a little sigh, as she thought of her favourite ribbon, and Patty looked at her in wonderment, that she should be so sensitive to colour and texture. But her taste in colours did not seem to extend to her clothes. Jenny was a pale little thing, with ashy blonde hair, and large, light blue eyes. She wore a nondescript tan-coloured dress, without tone or shape; and she had a weary, exhausted air, as if chronically tired. Conversation was a little difficult. The four hostesses tried their best to be entertaining without being patronising, but it was not an easy task. At least, their advances were not easily received, and the guests seemed to be on the alert to resent anything that savoured of patronage. But help came from an unexpected quarter. Just at one o'clock Mrs. Greene arrived. "My land!" she exclaimed, as she entered the room, "if this isn't grand! I wouldn't of missed it for a farm! You see, I waited out on the corner, till it was just one o'clock. I know enough to get to a party just on the minute. My bringin' up was good, if I have fell off a little since. But my folks was always awful particular people,--wouldn't even take their pie in their hands. My husband, now, he was different. He wasn't a fool, nor he wasn't much else. But I only had him a year, and then he up and got killed in a rolling mill. Nice man, John, but not very forth-putting. So I've shifted for myself ever since. Not that I've done so awful well. I'm slow, I am. I never was one o' those to sew with a hot needle and a scorching thread, but I do my stent right along. But, my! how I do rattle on! You might think I don't often go in good society. Well, I don't! So I must make the most of this chance." Mrs. Greene's chatter had been broken in upon by introductions and greetings, but that bothered her not at all. She nodded her head affably at the different ones, but kept right on talking. So Mona was fairly obliged to interrupt her. "Now, let us go out to luncheon," she said, after the maid had announced it twice. "Glad to," said Mrs. Greene. "Oh, my land! what a pretty sight!" She stood stock still in the doorway, and had to be urged forward, in order that the others might follow. "Well, I didn't know a table _could_ look so handsome!" she went on. "My land! I s'pose it's been thirty years since I've went to a real party feast, and then, I can tell you, it wasn't much like this!" Probably not, for Mona's table, with the coloured electric lights blazing from the pretty Christmas tree, the soft radiance of the room, the fragrance of flowers, the exquisite table appointments, and the pretty, kindly hostesses, was a scene well worthy of praise. Anna Gorman trembled a little as she took her seat, and sat, wide-eyed, looking almost as if in a trance of delight. Celeste Arleson was less embarrassed, as her profession took her into fine mansions and in presence of fashionable people every day. Jenny Bisbee looked rapturous. "Oh," she said, "Oh! I am _so_ happy!" The guests all looked a trifle awestruck when the first course appeared, of grapefruit, served in tall, slender ice-glasses, each with a red ribbon tied round its stem, and a sprig of holly in the bow. "Well, did you ever!" exclaimed Mrs. Greene. "And is this the way they do things now? Well, well! It does look 'most too good to eat, but I'm ready to tackle it." Anna Gorman looked a little pained, as if this homely enthusiasm jarred upon her sense of fitness. But Mona said hospitably, "Yes, indeed, Mrs. Greene,--it's here to be eaten." "Now, I'm free to confess, I don't know what spoon to take," Mrs. Greene acknowledged, looking blankly at the row of flat silver before her. "I know," spoke up Jenny Bisbee, eagerly; "I read it in a Sunday paper. You begin at the outside of the row, and eat in!" "Land! are you sure to come out right, that way? S'pose you had a fork left for your ice cream!" "We'll risk it," said Mona, smiling. "Let's use this spoon at the outside, as Jenny suggests." The second course was clam bouillon, and after it was served, a maid passed a dish of whipped cream. Mrs. Greene watched carefully as Mona placed a spoonful on the top of her soup, and then she exclaimed: "Well, if that don't beat all! What is that, might I ask?" "Whipped cream," said Mona. "Won't you have some?" "Well, I will,--as you took some. But if that ain't the greatest! Now, just let me tell you. A friend of mine,--she has seen some high society,--she was telling me a little how to behave. And she told me of a country person she knew, who had some soup in a cup once. And he thought it was tea, and he ca'mly puts in milk and sugar! Well, he was just kerflum-mixed, that poor man, when he found it was soup! So, my friend says, says she: 'Now, Almira, whatever you do, _don't_ put milk in your soup!' And, I declare to goodness, here you're doin' just that very thing!" "Well, we won't put any sugar in," said Mona, pleasantly; "but I think the cream improves it. You like it, don't you, Jenny?" "Heavenly!" said Jenny, rolling her eyes up with such a comically blissful expression that Elise nearly choked. As Patty had agreed, the luncheon was good and substantial, rather than elaborate. The broiled chicken, dainty vegetables, and pretty salad all met the guests' hearty approval and appreciation; and when the ice cream was served, Mrs. Greene discovered she had both a fork and a spoon at her disposal. "Well, I never!" she observed. "Ain't that handy, now? I s'pose you take whichever one you like." "Yes," said Mona. "You see, there is strawberry sauce for the ice cream, and that makes it seem more like a pudding." "So it does, so it does," agreed Mrs. Greene, "though, land knows, it ain't much like the puddin's I'm accustomed to. Cottage, rice, and bread is about the variety we get, in the puddin' line. Not but what I'm mighty grateful to get those." "I like chocolate pudding," said Jenny, in a low voice, and apparently with great effort. Patty knew she made the remark because she thought it her duty to join in the conversation; and she felt such heroism deserved recognition. "So do I," she said, smiling kindly at Jenny. "In fact, I like anything with chocolate in it." "So do I," returned Jenny, a little bolder under this expressed sympathy of tastes. "Once I had a whole box of chocolate candies,--a pound box it was. I've got the box yet. I'm awful careful of the lace paper." "I often get boxes of candy," said Celeste, unable to repress this bit of vanity. "My customers give them to me." "My," said Jenny, "that must be fine. Is it grand to be a manicure?" "I like it," said Celeste, "because it takes me among nice people. They're mostly good to me." "My ladies are nice to me, too," observed Anna. "I only sew in nice houses. But I don't see the ladies much. It's different with you, Miss Arleson." "Well, I don't see nice ladies," broke in Jenny. "My, how those queens of society can snap at you! Seems 'if they blame me for everything: the stock, the price, the slow cash boys,--whatever bothers 'em, it's all my fault." "That is unkind," said Clementine. "But shopping does make some people cross." "Indeed it does!" returned Jenny. "But I'm going to forget it just for to-day. When I sit here and see these things, all so beautiful and sparkly and bright, I pretend there isn't any shop or shopping in all the world." Jenny's smile was almost roguish, and lighted up her pale face till she looked almost pretty. Then they had coffee, and snapping crackers with caps inside, and they put on the caps and laughed at each other's grotesque appearance. Mrs. Greene's cap was a tri-corne, with a gay cockade, which gave her a militant air, quite in keeping with her strong face. Patty had a ruffled night-cap, which made her look grotesque, and Anna Gorman had a frilled sunbonnet. Celeste had a Tam o' Shanter, which just suited her piquant face, and Jenny had a Scotch cap, which became her well. "Now," said Mona, as she rose from the table, "I'm going to give you each a bunch of these carnations----" "To take home?" broke in Jenny, unable to repress her eagerness. "Yes; and I'll have them put in boxes for you, along with your cards and souvenirs, which, of course, you must take home also. And, if there's room, I'll put in some of these Christmas tree thingamajigs, and you can use them for something at Christmas time." "Oh!" exclaimed Jenny; "maybe my two kid brothers won't just about go crazy over 'em! Says I to myself, just the other day, 'What's going in them kids' stockings is more'n I know; but something there must be.' And,--here you are!" "Here you are!" said Mona, tucking an extra snapping cracker or two in Jenny's box. "We plan to go for a motor ride, now," said Mona. "I wonder if you girls are dressed warmly enough." All declared that they were, but Mona provided several extra cloaks and wraps, lest any one should take cold. "We have two cars for our trip," she explained; "Miss Farrington's limousine and my own. Has any one any preference which way we shall go?" "Well," said Mrs. Greene, "if you ask me, I'd like best to ride up Fifth Avenue. There ought to be some fine show of dress, a bright afternoon like this. And there ain't anything I admire like stylish clothes. That's a real handsome gown you got on, Miss Fairfield." "Do you like it?" said Patty, smiling. "Yes, I do. It's fashionable of cut, and yet it ain't drawed so tight as some. And a becomin' colour, too." "It's a dandy," observed Jenny. "I see lots of good clothes on my customers, but they don't all have such taste as Miss Fairfield's. And all you other ladies here," she added, politely, glancing round. "Now, are we all ready?" asked Mona, looking over the group. "Mrs. Greene, I fear you won't be warm enough, though your jacket _is_ thick, isn't it? But I'm going to throw this boa round your neck, by way of precaution. Please wear it; I have another." "My land! if this ain't luxuriant," and Mrs. Greene smoothed the neckpiece and muff that Mona put on her. "What is this fur, Miss Galbraith?" "That is caracul. Do you like it?" "Like it? Well, I think it's just too scrumptious for anything. I'll remember the feel of it for a year. And so genteel looking, too." "Yes, it's a good fur," said Mona, carelessly throwing a sable scarf round her own throat. "Now, let us start." Down went the eight in an elevator, and Mrs. Greene was overjoyed to find that she was attended with quite as much deference as Mona herself. Elise and Clementine took their guests in the Farrington car, leaving Patty and Mona, with their guests, for the Galbraith car. Celeste Arleson enjoyed the ride, but she was not so openly enthusiastic as Mrs. Greene. "My!" exclaimed that worthy, as she bobbed up and down on the springy cushions; "to think it's come at last! Why, I _never_ expected to ride in one of these. I saved up once for a taxicab ride, but I had to use my savings for a case of grippe, so I never felt to try it again." "Did you have grippe?" said Patty, sympathetically; "that was too bad." "Well, no; it wasn't _my_ grippe. Leastways, I didn't have it. It was a lady that lived in the same boardin' house, along with me. But she'd had misfortune, and lost her money, so I couldn't do no less than to help her. Poor thing! she was crossed in love and it made her queer. But that Rosy,--you know, that redhead boy, Miss Fairfield?" "Yes, I do," returned Patty, smiling. "Well, he says she was queered in love, and it made her cross! She works in our place, you know. Well, cross she is; and, my land! if she wasn't cross when she had the grippe! You know, it ain't soothin' on folks' nerves." "No," said Patty; "so I've understood. Well, Mrs. Greene, now you can see plenty of fashionable costumes. Do you enjoy it?" "My! I'm just drinkin' 'em in! Furs is worn a lot this year, ain't they? Well, I don't wonder. Why, I feel real regal in this fur of yours, Miss Galbraith. I don't know when I've had such a pleasure as the wearin' of this fur." "Now, we'll go through the park and up Riverside Drive," said Mona, as they neared Eighty-sixth Street. It was pleasant in the Park, and the fine motors, with their smartly-apparelled occupants, delighted Mrs. Greene's very soul. "Where would you like to go, Celeste?" asked Mona; "or do you like the Park and the River drive?" "If I might, Miss Galbraith, I'd like to go to Grant's Tomb. I've always wanted to go there, but I never can get a spare hour,--or if I do, I'm too tired for the trip." "Certainly, you shall. Would you like that, Mrs. Greene?" "Oh, land, yes! I've never been there, either. Quite some few times I've thought to go, but something always interferes." So to Grant's Tomb they went. The other car followed, and all went in to look at the impressive mausoleum. "Makes you feel kind o' solemn," said Mrs. Greene, as they came out. "Think of lyin' there in that eternal rock, as you might say, and the whole nation comin' to weep over your bier." "They don't all weep," observed Celeste. "Well, in a manner o' speakin', they do," said Mrs. Greene, gently. "Not real tears, maybe; but, you know, to weep over a bier, is a figger of speech; and so far as its meanin' goes, Grant's got it. And, after all, it's the meanin' that counts." It was nearing sundown as they started down the Drive, and Mona proposed that they go to a tea room, and then take their guests to their several homes. "Oh, how pretty!" said Mrs. Greene, as they all went into the Marie Jeannette Tea Room. The younger girls chose chocolate, but Mrs. Greene said, "Give me a cup of tea. There's nothing like it, to my mind. And to think of having tea in this beautiful place, all decked with posies. I'll just throw this fur a little open, but keep it over my shoulders. It looks so luxuriant that way." Mona ordered dainty sandwiches and little fancy cakes--and after a pleasant half-hour they started homeward. They left Celeste at her home first, and then took Mrs. Greene to hers. "I live way down on East Eleventh Street," she said, apologetically; "and I oughtn't to let you go clear down there with me. But,--oh, well, I might as well own up,--I'd just love to roll up to our door in this car!" "And so you shall," said Mona, appreciating this bit of feminine vanity. "And, Mrs. Greene, if you'll accept them, I'd like to make you a present of those furs. I don't need them, for I have several other sets, and you're very welcome to them." "My land!" said Mrs. Greene, and then could say no more, for her voice choked, and two tears rolled down her cheeks. "And to think I thought you ladies were stuck up!" she said, in a voice of contrition. "Why, two angels straight from Heaven couldn't be more kind or whole-soulder than you two are. But, Miss Galbraith, I can't accept such a gift,--I--I ought not to." Mrs. Greene was caressing the fur as she spoke, and Mona patted her hand, saying laughingly: "I couldn't take it away from anybody who loves it as you do. Please keep it. I'm more glad to give it to you than you can possibly be to have it." So Mrs. Greene kept the furs,--and her beaming face proved the depth of thankfulness which she tried, all inadequately, to express. CHAPTER VI CONFIDENCES Mona went home with Patty to dinner, as she often did when the girls had been together during the afternoon. At the dinner table the elder Fairfields were greatly entertained by the account of the first Happy Saturday Afternoon. "But aren't you afraid," Mr. Fairfield asked, "that such unaccustomed luxuries will make those people discontented with their own conditions?" "Now, father Fairfield," exclaimed Patty, "you ought to know better than that! you might as well say that a man in a prison ought never to see a ray of sunlight, because it would make him more discontented with his dark jail." "That's true," agreed Nan; "I think it's lovely to give these people such a pleasure, and if I can help in any way, Patty, I'll be glad to." "And then it's the memory of it," said Mona. "You know yourself how pleasant it is to look back and remember any pleasure you may have had; and when it's only one, and such a big one, the pleasure of remembrance is even greater." "That's good philosophy, Mona," said Mr. Fairfield, approvingly, "and I take back what I said. I think the plans you girls have made are excellent; and I, too, will be glad to help if I can." "Other people have offered to help us," began Mona, but Patty interrupted her, saying: "We don't want any help from people individually. I mean, father, if you will lend us the car, and things like that, we'll be glad, of course. But we don't want any personal assistance in our plans." "All right, chickadee; far be it from me to intrude. But I thought perhaps if you wanted to make a little excursion, say, to see the Statue of Liberty, or even to go to the circus, you might like a man along with you as a Courier General." "That's just what Mr. Lansing said!" exclaimed Mona, which was the very remark Patty had been fearing. "That's just what we're _not_ going to do!" she declared. "We're only going to places where we can go by ourselves, or if we need a chaperon, we'll take Nan. But we don't want any men in on this deal." "I don't see why," began Mona, but Patty promptly silenced her by saying, "You _do_ see why. Now, Mona, don't say anything more about it. There isn't any circus now, and it's time enough when it comes, to decide about going to it; and I don't want to go, anyway. There are lots of things nicer than a circus." "Mr. Lansing said he'd send us a box for the Hippodrome, some Saturday afternoon," said Mona, a little diffidently. "That's awfully kind of him," said Nan. "I should think you girls would be delighted with that." "A box," and Patty looked scornful. "Why, a box only holds six, so with us four, we could only invite two guests. I don't think much of that scheme!" "I'll donate a box also," said Mr. Fairfield. "You can get them adjoining, and with two of you girls in one and two in the other, you can invite eight guests." Patty hesitated. The plan sounded attractive, and she quickly thought that she could invite Rosy for one of the guests and give the boy a Happy Saturday Afternoon. But she didn't want to accept anything from Mr. Lansing, though she couldn't quite bring herself to say so, frankly. "What's the matter, Patty?" asked Nan. "You don't like the idea of the Hippodrome, though I don't see why." "I _do_ like it," said Patty, "but we can't decide these things in a minute. We ought to have a meeting of the club and talk it over." "Nonsense," said Mona. "You know very well, Patty, it isn't a formal club. I'm going to accept these two Hippodrome boxes, and tell the girls that we can each invite two guests. The Hippodrome show is lovely this year, and anybody would like it, whether children or grown-ups. And we're much obliged to you, Mr. Fairfield." "You're taking a great deal upon yourself, Mona," said Patty. "You're not president of the club." "Neither are you." "Well, _I'm_ not dictating how things shall be run." "Well, I _am_! So all you'll have to do, is to run along with me." Mona was so laughingly good-natured that Patty's serious face broke into a smile, too. She was annoyed at the idea of being under obligation to Mr. Lansing, but, after all, it was hardly fair to stand in the way of eight people's pleasure. So she surrendered gracefully. "All right, Mona," she said; "we'll have the Hippodrome party. I know one guest I shall invite, who's sure to enjoy it. He's a boy about fourteen, and the funniest thing you ever saw." "I'd like to take children, too," said Mona; "but I don't know many. I think I'll ask Celeste's two little sisters." It was characteristic of Patty not to dwell on anything unpleasant, so having made up her mind to accept Mr. Lansing's favour, she entered heartily into the plan for the next party. But after dinner, when the girls were alone in Patty's boudoir, she said to Mona, seriously, "You know I didn't want to take that box from Mr. Lansing." "Of course I know it, Patty," and Mona smiled, complacently. "But I made you do it, didn't I? I knew I should in the end, but your father helped me unexpectedly, by offering a second box. Now, Pattikins, you may as well stop disliking Mr. Lansing. He's my friend, and he's going to stay my friend. He may have some faults, but everybody has." "But, Mona, he isn't our sort at all. I don't see _why_ you like him." "He mayn't be your sort, but he's mine; and I like him because I like him! That's the only reason that anybody likes anybody. You think nobody's any good unless they have all sorts of aristocratic ancestry! Like that Van Reypen man who's always dangling after you." "He isn't dangling now," said Patty. "I haven't seen him since my party." "You haven't! Is he mad at you?" "Yes; he and Roger are both mad at me; and all on account of your old Mr. Lansing!" "Yes, Roger's mad at me, too, on account of that same poor, misunderstood young gentleman. But they'll get over it. Don't worry, Patty." "Mona, I'd like to shake you! I might just as well reason with the Rock of Gibraltar as to try to influence _you_. Don't you know that your father asked me to try to persuade you to drop that Lansing man?" Patty had not intended to divulge this confidence of Mr. Galbraith, but she was at her wit's end to find some argument that would carry any weight with her headstrong friend. "Oh, daddy!" said Mona, carelessly. "He talks to me by the hour, and I just laugh at him and drum tunes on his dear old bald head. He hasn't anything, really, against Mr. Lansing, you know; it's nothing but prejudice." "A very well-founded prejudice, then! Why, Mona, that man isn't fit to--to----" "To worship the ground I walk on," suggested Mona, calmly. "Well, he does, Patty, so you may as well stop interfering." "Oh, if you look upon it as interfering!" "Well, I don't know what you call it, if not that. But I don't mind. Go ahead, if it amuses you. But I'm sorry if my affairs make trouble between you and your friends. However, I don't believe Mr. Van Reypen will stay angry at you very long. And as for Roger,--well, I wouldn't worry about him. Of course, you're going to Elise's dance on Tuesday night?" "Yes, of course. And I've no doubt I'll make up with Roger, then; but I don't know about Philip. I doubt if he'll be there." "I haven't the least doubt. Where you are, there will Mr. Van Reypen be, also,--if he can possibly get an invitation." * * * * * Mona was right in her opinion. At Elise's dance on Tuesday night, almost the first man Patty saw, as she entered the drawing-room, was Philip Van Reypen. He greeted her pleasantly, but with a certain reserve quite different from his usual eager cordiality. "May I have a dance, Miss Fairfield?" he said, holding out his hand for her card. Quick-witted Patty chose just the tone that she knew would irritate him. "Certainly, Mr. Van Reypen," she said, carelessly, and as she handed him her card, she turned to smile at another man who was just coming to speak to her. When Philip handed back her card, she took it without looking at it, or at him, and handed it to Mr. Drayton, seemingly greatly interested in what dances he might select. Van Reypen looked at her a moment in amazement. He had intended to be cool toward her, but the tables were turned, and she was decidedly cool toward him. However, his look of surprise was not lost upon Miss Patricia Fairfield, who saw him out of the corner of her eye, even though she was apparently engrossed with Mr. Drayton. And then, as usual, Patty was besieged by several men at once, all begging for dances, and her card was quickly filled. "What _can_ I do with so many suitors?" she cried, raising her hands in pretty bewilderment, as her card was passed from one to another. "Don't take all the dances, please; I want to save some for my special favourites." "Meaning me?" said Kenneth Harper, who had just joined the group in time to hear Patty's remark. "You, for one," said Patty, smiling on him, "but there are seventeen others." "I'm two or three of the seventeen," said Roger, gaining possession of the card. "May I have three, Patty?" One look flashed from Roger's dark eyes to Patty's blue ones, and in that glance their foolish little quarrel was forgiven and forgotten. Roger had a big, generous nature, and so had Patty, and with a smile they were good friends again. Patty's mind worked quickly. She had no intention of giving Roger three dances, but she saw that he and Mona were not yet on speaking terms. So she nodded assent, as he scribbled his initials in three places, thinking to herself that before the evening was over, two of them should be transferred to Mona's card. Patty was looking lovely in pale blue chiffon with tiny French rosebuds of pink satin adorning it here and there. Her golden hair was clustered in becoming puffs and curls, tucked into a little net of gold mesh, with coquettish bunches of rosebuds above each ear. But, though Patty was pretty and wore lovely clothes, her chief charm was her happy, smiling face and her gay, good-natured friendliness. She smiled on everybody, not with a set smile of society, but in a frank, happy enjoyment of the good time she was having, and appreciation of the good time that everybody else helped her to have. "You are all so kind to me," she was saying to Robert Kenton, who had just come in; "and I want to thank you, Mr. Kenton, for the beautiful flowers you sent. I do love valley lilies, they're so--so----" "They're so sentimental," suggested Rob Kenton, smiling. "Well, yes,--if you mean them to be," said Patty, dimpling at him. "Any flower is sentimental, if the sender means it so." "Or if the receiver wants it to be. Did you?" and Kenton smiled back at her. "Oh, yes, of _course_ I do!" And Patty put on an exaggeratedly soulful look. "I'm _that_ sentimental you wouldn't believe! But I forget the language of flowers. What do lilies of the valley mean,--especially with orchids in the middle of the bunch?" "Undying affection," responded Kenton, promptly. "Do you accept it?" "I'd be glad to, but I suppose that means it lasts for ever and ever,--so you needn't ever send me any more flowers!" "Oh, it isn't as undying as all that! It needs to be revived sometimes with fresh flowers." "It's a little too complicated for me to think it out now," and Patty smiled at him, roguishly. "Besides, here are more suitors approaching; so if you'll please give me back my card, Mr. Kenton,--though I don't believe there's room for another one." "Not one?" said the man who took it, disappointedly; for sure enough, every space was filled. "But there'll be an extra or two. May I have one of those?" "Oh, I never arrange those in advance," said Patty. "My partners take their chances on those. But I'll give you half of this dance," and she calmly cut in two the one dance against which Philip Van Reypen had set his aristocratic initials. Then the dancing began, and what with the fine music, the perfect floor, and usually good partners, Patty enjoyed herself thoroughly. She loved dancing, and being accomplished in all sorts of fancy dances, could learn any new or intricate steps in a moment. After a few dances she found herself whirling about the room with Roger, and she determined to carry out her plan of reconciling him and Mona. Mr. Lansing was not at the dance, for Elise had positively declined to invite him; and so, though Mona was there, she was rather cool to Elise, and favoured Roger only with a distant bow as a greeting. "You and Mona are acting like two silly idiots," was Patty's somewhat definite manner of beginning her conversation. "You think so?" said Roger, as he guided her skilfully round another couple who were madly dashing toward them. "Yes, I do. And, Roger, I want you to take my advice and make up with her." "I've nothing to make up." "Yes, you have, too. You and Mona are good friends, or have been, and there's no reason why you should act as you do." "There's a very good reason; and he has most objectionable manners," declared Roger, looking sulky. "I don't like his manners, either; but I tell you honestly, Roger, you're going about it the wrong way. I know Mona awfully well,--better than you do. And she's proud-spirited, and even a little contrary, and if you act as you do toward her, you simply throw her into the arms of that objectionable-mannered man!" "Good Heavens, Patty, what a speech!" "Well, of course, I don't mean literally, but if you won't speak to her at all, on account of Mr. Lansing, why of course she's going to feel just piqued enough to smile on him all the more. Can't you understand that?" "Let her!" growled Roger. "No, we won't let her,--any such thing! I don't like that man a bit better than you do, but do you suppose I'm going to show it by being unkind and mean to Mona? That's not tactful." "I don't want to be tactful. I want him to let her alone." "Well, you can't make him do that, unless you shoot him; and that means a lot of bother all round." "It might be worth the bother." "Don't talk nonsense, I'm in earnest. You're seriously fond of Mona, aren't you, Roger?" "Yes, I am; or rather, I was until that cad came between us." "He isn't exactly a cad," said Patty, judicially. "I do believe in being fair, and while the man hasn't all the culture in the world, he is kind-hearted and----" "And awfully good to his mother, let us hope," and Roger smiled, a little sourly. "Now, Patty girl, you'd better keep your pretty little fingers out of this pie. It isn't like you to interfere in other people's affairs, and I'd rather you wouldn't." "Oh, fiddle-de-fudge, Roger! I'm not interfering, and it _is_ my affair. Mona is my affair, and so are you; and now your Aunt Patty is going to bring about a reconciliation." "Not on my part," declared Roger, stoutly; CHAPTER VII MORE MAKING UP After the sixth dance was over, Patty asked her partner to bring Mr. Everson to her, and then she awaited his coming on a little sofa in an alcove. If Eugene Everson was surprised at the summons, he did not show it, but advanced courteously, and took a seat by Patty's side. He had a dance engaged with her much later in the evening, so Patty said, pleasantly: "Mr. Everson, don't think my request strange, but won't you exchange our later dance for this number seven?" "I would gladly, Miss Fairfield, but I'm engaged for this." "Yes, I know," and Patty favoured him with one of her most bewitching smiles; "but the lady is Miss Galbraith, as I happen to know, and Miss Galbraith is a very dear friend of mine, and,--oh, well, it's a matter of 'first aid to the injured.' I don't want to tell you all about it, Mr. Everson, but the truth is, I want Miss Galbraith to dance this number with another man,--because,--because----" It was not quite so easy as Patty had anticipated. She didn't want to go so far as to explain the real situation, and she became suddenly aware that she was somewhat embarrassed. Her face flushed rosy pink, and she cast an appealing glance from her violet-blue eyes into the amused face of the man beside her. "I haven't an idea of what it is all about, Miss Fairfield, but please consider me entirely at the orders of yourself and Miss Galbraith. A man at a party is at best but a puppet to dance at the bidding of any fair lady. And what better fortune could I ask than to be allowed to obey your decree?" Patty was greatly relieved when he took the matter thus lightly. In whimsical conversation she was on her own ground, and she responded gaily: "Let it remain a mystery, then; and obey as a noble knight a lady's decree. Dance with me, and trust it to me that Miss Galbraith is also obeying a decree of mine." "For a small person, you seem to issue decrees of surprising number and rapidity," and Everson, who was a large man, looked down at Patty with an air of amusement. "Yes, sir," said Patty, demurely, "I'm accustomed to it. Decrees are my strong point. I issue them 'most all the time." "And are they always obeyed?" "Alas, noble sir, not always. Though I'm not sure that your question is as flattering as the remarks most young men make to me." "Perhaps not. But when you know me better, Miss Fairfield, you'll find out that I'm very different from the common herd." "Really? How interesting! I hope I shall know you better very soon, for I adore unusual people." "And do unusual people adore you?" "I can't tell; I've never met one before," and after the briefest of saucy glances, Patty dropped her eyes demurely. "Aren't you one yourself?" "Oh, no!" And Patty looked up with an air of greatest surprise; "I'm just a plain little every-day girl." "You're a plain little coquette, that's what you are!" "You are indeed unusual, sir, to call me plain!" and Patty looked about as indignant as an angry kitten. "Perhaps, when I know you better, I may change my opinion of your plainness. Will you dance now?" The music had been playing for some moments, and signifying her assent, Patty rose, and they joined the dancers who were circling the floor. Mr. Everson was a fine dancer, but he was all unprepared for Patty's exquisite perfection in the art. "Why, Miss Fairfield," he said, unable to suppress his admiration, "I didn't know anybody danced like you, except professionals." "Oh, yes, I'm a good dancer," said Patty, carelessly; "and so are you, for that matter. Do you think they've made up?" "Who?" "Miss Galbraith and Mr. Farrington. See, we're just passing them. Oh, I'm afraid they haven't!" It was difficult to judge by the glance they obtained in passing, but Patty declared that both Mona's and Roger's faces looked like thunder clouds. "Give them a little longer," said Mr. Everson, who began to see how matters stood. "Perhaps another round, and we will find them smiling into each other's eyes." But when they next circled the long room, Mona and Roger were nowhere to be seen. "Aha," said Everson, "the conservatory for theirs! It must be all right! Shall we trail 'em?" "Yes," said Patty. "I don't care if they see us. Let's walk through the conservatory." They did so, and spied Mona and Roger sitting under a group of palms, engaged in earnest conversation. They were not smiling, but they were talking very seriously, with no indication of quarrelling. "I guess it's all right," said Patty, with a little sigh. "It's awfully nice to have friends, Mr. Everson, but sometimes they're a great care; aren't they?" "If you'll let me be your friend, Miss Fairfield, I'll promise never to be a care, and I'll help you to care for your other cares." "Goodness, what a complicated offer! If I could straighten all those cares you speak of, I might decide to take you as a friend. I think I will, anyway,--you were so nice about giving me this dance." "I was only too delighted to do so, Miss Fairfield." "Thank you. You know it is in place of our other one, number sixteen." "Oh, we must have that also." "No, it was a fair exchange. You can get another partner for sixteen." "But I don't want to. If you throw me over, I shall sit in a corner and mope." "Oh, don't do that! Well, I'll tell you what, I'll give you half of sixteen, and you can mope the other half." And then Patty's next partner claimed her, and Mr. Everson went away. Having done all she could in the matter of conciliating Mona and Roger, Patty bethought herself of her own little tiff with Philip Van Reypen. It did not bother her much, for she had little doubt that she could soon cajole him back to friendship, and she assured herself that if she couldn't, she didn't care. And so, when he came to claim his dance, which was the last before supper, Patty met him with an air of cool politeness, which greatly irritated the Van Reypen pride. He had thought, had even hoped, Patty would be humble and repentant, but she showed no such attitude, and the young man was slightly at a loss as to what manner to assume, himself. But he followed her lead, and with punctilious courtesy asked her to dance, and they stepped out on to the floor. For a few rounds they danced in silence, and then Philip said, in a perfunctory way: "You're enjoying this party?" "I have been, up to this dance," and Patty smiled pleasantly, as she spoke. "And you're not enjoying yourself now?" Philip said, suppressing his desire to shake her. "Oh, _no_, sir!" and Patty looked at him with big, round eyes. "Why not?" "I don't like to dance with a man who doesn't like me." "I _do_ like you, you silly child." "Oh, no, you don't, either! and I'm _not_ a silly child." "And you're not enjoying this dance with me?" "Not a bit!" "Then there's no use going on with it," and releasing her, Philip tucked one of her hands through his arm, and calmly marched her into the conservatory. The seat under the palms was vacant, and as she took her place in one corner of it, he poked one or two cushions deftly behind her back and made her entirely comfortable. Then he sat down beside her. "Now," he commanded, "say you're sorry." "Sorry for what?" "That you carried on with that horrid man and spoiled our friendship." "Didn't carry on, and he isn't a horrid man, and our friendship isn't spoiled, and I'm not sorry." "Not sorry that our friendship isn't spoiled?" "No; 'course I'm not! You don't s'pose I want it to be spoiled, do you?" "Well, you certainly did all in your power to spoil it." "Now, look here, Philip Van Reypen, I've already exhausted myself this evening patching up one spoiled friendship, and it's just about worn me out! Now if ours needs any patching up, you'll have to do it yourself. I shan't raise a finger toward it!" Patty leaned back among her pillows, looking lovely and provoking. She tried to scowl at him, but her dimples broke through the scowl and turned it into a smile. Whereupon, she dropped her eyes, and tried to assume a look of bored indifference. Van Reypen looked at her. "So she won't raise a finger, won't she? And I've got to do it myself, have I? Well, then, I suppose I'll have to raise her finger for her." Patty's hand was lying idly in her lap, and he picked up her slender pink forefinger slowly, and with an abstracted air. "I don't know how raising a finger helps to patch up a spoiled friendship," he went on, as if to himself, "but she seems to think it does, and so, of course, it does! Well, now, mademoiselle, your finger is raised,--is our quarrel all patched up?" Philip held her finger in one hand, and clasped her whole hand with the other, as he smiled into her eyes, awaiting an answer to his question. Patty looked up suddenly, and quickly drew her hand away. "Unhand me, villain!" she laughed, "and don't bother about our friendship! I'm not worrying over it." "You needn't, little girl," and Philip's voice rang true. "Nothing can _ever_ shake it! And I apologise for my foolish anger. If you want to affect the society of men I don't like,--of course I've no right to say a word, and I won't. At any rate, not now, for I don't want to spoil this blessed making-up with even a thought of anything unpleasant." "Now, that's real nice of you, Philip," and Patty fairly beamed at him. "It's so nice to be friends again, after being near-not-friends!" "Yes, milady, and you made up just in time. Aunty Van is having an opera party to-morrow night, and she wants you to go." "Are you going?" and Patty put her fingertip in her mouth, and looked babyishly at him. "Oh, don't let that influence you. Decide for yourself." "Well, since _you_ don't care whether I go or not, I believe I won't go." "Foolish child! Of course you'll go. And then, as you know very well, wild horses couldn't keep me away." "How do wild horses keep people away? They must be trained to do it. And _then_, they're not wild horses any more." "What foolishness you do talk! Well, will you go to the opera with us?" "Yes, and thank you kindly, sir. Or, rather, I thank your august aunt for the invitation." "No, thank me. As a matter of fact, I made up the party. So it's really mine, though I accept Aunty Van's box for the occasion." "'Tis well, fair sir. I thank thee greatly. What may I do for thee in return?" Patty clasped her hands and looked a pretty suppliant, begging a favour. "Give me half a dozen more dances," replied Philip, taking her card to look at. "Not one left," said Patty, calmly. "And most of them halves!" exclaimed Philip. "What a belle you are, Patty!" "All the girls are," she returned, carelessly, which, however, was not quite true. "But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll give you half of number sixteen. That's Mr. Everson's, but I'll divide it. I told him I should." "You little witch! Did you save it for me?" "M--m----," and Patty slowly wagged her head up and down. "That was dear of you! But don't you think for a minute that's all I'm going to have! There'll be an extra or two, and I claim them all!" "Hear the man talk!" exclaimed Patty. "Why, I do believe they're beginning an extra now! Mr. Van Reypen, won't you dance it with me?" Patty jumped up and stood before him, lightly swaying in time to the music. Philip sat looking at her, entranced by the pretty vision; and even before he could rise, Kenneth Harper came to Patty, and obeying a sudden coquettish impulse, she put her hand lightly on Kenneth's shoulder and they danced away. Philip Van Reypen sat looking after them, smiling. "What a transparent child she is," he thought to himself. "Her pretty little coquetries are like the gambols of a kitten. Now, she thinks I'm going to be annoyed at losing this dance with her. Well,--I am,--but I don't propose to quarrel with her about it." And then Patty and Kenneth came dancing back again; and Patty calmly told Mr. Van Reypen it was his turn now. Philip took her hand and they started off, and when that dance was finished it was supper-time. As usual, Patty and her most especial friends grouped in some pleasant corner for supper. But, looking about, she missed a familiar face. "Where is Christine Farley?" she said. "She always has supper with us. Do you know where she is, Mr. Hepworth?" Gilbert Hepworth drew near Patty, and spoke in a low voice: "I think she has gone to the dressing-room," he said. "I wish you'd go up and see her, Patty." A little startled at his serious face, Patty ran upstairs, to Elise's room, where she had taken off her wraps. There was Christine, who had thrown herself on a couch, and buried her face in the pillows. "Why, Christine, what is the matter, dear?" and Patty laid her hand gently on Christine's hair. "Oh, Patty, don't speak to me! I am not fit to have you touch me!" "Good gracious, Christine, what _do_ you mean?" and Patty began to think her friend had suddenly lost her mind. "I'm a bad, wicked girl! You were my friend, and now I've done an awful, dreadful thing! But, truly, _truly_, Patty, I didn't mean to!" "Christine Farley, stop this foolishness! Sit up here this minute, and tell me what you're talking about! I believe you're crazy." Christine sat up, her pale hair falling from its bands, and her eyes full of tears. "I've--I've--stolen----" she began. "Oh, you goose! _do_ go on! What have you stolen? A pin from Elise's pin cushion,--or some powder from her puff-box? Another dab on your nose would greatly improve your appearance,--if you ask me! It's as red as a beet!" "Patty, don't giggle! I'm serious. Oh, Patty, _Patty_, _do_ forgive me!" "I'll forgive you _anything_, if you'll tell me what's the matter, and convince me that you haven't lost your mind. Now, Christine, don't you _dare_ ask me to forgive you again, until you tell me _what for_!" "Well, you see, you were away all summer." "Yes, so I was," agreed Patty, in bewilderment. "And you have been so busy socially this fall and winter, I haven't seen much of you." "No," agreed Patty, still more deeply mystified. "And--and--Gil--Mr. Hepworth hasn't either----" "Oh!" cried Patty, a great light breaking in upon her; "oh,--oh!--OH!! Christine, do you _mean_ it? Oh, how perfectly _lovely_! I'm _so_ glad!" "You're glad?" and Christine opened her eyes in amazement. "Why, of _course_ I'm glad, you silly! Did you think _I_ wanted him? Oh, you Blessed Goose!" "Oh, Patty, I'm _so_ relieved. You see, I thought you looked upon him as your especial property. I know he cared a lot for you,--he still does. But----" "But he and I are about as well suited as chalk and cheese! Whereas, he's just the one for you! Oh, Christine, darling, I'm delighted! May I tell? Can we announce it to-night?" "Oh, no! You see, he just told me to-night. And I felt guilty at once. I knew I had stolen him from you." "Oh, Christine, _don't_! Don't say such things! He wasn't mine to steal. We've always been friends, but I never cared for him _that_ way." "That's what he said; but I felt guilty all the same." "Well, stop it, right now! Mr. Hepworth is lovely; he's one of the best friends I ever had, and if I have any claim on his interest or affection, I'm only too glad to hand it over to you. Now, brace up, powder your nose, and come down to supper. And you needn't think you can keep this thing secret! I won't tell,--but your two faces will give it away at once. Don't blame _me_ if people guess it!" "Don't let them, Patty; not to-night. Keep me by you, and right after supper I'll go home." "All right, girlie; just as you like. But don't look at G. H. or you'll betray your own dear little heart." However, they reckoned without the other interested party. When the two girls came downstairs, smiling, and with their arms about each other, Mr. Hepworth went to meet them, and drew Christine's arm through his own with an unmistakable air of proprietorship. Christine's blushes, and Patty's smiles, confirmed Hepworth's attitude, and a shout of understanding went up from their group of intimates. "Yes, it's so," said Patty; "but I promised Christine I wouldn't tell!" And then there were congratulations and good wishes from everybody, and the pretty little Southern girl was quite overcome at being so suddenly the centre of attraction. "It's perfectly lovely," said Patty, holding out her hand to Hepworth, "and I'm as glad for you as I can be,--and for Christine, too." "Thank you, Patty," he returned, and for a moment he held her eyes with his own. Then he said, "Thank you," again, and turned away. CHAPTER VIII A DELIGHTFUL INVITATION Patty was singing softly to herself, as she fluttered around her boudoir at a rather late hour the next morning. Robed in a soft blue silk négligée, with her golden curls tucked into a little lace breakfast cap, she now paused to take a sip of chocolate or a bit of a roll from her breakfast tray, then danced over to the window to look out, or back to her desk to look up her calendar of engagements for the day. "What a flutter-budget you are, Patty," said Nan, appearing at the doorway, and pausing to watch Patty's erratic movements. Patty flew across the room and greeted her stepmother with an affectionate squeeze, and then flew back and dropped comfortably on the couch, tucking one foot under her, and thereby dropping off a little blue silk boudoir slipper as she did so. "Oh, Nan!" she began, "it was the most exciting party ever! What _do_ you think? Christine and Mr. Hepworth are engaged!" "Christine! and Gilbert Hepworth!" and Nan was quite as surprised at the news as Patty could desire. "Yes, isn't it great! and oh, Nan, what _do_ you think? Christine was all broken up,--crying in fact,--because,--did you ever know anything so ridiculous?--because she thought she was taking him away from me!" Nan looked at Patty a little curiously. "Well; you must know, Patty, he certainly thought a great deal of you." "Of course he did! And of course he _does!_--You speak as if he were dead!--and I think a great deal of him, and I think a heap of Christine, and I think they are perfectly suited to each other, and I think it's all just lovely! Don't you?" "Yes," said Nan, slowly. "Then, you didn't care for him especially, Patty?" "Good gracious, Nan, if you mean was I in love with him, I sure was _not!_ Little girls like me don't fall in love with elderly gentlemen; and this particular little girl isn't falling in love anyway. Why, Nan, I'm only just out, and I do perfectly adore being out! I want three or four years of good, solid outness before I even think of falling in love with anybody. Of course I shall marry eventually, and be a beautiful, lovely housekeeper, just exactly like you. But, if you remember, my lady, you were some few years older than nineteen when you married my revered father." "That's true enough, Patty, and I can tell you I'm glad I didn't accept any of the young men who asked me before Fred did." "I'm jolly glad, too; and father was in luck when he got you. But you're not going to be rid of me yet for a long time, I can tell you that much. Well, more things happened last night. Philip and I made up our quarrel,--which wasn't much of a quarrel anyway,--and Roger and Mona are pretty much at peace again; though, if Mona keeps on with that Lansing idiot, Roger won't stand it much longer. And I'm going to the opera to-night in the Van Reypen box, and I'm going skating to-morrow,--oh, there's the mail!" Patty jumped up and ran to take the letters from Jane, who brought in a trayful. "Quite a bunch for you, Nansome," and Patty tossed a lot of letters in Nan's lap. "And a whole lot of beautiful, fat envelopes for me. 'Most all invitations, as you can see at a glance. Two or three requests for charity,--they show on the outside, too. A few bills, a few circulars and advertisements, and all the rest invitations. Isn't it gorgeous, Nan, to be invited to such heaps of things?" "Don't wear yourself out, Patty," returned Nan, a little absent-mindedly, being absorbed in a letter from her mother. Having weeded out the more interesting looking letters, Patty returned to her sofa, and curled up there with both feet under her, looking like a very pretty and very civilised little Turk. With a slender paper cutter she slashed all the envelopes, and then went through them one by one, making running comments of delight or indifference as she read the various contents. But suddenly a more excited exclamation broke from her. "Oh, my goodness, gracious, sakes alive!" she cried. "Nan, _will_ you listen to this!" "Wait a minute, honey, till I finish this letter," and Nan went on reading to herself. Patty dashed through eight pages of sprawly penmanship, and as soon as she finished she read it all over again. "Now, Miss Fairfield, what's it all about?" and Nan folded her own letter and returned it to its envelope. "Well, in a nutshell, it's a Christmas Country House Party! Could anything be more delightfuller?" "Who, where, what, when?" And Nan patiently awaited further enlightenment. "Oh, Nan, it's _too_ gorgeous!" And Patty's eyes ran through the letter again. "You know Adèle Kenerley, who was down at Mona's last summer,--well, she and Jim have bought a place at Fern Falls,--wherever that may be,--somewhere up in Connecticut,--in the Berkshires, you know. Heavenly in summer, dunno what it'll be in winter. But all the same that's where the house party is, Christmas,--stay two or three weeks,--all our crowd,--oh, Nan! isn't it beatific!" Patty bounded to her feet, and gathering up the sides of her accordion-pleated gown, she executed a triumphant dance about the room, winding up by kicking her little blue silk slipper straight over Nan's head. "Moderate your transports, my love," Nan said, calmly. "I don't want concussion of the brain, from being hit by a French heel." "Not much of a compliment to my skilful ballet dancing," and Patty flung herself into the cushions again. "But, Nan, you don't understand; everybody's going! Elise and Mona and the boys, and oh, gracious, _do_ show some enthusiasm!" "Don't have to," said Nan, smiling, "when you show enough for a dozen." "Well, I'll call up Mona, she'll have something to say." Patty reached for the telephone, and in a few moments both girls were talking at once, and the conversation ran something like this: "Yes, I did, and, Patty----" "Of course I am! Oh, I don't know about that! If I----" "But of course if Daisy is there----" "Well, we can't help that, and anyway----" "Tuesday, I suppose; but Adèle said----" "No, Monday, Mona, for us, and the boys----" "I'm not sure that I'll go. You see----" "Now, stop such nonsense! Of course he isn't invited, but I'll never speak to you again if----" "Oh, of course I will, but I'll only stay----" "Yes, all our best frocks, and lots of presents and, oh, Mona, come on over here, do. There's oceans of things to talk about!" "All right, I will. Good-bye." "Good-bye." And Patty hung up the receiver. "She's coming over here, Nan; there's so much to plan for, you know. Do help me, won't you? A regular Christmas tree, and all that, you know; and presents for everybody, and a dance at the country club, and I don't know what all." "Yes, you will have a lovely time." And Nan smiled with sympathy at the excited girl, whose sparkling eyes and tumbled hair betokened her state of mind. Mona came over and spent the rest of the day, and plans were made and unmade and remade with startling rapidity. Mona began to voice regrets that Mr. Lansing was not invited to the house party, but Patty interrupted at once: "Now, Mona Galbraith, you stop that! Adèle has a lovely party made up, and you're not going to spoil it by even so much as a reference to that man! Roger will be there for Christmas, and if that isn't enough for you, you can stay home!" "Isn't Elise going?" "No, she can't. She's going South next week with her mother, and I doubt if Philip Van Reypen will go. His aunt won't want him to leave her at the holidays. Do you know, I'm a little sorry Daisy Dow is up there." "You don't like her, do you, Patty?" "I would, if she'd like me. But she's always snippy to me." "'Cause she's jealous of you," observed Mona, sapiently. "Nonsense! She has no reason to be. I never interfere with her." "Well, never mind, don't let her bother you. Hal Ferris will be there. You don't know him, do you? He's Adèle's brother." "No, I never met him. She wrote that he'd be there." "He's the dearest boy. Well, he's older than Adèle, but he seems like a boy,--he's so full of capers. Adèle says it's a beautiful big house, just right for a jolly, old-fashioned Christmas party." * * * * * The days simply flew by as Christmas drew nearer. There was so much to do socially, and then there were the Happy Saturday Afternoons to be planned and carried out, and the Christmas shopping to be done. This last was greatly added to because of the house party, for Patty knew the generosity of her hosts, and she wanted to do her share in the presentation festivities. She undertook to dress a huge doll for baby May. Nan helped her with this or she never could have finished the elaborate wardrobe. She selected a beautiful doll, of goodly size, but not big enough to be cumbersome to little two-year-old arms. With her knack for dressmaking and her taste for colour, she made half a dozen dainty and beautiful frocks, and also little coats and hats, and all the various accessories of a doll's outfit. She bought a doll's trunk and suit-case to contain these things, and added parasol, furs, jewelry, and all the marvellous little trinkets that the toy shop afforded. "I spent so much time and thought on this doll," said Patty, one day, "that I shall have to buy things for the others. I can't sew any more, Nan; my fingers are all like nutmeg graters now." "Poor child," sympathised Nan. "You have worked hard, I know, but Adèle will appreciate it more than if you had made something for herself. By all means buy the rest of your gifts." So Patty bought a beautiful luncheon set of filet lace and embroidery for Mrs. Kenerley, and an Oriental antique paper cutter for her husband. She bought a handsome opera bag for Mona and a similar one for Daisy Dow, that there might be no rivalry there. She bought a few handsome and worth-while books for the men who would be at the party, and attractive trinkets for the house servants. Of course, in addition to these, she had to prepare a great many gifts for her New York friends, as well as for her own family and many of her relatives. But both Patty and Nan enjoyed shopping, and went about it with method and common sense. "I can't see," said Patty, as they started off in the car one morning, "why people make such a bugbear of Christmas shopping. I think it's easy enough." "Perhaps it's because you have plenty of money, Patty. You know, not every one has such a liberal father as you have." Patty looked thoughtful. "I don't think it's that, Nan; at least, not entirely. I think it's more common sense, and not being fussy. Now, I give lots of presents that cost very little; and then, of course, I give a lot of expensive ones, too. But it's just as easy to buy the cheap ones, if not easier. You just make up your mind what you want to spend for a certain present, and then you buy the nicest thing you see for that amount. It's when people fuss and bother, and can't make up their minds among half a dozen different things, that they get worried and bothered about Christmas. I do believe most of their trouble comes from lack of decision, which is only another way of saying that they haven't common sense or even common gumption!" "Well, Patty, whatever else you may lack, you certainly have common sense and gumption; I'll give you credit for them." "Thank you, Nan; much obliged, I'm sure. I wish I could return the compliment, but sometimes I think you haven't much of those things yourself." Nan flashed a smile at Patty, entirely unmoved by this criticism; for she knew that she was vacillating and sometimes undecided, as compared to Patty's quick-witted grasp of a subject and instantaneous decision. "Have I told you," said Patty, "what we're going to do next Saturday afternoon? I do think it's going to be lovely. And I do hope it won't make the girls mad, but I don't think it will. You know, Nan, what an awful lot of things we all get every Christmas that we don't want and can't use, although they're awfully pretty and nice. We just lay them away in cupboards, and there they stay. Well, on Saturday, we're going to take a lot of these things and give them to people." "For Christmas presents? Why, Christmas is two weeks off yet." "That's just it! Not for presents to themselves, but presents for them to give to other people." "Oh, I begin to see." "Yes; it isn't the least bit _charity_, you see. Why, one of the people I'm going to give things to, is Christine. With her work, and being engaged and all, she hasn't any time to make things, or even to go shopping, and she can't afford to buy much, anyway. So I'm going to give her one or two beautiful silk bags that were given to me two or three years ago. They're perfectly fresh, never been out of their boxes. And I'm going to give her one or two beautiful, fine handkerchiefs in boxes, and two or three lovely books, and two or three pieces of bric-a-brac, and a Japanese ivory carving. Don't you see, Nan, she can give these to her friends for Christmas, and it will save her a lot of trouble and expense. And dear knows, _I_ don't want them! My rooms are chock-a-block with just such things, now. And I know she won't feel offended, when I tell her about it straightforwardly." "Of course she won't be offended with you, Patty; and I think the idea is lovely. I've a lot of things put away I'll give you. I never thought of such a thing before." "The girls thought at first that maybe it might not work, but I talked them around and now they're all in for it. I'm going to take some things to Mrs. Greene. I've quite a lot for her, and I'll tell her she can give them all away, or keep some herself, just as she likes. And I've things for Rosy, that freckled-faced boy, you know. I have games and picture-puzzles and books that I used to have myself. Of course they're all perfectly new. I wouldn't give anything that had been used at all. And we're going Saturday afternoon to take these things around. Mona has lovely things, and so has Elise. You see, we get so many Christmas and birthday presents, and card party prizes, and such things, and I do think it's sensible to make use of them for somebody's pleasure instead of sticking them away in dark cupboards. And, Nan, what do you think?--with each lot of things we're going to give a dozen sheets of white tissue paper and a bolt of holly ribbon and some little tags so they can fix up real Christmassy presents to give away." "Patty, you're a wonder," said Nan, looking affectionately at the girl beside her. "How do you think of all these things?" "Common sense and general gumption," returned Patty. "Very useful traits, _I_ find 'em. And here we are at our first shopping place." Assisted by Patty's common sense and expeditious judgment, they accomplished a great deal that morning, and returned home with their lists considerably shortened. "It does seem funny," said Patty, that same afternoon, "to be tying up these things almost two weeks ahead of time. But with all the newspapers and magazines urging you to do your shopping early, and send off your parcels early, you can't really do otherwise." Patty was surrounded by presents of all sorts, boxes of all sizes, pieces of ribbon, and all sorts of cards and tags. "I'm sick and tired of holly ribbon and red ribbon," she said, as she deftly tied up her parcels. "So, this year, I'm using white satin ribbon and gilt cord. It's an awfully pretty combination, and these little green and gilt tags are lovely, don't you think?" Her audience, which consisted of Elise and Mona, were watching her work with admiration. They had offered to help, but after an ineffectual attempt to meet Patty's idea of how a box should be tied up, they abandoned the effort, and sat watching her nimble fingers fly. "You ought to get a position in some shop where they advertise, 'only experienced parcel wrappers need apply,'" said Elise. "I never saw such neat parcels." "You're evidently going to be an old maid," said Mona, "you're so fussy and tidy." "I do like things tidy," admitted Patty, "and if that interferes with my having a husband, why, of course I'll have to give him up. For I can't stand not having things neat about me." "Do you call this room neat?" asked Elise, smiling as she looked about at the scattered boxes and papers, cut strings, and little piles of shredded tissue. "Yes, I do," declared Patty, stoutly. "This kind of stuff can be picked up in a jiffy, and then the room is all in order. This is temporary, you see. By untidiness, I mean dirt and dust, and bureau drawers in a mess, and desks in disorder." "That's me," confessed Mona, cheerfully. "Not the dirt and dust, perhaps,--the maids look after that. But I just _can't_ keep my belongings in their places." "Neither can I," said Elise. "I don't see how you do it, Patty." "Oh, pshaw! it's no credit to me, I just can't help it. I'd have a fit if they weren't all nice and in order. And if that means I'm going to be an old maid, I can't help it,--and I don't care!" "Hoo-hoo!" said Elise. CHAPTER IX FERN FALLS Christmas would be on Wednesday, and it was arranged that Patty and Mona should go up to Fern Falls on Monday. Roger and Philip Van Reypen were to go up on Tuesday for the Christmas Eve celebration; and the rest of the house-party were already at the Kenerleys'. The girls started off early in the afternoon, and a train ride of three hours brought them to the pretty little New England village of Fern Falls. Jim Kenerley met them with a motor. "We hoped for snow," he said, as he cordially greeted the befurred young women who stepped off the train at the little station. "So much more Christmassy, you know. But, at any rate, we have cold, clear weather, and that's something. Hop in, now. Adèle didn't come to meet you,--sent all kinds of excuses, which I've forgotten, but she can tell you herself, when we reach the house. Here, I'll sit between you, and keep you from shaking around and perhaps spilling out." Cheery Jim Kenerley bustled them into the tonneau, looked after their luggage, and then, taking his own place, drew up the fur robes snugly, and the chauffeur started off. It was a four-mile spin to the house, for the village itself was distant from the station, and the Kenerleys' house a mile or so beyond. It was cold, but the girls were warmly wrapped up and didn't a bit mind the clear, frosty air, though in an open car. "Didn't bring the limousine," Mr. Kenerley rattled on. "Can't abide to be shut up in a stuffy glass house, and then, you know, people who ride in glass houses mustn't throw stones." "But, you see, we girls couldn't hit anything if we did throw a stone," said Patty. "At least, women have that reputation." "That's so," agreed Jim. "Can't even hit the side of a barn, so they say. But I expect you girls that grow up with athletics and basket ball, and such things, put the old proverbs to rout." "How's Daisy?" asked Mona. "Same as ever?" "Yep; same as ever. Daisy's all right, you know, if things go her way. But if not----" "If not, she makes them go her way," said Mona, and Jim laughed and agreed, "She sure does!" At last they reached the house, which Jim informed them they had dubbed the Kenerley Kennel, for no particular reason, except that it sounded well. "But you have dogs?" asked Patty, as they rolled up the driveway. "Yes, but we didn't exactly name it after them. Hello, here are the girls!" Adèle and Daisy appeared in the doorway, and greeted the visitors in truly feminine fashion, which included much laughter and exclamation. "Where do I come in?" said a laughing voice, and a big, laughing man left his seat by the fireplace and came toward them. "This is my brother," said Adèle, "by name, Mr. Harold Ferris,--but commonly called Chub." The name was not inapt, for Mr. Ferris showed a round, chubby face, with big, dancing black eyes and ringlets of dark hair clustered on his brow. Only his enormous size prevented his appearance being positively infantile, and his round, dimpled face was as good-natured as that of a laughing baby. "And so you're the two girls who are to spend Christmas with us," he said, beaming down on them from his great height. "Well, you'll do!" He looked approvingly from Patty's flower face to Mona's glowing beauty, and truly it would have been hard to find two more attractive looking girls. The sudden transition from the cold out-of-doors to the warmth of the blazing fire had flushed their cheeks and brightened their eyes, and the hearty welcome they received brought smiles of delight to their faces. "Now, come away with me," said Adèle, "and get off your furs and wraps, and make yourselves pretty for tea." "Oh, I know what you'll do," said Chub, in an aggrieved tone. "You'll just go upstairs and hob-nob and talk and gossip and chatter and babble, and never get down here again! I know girls! Why, first thing I know, you'll be having your tea sent up there!" "Great idea!" exclaimed Patty, twinkling her eyes at him. "Let's do that, Adèle; kimono party, you know. We'll see you at dinner time, Mr. Ferris." "Dinner time, nothing! If you're not back here in fifteen minutes, the whole crowd of you, I'll--I'll----" "Well, what will you do?" laughed Mona. "Never you mind,--you'll find out all too soon. Now, skip, and remember, tea will be served in just fifteen minutes." The girls had really no intention of not returning, and it was not much more than the allotted time before Patty and Mona were arrayed in soft, pretty house-dresses and reappeared in the great hall, where tea was already being placed for them. The big fireplace had cosy seats on either side, and the crackling logs and flickering blaze made all the light that was needed save for a pair of tall cathedral candles in their antique standards. "What a duck of a house!" exclaimed Patty, as she came down the broad staircase, her soft, rose-coloured chiffon gown shimmering in the firelight. She cuddled up in a corner near the fire, and Hal Ferris brought a cushion to put behind her. "It ought to be a rose-coloured one," he said, apologetically; "but I didn't see one handy to grab, and really this old blue isn't half bad for a background." "Much obliged for your kind colour-scheme," said Patty, smiling at him, "and I'll have one lump, please, and a bit of lemon." Big Mr. Ferris proved himself tactful as well as kind, for he divided his attentions impartially among the four ladies. "A little shy of men; aren't we, Adèle?" he said to his sister. "Even Jim seems to have disappeared. Not that I mind being the only pebble on the beach,--far from it,--but I'm afraid I can't prove entertaining enough for four." "You're doing nobly so far," said Patty, cuddling into her cushion, for she loved luxurious warmth, like a kitten. "Two more men are coming to dinner, girls," said their hostess; "and to-morrow, you know, we'll have two more house-party guests. Don't worry, Chub, you shan't be overworked, I promise you." After a pleasant tea hour, the girls went again to their rooms, ostensibly to rest before dinner, but really to have what Patty called a kimono party. All in their pretty négligées, they gathered in Adèle's room and talked as rapidly and interruptingly as any four girls can. "Do you hear from Bill Farnsworth often?" asked Daisy of Patty, _apropos_ of nothing but her own curiosity. "Not often, Daisy," returned Patty, of no mind to pursue the subject. "But don't you ever hear from him?" persisted the other. "Oh, sometimes," said Patty, carelessly. "He sent me flowers for my coming-out party." "I hear from Bill sometimes," said Adèle. "I asked him to come to this party, but he couldn't possibly leave just now. He's awfully busy." "What's he doing?" asked Mona. "I don't know exactly," answered Adèle. "Jim can tell you, but it has something to do with prospecting of mines. Say, girls, do you want to see the baby before she's put to bed?" Of course they did, and they all trooped into the nursery to admire the tiny mite of humanity, who looked a picture, with her tumbled curls and her laughing face, just ready for bed. She remembered Patty and Mona, and greeted them without shyness, clinging to Patty's neck and begging her to stay and sing her to sleep. This Patty would have done, but Adèle wouldn't allow it, and ordered the girls back to their rooms to dress for dinner. "Eight o'clock sharp," she warned them, "and don't put on your prettiest gowns; save those for to-morrow night." Patty wandered around her room, singing softly, as she dressed. Looking over her dinner gowns, she decided upon her second best, a white marquisette with a garniture of pearl beads and knots of pale blue velvet. When the maid came to assist her she was nearly dressed, and ten minutes before the dinner hour she was quite ready to go downstairs. "I may as well go on down," she thought to herself. "I can explore the house a little." She looked in at Mona's door as she passed, but as that young woman was just having her gown put over her head, she didn't see Patty, and so Patty went on downstairs. There was no one about, so she strolled through the various rooms, admiring the big, pleasant living-room, the cosy library, and then drifted back to the great hall, which was very large, even for a modern country house. It was wainscoted in dark wood, and contained many antique bits of furniture and some fine specimens of old armour and other curios. Jim Kenerley's father had been rather a noted collector, and had left his treasures to his only son. They had chosen this house as being roomy and well-fitted for their belongings. Patty came back to the great fireplace, and stood there, leaning her golden head against one of the massive uprights. "Adèle told me you were a peach," exclaimed a laughing voice, "but she didn't half tell me how much of a one you are!" Patty turned her head slowly, and looked at Mr. Hal Ferris. "And I thought you were a mannerly boy!" she said, in a tone of grave reproach. "I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "I do indeed! I'm almost a stranger to you, I know; I ought to have waited until I know you better to say anything of that sort to you! May I take it back, and then say it to you again after I do know you better?" Patty couldn't help smiling at his mock dismay. "And how well shall I have to know you," he went on, "before I can say it to you properly?" "I can't answer that question at once," said Patty. "We'll have to let our acquaintance proceed, and see----" "And see how the cat jumps," he suggested. "Yes," agreed Patty. "And, by the way, what a jumper that cat must be." "Small wonder, with everybody waiting to see how she jumps! Oh, pshaw! here comes a horde of people, and our pleasant tête-à-tête is spoiled!" "Never mind; we'll have another some time," and Patty gave him a dimpled smile that quite completed the undoing of Mr. Harold Ferris. The "horde" proved to be two young men from nearby country houses, Mr. Collins and Mr. Hoyt. And then the other members of the household appeared, and soon dinner was announced. "We haven't any especial guest of honour," said Mrs. Kenerley, "for you're all so very honourable. So pair off just as you like." Hal Ferris jumped a low chair and two footstools to reach Patty before any one else could. "Come in with me," he said. "I know the way to the dining-room." "I'm glad to be shown," said Patty. "You see, I've never been here before." "I know it; that's why I'm being so kind to you. To-morrow I'll take you up in the tower--it's great." "Why, is this place a castle?" "Not exactly, but it's modelled after an old château. Really, it's a most interesting house." "All right. To-morrow we'll explore it thoroughly." And then they took their seats at the table, and as the party was small, conversation became general. Suddenly Patty became aware that Mr. Collins, who sat on the other side of her, was trying to attract her attention. He was a mild-mannered young man, and he looked at her reproachfully. "I've asked you a question three times, Miss Fairfield," he said, "and you never even heard it." "Then you certainly can't expect me to answer it, Mr. Collins," and Patty laughed gaily. "Won't you repeat it for me, please? I'll promise to hear it this time." "I said, did you ever make a lemon pig?" "A lemon pig! No, I never did. How do you make it?" "Oh, they're the maddest fun! I say, Mrs. Kenerley, mayn't we have a lemon?" "Certainly, Mr. Collins." "And, oh, I say, Mrs. Kenerley, if it isn't too much trouble, mayn't we have a box of matches, and two black pins, and a bit of paper?" "And a colander and a tack hammer and a bar of soap?" asked Ferris, but Mr. Collins said, gravely: "No, we don't want those." The articles he had asked for were soon provided, and in the slow, grave way in which he did everything, Mr. Collins began to make the strange animal of which he had spoken. The lemon formed the whole pig, with four matches for his legs, two black pins for his eyes, and a narrow strip of paper, first curled round a match, for his tail. It was neither artistic nor realistic, but it was an exceedingly comical pig, and soon it began to squeak in an astonishingly pig-like voice. Then a tap at the window was heard, and a farmer's gruff voice shouted: "Have you my pig in there? My little Lemmy pig?" "Yes," responded Mr. Collins, "we have; and we mean to keep him, too." "I'll have the law of ye," shouted the farmer. "Me pig escaped from the sty, and I call upon ye to give him up!" "We won't do it!" shouted several of the men in chorus. "Then, kape him!" returned the voice of the farmer, and they heard his heavy tramp as he strode away. Patty looked puzzled. She couldn't understand what it all meant, until Hal Ferris whispered, "It was only Collins; he's a ventriloquist." "Oh," said Patty, turning to Mr. Collins, delightedly, "was it really you? Oh, how do you do it? I've always wanted to hear a ventriloquist, and I never did before." "Oh, yes, you did!" said a voice from the other end of the table, and Patty looked up, saying earnestly, "No, I didn't!" when she realised that the accusation had really come from Mr. Collins. "Oh, what fun!" she cried, clapping her hands. "Do some more!" "I'd rather he wouldn't," said Adèle, and Patty looked at her in surprise. "Why not, Adèle?" she asked. Everybody laughed, and Adèle said: "You're too easily fooled, Patty. That was Mr. Collins speaking like me. He knows my voice so well he can imitate it." "He'd better stop it!" came in a deep growl from Jim Kenerley's end of the table, and Patty was surprised at such a speech from her urbane host. Then she realised that that, too, was Mr. Collins speaking. "I just love it!" she exclaimed. "I've always wanted to know how to do it. Won't you teach me?" "You couldn't learn," said Mr. Collins, smiling at her. And then Patty _heard herself_ say: "I could so! I think you're real mean!" Her bewildered look changed to admiration at his wonderful imitation of her voice, and the natural, petulant tone of the remark. "It's too wonderful!" she said. "Some other time, Mr. Collins, after dinner, maybe, will you teach me just a little about it?" "I'll try," he said, kindly; "but I warn you, Miss Fairfield, it isn't easy to learn, unless one has a natural gift for it, and a peculiar throat formation." "Don't teach her," begged Daisy Dow. "She'll be keeping us awake all night with her practising." It was like Daisy to say something unpleasant; but Patty only smiled at her, and said, "I'll practise being an angel, and sing you to sleep, Daisy." "You sing like an angel without any practice," said Mona, who was always irritated when Daisy was what Patty called snippy. "Oh, do you sing, Miss Fairfield?" said Mr. Hoyt, from across the table. "You must join our Christmas choir, then. We're going to have a glorious old carolling time to-morrow night." "I'll be glad to," replied Patty, "if I know your music." But after dinner, when they tried some of the music, they discovered that Patty could sing readily at sight, and she was gladly welcomed to the musical circle of Fern Falls. "How long are you staying here?" asked Mr. Hoyt. "A month, at least," Adèle answered for Patty. "Oh, no, not so long as that," Patty protested. "A fortnight, at most." But Adèle only smiled, and said, "We'll see about that, my dear." After a time, Hal Ferris came to Patty, and tried to draw her away from the group around the piano. "You're neglecting me shamefully," he said; "and I'm the brother of your hostess! Guests should always be especially kind to the Brother of a Hostess." "What can I do for you?" asked Patty, smiling, as she walked out to the hall with him. "Quit talking to the other people, and devote yourself to me," was the prompt response. "Do all your sister's guests do that?" "I don't want 'em all to; I only want you to." "And what about _my_ wants?" "Yes; _what_ about them? You want to talk to me, _don't_ you?" His tone and smile were so roguishly eager that Patty felt a strong liking for this big, boyish chap. "I'll talk for ten minutes," she said, "and then we're going to dance, I believe." "Oh, and then they'll all be after you! I say," and he drew her toward a window, from where the moonlight could be plainly seen, "Let's go out and skate. The ice is fine!" "Skate! You must be crazy!" "Yes; I supposed you'd say so! But to-morrow more people are coming, and I'll never see anything of you. Say, how about this? Are you game to get up and go for an early morning skate, just with me, and not let anybody else know?" "I'd like that!" and Patty's eyes sparkled, for she dearly loved early morning fresh air. "Of course, we'll tell Adèle." "Yes; so she'll have some breakfast made for us. But nobody else. How about eight o'clock? Regular breakfast will be at nine-thirty." "Good! I'll be ready at eight." "Meet me in the breakfast-room at eight, then. Do you know where it is? Just off the big dining-room." "What are you two hob-nobbing about?" asked Daisy, curiously, as she strolled over toward them. "I'm just telling Miss Fairfield about the plan of the house," said Ferris, innocently. "It's well planned, isn't it?" "Very," said Patty. CHAPTER X CHRISTMAS EVE As Patty stepped out of her room into the hall the next morning, at eight o'clock, she found Hal Ferris already tiptoeing down the stairs. He put his finger to his lip with a great show of secrecy, which made Patty laugh. "Why must we be so careful?" she whispered. "We're not doing anything wrong." "No; but it's so much more fun to pretend we are. Let's pretend we're on a mysterious mission, and if we are discovered we're lost!" So they crept downstairs silently, and reached the breakfast-room, without seeing any one except one or two of the maids, who were dusting about. Patty had on a trim, short skirt of white cloth and a blouse of soft white silk. Over this she wore a scarlet coat, and her golden curls were tucked into a little scarlet skating cap with a saucy, wagging tassel. But in the warm, cheery breakfast-room she threw off her coat and sat down at the table. "I didn't intend to eat anything," she said; "but the coffee smells so good, I think I'll have a cup of it, with a roll." She smiled at the waitress, who stood ready to attend to her wishes, and Hal took a seat beside her, saying he would have some coffee also. "We won't eat our breakfast now, you know," he went on; "but we'll come back with raging appetites and eat anything we can find. I say, this is jolly cosy, having coffee here together like this! I s'pose you won't come down every morning?" "No, indeed," and Patty laughed. "I don't mind admitting I hate to get up early. I usually breakfast in my room and dawdle around until all hours." "Just like a girl!" said Hal, sniffing a little. "Well, I _am_ a girl," retorted Patty. "You sure are! _Some_ girl, I should say! Well, now, Girl, if you're ready, let's start." He held Patty's scarlet coat for her while she slipped in her arms. Then he disappeared for a moment, and returned wearing a dark red sweater, which was very becoming to his athletic figure and broad shoulders. "Come on, Girl," he said, gathering up their skates, and off they started. "It's nearly half a mile to the lake. Are you good for that much walk?" Ferris asked, as they swung along at a brisk pace. "Oh, yes, indeed, I like to walk; and I like to skate, but I like best of all to dance." "I should think you would,--you're a ripping dancer. You know, to-night we'll have 'Sir Roger de Coverley' and old-fashioned dances like that. You like them?" "Yes, for a change; but I like the new ones best. Are we going to have any dressing up to-night? I do love dressing up." "Glad rags, do you mean?" "No; I mean fancy costumes." "Oh, that. Well, old Jim's going to be Santa Claus. I don't think anybody else will wear uncivilised clothes." "But I want to. Can't you and I rig up in something, just for fun?" "Oh, I say! that would be fun. What can we be? Romeo and Juliet, or Jack and Jill?" "Oh, no, nothing like that. Something more like Christmas, you know. Well, I'll think it over through the day, and we'll fix it up." Skating on the lake so early in the morning proved to be glorious exercise. The ice was perfect, and the crisp, clear air filled them with exhilaration. Both were good skaters, and though they did not attempt fancy figures, they spent nearly an hour skating around the lake. "That's the best skate I ever had!" declared Hal, when they concluded to return home. "It certainly was fine," declared Patty, "and by the time we've walked back to the house, I shall be quite ready for some eggs and bacon." "And toast and marmalade," supplemented Ferris. "I wonder if Daisy will be down. Does she come down to breakfast usually?" "Sometimes and sometimes not," answered Ferris, carelessly. "She's a law unto herself, is Daisy Dow." "You've known her a long time, haven't you?" "Just about all our lives. Used to go to school together, and we were always scrapping. Daisy's a nice girl, and a pretty girl, but she sure has got a temper." "And a good thing to have sometimes. I often wish I had more." "Nonsense! you're perfect just as you are." "Oh, what a pretty speech! If you're going to talk like that, I shall take the longest way home." "I'd willingly agree to that, but I don't believe you're in need of further exercise just now. Come, own up you're a little bit tired." "Hardly enough to call it tired, but if there is a short cut home let's take it." "And what about the pretty speeches I'm to make to you?" "Leave those till after breakfast. Or leave them till this evening and give them to me for a Christmas gift." "Under the mistletoe?" and Ferris looked mischievous. "Certainly not," said Patty, with great dignity. "I'm too grown-up for such foolishness as that!" "Oh, I don't know," said Ferris. * * * * * The appearance of the two runaways in the breakfast-room was greeted with shouts of surprise. Adèle knew they had gone skating, but no one else did, and it was supposed they hadn't yet come downstairs. Patty's glowing cheeks were almost as scarlet as her coat and cap, while Ferris was grinning with boyish enthusiasm. "Top o' the morning to you all," he cried. "Me and Miss Fairfield, we've been skating for an hour." "On the lake?" cried Daisy, in surprise. "Why, you must have started before sunrise." "Oh, no, not that," declared Patty, as, throwing off her wraps, she took a seat next to Adèle; "but long enough to get up a ravenous appetite. I hope the Kenerley larder is well stocked." "Why didn't you let us all in on this game?" asked the host. "I think a morning skating party would be just about right." "All right," said Patty. "We'll have one any morning you say. I shall be here for a fortnight, and I'll go any morning you like." "I won't go," declared Mona. "I hate skating, and I hate getting up early, so count me out." "I doubt if any one goes very soon," said Adèle, "for I think there's a storm coming. It looks bright out of doors, but it feels like snow in the air." "It does," agreed her brother; "and I hope it will snow. I'd like a real good, old-fashioned snowstorm for Christmas." "Well, I hope it won't begin before night," said Adèle. "We've a lot to do to-day. I want you all to help me decorate the tree and fix the presents." "Of course we will," said Patty. "But, if I may, I want to skip over to the village on an errand. Can some one take me over, Adèle, or must I walk?" "I'll go with you," said Daisy, who was of no mind to be left out of Patty's escapades, if she could help it. "All right, Daisy, but you mustn't tell what I buy, because it's a secret." "Everything's a secret at Christmas time," said Mr. Kenerley; "but, Patty, you can have the small motor, and go over to the village any time you like." As there was room for them all, Daisy and Mona both accompanied Patty on her trip to the village, and Hal Ferris volunteered to drive the car. But when they reached the country shop, Patty laughingly refused to let any of the party go inside with her, saying that her purchases would be a Christmas secret. She bought a great many yards of the material known as Turkey red, and also a whole piece of white illusion. Some gilt paper completed her list, and she ran back to the car, the shopkeeper following with her bundles. They attended to some errands for Adèle, and then whizzed back to the house just in time to see the Christmas tree being put into place. "We're going to have the tree at five o'clock," said Adèle, "on account of baby May. It's really for her, you know, and so I have it before dinner." "Fine!" declared Patty. "And where do we put our presents?" "On these tables," and Adèle pointed to several small stands already well heaped with tissue-papered parcels. "Very well, I'll get mine," and Patty went flying up to her room. Mona followed, and the two girls returned laden with their bundles. "What fascinating looking parcels," said Adèle, as she helped to place them where they belonged. "Now, Patty, about the tree; would you have bayberry candles on it, or only the electric lights?" "Oh, have the candles. They're so nice and traditional, you know. Unless you're afraid of fire." "No; all the decorations are fireproof. Jim would have them so. See, we've lots of this Niagara Falls stuff." Adèle referred to a decoration of spun glass, which was thrown all over the tree in cascades, looking almost like the foam of a waterfall. This would not burn, even if the flame of a candle were held to it. "It's perfectly beautiful!" exclaimed Patty. "I never saw anything like it before." They scattered it all over the tree, the men going up on step-ladders to reach the top branches. The tree was set in the great, high-vaulted hall, and was a noble specimen of an evergreen. Hundreds of electric lights were fastened to its branches; and the thick bayberry candles were placed by means of holders that clasped the tree trunk, and so were held firmly and safe. Adèle's prognostications had been correct. For, soon after luncheon, it began to snow. Fine flakes at first, but with a steadiness that betokened a real snowstorm. "I'm so glad," exclaimed Patty, dancing about. "I do love a white Christmas. It won't interfere with your guests, will it, Adèle?" "No; if Mr. Van Reypen and Mr. Farrington get up from New York without having their trains blocked by snowdrifts, I imagine our Fern Falls people will be able to get here for the dinner and the dance." The two men arrived during the afternoon, and came in laden with parcels and looking almost like Santa Claus himself. "Had to bring all this stuff with us," explained Roger, "for fear of delays with expresses and things. Presents for everybody,--and then some. Where shall we put them?" Adèle superintended the placing of the parcels, and the men threw off their overcoats, and they all gathered round the blazing fire in the hall. "This is right down jolly!" declared Philip Van Reypen. "I haven't had a real country Christmas since I was a boy. And this big fire and the tree and the snowstorm outside make it just perfect." "I ordered the snowstorm," said Adèle. "I like to have any little thing that will give my guests pleasure." "Awfully good of you, Mrs. Kenerley," said Philip. "I wanted to flatter myself that I brought it with me, but it seems not. Have you a hill anywhere near? Perhaps we can go coasting to-morrow." "Plenty of hills; but I don't believe there's a sled about the place--is there, Jim?" "We'll find some, somehow, if there's any coasting. We may have to put one of the motor cars on runners and try that." "They had sleds at the country store. I saw them this morning," said Patty. "And that reminds me I have a little work to do on a Christmas secret, so if you'll excuse me, I'll run away." Patty ran away to the nursery, where Fräulein, the baby's governess, was working away at the materials Patty had brought home that morning. "Yes, that's right," said Patty, as she closed the door behind her. "You've caught my idea exactly, Fräulein. Now, I'll try on mine, and then, afterward, we'll call up Mr. Ferris to try on his." * * * * * At five o'clock the sounding of a Chinese gong called everybody to come to the Christmas tree. The grown people arrived first, as the principal part of the fun was to see the surprise and delight of baby May when she should see the tree. "Let me sit by you, Patty," said Philip Van Reypen, as they found a place on one of the fireside benches. "I've missed you awfully since you left New York." "Huh," said Patty, "I've only been gone twenty-four hours." "Twenty-four hours seems like a lifetime when _you're_ not in New York." "Hush your foolishness; here comes the baby." The tree had been illuminated; the electric lights were shining and the candles twinkling, when little May came toddling into the hall. She was a dear baby, and her pretty hair lay in soft ringlets all over the little head. Her dainty white frock was short, and she wore little white socks and slippers. She came forward a few steps, and then spied the tree and stood stock still. "What a booful!" she exclaimed, "oh, _what_ a booful!" Then she went up near the tree, sat down on the floor in front of it, clasped her little fat hands in her lap, and just stared at it. "I yike to yook at it!" she said, turning to smile at Patty, in a friendly way. "It's so booful!" she further explained. "Don't you want something off it?" asked Patty, who was now sitting on the floor beside the baby. "Zes; all of ze fings. Zey is all for me! all for baby May!" As a matter of fact, there were no gifts on the tree, only decorations and lights, but Patty took one or two little trinkets from the branches, and put them in the baby's lap. "There," she said. "How do you like those, baby May?" "Booful, booful," said the child, whose vocabulary seemed limited by reason of her excited delight. And then a jingle, as of tiny sleighbells, was heard outside. The door flew open, and in came a personage whom May recognised at once. "Santa Claus!" she cried. "Oh, Santa Claus!" And jumping up from the floor, she ran to meet him as fast as her little fat legs could carry her. "Down on the floor!" she cried, tugging at his red coat. "Baby May's Santa Claus! Sit down on floor by baby May!" Jim Kenerley, who was arrayed in the regulation garb of a St. Nicholas, sat down beside his little girl, and taking his pack from his back, placed it in front of her. "All for baby May!" she said, appreciating the situation at once. "Yes, all for baby May," returned her mother, for in the pack were only the child's presents. One by one the little hands took the gifts from their wrappings, and soon the baby herself was almost lost sight of in a helter-skelter collection of dolls and teddy bears and woolly dogs and baa lambs and more dolls. To say nothing of kittens and candies, and balls, and every sort of a toy that was nice and soft and pleasant. The doll Patty had brought, with its wonderful wardrobe, pleased the baby especially, and she declared at once that the doll's name should be Patty. Having undone all her treasures, the baby elected to have a general romp with Santa Claus, whom she well knew to be her father. Jim had made no attempt to disguise lest it should frighten the child, and so his own gay young face looked out from a voluminous snow-white wig and long white beard. His costume was the conventional red, belted coat, edged with white fur, and a fur-trimmed red cap with a bobbing tassel. Among the toys was a pair of horse lines with bells on it, and soon May had her good-natured father transformed into a riding-horse and galloping madly round the hall. Then all present must needs play games suited to the calibre of the little one, and Ring around a Rosy and London Bridge proved to be her favourites. After these unwonted exertions, everybody was ready for tea, which was then brought in. As a special dispensation, May was allowed to have her bread and milk at the same time, with the added indulgence of a few little cakes. "Isn't she a perfect dear?" said Patty, as she stood with the baby in her arms, after tea was finished. "She is," declared Philip, who stood near. "I'm not much up on kiddies, but she's about the best-natured little piece I ever saw. I thought they always cried after a big racket like this." "She must say good-night now," said Adèle. "It's quite time, and beside, I want her to go away while her reputation is good. Now, Maisie May, go to Fräulein and go beddy." "Patty take May beddy." "No, dear, Patty must stay here with mother." "Patty take May beddy! _Zes!_" The finality of this decision was unmistakable. The most casual observer could see that unless it were complied with the scene might lose something of its sunshine and merriment. "I should say," judicially observed Philip, "that unless Miss May has her way this time, there will be one large and elegant ruction." "But I _must_ make her obey me," said Adèle, a little uncertainly. "Fiddlestrings, Adèle," returned Patty; "this is no time for discipline. The poor baby is about worn out with fatigue and excitement. You know, it has been her busy day. Let's humour her this time. I'll take her away, and I'll return anon." "Anon isn't a very long time, is it?" said Adèle, laughing, and Hal remarked, "If it is, we'll all come after you, Miss Fairfield." So Patty went away, carrying the now smiling baby, and Fräulein went along with her, knowing the little thing would soon drop to sleep, anyway, from sheer fatigue. CHAPTER XI THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT Patty soon returned, saying the country was saved, and now she was ready for her presents. And then everybody began untying things, and soon the whole place was knee-deep in tissue papers and ribbons. All exclaimed with delight at their own gifts, and then exclaimed with delight at the others' gifts. Mr. and Mrs. Kenerley gave Patty one of those Oriental garments known as a Mandarin coat. It was of pale blue silk, heavy with elaborate embroidery and gold braiding, and Patty was enchanted with it. "Just what I wanted!" she exclaimed, "and I don't care if that _is_ what everybody always says, _I_ mean it! I've wanted one a long time. They're so heavenly for party wraps or opera cloaks. Mona has a beauty, but this is handsomer still." "Yes, it is," admitted Mona; "and now open that box, Patty. It's my gift to you, and I want to see if you like it." "Oh, I know I shall like it, of course. Why, Mona Galbraith, if it isn't a lace scarf! Real Brussels point! You generous girl, it's _too_ beautiful!" "Isn't it lovely?" cried Daisy. "Now, this is mine to you, Patty. It isn't nearly as handsome; it's just a bag." "But what a grand one!" exclaimed Patty, as she unwrapped the beautiful French confection. "I simply adore bags. I can't have too many of them. My goodness! I'm getting as many presents as baby May!" Sure enough, Patty was surrounded with gifts and trinkets of all sorts. Philip's present was a small but exquisite water-color in a gilded frame. Roger gave her a glass and silver flower-basket. "I gave each of you girls exactly the same thing," he said, "because I didn't want you scrapping over me. Mrs. Kenerley, I included you, too, if you will accept one of them." They were beautiful ornaments, and the four together were so effective that Adèle declared she should use them that night for a dinner table decoration at their Christmas feast. Hal Ferris gave each of the girls a beautiful book, and everybody had so many presents of all sorts that it was almost impossible to remember who gave anything. "What I need is a card catalogue," said Patty. "I never can remember which is which, I know." "And I know another thing," said Adèle. "If you girls don't scamper off and dress, you won't be ready for dinner at eight o'clock. And there are lots of guests coming. And more this evening for the country dance. Now, disperse, all of you, and put on your prettiest frocks for Christmas Eve." Patty had a new gown for the occasion, of an exquisite shade of pink chiffon, which just matched her cheeks. She did up her hair simply, with a pink ribbon around it, and a pink rose tucked over one ear. After she was all dressed, she flew to the nursery for a little confab with Fräulein, who was working away on the Turkey red. "Will it be done?" asked Patty, anxiously. "Oh, yes, indeed, Miss Patty; in ample time. And the crowns, too." "Everything all right?" inquired a voice in the doorway, and Hal Ferris stepped into the nursery. "Yes," said Patty, her eyes sparkling. "Fräulein will have them all ready by the time dinner's over. Oh, I do _love_ to dress up!" "You can't look any sweeter than you do this way," said Ferris, glancing approvingly at the little pink dancing frock. "You are so nice and complimentary," said Patty, flashing a smile at him, and then they went downstairs together. Dinner was a real Christmas feast. The table was properly decorated with red ribbons and red candles and holly, and everybody had souvenirs and Christmassy sort of trinkets, and everybody was very gay and festive, and an air of Christmas jollity pervaded the atmosphere. After dinner they all returned to the great hall, where the Christmas tree was again lighted to add to the holiday effect. Then Patty and Hal, who had let Adèle into their secret, slipped away from the crowd, and ran up to the nursery, where Fräulein was awaiting them. The baby was asleep in the next room, so they must needs be careful not to awaken her, and they tiptoed about as Fräulein helped them to don the robes she had made. The Turkey red she had fashioned into a full-draped cloak, which she adjusted around Hal's broad shoulders. It was trimmed with white fur, and was caught up on one shoulder, toga fashion, with a spray of holly. A massive gilt pasteboard crown she put on his head, and gave him a long wand or sceptre covered with gilt paper and topped with a cap and bells. "I wonder if they'll know I'm Lord of Misrule," whispered Hal, as he stalked up and down before the mirror, swishing his draperies about in regal fashion. "If they don't, I'll tell 'em," said Patty. "I wonder if they'll know what I am." "You look like an angel," said Hal, as he gazed at her. The garment Fräulein had made for Patty was simply straight, flowing breadths of the white illusion, which fell straight from her shoulders, her pink gown beneath giving it a faint rosy tinge. From her head the illusion rippled in a long veil, floating down behind, and there were long angel sleeves of the same material. On her head was a small crown of gilt paper, with a large gilt star in front, and she carried a gilt wand with a star on the end. But the masterpiece of the costume, and one that did great credit to the ingenuity of Fräulein, was a pair of wings that were fastened to Patty's shoulders. They were made of fine net, covered with fringed tissue paper, which had the effect of soft white feathers. Altogether Patty was a lovely vision, and it is doubtful if "The Christmas Spirit" was represented more beautifully anywhere on earth that Christmas Eve. She floated about the room, delighted to be "dressed up." Then, flying into the hall, she listened over the banister till she heard Adèle's signal from the piano. Still listening, she heard Adèle begin to sing softly a carol called "The Christmas Spirit." Slowly, in time to the music, Patty came down the great staircase. She paused on the landing, which was but a few steps from the bottom, and standing there, motionless as a picture, joined her voice to Adèle's. She sang the beautiful carol, Adèle now singing alto, and the vision of the beautiful Christmas Spirit, and the tones of Patty's exquisite voice, gave the guests assembled in the hall a Christmas memory that they could never forget. As the last notes died away, there was a significant pause, and then a storm of applause broke out. They insisted on another song, but Patty shook her head laughingly, and the next moment Adèle played a merry, rollicking march on the piano and the Lord of Misrule came bounding downstairs. He had a long trumpet in his hand, upon which he sounded a few notes, and then waved his sceptre majestically. "I'm the Lord of Misrule," he announced, "and I have come to direct our Christmas revels. To-night my word is law; you are all my subjects, and must obey my decrees!" A shout of applause greeted this gay banter, and then as Adèle played a lively strain, the Lord of Misrule gave a clever clog dance on the staircase landing. Then he sprang down the steps, and clasping the Christmas Spirit, the two tripped away into a gay impromptu dance. "Everybody dance!" shouted the Lord of Misrule, brandishing his sceptre aloft, and obedient to his orders, the others caught the gay spirit, and soon they were all dancing. Later they had the country dances--Virginia reel, Sir Roger, and others which Patty had never heard of before, but which she had no difficulty in learning. It was not long, however, before she laid aside her somewhat uncomfortable wings, and also the illusion draperies, which did not well survive the intricacies of the figure dances. So, once again in her pretty pink frock, she entered into the dances with the zest she always felt for that amusement. "I think it's my turn," said Roger, coming up to her at last. "And I'm glad to be with a friend again, after all these strangers," she said, as they danced away. "Though they're awfully nice men, and some of them are very good dancers. You and Mona are all right, aren't you, Roger?" Patty said this so suddenly that he was caught off his guard. "Not all right," he said, "and never will be until she'll consent to cut the acquaintance of that Lansing!" "She'll never do that!" and Patty wagged her head positively. "Then she can get along without my friendship." "Now, Roger, what's the use of acting like that? Mona has a right to choose her friends." "Patty, I believe you like that man yourself!" "I don't dislike him; at least, not as much as you do. But I don't see any reason for you to take the matter so seriously. At any rate, while you're up here, forget it, won't you, and be good to Mona." "Oh, I'll be good to her fast enough, if she'll be good to me. I think a heap of that girl, Patty, and I don't want to see her in the clutches of a bad man like Lansing." "You don't know that he's a bad man." "Well, he's a fortune-hunter,--that's bad enough." "Pooh, every man that looks at a girl doesn't want to marry her for her money." "But that man does." "Then cut him out! Why, Roger, you're worth a dozen Lansings, and if you want to marry Mona, why don't you tell her so?" "Oh, Patty, do you think I'd have the ghost of a chance?" "I certainly do. That is, if Mona has a grain of sense in that pretty head of hers." "Well,--say, Patty,--this sounds queer, I know,--but you and I are such pals,--couldn't you just say a good word for----" "Roger Farrington! the idea! I never supposed you were _bashful_!" "I never was before,--but I'm a little afraid of Mona. She's so,--so decided, you know." "Very well. Make her decide in your favour. But, mark my words, young man, you'll never win her by getting grumpy and sour just because she smiles on another man. In fact, you'd better praise Mr. Lansing. That would be the best way to make her lose interest in him." "Patty Fairfield! I'm ashamed of you. I always knew you were a flirt, but anything like that would be downright deception." "Oh, fiddle-de-dee! All's fair in love and war. You're too matter-of-fact, Roger,--too staid and practical. Brace up and tease Mona. Get her guessing--and the game will be all in your own hands." "How do you know these things, Patty? You're too young for such worldly wisdom." "Oh, women are born with a spirit of contrariness. And, anyway, it's human nature. Now, you jolly Mona up, and stop looking as if you'd lost your last friend,--and then see how the cat jumps. Why, what is Hal Ferris doing?" The Lord of Misrule had jumped up on a table, and was flourishing his sceptre, and announcing that he would now issue a few decrees, and they must immediately be obeyed. He said the audience wished to see some well-acted plays, and he would ask some of the guests present to favour them. "As these dramas are necessarily impromptu," he said, "you will please come forward and do your parts as soon as your names are called. Any delay, hesitation, or tardiness will be punished to the full extent of the Law of Misrule. The first play, ladies and gentlemen, will be a realistic representation of the great tragedy of 'Jack and Jill.' It will be acted by Mr. Van Reypen and Miss Fairfield. Ready! Time!" Philip and Patty went forward at once, for though they had had no intimation of this act, they were quite ready to take their part in the merriment. Philip caught up one of the glass baskets which he had brought up for gifts, and declared that represented their pail. "It isn't mine!" cried Daisy. "I don't want mine smashed!" "No matter what happens," returned Philip, "we must be realistic." "Here, take this instead," said Jim Kenerley, offering an antique copper bucket, which was one of his pet pieces. "All right, it _is_ better. Now, the play begins. This is an illustrated ballad, you know. Will somebody with a sweet voice kindly recite the words?" "I will," volunteered Hal, himself. "My voice is as sweet as taffy." He began intoning the nursery rhyme, and Patty and Philip strolled through the hall, swinging the bucket between them, and acting like two country children going for water. They climbed the stairs, laboriously, as if clambering up a steep hill, and as they went up, Philip hastily whispered to Patty how they were to come down. She understood quickly, and as the second line was drawled out they stood at the top of the stairs. Then when Hal said, "Jack fell down----" there was a terrific plunge and Philip tumbled, head over heels, all the way downstairs, with the big copper bucket rolling bumpety-bump down beside him. He was a trained athlete, and knew how to fall without hurting himself, but his mad pitching made it seem entirely an accidental fall. In the screams of laughter, the last line could scarcely be heard, but when Hal said, "And Jill came tumbling after," Patty poised on the top step, leaning over so far that it seemed as if in a moment she must pitch headlong. Her fancy dance training enabled her to hold this precarious position, and as she stood, motionless, a beautiful tableau, everybody applauded. "All over!" cried the Lord of Misrule, after a moment. "Curtain's down!" There was only an imaginary curtain, so considering herself dismissed, Patty came tripping downstairs, and the broken-crowned Jack stood waiting to receive her. "Good work!" he commented. "How could you stand in that breakneck position?" "How could you take that breakneck fall?" she queried back, and then they sought a nearby seat to witness the next "play." "Now," said the Lord of Misrule, "we will have a thrilling drama by Miss Dow and--well, she may select her own company." "I choose Jim Kenerley," said Daisy, suddenly remembering a little trick they used to do in school. A whispered word was enough to recall it to Jim's mind, and in a twinkling he had snatched a gay silk lamp-shade from an electrolier and clapped it on his head, and draped around him a Bagdad couch cover. Then he caught up a big bronze dagger from a writing-table, and he and Daisy went to the staircase landing, which was almost like a stage. Seemingly, Jim was a fearful bandit, dragging a lady, who hung back with moans and cries. On the landing, he brandished the dagger fearsomely, and Daisy knelt before him, begging for mercy. At least, her attitude denoted that, but all she said was: "A B C D," in a low, pleading voice. "E F G!" shouted Jim, dancing about in a fierce fury. Daisy threw out her arms and fairly grovelled at his feet, begging, "H I J K." "L M!" shouted Jim; "N O!" Then Daisy's pretty hair became loosened from its pins, and fell, a shining mass, down her back. Jim clutched it. "P Q R!" he yelled, as he waved the dagger aloft. "S T!" moaned Daisy, swaying from side to side, as if in an agony of fear. "U! V! W!" and the blade of the dagger rested against the fair neck, as the dreadful brigand, with a fierce shout, attacked his victim. "X Y!" Daisy shrieked, and then toppled over, as if killed, while Jim, with a frenzied yell of "Z!" towered, triumphant, above his slain captive. How they all laughed; for it was good acting, though of course greatly burlesqued. But both had a touch of dramatic genius, and they had often given this little exhibition in their old school days. "Fine!" said Adèle, who was shaking with laughter. "You never did it better, Daisy. You ought to go on the stage." Daisy smiled and bowed at the applause, and began to twist up her hair. "My beloved subjects," said the Lord of Misrule, "you are sure some actors! I didn't know I had so much talent concealed about my kingdom. I shall now aim for a higher touch of histrionic art. Let us stop at nothing! Let us give the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. I will command Miss Galbraith to play the part of Juliet, and if no one volunteers as Romeo, I'll modestly remark that I'm a ripping good actor myself." "Too late," said Roger, calmly; "I've already signed for the part," and taking Mona's hand, he led her toward the staircase. "I can't!" protested Mona. "I don't know a word of it!" "Can't! Won't!" cried the Lord of Misrule, in stentorian tones. "Those words are not allowed in this my Court. Ha, maiden, dost desire the dungeon for thine? Dost hanker after prison fare? Fie! Get to thy place and take thy cue." Mona flung her lace handkerchief on her head for a little Juliet cap, and accepting a large lace scarf which a lady offered her as she passed, and an enormous bunch of roses, which Jim hastily took from a vase and gave her, they all agreed she was perfectly costumed for Juliet. Upstairs she went, and drawing a chair to the railing, looked over at Roger below. He had hastily opened a small cupboard, and caught up a broad black hat of Adèle's, with a long, willowed ostrich plume. He put it on, so that the feather hung straight down his face, and he kept blowing it out of his eyes. Daisy had offered him a gay, flowered chiffon scarf as he passed her, and he tied it round his waist like a sash. "'Oh, Romeo! Romeo! Romeo!'" began Mona. "'Wherefore,'" prompted Roger in a stage whisper. "'Wherefore,'" said Mona, obediently, "whence, whither, why----" "Never mind," said Roger, calmly. "I'll say the lines you forget. 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' Now for the second act. I wish to goodness I could be a glove upon that paw of yours." "Why?" queried Mona. "So you wouldn't give me the mitten. Pardon, good friends, merely an interpolation. Back to work now. It was the nightingale and not a poll parrot that hit you in the ear." "Oh, Romeo, Romeo," Mona broke in. "I'd like to cut you up into little bits of stars, and decorate the sky with you." "Call me but Star, and I'll be baptised all over again. Friends, as we're a little shy on lines, the rest of this will be pantomime." Roger then sneaked cautiously upstairs, motioned to Mona to make no sound, picked up various impedimenta, including books, vases, a statuette, and such things as he could find on the hall tables, added a good-sized rug, and then, also picking Mona up in his arms, he stealthily made his way downstairs again, and the elopement was successful. "Roger, you strong giant!" cried Patty. "How _could_ you carry all those things downstairs?" "My warriors are all strong men!" said the Lord of Misrule. "They can carry off anything, and carry on like everything." And then, as Christmas Eve was well past, and Christmas Day had begun, the merry guests went away, and the house party congratulated itself all round, wished everybody Merry Christmas, and went away to rest. CHAPTER XII COASTING Christmas morning was as white as the most picturesque imagination could desire. A heavy snow had fallen in the night and lay, sparkling, all over the fields and hills, so that now, in the sunshine, the whole earth seemed powdered with diamonds. Patty came dancing downstairs, in a dainty little white morning frock. "Merry Christmas, everybody!" she cried, as she found the group gathered round the fireplace in the hall. "Did you ever see such a beautiful day? Not for skating," and she smiled at Hal, "but for snow-balling or coasting or any old kind of fun with snow." "All right," cried Roger. "Who's for a snow frolic? We can build a fort----" "And make a snow-man," put in Daisy, "with a pipe in his mouth and an old hat on his head. Why do snow-men always have to have those two things?" "They don't," said Jim Kenerley. "That's an exploded theory. Let's make one this morning of a modern type, and let him have anything he wants except a pipe and a battered stove-pipe hat." "We'll give him a cigarette and a Derby," said Patty. "Oh, here comes the mail! Let's have that before we go after our snow-man." The chauffeur came in from a trip to the post-office, with his hands and arms full of mail,--parcels, papers, and letters,--which he deposited on a table, and Jim Kenerley sorted them over. "Heaps of things for everybody," he said. "Belated gifts, magazines, letters, and post cards. Patty, this big parcel is for you; Daisy, here are two for you." "May take letters! Let baby May be postman!" cried the infant Kenerley. "Let her, Jim,--she loves to be postman," and Adèle put the baby down from her arms, and she toddled to her father. "Great scheme!" said Hal. "Wait a minute, midget; I'll make you a cap." With a few folds, a newspaper was transformed into a three-cornered cap and placed on the baby's head. "Now you're a postman," said her uncle. "Go and get the letters from the post-office." "Letters, p'ease," said the baby, holding out her fat little hands to her father. "All right, kiddums; these parcels are too big for you; you're no parcel-post carrier. But here's a bunch of letters; pass them around and let every one pick out his own." Obediently, the baby postman started off, and passing Daisy first, dumped the whole lot in her lap. "Wait a minute, Toddles," said Daisy. "I'll pick out mine, then you take the rest on." Daisy selected half a dozen or more, and gave the rest of the lot back to the little one, who went on round the circle, letting each pick out his own letters. Patty had about a dozen letters, and cards and greetings of various sorts. Some she tore open and read aloud, some she read to herself, and some she kept to open when she might be alone. "Have you opened all your letters, Patty?" asked Jim, looking at her, quizzically. "No; I saved father's and Nan's to read by myself, you people are so distracting." "Oho! Father's and Nan's! Oho! aha! And are those the only ones you saved to read by yourself, young lady?" "I saved Elise's, also," said Patty, looking at him, a little surprised. "Aren't you the inquisitive gentleman, anyway!" "Elise's! Oh, yes, Elise's! And how about that big blue one,--what have you done with that?" "I don't see any big blue one," said Patty, innocently. "What do you mean, Jim?" "Oho! _what_ do I mean? What, _indeed_!" "Now, stop, Jim," said his wife. "I don't know what you're teasing Patty about, but she shan't be teased. If she wants to keep her big blue letter to herself, she's going to keep it, that's all." "Of course I shall," said Patty, saucily. "That is, I should, if I had any big blue letter, but I haven't." "Never mind big blue letters," said Roger, "let's all go out and play in the snow." So everybody put on wraps and caps and furs and out they went like a parcel of children to frolic in the snow. Snow-balling was a matter of course, but nobody minded a lump of soft snow, and soon they began to build the snow-man. He turned out to be a marvel of art and architecture, and as his heroic proportions were far too great for anybody's hat or coat, they draped an Indian blanket around him and stuck a Japanese parasol on the top of his head to protect him from the sun. Roger insisted on the cigarette, and as the snow gentleman had been provided with a fine set of orange-peel teeth, he held his cigarette jauntily and firmly. "I want to go coasting," said Patty. "And so you shall," said Jim. "I sent for a lot of sleds from the village, and I think they've arrived." Sure enough, there were half a dozen new sleds ready for them, and snatching the ropes, with glee, they dragged them to a nearby hill. It was a long, easy slope, just right for coasting. "Want to be pioneer?" asked Roger of Patty. And ever-ready Patty tucked herself on to a sled, grasped the rope, Roger gave her a push, and she was half-way down the hill before any one knew she had started. The rest followed, and soon the whole party stood laughing at the bottom of the long hill. "The worst is walking up again," said Patty, looking back up the hill. "Do you say that because it's what everybody says,--or because you're lazy?" asked Philip. "Because I'm lazy," returned Patty, promptly. "Then get on your sled, and I'll pull you up." "No, I'm not lazy enough for that, I hope! But I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll race you up." "Huh! as if I couldn't beat you up, and not half try!" "Oh, I don't _know_! Come on, now, do your best! One, two, three, go!" Each pulling a sled, they started to run uphill; at least, Philip started to run, and at a good rate; but Patty walked,--briskly and evenly, knowing full well that Philip could not keep up his gait. And she was right. Half-way up the hill, Philip was forced to slow down, and panting and puffing,--for he was a big man,--he turned to look for Patty. She came along, and swung past him with an easy stride, flinging back over her shoulder, "Take another sprint, and you may catch me yet!" "I'll catch you, no matter how much I have to sprint," Philip called after her, but he walked slowly for a few paces. Then, having regained his breath, he strode after her, and rapidly gained upon her progress. Patty looked over her shoulder, saw him coming, and began to run. But running uphill is not an easy task, and Patty's strength began to give out. Philip saw this, and fell back a bit on purpose to give her an advantage. Then as they were very near the top, Patty broke into a desperate run. Philip ran swiftly, overtook her, picked her up in his arms as he passed, and plumped her down into a soft snowbank at the very top of the hill. "There!" he cried; "that's the goal, and you reached it first!" "With your help," and Patty pouted a little. "My help is always at your disposal, when you can't get up a hill." "That would be a fine help, if I ever had hills to climb. But I never do. This is a great exception." "But there are other hills than snow hills." "Oh, I suppose now you're talking in allegories. I never _could_ understand those." "Some day, when I get a real good chance, I'll explain them to you. May I?" Philip's face was laughing, but there was a touch of seriousness in his tone that made Patty look up quickly. She found his dark eyes looking straight into her own. She jumped up from her snowbank, saying: "I want to go down again. Where's a sled?" "Come on this one with me," said Hal, who had a long, toboggan sort of an affair. "This is great!" said Patty. "Where did you get this double-rigged thing?" "It's been here all the time, but you've been so wrapped up in that Van Reypen chap that you had no eyes for anybody else, or anybody else's sled! I'm downright jealous of that man, and I'll be glad when he goes home." "Ah, now, Chub," said Patty, coaxingly, "don't talk to me scoldy! Don't now; will you, Chubsy?" "Yes, I will, if you like him better than you do me." "Why, goodness, gracious, sakes alive! I've known him for _years_, and I've only known you a few days!" "That doesn't matter. I've only known you a few days, and I'm head over heels in love with you!" "Wow!" exclaimed Patty, "but this is sudden! Do you know, it's so awful swift, I don't believe it can be the real thing!" "Do you know what the Real Thing is?" "Haven't a notion." "Mayn't I tell you?" "No, sir-ee. You see, I don't want to know for years yet! _Why_ can't people let me alone?" "Who else has been bothering you?" demanded Hal, jealously. "I don't call it a bother! I supposed it was part of the game. Don't all girls have nice compliments, and flattery kind of speeches from the young men they know?" "I don't know whether they do or not," growled Hal. "Well, I know; they do, and they don't mean a thing; it's part of the game, you know. Now, I'll tell you something. I've known Philip Van Reypen ever so much longer than I have you, and yet I like you both exactly the same! And Roger just the same,--and Jim just the same!" "And Martin, the chauffeur, just the same, I suppose; and Mike, the gardener, just the same!" "Yep," agreed Patty. "_Everybody_ just the same! I think that's the way to do in this world, love your neighbour as yourself, and look upon all men as free and equal." "Well, I don't think all girls are equal,--not by a long shot. To my mind they're divided into two classes." "What two?" said Patty, with some curiosity. "One class is Patty Fairfield, and the other class is everybody else." They had reached the bottom of the hill before this, and were sitting on the sled, talking. Patty jumped up and clapped her hands. "That's about the prettiest speech I ever had made to me! It's a beautiful speech! I'm going right straight up the hill and tell it to everybody!" "Patty, _don't_!" cried Hal, his honest, boyish face turning crimson. "Oh, then you didn't mean it!" and Patty was the picture of disappointment. "I did! _Of course_ I did! But girls don't run and tell everything everybody says to them!" "Don't they? Well, then, _I_ won't. You see, I haven't had as much experience in these matters as you have! Mustn't I _ever_ tell anything nice that _anybody_ says to me?" "Not what _I_ say to you, anyhow! You see, they're confidences." "Well, I don't want any more of them just now. I came out here for coasting, not for confidences." "I fear, my dear little girl, you're destined all through life to get confidences, whatever you may go for." "Oh, what a horrible outlook! Well, then, let me gather my coasting while I may! Come on, Chubsy, let's go up the hill." And putting her hand in Hal's, Patty started the upward journey. At the top she declared she was going for one more ride downhill, and this time with Jim. "For," she said to herself, "I would like _one_ ride without 'confidences.'" "Off we go!" said Jim, as he arranged her snugly on the toboggan sled, and took his place in front of her. They had a fine ride down, and Jim insisted on pulling Patty up again. She rode part way, and then decided it was too hard work for him, and jumped off. "I guess I'm good for some walk," she said, as she tucked her arm through his, and they climbed the hill slowly. "I guess you are, Patty. You're strong enough, only you're not as hardy as Daisy and Adèle. I believe our Western girls are heartier than you New Yorkers. By the way, Patty, speaking of the West at large, what made you tell a naughty story this morning?" "I didn't!" and Patty looked at him with wide-open eyes. "I have a few faults, Jim, a _very_ few, and _very_ small ones! but truly, storytelling isn't among them." "But you said you didn't get a big blue letter," pursued Jim. "And neither I did," protested Patty. "What do you mean, Jim, by that big blue letter? I didn't see any." "Patty, it's none of my business, but you seem to be in earnest in what you say, so I'll tell you that there certainly was in the mail a big blue letter for you, addressed in Bill Farnsworth's handwriting. I wasn't curious, but I couldn't help seeing it; and I know the dear old boy's fist so well, that I was moved to tease you about it." "It didn't tease me, Jim, for I didn't get any such letter." "Well, then, where is it?" "I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps baby May kept it." "Perhaps some of the boys got it and kept it to tease you." "I don't believe they'd do that. Perhaps Adèle saved it for me. Well, we'll look around when we get home, but don't say anything about it." But when they reached the house, neither Jim nor Patty could find the blue letter. Adèle said she had not seen it, and Patty insisted that no one else should be questioned. Privately, she thought that Hal Ferris had received it by mistake from baby May, and had kept it, because he, too, knew Bill's handwriting, and because,--well, of course, it _was_ foolish, she knew,--but Hal had said he was jealous of any other man, and he might have suppressed or destroyed Bill's card for that reason. She felt sure it was not a letter, but merely a Christmas card. However, she wanted it, but she wanted to ask Hal for it herself, instead of letting the Kenerleys ask him. * * * * * "Dinner will be at two o'clock," Adèle made announcement. "It's considered the proper thing to eat in the middle of the day on a holiday, though why, I never could quite understand." "Why, of course, the reason is, so the children can eat once in a while," suggested her brother. "Baby can't come to the table. She's too little, and her table manners are informal, to say the least. However, the tradition still holds, so dinner's at two o'clock, and you may as well all go and get dressed, for it's after one, now. There'll be a few extra guests, so you girls will have somebody to dress up for." "I like that," said Roger; "as if we boys weren't enough for any girls to dress up for!" "But you've seen all our pretty frocks," laughed Patty. "It's only strangers we can hope to impress with them now. I shall wear my most captivating gown, if Mr. Collins is coming. Is he, Adèle?" "Yes, and Mr. Hoyt, too; and two more girls. Skip along, now, and don't dawdle." But Patty dawdled on the staircase till Ferris came along, and then she spoke to him in a low tone. "Chub, you didn't see a stray letter of mine this morning, did you?" "'M--what kind of a letter?" "Oh, a blue envelope, with probably a card inside. I hadn't opened it, so I don't know what was in it." "Who was it from?" "Why, how could I tell, when I hadn't opened it! In fact, that's just what I want to know." "What makes you think I know anything about it?" "Oh, Chub, don't tease me! I haven't time, now; and truly, I want that letter! Do you know anything about it?" "No, Patty, I don't. I didn't see any letters addressed to you, except the bunch you had in your hand. Have you really lost one?" "Yes," said Patty, seeing that Hal was serious. "Jim told me there was one for me from Mr. Farnsworth, and I want it." "Bill Farnsworth! What's he writing to you for? I didn't know you knew him." "I don't know him very well; I only met him last summer. And I don't know that he did write to me; it was probably just a card. But I want it." "Yes, you seem to. Why, Patty, you're blushing." "I am not any such thing!" "You are, too! You're as pink as a peach." "Well, I only blushed to make you call me a peach,--and now that I've succeeded, I'll run away." So blushing and laughing both, Patty ran upstairs to her own room. Hal had been so frank that she was convinced he knew nothing about the letter, and she began to fear it must have been tossed into the fire, with the many waste papers that were scattered about. CHAPTER XIII HIDE AND SEEK All the time Patty was dressing she wondered about that letter; and when Mona, ready for dinner, stopped at her door, Patty drew her into the room. "Mona," she said, "did you get a Christmas card from Mr. Farnsworth?" "Yes," said Mona, "in a big blue envelope. Daisy had one, too. Didn't you get one?" "No; Jim said there was one for me, but it got lost somehow. Thrown in the fire, I shouldn't wonder." "Well, don't mind," said Mona, cheerfully. "You can have mine. It isn't very pretty, and Daisy's isn't either, but I suppose they're the best Bill could find out there in Arizona. Do you want it now, Patty?" "I don't want it at all, Mona. What would I want with your card, or Daisy's either? But if Little Billee sent one to me, I'd like to have it, that's all." "Of course you would; but truly, they don't amount to much." "Jim must have been mistaken about there being one for me," said Patty, and then the two girls went downstairs. The Christmas dinner was practically a repetition of the feast of the night before; but as Adèle said, how could that be helped if people would have two Christmas celebrations on successive days? There were four extra guests, who proved to be merry and jolly young people, and after dinner Hal declared that his reign as Lord of Misrule was not yet over. "Don't let's do any more stunts like we had last night," said Mona. "They wear me out. Let's play easy games, like blindman's buff, or something." "Or Copenhagen," said Hal, but Patty frowned at him. "We're too grown-up for such things," she declared, with dignity. "What do you say to a nice, dignified game of hide and seek?" "All over the house!" cried Roger. "May we, Mrs. Kenerley?" "The house is yours," said Adèle. "I reserve no portion of it. From cellar to attic, from drawing-room to kitchen, hide where you will and seek where you like,--if you'll only promise not to wake the baby. She's taking her afternoon nap." "She doesn't seem to mind noise," said Roger. "We do make an awful racket, you know." "Oh, no, I don't mean that," said Adèle. "I've trained her not to mind noise. But I mean if your hiding and seeking takes you into the nursery quarters, do go softly." "Of course we will," said Philip. "I'm specially devoted to that baby, and I'll see that her nap isn't disturbed, even if I have to stand sentry at her door. But what larks to have the whole house! I've never played it before but what they wouldn't let you hide in this room or that room. Who'll be It?" "Oh, that's an old-fashioned way to play," said Hal. "Here's a better way. Either all the men hide and the girls find them, or else the other way around; and, anyway, don't you know, whoever finds who, has to be her partner or something." "For life?" asked Jim, looking horrified. "Mercy, no!" said his brother-in-law. "This is a civilised land, and we don't select life partners that way!" "You mean just partners for a dance," said Patty, trying to help him out. "Well, you see," said Hal, "it ought to be more than just a dance; I mean more like a partner for a,--for a junketing of some kind." "I'll tell you," said Adèle. "There's to be a masquerade ball at the Country Club on New Year's Eve, and we're all going." "Just the thing!" cried Hal. "Now, whichever seeker finds whichever hider, they'll go in pairs to the ball, don't you see? Romeo and Juliet, or anything they like, for costumes." "But we won't be here," and Philip Van Reypen looked ruefully at Roger. "We go back to town to-morrow." "But you can come up again," said Adèle, hospitably. "I hereby invite you both to come back the day before New Year's, and stay as long as you will." "Well, you are _some_ hostess!" declared Roger, looking grateful. "I accept with pleasure, but I doubt if my friend Van Reypen can get away." "Can he!" cried Philip. "Well, I rather guess he can! Mrs. Kenerley, you're all sorts of a darling, and you'll see me back here on the first train after your invitation takes effect." "Then hurrah for our game of hide and seek," Hal exclaimed. "Jim and Adèle, you must be in it, too. You needn't think you can go as Darby and Joan,--you must take your chances with the rest. If you find each other, all right, but if you find anybody else, that's your fate,--see?" "I'm willing," said Adèle, laughing. "I'm sure I'd be glad to go with any of you beautiful young men." "Now, will you listen to _that_!" cried her husband. "Well, I won't be outdone in generosity. I'll be proud to escort any one of this galaxy of beauty," and he looked at the group of pretty girls. "Now, we must do it all up proper," said Hal. "In the first place, we must draw lots to see whether the girls shall hide or we shall. We must have it all very fair." He tore two strips of paper, one longer than the other, and holding them behind him, bade Adèle choose. "Right!" she said, and Hal put forth his right hand and gave her a paper on which was written "Girls." "All right," went on the master of ceremonies. "Now you girls must hide. We'll give you fifteen minutes to tuck yourselves away, and then we're all coming to look for you. As soon as any man finds any girl, he brings her back here to the hall to wait for the others. Now, there's no stipulation, except that you must not go out of the house. Scoot! and remember, in fifteen minutes we'll be after you!" The six girls ran away and made for various parts of the house. The two Misses Crosby, who had come as dinner guests, looked a little surprised at this unusual game, and Patty said to them, kindly: "You don't mind, do you? You know, you needn't really go with the man who finds you, if you don't want to." "Oh, we don't mind," said the elder Miss Crosby. "I think it's fun,--only if I should draw that dignified Mr. Van Reypen I'd be scared to death!" "Oh, he isn't so awfully dignified," laughed Patty. "That's just his manner at first. When you know him better, he's as jolly as anything. But hurry up, girls, the minutes are flying." The girls scampered away, some running to the attic, others going into wardrobes or behind sofas, and Patty ran to her own room. Then she bethought herself that that was one of the most likely places they would look for her, and she was seized with an ambition to baffle the seekers. With a half-formed plan in her mind, she slipped out of a side door of her own room that opened on a small passage leading to the nursery. In the nursery, she found the baby asleep in her crib, and the Fräulein lying down on a couch with a slumber-robe thrown over her, though she was not asleep. Like a flash, Patty's plan formed itself. She whispered to the Fräulein, and with a quick understanding the good-natured German girl took off her rather voluminous frilled cap, with its long muslin streamers, and put it on Patty's head. Then Patty lay down on the couch, with her face toward the wall, and deep buried in the pillows. Fräulein tucked the slumber-robe over her, and then herself disappeared down into the kitchen quarters. The search was rather a long one, for the house was large, and the girls had chosen difficult hiding-places. The two Crosby girls were found first, because not knowing the house well, they had simply gone into hall closets, and stood behind some hanging dresses. They were discovered by Jim Kenerley and Hal; and if the latter was disappointed in his quarry, he gave no sign of it. The four returned to the hall, and after a while they were joined by Roger and Mona. "Oho," said Jim, who loved to tease, "what a coincidence that you two should find each other!" "Easy enough," said Roger. "I knew Mona would choose the very hardest place to find; so I went straight to the attic to the very farthest, darkest corner, and there she was, waiting for me!" "There I was," said Mona, "but I wasn't waiting for _you_!" "No, you were waiting for me, I know," said Jim, ironically. "But never mind, Mona, we'll be partners next time. Hello, Adèle, is that _your_ terrible fate?" and they all laughed as Adèle and Mr. Hoyt came in together, with cobwebs on their hair and smudges of black on their faces. "I thought I'd be so smart, Jim, and I hid in the coal-bin; but Mr. Hoyt found me! By the way, we must have that place cleaned; it's a disgrace to the house!" "But you know, my dear, we don't often use it to receive our guests in." "Well, I don't care, it must be cleaned. There's no excuse for cobwebs. Now I must go and tidy up. I hope they haven't wakened the baby. Oh, here's Daisy." Daisy and Mr. Collins came in, laughing, and Mr. Collins declared he had found Miss Dow hanging out the third-story window by her finger-tips. "Nothing of the sort," said Daisy. "I was out on a kind of little balcony place, that's on top of a bay-window or something,--but I put my hands over the sill inside, so that I could say I was still in the house. Wasn't that fair?" "Well, it's fair enough, as long as I found you," said Mr. Collins. "But when I saw your hands, I really thought you were hanging from the sill!" "Where's Patty?" asked Daisy, "and Mr. Van Reypen? Are they still finding each other?" "I saw Phil," said Roger, "standing guard at the nursery door, as he said he would. He let us each go in and look around, on condition that we wouldn't wake the baby. And the baby's nurse was also asleep on the sofa, so I looked around and sneaked out as fast as I could." Just then Van Reypen came downstairs. "I've been delayed," he said, "because I held the fort for the baby, until every man-jack of you had been in the nursery. Now I'm going to begin _my search_. Who is there left to find?" "Oh, who, _indeed_?" said Jim, looking wise. "Oh, _nobody_ in particular! Nobody but that little Fairfield girl, and _of course_ you wouldn't want to find _her_!" "Patty!" exclaimed Philip, as he looked around at the group. "Why, she isn't here, is she? Where can that little rascal be? You fellows have been all over the house, I suppose?" "Every nook and cranny," declared Mr. Hoyt. "It was as a very last resort that I went to the coal-bin and captured Mrs. Kenerley." "Been through the kitchens?" asked Philip, looking puzzled. "I have," said Mr. Collins. "They're full of startled-looking servants who seemed to think I was a lunatic, or a gentleman burglar,--I don't know which." "Well, of course she's got to be found," said Philip. "There's no use looking in the obvious places, for Patty's just cute enough to pick out a most unexpected hiding-place. Come on, Roger; you found your girl,--help me with mine." "Oh, it isn't fair to have help," said Hal. "Alone upon your quest you go!" "Here I go, then." And Philip ran upstairs three at a time. He went first to the attics, and made a systematic search of every hall, room, and closet. He even peeped into the great tank, as if Patty might have been transformed into a mermaid. Then followed a thorough search of the second story, with all its rambling ells and side corridors; he tiptoed through the nursery, smiling at the sleeping baby and casting a casual glance at the still figure on the couch with the long, white cap-strings falling to the floor. On he went, through the various rooms, and at last, with slow step, came down into the hall again. "I think she had one of those contraptions like the Peter Pan fairies," he said, "and flew right out through the roof and up into the sky! But I haven't searched this floor yet. May I go into the dining-room and kitchens, Mrs. Kenerley?" "Everywhere," said Adèle. "You know I made no reservations." Philip strode through the rooms, looked under the dining-room table and into the sideboard cupboards; on through the butler's pantry, and into the kitchens. Needless to say, he found no Patty, and returned, looking more puzzled than ever. "I'm not going down cellar," he said. "Something tells me that Patty couldn't possibly stay down there all this time! It's more than an hour since she hid." "What are you going to do about it?" inquired Jim. "Give it up? I'll ring the Chinese gong for her to come back to us. That was to be a signal in case of an emergency." "No," said Philip. "I'm going to reason this thing out. Give me a few minutes to think, and I believe I can find her." "Don't anybody disturb him, let him think!" said Mona, gaily, and going to the piano, she began to play "Alice, where art thou?" in wailing strains that made them all laugh. All at once Philip jumped up. "I know where she is!" he exclaimed. "Sit still all of you, and I'll bring her back with me!" "Wait a minute," said Adèle, curiously. "How did you find it out?" "Do _you_ know where she is?" and Philip looked at her intently. "No, I haven't the slightest idea," said Adèle, honestly. "But I wondered how you could know, just from thinking about it." "It's clairvoyance," said Philip, with a mock air of mystery. "You see, I know all the places where she _isn't_, so the one place I have in mind must be where she _is_. By the way, Mrs. Kenerley; baby always takes an afternoon nap, doesn't she?" "Yes, always." "And does the Fräulein, her nurse, always take a nap at the same time?" "Oh, no! She never naps in the daytime." "She did to-day," began Roger, but Philip was already flying upstairs again. He went softly into the nursery. The baby was still asleep, the figure on the couch still lay quietly beneath the knitted afghan. Philip went over and stood beside the couch. The face was buried in the pillow, but beneath the edge of the cap he saw some stray golden curls. "H'm!" he mused, in a low voice, but entirely audible to Patty. "I thought baby May's nurse had dark hair. She must have bleached it!" Patty gave no sign that she heard, but cuddled her head more deeply in the soft pillows. "Why, it isn't the Fräulein at all!" said Philip, in tones of great surprise. "It's the Sleeping Beauty!" Still Patty gave no intimation of being awake, though, of course, she was. Then Philip leaned down over her and murmured: "And I'm the Prince; and when the Prince finds the Sleeping Beauty, there's only one course for him to pursue." At this, Patty opened her eyes and prepared to spring up, but she was not quite quick enough, and Philip lightly kissed the top of her little pink ear, before she could elude him. "How dare you!" she cried, and her eyes flashed with indignation. But Philip stood calmly smiling at her. "It's entirely permissible," he said, "when any Prince finds a Sleeping Beauty, to kiss her awake." "But I wasn't asleep!" stormed Patty, "and you knew it!" "You gave such a successful imitation of it, that I consider myself justified," he returned. "And, anyway, it was only a little bit of a butterfly kiss, and it doesn't really count." "No," agreed Patty, rather relieved, "it doesn't count." "But it counts that I have found you," went on Philip. "You know the rest of the story, after the Prince kissed the Sleeping Beauty?" "She had to go to the Country Club ball with him," said Patty, laughing, as she danced away from him. "Be careful, Philip; we'll wake baby May. Come on downstairs." "I found her," announced Philip, somewhat unnecessarily; "and I was a blooming idiot not to know she was there all the time!" "You sure were!" said Roger, when he heard the story. "Did you get a good rest, Patty?" "Yes; only it was interrupted so soon," and Patty returned Philip's meaning glance with a saucy smile. "Well," Roger went on, "now you two will have to go to the masquerade together. I suppose you'll go as Jack and Jill?" "No," said Philip, "I think fairy tales are much prettier than Mother Goose rhymes. We're going as the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood, and the Fairy Prince. Only, of course, the Sleeping Beauty will be awake for the occasion. Shall I bring up your costume when I return next week, Patty?" "I might like to have a voice in deciding on the part I shall take," said Patty, with a show of spirit. "But you _did_ decide it! I never should have thought of appearing as 'Prince Charming,' if you hadn't----" "That will do, Philip!" said Patty, turning very pink. "Go on, Phil!" cried Roger. "If she hadn't what?" "If she hadn't said I'd look so sweet in a light blue satin coat," replied Philip, pretending to look confused. "Oh, pshaw! She didn't say that," declared Roger. "And beside, you won't!" "Oh, yes, he will," said Patty. "Those court suits are lovely,--all silver lace and cocked hats! Oh, Philip, do wear one of those! And I'll write to Nan, to get me a costume. What are you going to wear, Mona?" "But we mustn't tell!" said Adèle, in dismay. "This is a masquerade, not merely a fancy dress ball." "Oh!" said Patty. "Then we'll have to change our plans, Philip. The Sleeping Beauty game is all off!" "Only for the moment!" And Philip threw her a challenging glance. CHAPTER XIV A PROPOSAL It was after midnight when the Christmas guests went away, and Patty declared her intention of going to bed at once. "I coasted and danced and played hide and seek till I'm utterly worn out," she said, "and I think I shall sleep for a week!" "But I'm going away to-morrow," said Philip, detaining her a moment. "But you're coming back next week. I'll promise to be awake by then. But now I'm going to hibernate, like a bear! Good-night, everybody!" and Patty ran upstairs without further ceremony. But as, in her pretty blue négligée, she sat before the mirror brushing her long hair, Mona, Daisy, and Adèle all came into her room, quite evidently with a determination to chat. "You're an old sleepy-head, Patty," declared Adèle. "You may sleep as late as you like in the morning, but we want to have a little confab now, about lots of things." "Nicht, nein, non, no!" cried Patty, jumping up and brandishing her hair-brush. "I know perfectly well what your confabs mean,--an hour or more of chattering and giggling! Come in the morning,--I'm going to have my chocolate upstairs to-morrow,--and I'll give you all the information you want. But as for to-night, skip, scoot, scamper, and vamoose, every dear, sweet, pretty little one of you!" Laughingly, Patty pushed the three out of her room, and closing the door after them, turned its key, unheeding their protests, and returned to her hair-brushing. "It's no use, Patricia," she said, talking to herself in the mirror, as she often did, "letting those girls keep you up till all hours! You need your beauty sleep, to preserve what small pretence to good looks you have left." Patty was not really vain of her pretty face, but she well knew that her delicate type of beauty could not stand continuous late hours without showing it, and Patty was not mistaken when she claimed for herself a good share of common sense. But as she brushed away at the golden tangle of curls, she heard a light tap at her door, which sounded insistent, rather than mischievous. "Who is it?" she asked, as she rose and went toward the door. "It's Daisy," said a low voice. "Let me in, Patty, just for a minute." So Patty opened the door, and Daisy Dow came in. "I want to tell you something," she said, as Patty stood waiting, brush in hand. "I don't really want to tell you a bit,--but Jim says I must," and Daisy looked decidedly cross and ill-tempered. Patty realised that it was a bother of some kind, and she said, gently, "Leave it till morning, Daisy; we'll both feel brighter then." "No; Jim said I must tell you to-night. Oh, pshaw, it's nothing, anyway! Only there _was_ a letter for you from Bill Farnsworth, and I took it from May, and kept it for a while, just to tease you. I was going to give it to you to-morrow, anyway; but Jim came and asked me about it, and made _such_ a fuss! Men are so _silly_!" "Why, no, Daisy, it isn't anything much; only you know people _do_ like to have letters that belong to them! But, as you say, it's nothing to make a fuss about. Incidentally, I believe it's a State's prison offence,--or would be if you opened it. You didn't, did you?" "Of course not!" said Daisy; "but I knew it was only a card, like ours, and I just kept it back for fun." "It doesn't seem to me an awfully good joke,--but never mind that. Give me the letter, and we'll call it square, and I won't have you arrested or anything." Patty spoke lightly, but really she was deeply annoyed at this foolish trick of Daisy's. However, since Jim had found out the truth and made Daisy own up, there was no great harm done. "I haven't got the letter," said Daisy. "I left it downstairs, but we can get it in the morning. I'm sure it's only a card; it is just the same size and shape as ours." "Daisy, what did you do it for?" And Patty looked the girl in the eyes, in a real curiosity to know why she should descend to this petty meanness. "Because you're such a favourite," said Daisy, truthfully. "Everybody likes you best, and everybody does everything for you, and you get everything, and I wanted to tease you!" Patty grasped the girl by her shoulders, and shook her good-naturedly, while she laughed aloud. "Daisy, you _do_ beat the dickens! You know that foolish little temper of yours is too silly for anything, and if you'd conquer it you'd be a whole lot nicer girl! You're just as pretty as anybody else, and just as jolly and attractive, but you get a notion that you're slighted when you're _not_; and that makes you ill-tempered and you lose half your charm. Don't you know that if you want people to love you and admire you, you must be sunshiny and pleasant?" "Huh, that isn't my nature, I s'pose. I can't help my quick temper. But, anyway, Patty, you're a dear not to get mad,--and I'll give you the letter the first thing in the morning." "Where is it, Daisy?" "Oh, I just stuck it between two volumes of a cyclopædia, on a shelf in the library. So, you see, we can't get it till morning; but it will be safe there, don't worry." "I'm not worrying," and Patty smiled, as Daisy said a somewhat abrupt good-night, and went away. There were still a few embers of a wood fire glowing on the hearth, and Patty sat down before it in a big arm-chair. "I don't know why I'm so glad," she said to herself, her weariness all gone now. "But I did feel neglected to have Little Billee send the other girls cards, and leave me out. I'd like to see it; I hardly glanced at theirs,--though I remember, they weren't very pretty. I'd like to see Little Billee again, but I don't suppose I ever shall. Well, there are plenty of other nice boys in the world, so it doesn't matter much. All the same, I'd like to see that card. I believe I'll go down and get it. There's always a low light in the hall, and I can feel it between the books." Patty hesitated for some time, but finally her impatience or curiosity got the better of her, and she softly opened her door and peeped out. There were low lights in the halls, and as she listened over the banister and heard no sounds, Patty began to creep softly down the stairs. Her trailing robe of light blue crêpe de chine was edged with swansdown, and she drew it about her, as she noiselessly tiptoed along in her slippered feet. The hall light shone dimly into the library, through which Patty could see a brighter light in the smoking-room beyond. She listened a moment, but hearing no voices, concluded she could creep into the library, capture her card, and return undiscovered. "And, anyway," she thought to herself, "there can't be anybody in the smoking-room, or I would hear them talking." It was easy to proceed without a sound by stepping softly along the thick rugs, and as Patty knew exactly where the cyclopædias were shelved, she made straight for that bookcase. It was next to the smoking-room doorway, and as Patty reached it, she peeped around the portière to make sure that the next room was unoccupied. But to her surprise, she saw Philip Van Reypen stretched out in a big arm-chair in front of the fire. His eyes were closed, but Patty saw he was not asleep, as he was slowly smoking a cigar. Patty saw him sidewise, and she stood for a second contemplating the handsome profile and the fine physique of the man, who looked especially graceful in his careless and unconscious position. Almost holding her breath, lest he should hear her, Patty moved noiselessly to the shelves, being then out of sight behind a portière. By slow, careful movements, it was easy enough to move the books silently, and at last she discovered the blue envelope, tucked between two of them. She drew it out without a sound,--careful lest the paper should crackle,--and started to retrace her stealthy steps upstairs again, when she saw the hem of the portière move the veriest trifle. "A mouse!" she thought to herself, with a terrified spasm of fear, for Patty was foolishly afraid of mice. Unable to control herself, she sprang up into a soft easy-chair and perched on the back of it. The springs of the chair gave a tiny squeak, scarcely as loud as a mouse might make, yet sufficient to arouse Van Reypen from his reverie. He sprang up, and pushing aside the portière, switched on the light, to see Patty sitting on the low, tufted back of the chair, her hair streaming about her shoulders, and her face expressing the utmost fear and horror. "Well!" he observed, looking at her with a smile,--"_well_!" "Oh, Philip," whispered Patty, in a quaking voice, "it's a mouse! an _awful_ mouse!" "Well, what are you going to do about it?" and Philip folded his arms, and stood gazing at the pretty, frightened figure on the chair back. His amused calm quieted Patty's nerves, which had really been put on edge by her uncontrollable aversion to mice, and she returned, cheerfully, "I suppose I shall have to stay up here the rest of my life, unless you can attack and vanquish the fearsome brute." "I shall not even try," said Philip, coolly, as he turned to throw away his cigar, "because I like to see you sitting up there. However, as there may be danger of another attack from the enemy, and as this chair is almost entirely unoccupied, I shall camp out here at your feet, and keep guard over your safety." He seated himself on the arm of the same chair, while Patty sat on its low, cushioned back. She drew her blue gown more closely about her, and cast wary glances toward the corner, where the enemy was presumably encamped. "I think perhaps the danger is over," she said. "And if you'll go back to the smoking-room, I will make a brave effort to get away unharmed." "Watch me go," said Philip, showing no signs of moving. "However, if it will set your mind at rest, I'll tell you that it _wasn't_ a mouse. I don't believe they have such things in this well-regulated household." "But I _saw_ it!" declared Patty, positively. "Saw a mouse?" "Well, not _exactly_ that, but I saw that little tassel on the portière wiggle, so it _must_ have been a mouse." "Patty, you are the most ridiculous little goose on the face of this earth! Your imagination is something marvellous! Now I'll inform you that the reason that tassel moved, was because I threw a match at it. I aimed for a waste-basket and hit the curtain, but I had no idea that I should find myself so surprised at the result!" Patty dimpled and giggled. "It _is_ surprising, isn't it?" she said, feeling much more light-hearted since her fears were relieved regarding the mouse. "And I'm not sure it's altogether correct, that you and I should be down here alone after midnight." "Fiddlestrings!" exclaimed Philip. "Don't be a silly! And besides, Jim is about somewhere, and Adèle has been bobbing in and out." "There was no one in the halls when I came down. And I think, Philip, I'd better go back." "What did you come down for, anyhow?" For some unexplained reason, Patty suddenly felt unwilling to tell what she had come for. Bill's letter was hidden in the folds of her voluminous blue gown, and she couldn't quite bring herself to tell Philip that she came down for that. "Oh, I was wakeful," she said, "and I came down to get a--a book." "H'm; and you thought you'd take a volume of the Britannica back with you, to read yourself to sleep?" Patty had to laugh at this, for in the corner where they were, the shelves contained nothing but cyclopædias and dictionaries. "But they're really very interesting reading," she declared. "And this is the little girl who was so sleepy she had to run off to bed as soon as the party was over! Patty, Patty, I'm afraid you're not telling me the truth! Try again." "Well, then,--well, then, I came down because,--because I was hungry!" "Ah, that's better. Anybody has a right to be hungry, or even afraid of mice,--but no one has a right to lug a whole cyclopædia upstairs to read oneself to sleep." "I wasn't going to take _all_ the volumes," said Patty, demurely, and then she jumped down from her perch. "I'll just see which one I do want," and pretending to read the labels, she deftly slipped her letter back between the volumes, unseen by Van Reypen. "You little goose, you," said Philip, laughing. "Stop your nonsense, and let's go and forage in the dining-room for something to eat. We might as well have some good food while we're about it." "But I'm not exactly in proper dinner garb," said Patty, shaking out her blue folds, and trailing her long robe behind her. "Nonsense! I don't know much about millinery, but you never wore anything more becoming than all that fiddly-faddly conglomeration of blue silk and white fur." "It isn't fur,--it's down." "Well, I said you were a goose,--so it's most appropriate." "But it's swansdown." "Well, be a swan, then! Be anything you like. But come on, let's make for the dining-room. We'll probably find Jim there, but don't make any noise, or everybody upstairs will think we're burglars and shoot us." Philip switched off the library light, and taking Patty's hand, led her through the dim hall and into the dining-room. At the end of this room was a wide bay window, which let in a perfect flood of moonlight. "Oh," exclaimed Patty, "what a picture! From my room you couldn't tell it was moonlight at all." The picture from the window was a far sweep of hills, white with snow, and glistening in the moonlight. In the foreground, evergreen trees, laden with snow, stood about like sentinels,--and a big, yellow three-quarter moon was nearing the western horizon. "Isn't it wonderful, Philip?" whispered Patty, almost awed at the sight. "Yes, dear," he said, still holding her hand in both his own. "Patty, you have a wonderful appreciation of the beautiful." "Nobody could help loving such a sight as that." "And nobody could help loving such a girl as you!" exclaimed Philip, drawing her into his arms. "Patty, darling, you know I love you! Patty, _do_ care for me a _little_ bit, won't you?" "Don't, Philip," and Patty drew gently away from him. "_Please_ don't talk to me like that! Oh, I oughtn't to be here! Let me go, Philip,--I _know_ this isn't right." "It _is_ right, Patty, darling; because I love you, and I want you for all my own. Say you love me, and that will make _everything_ all right!" "But I don't, Philip." And Patty's voice carried a hint of tears. "But you will, dear; you _must_, because I love you _so_. Patty, I have always loved you, I think, since I first saw you on the stairs at Aunty Van's that evening. Do you remember?" "Yes, I remember; but please, Philip, let me go now, and _don't_ talk to me this way. I don't _want_ you to!" "You're frightened, Patty, that's all; and perhaps I ought not to have spoken just now; but you looked so sweet, in the moonlight, with that wonderful hair of yours curling about your shoulders, that I just couldn't help it." "I'll forgive you, Philip, if you'll forget this whole occurrence." "Forget it? Why, Patty, what do you mean? I never forget it for a single moment! I was sitting there to-night, dreaming of _you_. I wasn't asleep, you know, I was just thinking about you, and wondering how soon I might tell you my thoughts. You're so young, dear,--I'm half a dozen years older than you are,--but I want you, my little Patty. Mayn't I hope?" "You're quite right, Philip. I _am_ too young to think of such things. So cut it out for a couple of years, and then I'll see about it!" "Patty, you rogue, how _can_ you speak like that? Don't you love me a least little bit?" "Not a teenty weenty speck! And if you don't give me something to eat, I won't even _like_ you." "Well, here's a bargain, then,--if I find something nice for you to eat, will you like me a whole lot?" "I do like you a whole lot, anyway; but I don't love you and I'm not going to love _anybody_, _ever_! I do think being grown-up is a regular nuisance, and I wish I was a little girl again, with my hair down my back!" "Incidentally, your hair _is_ down your back." "Well, I don't care," and Patty shook her curly mane. "I wear it that way in tableaux and things, so what's the difference?" "There _isn't_ any difference. We'll pretend you're a tableau." "All right, I'll be Patience on a Monument, waiting for some supper." "That was Little Tommy Tucker." "No; _he_ sang for his supper. I'm not going to sing." "For Heaven's sake, _don't_! Your top notes would bring the whole crowd down here! Patty, if you'll promise to love me _some time_, I'll stop teasing you _now_." "Oh, Philip, I'd do 'most anything to have you stop teasing me now! But how _can_ I tell who I'm going to love when I get old enough to love anybody?" "Well, you don't love anybody yet, do you?" "I do _not_!" and Patty shook her head with great emphasis. "Then I have a fair show, anyway." And Philip drew the curtain that shut out the moonlight, and switched on the electric light. "Exit Romance!" he said, "and enter Comedy! Now, Patty, you're my little playmate; we're just two kiddies in the pantry, stealing jam,--that is, if we can find any jam." "The pantry's the place," said Patty; "there's nothing in the sideboard but biscuit and raisins." "They don't sound very good to me. To the pantry!" Into the pantries they went, and there, in cupboards and iceboxes, found all sorts of good things. Cold turkey, game pâté, jellies, custards, cakes, and all varieties of food. "This is ever so much more fun than moonlight," said Patty, as she perched herself on a table, there being no chair, and held a partridge wing in one hand and a macaroon in the other. "Could you find me a glass of milk, Philip?" "Yes, indeed; anything you want, my Princess." "I thought you said Jim was about," Patty remarked. "He was," returned Philip, calmly. "I saw him go upstairs as we came in the dining-room." "Did he see us?" "Sure! He grinned at me and I grinned at him. I didn't invite him to come with us,--so being a polite gentleman, he didn't come. He doesn't mind our eating up his food. He's awful hospitable, Jim is." "Well, I've had enough of his food, and now I'm going back to my downy couch. If I don't see you to-morrow before you leave,--good-bye, Philip." "That's a nice, casual way to say good-bye to a man who has just proposed to you!" "Good gracious! _Was_ that a proposal?" "Well, rather! What did you think it was? A sermon, or just a bit of oratory?" "Do you know, Philip, truly I didn't realise it at the time," and Patty's smile was very provoking, as she looked up into his face. "Would your answer have been different if you had?" he asked, eagerly. "Oh, no, not that! But I just want you to understand that I don't consider it a real proposal," and Patty laughed and ran away, leaving Philip to "clear up" the pantry. She stopped a moment in the library, long enough to get her blue letter, and then scuttled up the stairs and into her own room. CHAPTER XV A CHRISTMAS CARD Once safely behind her locked door, Patty tore open her blue envelope. It was only a card,--but not an ordinary printed Christmas card. In the upper corner was a spray of apple blossoms, exquisitely painted; and on the card were some verses, written in a hand that was small and fine, but unmistakably the same as the address on the outside of the envelope. With a little sigh of pleasure, Patty cuddled up in her arm-chair to read the Christmas message. But it proved to be not very Christmassy, after all; for this is what she read: "MY LADY OF DELIGHT "My Lady of Delight's a dainty, winsome thing; She's Queen of Summertime, and Princess of the Spring. Her lovely, smiling lips are roses set to rhyme, She has a merry, lilting laugh, like Bluebells all a-chime. The radiance of her smile, the sunshine in her eyes, Is like the Dawn of breaking Day upon the summer skies. "With roguish glances bright, all on a Summer Day, My Lady of Delight she stole my heart away; And though I humbly beg and plead with her, alack! My Lady of Delight, she will not give it back. I seem to see her now, with tangled golden curl, With dancing eyes, and smiling lips,--My Apple Blossom Girl! "Oh, Lady of Delight, I pray you, smile on me; Oh, Lady of Delight, your Knight I fain would be; Oh, Lady of Delight, you set my heart aglow. I only know I love you so, Dear Lady of Delight!" Patty read the verses over twice, with shining eyes. "I wonder if he wrote them himself," she mused. "I don't believe he did; he must have copied them. He knows an awful lot of pretty poetry like that. And yet it doesn't sound like a real poet's poetry, either. And he used to call me Apple Blossom,--such a pretty name. Philip would never think of such a thing as that. I wonder if I like Little Billee better than I do Philip. I wonder if he likes me better. But of course he can't, or he would have written to me in all this time. I haven't seen him since August, and he never wrote a word, except the stiffest kind of a line with those flowers he sent me. I thought he'd forgotten all about me! But I can't think so now,--unless he just came across this poem, and it recalled me to his mind. Well, I came awfully near not getting it! I don't see how Daisy _could_ have been so mean; I don't like that kind of a joke a bit. But of course she thought it was just a printed card, like hers and Mona's. Well, she'll never know it _isn't_,--that's one thing sure!" And then Patty tucked her card of verses under her pillow and went to sleep. The next morning, as Patty had prophesied, she slept late. Daisy peeped into her room two or three times before she finally found Patty's blue eyes open. "At last!" she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "I thought you'd never wake up! Patty, what do you think? I've been down in the library, and I can't find that card! I'm awfully sorry, truly I am; I'll give you mine if you want it." "Thank you, Daisy," and Patty smiled at the recollection of Mona's similar offer. "Bill's cards seem to be a drug in the market! But you may keep yours, and also set your mind at rest about mine; for I sneaked downstairs last night in the dark, and fished it out for myself." "You did! Oh, Patty, weren't you frightened to prowl around like that, late at night?" Patty shook with laughter. "I _was_ frightened," she said, "when I thought I saw a mouse,--but it wasn't a mouse, after all." "Oh, I wouldn't be afraid of a mouse! But you might have met a,--a burglar or something?" "No," and Patty still grinned. "I didn't meet any _burglar_. But I got the card, Daisy, so that's all right." "Was it like mine? Let me see it." "It wasn't exactly like yours, and I won't let you see it. You kept it away from me, and now it's my turn to keep it away from you. And by the way, Daisy, that was a mean thing to do, and I don't want you to do anything like that to me again!" Patty's sweet face showed an unusually stern expression, and her blue eyes looked straight into Daisy's as she spoke. "I won't, Patty; truly, I won't. I'm awfully sorry, but I did it on a sudden impulse." "I know it; and, Daisy, I want you to try not to give way to those 'sudden impulses' when they're mean ones. You have enough good, generous impulses to keep you busy. Now, you mustn't mind if your Aunt Patty lectures you a little bit, because as the teachers always say, 'it's for your own good.' And if you'll please take a chair, instead of sitting all over my feet, I'd like to have my breakfast; for I hear my pretty little Swedish Hedwig bringing it in." The smiling maid appeared with Patty's breakfast tray, followed by Mona and Adèle. "Company already!" exclaimed Patty, sitting up in bed. "Hedwig, quick, my breakfast cap,--the pink one,--and the nightingale to match." The maid threw the silken wrap around Patty's shoulders, and tucked her hair into the lace-frilled cap, which was of a Dutch shape, and made Patty look like the pictures of Holland's pretty queen. "You don't seem hungry," said Mona, as Patty toyed with her chocolate. "Now, I ate a most astonishing breakfast, because I forgot to eat my supper last night." "Well, you see," returned Patty, dropping her lashes to hide her twinkling eyes, "I didn't forget to eat my supper." The recollection of that supper in the pantry was too much for her, and she burst into laughter. "What _is_ the matter with you, Patty?" said Adèle. "You're acting like a harmless lunatic! However, I'm sent to tell you to hop up and get dressed, for one of your admirers below stairs wants you to go for a sleighride with him." "Jim?" asked Patty, looking up with a smile. "No; Mr. Van Reypen." "Oh, good gracious! I don't care about going riding with Philip; I can see _him_ in New York. I hoped it was Hal,--that's why I said Jim." "Patty," said her hostess, "you're a born coquette, and always will be! But your wiles are wasted on me. Save them for your suitors. But, truly, Mr. Van Reypen is going on an errand for me, and he said that he wanted to show you _some_ little attention while he was here, and he guessed he'd let you go along with him in the cutter." "Oh, a cutter ride," and Patty began to scramble out of bed. "That sounds rather good fun. But I'd rather go with Hal." "Well, you're candid, at any rate," said Daisy. "But as it happens, Hal and I are going to practise some music this morning." "Oh, in that case, I've nothing more to say." And Patty smiled good-naturedly at Daisy. "And I suppose Mona and Roger are going somewhere to play by themselves." "Nothing of the sort," said Mona. "Roger's going back to the city this morning, and I'm going to write letters." "But I thought Philip was going back to the city," said Patty, looking at Adèle. "He's going on the afternoon train. Go on and get dressed, Patty, and don't waste any more time." "All right," and Patty made an expeditious toilette and in little more than half an hour went downstairs equipped for her ride. She was enveloped from head to foot in a raccoon fur coat, with a jaunty hat of the same, trimmed only with a bright quill feather. "Why do we go?" she demanded, presenting herself before Philip, who was waiting in the hall. "To get butter and eggs," he returned, gravely. "The Kenerley larder is entirely empty of those two very necessary ingredients." "But why do _we_ go for them? Are there no servants to send?" "Little girls shouldn't ask questions," and without further ceremony Philip tucked her into the waiting sleigh, sprang in beside her, and took up the lines. "My, this is great!" exclaimed Patty, as the pair of fine horses went dashing down the drive, and the clear, keen winter air blew against her face. "Yes; I thought the sleighride would brace you up. And, really, there seemed to be nobody to send on this errand, so I said we'd go." "Is it far?" "No; only about five miles; we'll be back for luncheon. How did you sleep, after your late supper?" "All right," and Patty smiled back into Philip's face. "But I wasn't hungry for my breakfast." "I should say not! You ate enough last night for two little girls like you!" "There aren't two little girls like me!" said Patty, with twinkling eyes, and Philip exclaimed: "Indeed, there aren't! I say, Patty, my Princess Patty, _do_ be engaged to me, won't you?" "No, you ridiculous boy, I won't! And if you say another word on the subject, I'll be real downright mad at you!" "Very well, I won't. Now, see here, Princess, do you mean to go to this masquerade ball with me? For, if not, I'm not coming back here for New Year's." "Why, of course, I'm going with you. Who else?" "I don't know, I'm sure. But there would be plenty glad to take you." "Pooh! I know that. But I want to go with you. What shall we wear?" "I was thinking of some foolish thing, like Little Bo-Peep, you know." "Oh, I'd love to be that! A shepherdess costume, and a crook with ribbons on. But I want you to wear a satin coat and knee-breeches." "Well, I'll be Old King Cole." "No, I don't like that. I'll tell you! You be Little Boy Blue." "The Gainsborough picture?" "No, that won't do either. Oh, you be Bobby Shafto! He wears 'silver buckles on his knee,' don't you know?" "Yes, I _do_ know! And what's the next line?" "Never mind," said Patty, turning pink. "I want you to wear a real Bobby Shafto costume. So you will, won't you?" "Of course, if my Princess commands. I'll have it made at once. Can I help about yours?" "Well, you might go to see Nan, and tell her what I want, and she'll get it and send it up here. A shepherdess rig is easy enough, and there's nothing prettier." "It will be lovely. I say, which way do we turn here?" "To go to Hatton's Corners? Oh, to the right." "I think it's the left." "No, it isn't. I remember distinctly, Jim said, be sure to take the right road." "He meant right, not wrong." "Nonsense! he didn't. He meant right, not left. Turn right, Philip." They turned right, into a wide, straight road. The sleighing was fine, though not yet sufficiently packed. But, with the light cutter, and two good horses, they spun along in great shape. "There's something about sleighing that's different from anything else," remarked Patty, with the air of one expounding a great truth. "It's the exhilaration. Spinning along like this, with the snow crunching under us, beats motoring, I think." "Yes; for an occasional ride. But for all the year round, motoring is best." "That's so. Sleighing isn't much fun in July or August." "Huh! don't be silly. But, I say, Philip, where are we? Jim said we'd pass Little Falls, and then we must follow the trolley line all the way to the butter and egg house. I don't see any trolley." "Neither do I, yet. But we'll soon strike it. Ah, here we are!" "No; this is a railroad,--a steam railroad, I mean. Philip, we're off the road." "I think we are. I'm sorry I insisted on turning to the right at that corner." "You _didn't_ insist. _I_ did! But I thought it was right." "It _is_ right, dear. Anything is right, where you are." "You'd better stop talking foolishness, and find the right road." "Oh, if you call that _foolishness_!" "Well, I do! I'd rather you'd get to the egg house and back before it begins to storm. And by the looks of the sky, I'm sure it _is_ going to storm." "Oh, no! nothing like that. But I say! Princess! it's after one o'clock! Now, who would have thought it? And they expect us back to luncheon!" "After one! Oh, Philip, it _can't_ be!" "Yes, it is! Well, Patty Pink, the best thing to do, _I_ think, is to go to that house I see in the dim distance, and ask our way. The last two or three signposts have shown names _I_ never heard of." "I either," said Patty, in a meek voice. "I noticed them, but I didn't say anything, because it's my fault we went astray." "Well, never mind. We're in for a lark, that's all. 'Afar in the desert I love to ride'--what comes next, Patty?" "'With the silent Bushboy alone by my side----'" "Yes, that's it; but thank goodness, you're not silent----" "Nor a Bushboy, either. But I don't like this, Philip. We're----" "We're far frae our hame, and all that. But don't you worry, my Princess. You're with me, and so you're not lost. You know, it's better to be loved than lost." "Now, Philip, stop talking about love! It's bad enough to be lost,--and we _are_ lost,--without having somebody harping about love all the time." "Well, this isn't much of a time or place, is it? So, suppose we invade this peaceful dwelling, and inquire our latitude and longitude." They drove up a winding road to a large, old-fashioned house, and Philip jumped out at the front door. His summons on the big, brass knocker was answered by a prim little lady, with grey hair and bright, dark eyes. "Pardon me, madame," said Philip, in his best manner. "We have lost our way. Will you tell me how to reach Hatton's Corners?" "Hatton's Corners! Why, that's a good ten miles from here. Where'd you come from?" "From Fern Falls." "Then you took the wrong road at the Big Tree Fork. You'd oughter 'a' gone to the left." "H'm; you may be right. But must we go back there, or is there a shorter cut?" "No; there ain't no shorter cut. But your young lady looks cold. Won't you two come in and take a bite o' dinner, and get warm before you go on?" "Why, this is true hospitality, madame. What do you say, Patty?" Patty looked uncertain. "I don't know what to say," she replied, hesitatingly. "I _am_ cold; but I'm afraid it would delay us so long that Adèle will worry about us. I think we'd better jog along." But then another old lady appeared. She was rounder, rosier, plumper, and jollier than the first, and she cried out, heartily: "Jog along? Well, I reckon not! I jest waited to slip into my shoes,--my feet's awful tender,--and then I come right out here to see what's goin' on. Now, you two young folks come right in, and set a spell. 'Tain't often we get a chance to have comp'ny,--and on chicken pie day, too!" "Whew, chicken pie!" exclaimed Philip. "How about it, Patty?" "Have you a telephone?" asked Patty, with a sudden inspiration. "Yes, miss. Now you jest come along. 'Kiah, the hired man, he'll look after your horses, and I'm free to confess they need a rest and a feed, even if you don't." "That's so," said Philip. "We must have come twelve or fifteen miles." "It's all o' that from Fern Falls. My, I'm right down glad to look after you two. You do seem to need it." The speaker's twinkling dark eyes looked at her two visitors with such comprehension that Patty blushed and Philip smiled. "We're from Mr. Kenerley's house," he explained,--"guests there, you know. And we started for Hatton's Corners to get some butter and eggs--and somehow, we took the wrong turn----" "It was all my fault," confessed Patty. "I insisted on coming this way, though Mr. Van Reypen thought the other was right." "Well, well, never mind! It'll jest be a nice, smart trip back after dinner. I'm Mrs. Fay, and this is my sister, Miss Wilhelmina Winthrop. She's got a longer name than I have, but I've got a longer head." They were ushered into the old-fashioned sitting-room, with its Brussels carpet showing huge baskets of flowers; its heterogeneous furniture, some chairs haircloth and black walnut, and others cane-seated, with rep cushions tied on; marble tables, of course; and an old sofa, with well-worn pillows and rugs. But the place had a hospitable air, and the two hostesses were fairly beaming with delight at this opportunity for entertainment. Miss Winthrop carried Patty off to her own bedroom. "You're jest all tuckered out, I can see," she said, hovering around her like a clucking hen; "but a wash-up and a good dish o' chicken pie will put you all to rights again." "But I must telephone before we eat dinner," said Patty. "So you shall,--so you shall. Now, don't you worry the leastest mite about anything." "How kind you are!" exclaimed Patty, smiling on the happy little old lady. "I suppose you belong to the real old New England Winthrops?" "Yes, and we're mighty proud of our name. I was so much so that I never would change it,"--and she chuckled. "Sister, though, she thought Fay was prettier." "Fay _is_ pretty," said Patty, cordially, "and now, if I may, I'll telephone, for I know our people will be wondering where we are." "All right, Miss Fairfield; come right along." But in returning to the sitting-room, Patty found Philip was already at the telephone. "Yep," he was saying, "lost our way; took wrong turning at Big Tree Fork. Brought up, somehow, at Mrs. Fay's. Accepted invitation to dinner,--chicken pie!--Start back immediately after the E in Pie! See? Expect us when we get there. Will accumulate a butter and a egg or two, on our way home. Love to all. Philip." He concluded his harangue, and turned to Patty. "All serene on the Potomac, Patty Pink! I told them all it was necessary for them to know; and if they desire further information, they can call us up. They know where we are. Me for the chicken pie!" CHAPTER XVI STORMBOUND The two old ladies were not of the quaint type, nor was their home picturesque. The place and the people were merely old-fashioned, and they were almost primitive in their ways. They were kind-hearted and hospitable, but they were of the rugged New England class that has lost the charm of its Colonial ancestry. The dinner was wholesome and plentiful, but with no variety, and served in the plainest fashion. The chicken pie was delicious, but it had no accompaniments except home-made hot biscuit and coffee with thick, rich, country cream. "I always say," said Miss Winthrop, as she settled herself at the table, "that chicken pie is a whole meal in itself, without any bothersome side-dishes. I say it's meat and drink both; but sister says she just can't enjoy it 'thout she has a cup of coffee alongside of it. Well, I've no objections to the coffee, I'm sure, but I'm free to admit it does seem superfluous. Still, with company so, it ain't so much out of place." "I'm sorry if we've made you any extra trouble," said Patty, giving Miss Winthrop one of her best smiles; "but _I'm_ free to confess that this is the most wonderful coffee that I've ever tasted, and I think it goes specially well with the pie. And as for these light biscuit, they're just puffs of lusciousness! Aren't they, Philip?" "They are, indeed! All you say is true, but both coffee and biscuit pale beside the glory of this chicken pie! There never _was_ such another!" Mrs. Fay beamed with delight at these generous compliments, and said, complacently, "Yes, they ain't many can make chicken pie like mine, if I do say it. My, ain't it lucky you young people happened along, to-day of all days! And land knows, I don't want you to go away right off. I'd like you to set a spell after dinner. But I feel it my bounden duty to tell you that 'Kiah says there's a storm a-brewin'. But I don't think you need start off before, say, three o'clock, anyway." "Three o'clock will do nicely," returned Philip, gaily. "That will give us time to stop at Hatton's Corners and get home before dark. Personally, I'm not in a bit of a hurry." "No?" And Mrs. Fay looked quizzically at her guests. "I just reckon, young man, that you ain't one mite sorry that you lost your way and had this little outing with your young lady?" "Indeed I'm not sorry, Mrs. Fay; and beside our little outing, we're having a pleasant visit with you, and we're enjoying every minute of it." "Indeed we are," said Patty, glancing out of the window as she spoke. "But it's beginning to snow already, and I don't think we'd better wait until three o'clock." "Land's sake!" and Miss Winthrop turned to look out of the window behind her. "So it is snowing! And when it begins that way, with fine flakes, slanting crossways, it means business! I dunno as you can hardly dare venture on a twelve-mile ride in the face of this. 'Pears to me it's going to be a blizzard." "Nonsense, Mina; you do always look on the dark side," expostulated her sister. "Now _I_ think 'tain't nothing but a flurry, and by then dinner is over, it'll be bright sunshine again. Now, have your plates filled up, friends, and try and make out a meal." Mrs. Fay fairly beamed with hospitality as she urged more viands upon her guests. The table appointments were of the plainest, being thick white china and coarse table napery, with plated silverware. Patty had expected thin little old teaspoons of hall-marked silver, and old blue or perhaps copper-lustre teacups, but this household was not of that sort. Everything seemed to date from the early seventies, and Patty wondered why there were no old Winthrop heirlooms in the family. She brought the conversation round to antiques, and Mrs. Fay remarked, decidedly: "I just can't bear old-fashioned things. I come into quite a lot of old mahogany furniture and pewter and dishes and things when my grandfather died. But when I got married, I had an auction and sold everything. Then I took the money and bought a whole new outfit. I believe in going right along with the times. 'Course those old things were all right for grandfather, but when I married, I'm free to confess, I wanted things that were in style then. So I bought a real tasty outfit, and I've kept it careful, and it's pretty near as good as new now." She looked around with pride at her dining-room furnishings, which seemed to Patty about the worst she had ever seen. But she smiled at her hostess, and said, cordially: "I _do_ think it's nice to have just what you want; and I think we do get attached to our own things. Have you lived here long?" "Land, yes! Nearly all my life. Mr. Fay, he's been dead twenty-five years; so sister and me we live here together, as contented as you please. We have a telephone and a rural delivery, so you see it's just the same as if we were right in town. Now, if you really won't eat any more pie, let's go into the sittin'-room a spell." From the sitting-room windows the view of the storm seemed more serious. The sky was black, the wind was blowing a gale, and the snow-flurry had grown thicker. In fact, it was a hard snowstorm, and Miss Winthrop's fear of a blizzard did not seem entirely unfounded. The young people took it lightly, however. "There's no use worrying," said Patty. "We ought to be thankful, Philip, that we're under shelter, and with such kind friends. You'll keep us till the storm is over, won't you, Mrs. Fay?" "Yes, and glad to. You just can't think of starting now, so you might as well settle down and make the best of it. Want to telephone to your people again?" "We will after a while; but there's no use calling them up now. Let's wait and see whether the storm grows worse or better. Why, if it's a blizzard, we may have to stay here all night!" "Don't let that worry you none," and Mrs. Fay swung back and forth complacently in her plush patent-rocker. "We got two spare bedrooms, and I'll just be tickled to death to put you up over night. You're just like a streak of sunshine in the house, Miss Fairfield, and I'm glad to have you as long as you'll stay." "I wish you'd call me a streak of sunshine," said Philip. "I'd love to be called that." "Well, you're bright enough," and Mrs. Fay looked at him, serenely. "But you're a different kind of a streak." "A streak of lightning, I guess, if need be," said Miss Winthrop, nodding her head at Philip, as if she appreciated his capabilities. "I'm quick at some things," said Philip, modestly. "But, jiminy crickets! I don't believe we're going to be very quick getting away from here! Just look at the storm, _now_!" The fury of the elements had increased. The wind was a raging northern blast, and the snow was already piled in drifts. It was, in fact, a blizzard in a small way, and was rapidly growing. "But never mind the weather, so long as we're together," sang Patty with a little trill, as she danced about the room. Then she seated herself at the old, square piano, and began to sing snatches of gay songs. "My land! How pretty you do sing," said Miss Winthrop, who was leaning on the end of the piano, listening delightedly. "Oh, sing more, won't you? I don't know when I've had such a treat." So Patty sang several of her prettiest songs, and the two old ladies were enchanted. Moreover, Eliza, the maid-of-all-work, and 'Kiah, the hired man, appeared in the doorway of the sitting-room and listened too. "Come on, Philip; let's give them a duet," and Patty broke into some rollicking college songs, in which Philip joined. Glad to be able to please their kind entertainers, they kept on singing for an hour or more. "Well, that was great!" exclaimed Mrs. Fay, as Patty rose at last from the piano stool. "I used to sing some, and he used to sing bass. My, but we had nice times singing together there at that same piano. You two just made me think of it all over again. I think it's awful nice for two to sing together." "Yes, we're awfully fond of singing together," said Philip, with a glance at Patty, half mischievous, half tender, whereat Patty blushed. "You needn't tell me," said Mrs. Fay, nodding her head. "I see just how it is with you two. You can't hide it, you know, so you needn't to try." "Oh, I don't want to hide anything, I'm sure," said Philip. But Patty said, "Don't be foolish, Philip; there's nothing to hide! You're mistaken, Mrs. Fay, if you think we're anything more than friends." "Oh, land, child, I know what that means! Maybe you ain't ready to say yes yet, but you will soon. Well, it ain't none of my business, but I'm free to confess you are as proper-lookin' a young couple as I'd want to meet; and mighty well suited to each other." "That's what I think," began Philip, but Patty turned the subject and went back to the weather, which was always a safe ground for conversation, if not safe to go out into. "Well," she said, going to the window for the fourteenth time; "it's perfectly hopeless to think of starting. And it's after four now, and it's blowing great guns and snowing like all possessed! Mrs. Fay, we'll simply have to accept your hospitality for the night. Now I think I'll telephone Adèle that we're stormbound." But though Patty called and called, she could get no answer from the telephone Central. "Guess the wires must be down," said Miss Winthrop. "They broke down last winter with a snow that came sudden, just like this, and 'twas a week before we got it fixed." "Let me try," and Philip took the receiver from Patty's hand. But it made no difference who tried, they could get no answer of any kind. "Oh, well," said Philip, as he hung up the receiver again, "it doesn't matter much. They know we're safe, and they know where we are, and they know we couldn't start out in a storm like this." "Maybe they'll come for us with a motor," suggested Patty. "They might if we were nearer. But a motor would get stalled before it could get over here and back again in these drifts. It's an awful storm, Patty, and the sooner you make up your mind that we can't go home to-night, the better for all concerned." "My mind's made up, then," and Patty danced about the room. "I don't mind a bit! I think it's a lark. Do you have feather beds, Mrs. Fay?--I mean the kind you climb up to with step-ladders." "Land no, child! We ain't old-fashioned folks, you know. We have springs and mattresses just like you do at home. Well, I'm sorry if your folks are worried, but I'm glad to have you young people stay the night. Maybe this evening, you'll sing for us some more." "We will," said Philip. "We'll sing everything we know, and then make up some." Once having made up her mind to the inevitable, Patty ceased bothering about it, and proceeded to enjoy herself and to entertain everybody else. She chatted pleasantly with the old lady, she coquetted with Philip, and finally wandered out into the kitchen to make friends with Eliza. "Let me help you get supper," she said, for, to tell the truth, the novelty of the situation had passed, and Patty began to feel a little bored. "Supper ain't nothin' to get, miss," returned Eliza, a rawboned, countrified girl who was shy in the presence of this city lady. "Well, let me help you, anyway. Mayn't I set the table?" "I'm afraid you wouldn't know where the things was. Here, take this dish and go down cellar for the butter, if so be's you have to do somethin'. It's in a kag, underneath the swing-shelf." "Swing-shelf?" said Patty, interested--"what is a swing-shelf?" "Why, a shelf hanging from the ceiling, to keep things on." "But why does it hang from the ceiling? I never heard of such a thing." "Why, so the rats or mice can't get at the things." "Rats or mice!" and Patty gave a wild scream. "Here, take your plate, Eliza. I wouldn't go down there for a million billion dollars!" Patty ran back to the sitting-room. "Oh, Philip," she cried, "they have rats and mice! Can't we go home? I don't mind the storm!" "There, there, Patty," said Philip, meeting her half-way across the room, and taking her hand in his. "Don't be silly!" "I'm _not_ silly! But I _can't_ stay where they keep rats and mice! Why, Philip, they _expect_ them. They build high shelves on purpose for them." "You must excuse this little girl, Mrs. Fay," said Philip. "She's really sensible in most ways, but she's an absolute idiot about mice, and she can't help it. Why, the other night----" Patty drew her hand away from Philip's clasp, and put it over his mouth. "Stop!" she said, blushing furiously. "Don't you say another word! I'm _not_ afraid of mice, Mrs. Fay." "There, there, child; I know you are, and I don't blame you a mite. I am, too, or leastways, I used to be. I've kinder got over it of late years. But I know just how you feel. Now, let me tell you; _honest_, never a mouse dares show the tip of his nose outside the cellar! If you don't go down there, you're as safe as you would be up in a balloon. And I don't count none the less on you for acting skittish about 'em." "I don't mind it, either," said Philip, who was still holding Patty's hand by way of reassurance. "I shouldn't mind if you acted skittisher yet." But Patty drew her hand away, declaring that Mrs. Fay had quieted her fears entirely, and that if Eliza would promise to keep the cellar door shut, she wouldn't give another thought to the dreaded animals. After supper, the four played a game of old-fashioned whist, which delighted the two old ladies, though it seemed strange to Patty and Philip, who were both good bridge players. Then there was more music, and at ten o'clock Miss Winthrop informed them that it was bedtime. With considerable pride she took Patty up to the best spare room. "Now, I hope you'll be comfortable," she said, "and I'm sure you will be. Here's my best night-gown for you, and a dressing-gown and slippers. I don't need 'em,--I can get along. And here's a brush and comb. And now, that's everything you want, isn't it?" Patty was touched at the kindliness of the old lady, and though inwardly amused at the meagerness of her night appointments, she said, gratefully, "You're so kind to me, Miss Winthrop. Truly, I do appreciate it." "You sweet little thing," returned the old lady. "Now let me unhook you,--I should admire to do so." So Miss Winthrop assisted Patty to undress, and finally, after minute directions about the turning down and blowing out of the kerosene lamp, she went away. When Patty surveyed herself in the mirror, she almost laughed aloud. The night-dress was of thick, unbleached muslin, made with tight bands to button around the neck and wrists. These bands were edged with a row of narrow tatting; and it was this trimming, Patty felt sure, that differentiated Miss Winthrop's best night-gown from her others. Then Patty tried on the dressing-gown, which was of dark grey flannel. This, too, was severely plain, though voluminous in shape; and the slippers were of black felt, and quite large enough for Patty to put both feet in one. She arrayed herself in these things and gave way to silent laughter as she pirouetted across the room. But her amusement at the unattractive garments in no way lessened her real appreciation of the gentle kindliness and hospitality that had been accorded to her. At last she tucked herself into bed, and rolling over on the nubbly mattress and creaky springs, she almost wished that it had been a feather bed. But she was soon asleep, and thought no more about anything until morning. Breakfast was at half-past seven, and after that, the long morning dragged. The fun and novelty had worn off, and Patty was anxious to get back to Fern Falls. She was bright and entertaining as ever, but the spontaneous enthusiasm of the day before had vanished. But it was impossible to start that morning, Philip said. The roads were piled high with drifts, and almost impassable. "But why can't we break the roads?" asked Patty. "Somebody has to do it, and I'm sure Jim's horses are as good as anybody's." "Little girls mustn't advise on matters which they know nothing about," said Philip, unable to resist the temptation to tease her. Patty pouted a little, and then, with a sudden resolution, was her own sunny self again. "All right, Philip," she said, smiling at him. "I know you'll start as soon as it's possible. When will that be?" "Perhaps we can go this afternoon, dear; right after dinner, maybe. The man thinks the roads will be broken by that time." The storm had ceased, and it was cloudy most of the morning, but about noon the sun came out, and by two o'clock they prepared to start. The two kind old ladies were sorry to see them go, and begged them to come again some time to visit them. Patty said good-bye with expressions of real and honestly meant gratitude, for surely Mrs. Fay and her sister had been kindness itself to their young guests. "But goodness, gracious, Philip," Patty exclaimed, as they went flying down the road, "if I had had to stay there another night, I should have died!" "Why, Patty, it wasn't so bad. Of course, they are primitive and old-fashioned people; but they are true ladies, even if not very highly educated. And their hospitality was simply unlimited." "Yes, I know all that," said Patty, impatiently; "but I was bored to death." "Well, you didn't show it; you were sweet as a peach to those two people, and they'll always love you for it." "Oh, of course I wouldn't be impolite; but I'm glad we're started for home." "Well, I'm not. Patty, I just enjoyed every minute,--because I was there with you. Dear, you don't _know_ what it meant to me." "Now, Philip," and Patty turned to flash a twinkling smile at him, "we have a twelve-mile drive ahead of us, besides gathering the eggs. Now, if you're going to say things like that to me all that twelve miles, I'm going to jump right out into this snowbank and stay there till somebody comes along and picks me up." "But, Patty, I _must_ say these things to you." "Then, I _must_ jump." "But wait a minute, dear; before you jump, won't you just tell me that I may have a little hope that some day you'll promise to be my own little Patty forever?" "Philip, I _can't_ say anything like that, and I _wish_ you wouldn't tease me. If those snowbanks didn't look so dreadfully cold----" "But they _are_ cold. If you don't believe it, I will wait while you try one. But, Patty, anyway, tell me this. If I stop teasing you now, will you give me an answer when I come back at New Year's? You know, I must take that five-thirty train this afternoon, and I shan't see you again till next week. Will you give me an answer then?" "'Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do!'" sang Patty, with a saucy smile at him. "No, I don't want Daisy's answer, I want yours. Now, you think it over through the week, and when I come up next Tuesday, you be ready to say, 'Yes, Philip, you may hope, and some day I'll make your hope come true.'" "That's an awful long speech to learn by heart," said Patty, musingly. "But you needn't learn it word for word; just say something from your own heart that means the same." "Well," said Patty, "next Tuesday I'll look into my heart and see what's there; and if there's anything for you, I'll tell you." Philip was forced to be content with this, for Patty suddenly changed the subject, and began to chatter merry nonsense that afforded no opportunity for romance. The roads were only a little broken, and the going was hard, because of occasional big drifts, but along some wind-swept stretches they made fairly good time. "But I say," said Philip; "we'll have to cut out the butter and egg chapter! I simply _must_ get that five-thirty, and I can't do it if we go around by Hatton's Corners." "All right," returned Patty. "I'll put it up to Adèle that we just couldn't do it; and I'll tell you what, Philip, we'll go right to the station, and you take the train there without going to the Kenerleys' at all. They'll send your things down to-morrow." "That would be the safer way. But how will you get home from the station?" "Oh, I'll telephone from the station office, and they'll send Martin, or somebody, after me." "But you have to wait so long. Here's a better plan. Let's stop at the Barclay Inn, and telephone from there. Then when we reach the station, Martin or somebody will be there for you." Patty agreed, and when they reached the Barclay Inn, a few miles from Fern Falls, they went in to telephone. "We're on our way home," said Patty, after she had succeeded in getting a connection. "Well, I should think it was time!" exclaimed Adèle. "You don't know what you've missed! Where are you?" "At Barclay Inn; and we're in an awful hurry. Philip is going to take the five-thirty from the station, and you send somebody there to meet me and drive the horses home, will you! And what did I miss? And _you'll_ miss the butter and eggs, because we didn't get them." "But where have you been? We tried all yesterday to get you on the telephone, and all this morning, too." "Yes, I know; the wires broke down. But everything's all right. We stayed at Mrs. Fay's. I'll tell you all about it when I see you. Be sure to have me met at the station. Good-bye." Patty hung up the receiver and hurried back to Philip. "We'll have to hustle to catch that train," he said, as he tucked her in the sleigh. "Did you get Adèle?" "Yes; she'll send some one to meet me. She says I missed something. Do you suppose they had a party last night in all that blizzard?" "Well, it's just as well for you to miss a party once in a while; you have plenty of them. And I like the party I was at better than any I ever went to." The roads were much better where they were travelling now, and they reached the station in time for Philip's train. But it was a close connection, for the train was already in the station, and as Philip swung aboard, he saw Martin and Hal Ferris coming in another sleigh. "There they are!" he called to Patty. "It's all right, good-bye." "Good-bye," she called back, and then the train pulled out. "Well, you _did_ cut up a pretty trick!" exclaimed Hal Ferris, as he came up to her. "Now, you jump in here with me, and I'll drive you home, and let Martin look after your horses. They must be pretty well done up. I would have brought a motor, but the sleighing's fine, and the motoring isn't. Hop in." Patty hopped in, and in a moment they were flying along toward home. "What did I miss?" she asked. "Did you have a party last night?" "Party! in that storm! Rather not." "Well, what _did_ I miss?" "What makes you think you missed anything?" "Adèle told me so, over the telephone." "Well, then, let Adèle tell you what it was. How could I possibly know?" "But what did you do last night?" "Nothing much; sat around, sang a little, and talked,--and I guess that's all." "Who was there? Didn't Roger go home?" "Yes; Roger went down on the morning train, just after you started on your wild career." "Well, who _was_ there? Chub, I know you're keeping something from me. Now, tell me what it is!" "Do you really want to know, Patty? Well, Bill Farnsworth was there." "What!" and Patty nearly fell out of the sleigh in astonishment. "Bill Farnsworth?" "Yes; he came unexpectedly yesterday afternoon. Could only stay twenty-four hours, and went back to-day on the two o'clock train." Patty wondered to herself why she felt as if something awful had happened. She couldn't realise that Bill had been there, and had gone away, and she hadn't seen him! What a cruel coincidence that it should have been just at the time when she was away. But her pride came to her rescue. She had no intention of letting Hal Ferris or anybody else know that she cared. So she said, lightly: "Well, of all things! Didn't anybody expect him?" "No; he thought he'd surprise us. He was awfully cut up that you weren't there." "Oh, he was! Well, why didn't you send for me?" "Send for you! And you miles away, and a blizzard blizzing like fury! But we spent hours hanging over the telephone, trying to get word to you." "The wires were down," said Patty, thinking of the uninteresting evening she had spent, when she might have been talking to Little Billee. "They sure were! We tried and tried, but we couldn't get a peep out of you. Daisy said it was because you were so wrapped up in Philip that you wouldn't answer the old telephone." Patty's pretty face hardened a little as she thought how Daisy would delight in making such a speech as that before Farnsworth. "I say, Patty, are you cut up about this? Did you want to see Big Bill, specially?" "Oh, no, no," said Patty, smiling again. "I only thought it seemed funny that he happened to come when I happened to be away." "Yes, I know; but of course nobody could help it. He came East on a flying business trip. Tried to get here for Christmas, but couldn't make it. He waited over a day, just to skip up here and back; said he wanted to see us all. But he had to take the two o'clock back to New York to-day, and I believe he starts to-night for Arizona. He's a great fellow, Bill is. You like him, don't you, Patty?" "Yes, I like him," said Patty, simply. "I've known him for years, you know. Giant Greatheart, we used to call him. So big and good, you know. Always doing something for somebody, and generous as he can be. Well, he's making good out in the mines. I don't know exactly what he's doing, but he's in a fair way to be a rich man. He's connected with some big company, and he's working with all his might. And when you say that about Big Bill Farnsworth, it means a good deal." CHAPTER XVII THE COUNTRY CLUB BALL Before her mirror, Patty was putting the last touches to her Bo-Peep costume, and it must be confessed she was viewing the effect with admiration. The gilt-framed glass gave back a lovely picture. The costume was one of the prettiest Patty had ever worn, and was exceedingly becoming. There was a short, quilted skirt of white satin and a panniered overdress of gay, flowered silk, caught up with blue bows. A little laced bodice and white chemisette completed the dress. Then there was a broad-leafed shepherdess hat, trimmed with flowers, and under this Patty's gold curls were bunched up on either side and tied with blue ribbons. She wore high-heeled, buckled slippers, and carried a long, white crook, trimmed with blossoms and fluttering ribbons. She pranced and turned in front of the mirror, decidedly satisfied with the whole effect. Then she caught up her basket of flowers, which she carried because it added a pretty touch, and went downstairs. It was a gay-looking party that waited for her in the hall. The two Misses Crosby had been there to dinner, and also Mr. Hoyt and Mr. Collins, and these, with the house party, were now all arrayed in their fancy dress. As they had agreed on Christmas Day, they were all in pairs, and as of course there could be no secrecy among them, they had not yet put on their masks. Mona and Roger were very magnificent as Queen Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh. Though Mona was not at all the type of the red-haired queen, she looked very handsome in the regal robes and great, flaring collar, while Roger was a veritable courtier in his picturesque garb. Daisy and Mr. Collins were Pierrette and Pierrot. Their costumes were black and white, Frenchy-looking affairs, with tossing pompons and peaked caps. The elder Miss Crosby and Jim Kenerley were Indians; and the warlike brave and the young Indian maiden looked as if they might have stepped out of the earliest pages of our country's history. The other Miss Crosby and Hal Ferris were Italian peasants in national costume. Adèle and Mr. Hoyt were the most simply dressed of all, but in their plain Puritan garb they were effective and distinguished looking. Perhaps, however, it was Philip Van Reypen whose costume received the greatest applause. He had copied a picture of Bobby Shafto that had been painted by a frivolous-minded artist, and his embroidered and belaced coat of light blue silk was remindful of the period of the gayest Louis. He wore white satin knee-breeches, white silk stockings, and black slippers with enormous buckles. In accordance with the song, there were large silver buckles at his knees; and his tri-corne hat was a very marvel of gold lace and feathers. Full lace ruffles flapped at his throat and wrists, and altogether he was an absolute dandy. "You look like a valentine," said Patty, "or a birthday cake." "You do look good enough to eat," declared Adèle, as she took in the gorgeous costume. "Yes, I flatter myself it's the very last touch of Shaftoism," said Philip, strutting about with an affected gait. "I say, Patty, you're all kinds of a peach yourself." "Yes, this frock is all right," said Patty, "but you simply take my breath away, Phil. I didn't know anybody could look so beautiful! I wish men dressed that way nowadays." And then everybody admired everybody else until it was time to start. Then each put on a little mask, which they were to wear at the ball until supper-time. Patty's was of light blue silk with a short fall of lace, and Philip's was of black satin. "I can't wear this thing all the way there," declared Patty, taking hers off again. "Well, put it on just before you get there," enjoined Adèle. "I've taken great care that no one should know a word about our costumes, and now if we are well masked they won't be able to guess who we are. Even though they know we all came from our house, there are so many of us, they can't tell us apart." The Country Club was a handsome, spacious building, well away from the outskirts of the town. But the motors took them there swiftly, and soon they joined the large party of maskers in the Club ballroom. There were perhaps a hundred people there, and Patty felt there was little risk of being recognised. She did not know many of the Fern Falls people, anyway, and they would scarcely know her in her disguise. "Of course the first dance is mine," said Philip, as the music began. But after that dance was over, Patty was besieged by would-be partners. Historical characters, foreigners, clowns, monks, and knights in armour begged for dances with Little Bo-Peep. Patty was so engrossed in looking at these wonderful personages, that she scarcely noticed who put their names on her card. And in truth it made little difference, as none of the men put their real names, and she hadn't the slightest idea who they were. "Help yourselves," she said, laughing, "to the dances before supper; but don't touch the other side of the card. After the masks are off, I shall have some say, myself, as to my partners!" So the first half of the dances were variously signed for by Columbus and Aladdin and Brother Sebastian and Jack Pudding and other such names. During each dance Patty would try to discover the identity of her partner, but as she only succeeded in one or two cases, she gave it up. "For it doesn't make the slightest difference who you are," she said, as she danced with Brother Sebastian, who was garbed as a Friar of Orders Grey. "No," he returned, in a hollow, sepulchral voice, which he seemed to think suited to his monk's attire. "And you needn't try to disguise your voice so desperately," said Patty, laughing gaily, "for probably I don't know you, anyhow. And you don't know me, do you?" "I don't know your name," said the monk, still in hollow tones, "but I know you're a dancer from the professional stage, and not just a young woman in private life." "Good gracious!" cried Patty, horrified. "I'm nothing of the sort! I'm a simple-minded little country girl, and I dance because I can't help it. I love to dance, but I must say that a monk's robe on one's partner is a little troublesome. I think all the time I'm going to trip on it." "Oh, all right; I'll fix that," said the monk, and he held up the skirts of his long robe until they cleared the floor. "That's better," said Patty, "but it does spoil the picturesqueness of your costume. Let's promenade for a while, and then you can let your robes drag in proper monkian fashion." "Much obliged to you for not saying monkey fashion! I certainly do feel foolish, dressed up in this rig." "Why, you ought not to, in that plain gown. Just look at the things some of the men have on!" "I know it. Look at that court jester; he must feel a fool!" "But that's his part," laughed Patty; "rather clever, I think, to dress as a fool, and then if you feel like a fool, you're right in your part." "I say, Miss Bo-Peep, you're clever, aren't you?" "Not so very; but when talking to a learned monk, I try to be as wise as I can. Oh, look at that stunning big man,--who is he?" "Looks like one of the patriarchs; but I guess he's meant for King Lear. See the wreath of flowers on his white hair." "Did Lear wear flowers? I thought he wore a crown." "Tut! tut! Little Bo-Peep, you must brush up your Shakespeare. Don't you know King Lear became a little troubled in his head, and adorned himself with a garland?" "Well, he's awfully picturesque," said Patty, quite undisturbed by her ignorance of the play, and looking admiringly at Lear's magnificent court robes of velvet and ermine, and his long, flowing white hair and beard, and the garland of flowers that lay loosely on the glistening white wig and trailed down behind. As they neared the picturesque figure, King Lear bowed low before Patty, and held out his hand for her dance card. It was the rule of the ball not to speak, but to indicate invitations by gestures. However, Patty had no reason to keep silent, as they were nearly all strangers, so she laughed, and spoke right out: "I'd gladly give you a dance, King Lear, but I haven't one left." With another courtly bow, King Lear still seemed to insist on his wish, and he took up her card, which she had tied to her crook by a narrow ribbon. With surprise he saw the whole second page blank, and pointed to it with an accusing gesture. "Ah, yes," returned Patty, smiling, "but those are for my friends after I know them. We unmask at supper-time, and then I shall use some discrimination in bestowing my dances. If you want one of those you must ask me for it after supper." King Lear bowed submissively to Patty's decree, and was about to move away, when a sudden thought struck him. He picked up Patty's card again, and indicated a space between the last dance and the supper. "Oh, I know what you mean," cried Patty. "You mean an 'extra.' But I don't think they'll have any. And, anyway, I never engage for extras. If they do have one, and you happen to be around, I'll give it to you;--that's all I can say." And then Patty's next partner came, and she danced away with him, leaving King Lear making his sweeping, impressive bows. "Who is he?" asked Patty, of Roger, who chanced to be her partner this time. "Don't know, I'm sure; but I know scarcely any of the people up here. They seem to be a fine crowd, though. Have you noticed the Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra? There she is now. Isn't she stunning?" Patty looked round, to see a tall, majestic woman, dressed as Zenobia. Her tiny mask hid only her eyes, and her beautiful, classic face well accorded with the character she had chosen. "She's beautiful!" declared Patty, with heartfelt admiration. "I wish I was big and stunning, Roger, instead of a little scrap of humanity." "What a silly you are, Patty Pink! Now, I've no doubt that tall, majestic-looking creature wishes she could be a little fairy, like you." "But a big woman is so much more graceful and dignified." "Patty, I do believe you're fishing! And I _know_ you're talking nonsense! Dignified isn't just the term I should apply to you,--but if there's anybody more graceful than you are, I've yet to see her." "Oh, Roger, that's dear of you. You know very well, I hate flattery or compliments, but when a real friend says a nice thing it does me good. And, truly, it's the regret of my life, that I'm not about six inches taller. There, look at Zenobia now. She's walking with that King Lear. Aren't they a stunning couple?" "Yes, they are. But if I were you, I wouldn't be envious of other women's attractions. You have quite enough of your own." "Never mind about me," said Patty, suddenly realising that she was talking foolishly. "Let's talk about Mona. She's looking beautiful to-night, Roger." "She always does," and Roger had a strange thrill in his voice, that struck a sympathetic chord in Patty's heart. "What about her, Roger? Isn't she good to you?" "Not very. She's capricious, Patty; sometimes awfully kind, and then again she says things that cut deep. Patty, do you think she really cares for that Lansing man?" "I don't know, Roger. I can't make Mona out at all, lately. She used to be so frank and open with me, and now she never talks confidences at all." "Well, I can't understand her, either. But here comes Mr. Collins, looking for you, Patty. Is only half of this dance mine?" "Yes, Roger. I had to chop up every one, to-night. You may have one after supper, if you like." Patty whirled through the various dances, and at the last one before supper she found herself again with Philip Van Reypen. "Why, I didn't know this was yours!" she cried, looking at her card, where, sure enough, she saw the initials B. S. "It sure is mine," returned Bobby Shafto; "but we're not going to dance it." "Why not, and what are we going to do?" "We're going to wander away into the conservatory." "There isn't any conservatory. This is a club-house, you know." "Well, they've fixed up the gymnasium, so it's almost a conservatory. It's full of palms and flowers and things, and it makes a perfectly good imitation." "But why do we go there?" asked Patty, as Philip led her away from the dancing-room. "Oh, to settle affairs of state." He led her to the gymnasium, and sure enough, tall palms and flowering plants had been arranged to form little nooks and bowers, which were evidently intended for tête-à-tête conversations. "You know," Philip began, as they found a pleasant seat, under some palms, "you know, Patty, you promised me something." "Didn't, neither." "Yes, you did, and I'm going to hold you to your promise. You promised----" "'Rose, you promised!'" sang Patty, humming a foolish little song that was an old-fashioned favourite. "Yes, you _did_ promise, you exasperating little Rose, you! And I'm going to keep you prisoner here, until you make it good! Patty, you said you'd look into your heart, and tell me what you found there." "Goodness me, Philip, did I really say that? Well, it will take me an awful long while to tell you all that's in it." "Really, Patty? Did you find so much?" "Yes, heaps of things." "But I mean about me." "Oh, about you! Why, I don't know that there's anything there at all about you." "Oh, yes, there is; you can't fool me that way. Now, Patty, do be serious. Look in your heart, and see if there isn't a little love for me?" Patty sat very still, and closed her eyes, as Philip could see through the holes in her blue mask. Then she opened them, and said, with a smile: "I looked and hunted good, Philip, and I can't find a bit of love for you. But there's an awful big, nice, warm friendship, if you care about that." "I do care about that, Patty. I care very much for it, but I want more." Just at that moment King Lear and Zenobia strolled past them, and Patty almost forgot Philip as she gazed after the two majestic figures. "Patty," he said, recalling her attention, "Patty, dear, I say I want more." "Piggy-wig!" exclaimed Patty, with her blue eyes twinkling at him through the mask. "More what? I was looking at King Lear, and I lost the thread of your discourse, Philip." "Patty Fairfield, I'd like to shake you! Don't you _know_ what I'm asking of you?" "Well, even if I do, I must say, Philip, that I can't carry on a serious conversation with a mask on. Now, you know, they take these things off pretty soon, and then----" "And then may I ask you again, Patty, and will you listen to me and answer me?" "Dunno. I make no promises. Philip, this dance is over. I expect they're going to unmask now. Come on, let's go back to our crowd." But just as they rose to go, Jim Kenerley approached, and King Lear was with him. "Little Bo-Peep," said the big Indian, "King Lear tells me that you half promised him an extra, if there should be one." "As it was only half a promise, then it means only half a dance," said Patty, turning her laughing blue eyes to the majestic, flower-crowned King. "Is there going to be an extra, Jim,--I mean Chief Mudjokivis, or whatever your Indian name is?" "I don't know, Bo-Peep. I'll go and see." Jim went away, and as Philip had already gone, Patty was left alone with the white-haired King. With a slow, majestic air, he touched her gently on the arm, and motioned for her to be seated. Then he sat down beside her, and through the eyeholes of his mask, he looked straight into her eyes. At his intent gaze, Patty felt almost frightened, but as her eyes met his own, she became conscious of something familiar in the blue eyes that looked at her, and then she heard King Lear whisper, softly: "Apple Blossom!" Patty fairly jumped; then, seeing the smile that came into his eyes, she put out both hands to King Lear, and said, gladly: "Bill! Little Billee! Oh, I _am_ glad to see you!" "Are you, really?" And Bill Farnsworth's voice had a slight tremor in it. "Are you sure of that, my girl?" "Of course I am," and Patty had regained her gay demeanour, which she had lost in her moment of intense surprise. "Oh, of course I am! I was so sorry to have missed you last week. And Jim said you went back to Arizona." "I did expect to, but I was detained in New York, and only this morning I found I could run up here and stay till to-morrow. I couldn't get here earlier, and when I reached the house, you had all started. So I got into these togs, and came along." "Your togs are wonderful, Little Billee. I never saw you look so stunning, not even as Father Neptune." "That was a great show, wasn't it?" and Big Bill smiled at the recollection. "But I say, Little Girl, you're looking rather wonderful yourself to-night. Oh, Patty, it's good to see you again!" "And it's good to see you; though it doesn't seem as if I had really seen you. That mask and beard completely cover up your noble countenance." "And I wish you'd take off that dinky little scrap of blue, so I can see if you are still my Apple Blossom Girl." "But I thought you wanted the extra dance." "I don't believe there's going to be any extra, after all. I think the people are anxious to get their masks off, and if so we'll have our dance after supper." CHAPTER XVIII BACK TO NEW YORK Farnsworth was right. There was no extra before supper, and the guests were even now flocking to the supper-room. Philip came toward them, looking for Patty, his mask already off. "Oh, can we really take them off now?" cried Patty. "I'm so glad. They're horridly uncomfortable. I'll never wear one again. I love a fancy dress party, but I don't see any sense in a masquerade." She took off her mask as she spoke, and her pretty face was flushed pink and her hair was curling in moist ringlets about her temples. Farnsworth looked down on her as he removed his own mask. "Apple Blossom!" he exclaimed again, and the comparison was very apt, for the pink and white of Patty's face was just the color of the blossoms. Then the two men looked at each other, and Patty suddenly realised that they had never met. "Oh, you don't know each other, do you?" she exclaimed. "And you my two best friends! Mr. Farnsworth, this is Mr. Van Reypen. And now, which of you is going to take me to supper?" As each offered an arm at once, Patty accepted both, and walked out demurely between the two big men. The men were exceedingly polite and courteous, but each was annoyed at the other's presence. As a matter of fact, Farnsworth had chanced to overhear a few words that Philip said to Patty a short time before. It was by merest chance that King Lear and Zenobia had walked by just as Philip was asking Patty to give him more than friendship. Zenobia, uninterested in the two under the palms, didn't even hear the words; but Farnsworth, who had found out from Jim Kenerley all the members of the house party, had scarcely taken his eyes from Little Bo-Peep since he arrived at the ball. With no intention of eavesdropping, he had followed her about, hoping to get a chance to see her first alone. He managed this only with Kenerley's help, and meantime he had discovered that Van Reypen was very seriously interested in Little Bo-Peep. Philip himself knew little of Farnsworth, save for a few chance remarks he had heard at the Kenerleys', but he realised at once that Patty and the big Westerner were great friends, if nothing more. However, the three went to supper together, and joined the group in which they were most interested. Great was the surprise of Daisy and Mona when Patty appeared with Mr. Farnsworth. Big Bill was in the merriest of spirits. He greeted everybody heartily, he joked and laughed, and was at his most entertaining best. Patty was very proud of him, for without his mask he looked very handsome as King Lear, and his stalwart figure seemed to dwarf the other men. After supper he claimed Patty for the promised dance. "Would you rather dance with King Lear?" he said, smiling, "with all these heavy velvet draperies bothering us, or shall I go and shed this robe, and just be plain Bill?" Patty looked at him, thoughtfully. "We'd have a better dance if you took off that flapping robe. But then, of course, you'd have to take off your wigs and things, and you wouldn't be half so beautiful." "Well, then, don't let's dance, but just stroll around and talk. And there's another reason why I'd rather keep on my wig and wreath." "What's that?" "Because the wreath means that I am mad." "Mad at me?" "Oh, not that kind of mad! I mean crazy, demented, loony,--what was the old King, anyway?" "A little touched?" "Yes, that's it; and so, you see, he could say anything he wanted to. You know, people forgive crazy people, no matter what they say." "Are you going to say crazy things to me?" "Very likely; you've completely turned my head." "Do you know, I didn't even know King Lear ever went crazy," said Patty in an endeavour to change the subject. "Why, fie, fie, Little Girl, I thought you knew your Shakespeare; but I suppose you're too busy socially to read much poetry." "I read one poem this winter that I liked," said Patty, demurely. "Did you? What was it?" "It came to me in a blue envelope." "It did! Why, Patty, Jim told me you never got that." "Jim is mistaken; I did get it." "And did you like it?" "Where did you get it, Bill?" "Did you like it?" "Yes, I liked it lots. Who wrote it?" "I did." "Did you, really? You clever man! I thought possibly you might have done it, but it sounded so,--so finished." "Oh, no, it didn't, Patty. It was crude and amateurish; but it was written to you and about you, so I did the best I could. Patty, are you in love with Van Reypen?" "What!" and Patty stood still and looked at Farnsworth, indignantly. "You have no right to ask such a question!" "I know I haven't, Patty, and I apologise. I can't seem to get over my Western bluntness. And, Little Girl, I don't blame you a bit if you do care for him. He's a good-looking chap, and an all-round good man." "You seem to have sized him up pretty quickly. Why, you've only just met him." "Yes, but you know I was at the Kenerleys' last week, and Jim told me all about him." "Why did you want to know all about him?" "Shall I tell you why?" And Farnsworth's blue eyes looked straight into Patty's own. "I inquired about him, because Daisy said you were just the same as engaged to him." "Daisy said that, did she?" Patty rarely lost her temper, but this unwarranted speech of Daisy Dow's made her exceedingly angry. But what hurt her even more, was that Bill should believe Daisy's assertion, and should take it so calmly. His attitude piqued Patty; and she said, coldly: "Well, if Daisy says so, it must be so." "I know it, Little Girl," and Farnsworth's voice was very tender. "He can give you everything that you ought to have,--wealth, social position, and a life of luxury and pleasure. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman and a true man. I hope you will be very happy with him, Patty." For some reason this speech exasperated Patty beyond all measure. It seemed as if her friends were settling her affairs for her, without giving her any voice in the decision. "You are a little premature, Bill," she said, without a smile. "I'm not engaged to Mr. Van Reypen, and I do not know that I shall be." "Oh, yes, you will, Patty; but don't be hasty, dear child. Think it over before you decide, for you know there are other things in the world beside wealth and social position." "What, for instance?" said Patty, in a flippant tone. "Love," said Farnsworth, very seriously. And then Patty was moved by a spirit of perversity. She thought that if Farnsworth really cared for her, he was handing her over to Philip very easily, and she resented this attitude. "Are you implying that Mr. Van Reypen is not capable of giving me love, as well as the other advantages you enumerate?" "No, Patty, I am not implying anything of the sort. I only know that you are too young yet to be engaged to anybody, and I wish for your own sake you would wait,--at least until you are perfectly sure of your own affections. But if they are given to Mr. Van Reypen, I shall be glad for you that you have chosen so wisely." Patty looked at Farnsworth in amazement. Remembering what he had said to her last summer, it was strange to hear him talk this way. She could not know that the honest, big-hearted fellow was breaking his own heart at the thought of losing her; but that he unselfishly felt that Van Reypen, as a man of the world, was more fitting for pretty Patty than himself. He knew he was Western, and different from Patty's friends and associates, and he was so lacking in egotism or in self-conceit that he couldn't recognise his own sterling merits. And, too, though he was interested in some mining projects, they had not yet materialised, and he did not yet know whether the near future would bring him great wealth, or exactly the reverse of fortune. But Patty couldn't read his heart, and she was disappointed and piqued at his manner and words. Without even a glance into his earnest eyes, she said: "Thank you, Bill, for your advice; I know it is well meant, and I appreciate it. Please take me back to Philip now." Farnsworth gave her a pained look, but without a word turned and led her back to the group they had left. Philip was waiting there, and Patty, to hide the strange hurt she felt in her own heart, was exceedingly kind in her manner toward him. "Our dance, Philip," she said, gaily, and though it hadn't been engaged, Philip was only too glad to get it. Soon afterward, the ball was over, and they all went home. As Patty came from the cloak room, wrapped in her fur coat, Philip stepped up to her in such a possessive way, that Farnsworth, who had also been waiting for her, turned aside. "That's a foregone conclusion," said Jim Kenerley to Farnsworth, as he glanced at Patty and Philip. "Nonsense," said Adèle. "Patty isn't thinking of conclusions yet. But I must say it would be a very satisfactory match." "Yes, Mr. Van Reypen seems to be a fine fellow," agreed Farnsworth. When they reached home, Patty said good-night, declaring she was weary enough to go straight to bed at once. "Will you come down again later, if you're hungry?" said Philip, smiling at the recollection of Christmas Eve. "No," and Patty flashed her dimples at him; and knowing that Farnsworth was listening, she added, "There's no moonlight to-night!" "Moonlight does help," said Philip. "Good-night, Little Bo-Peep." "Good-night, Bobby Shafto," and Patty started upstairs, then turned, and holding out her hand to Farnsworth, said "Good-night, King Lear; shall I see you in the morning?" "No; I leave on the early train," said Farnsworth, abruptly. "Good-night, Patty, and good-bye." He turned away, toward Daisy, and Patty went on upstairs. Farnsworth had spoken in a kind voice, but Patty knew that he had heard what she and Philip had said about coming down in the moonlight. "I think he's a horrid, mean old thing!" said Patty to herself, when she reached her own room. "His manners are not half as good as Philip's, and he's rude and unkind, and I just hate him!" Whereupon, as if to prove her words, she took from her portfolio the poem in the blue envelope, and read it all over again; and then put it under her pillow and went to sleep. * * * * * A few days later Patty was back in New York. She gave her father and Nan glowing accounts of the delightful times she had had at Fern Falls and the jollities of a country house party in the winter time. She told them all about the pleasant people she had met up there, about her experience at Mrs. Fay's, and about Farnsworth's flying visits. "I'd like to meet that man," said Nan. "I think he sounds attractive, Patty." "He is attractive," said Patty, frankly; "but he's queer. You never know what mood he's going to be in. Sometimes he's awfully friendly, and then again he gets huffy over nothing." "I'm afraid you tease him, Patty," said her father, smiling at her. "You're getting to be such a popular young person that I fear you're getting spoiled." "Not Patty," said Nan, kindly. "Go ahead, my child, and have all the fun you can. The young men all adore you, and I don't wonder." "Why, Nancy Bell, how complimentary you are!" and Patty gave her stepmother an affectionate pat. "But now," said Mr. Fairfield, "if I may have the floor for a minute, I'd like to make an announcement. We have a plan, Patty, which we made while you were away, and which I hope will meet with your approval." "As if I ever disapproved of any of your plans, my dear daddy. Consider my approval granted before you begin." "Well, it's this: I think Nan is looking a little bit pale, and I feel a trifle pale myself, so I think we two will run away down South for a fortnight or so, and leave you here." "Alone?" asked Patty, in surprise. "Well, no; hardly that. But how would you like to have Mrs. Allen, Nan's mother, come and stay with you?" "I think that will be lovely," exclaimed Patty. "I'm awfully fond of Mrs. Allen, and I haven't seen her for a long time." "She's not a very sedate matron," said Nan, laughing. "I dare say she'll keep you on the go, Patty. She's fond of opera and concerts, and she likes gaiety. But father will come over for the week-ends, and look after you both." Nan's parents lived in Philadelphia, and as they had just returned from a trip abroad, the Fairfields hadn't seen them lately. But it had seemed to them that the arrangement they had planned would be satisfactory all round, for Mrs. Allen liked to spend a few weeks in New York each winter. About a week later the elder Fairfields departed, and Mrs. Allen arrived. She was a fine-looking lady of a youthful middle age, and looked forward with pleasure to her visit with Patty. "Now, you mustn't let me be a burden to you in any way, my dear," Mrs. Allen said, after the two were left alone. "Whenever I can help you, or whenever you want a chaperon, I'm entirely at your service; but when I'm not necessary to your plans, don't consider me at all,--and don't think about entertaining me, for I can look after myself. I'm never lonely or bored." "Thank you, Mrs. Allen," said Patty. "I'm sure we shall get on most beautifully together, and anything you want or want to do, I want you to give your own orders, just as if you were in your own home." And so the two had many pleasant times together. They went to matinées, teas, and concerts, to picture exhibitions, and to card parties. Mrs. Allen did not care for dances, but went gladly when it was a party where Patty required a chaperon. All of the young people liked Mrs. Allen, and she became well acquainted with all of Patty's friends. Bill Farnsworth was still in New York. His plans were uncertain, and often changed from day to day, owing to various details of his business. He called on Patty occasionally, but not often, and his calls were short and formal. "I like that big Western chap," Mrs. Allen said to Patty one day; "but he seems preoccupied. Sometimes he sits as if in a brown study, and says nothing for quite some minutes. And then, when you speak to him, he answers abruptly, as if bringing his mind back from faraway thoughts." "I daresay he's very much wrapped up in his business, Mrs. Allen," said Patty. "They say he's trying to swing a big mining proposition,--whatever that means." "It may mean a great many things," said Mrs. Allen, thoughtfully. "I hope he's all right, Patty." "All right! Big Bill Farnsworth all right? Well, I rather guess he _is_!" "There, there," and Mrs. Allen laughed. "You needn't take up the cudgels so desperately. I didn't mean to accuse him of anything." "No, of course you didn't," and Patty laughed, too; "but whatever big Bill may lack in the way of polish or culture, he's absolutely honest and honourable, even to an absurd degree." "I don't think he lacks culture, Patty. His manners are all right." "Yes, they're all right, but he hasn't quite the correct ease of a man like Philip Van Reypen." "I know what you mean, and I suppose it's the effect of the aristocratic Van Reypen ancestry. But Mr. Farnsworth has such a splendid big air of real nobility about him that I think a more formal and conventional demeanour would quite spoil him." "Maybe it would," said Patty, simply. That very afternoon Farnsworth came to call, and told Patty he had come to say good-bye. "I know you think my farewells never mean anything," he said, smiling; "and I don't wonder, for I often say I am going, and then a telegram obliges me to change my plan. But I think it is positive this time that I shall leave to-night for Arizona." "Have you been successful in your undertakings?" asked Patty, with a sympathetic interest. "Yes, I believe I have. I don't want to be over sanguine, and matters are not yet entirely settled, but I think I have conquered the obstacles which I came to conquer, and I hope all will go well." "I hope so, Little Billee," said Patty, looking at him with earnest good will. "I want you to succeed." "Thank you for that," said Farnsworth, simply. "And when are you coming East again?" "I can't tell; I may have to come back in February; but if that is not necessary, I shall not come for a year or more. You will be married and settled by that time." "Indeed, I shan't! In fact, I've about made up my mind that I'll never marry anybody." "Girls have said that before, and been known to change their minds. But whatever you do, I wish you all happiness and joy throughout your whole life,--Little Apple Blossom." Farnsworth had risen to go, and he held Patty's hands in both his, as he looked straight into her eyes. Patty's own eyes fell beneath his gaze, and she said, "And I wish you happiness wherever you are, Little Billee." "Thank you, dear," he said, and then with a final handclasp he went away. CHAPTER XIX AN EXCITING CHASE Farnsworth had left Patty about two o'clock, and it was only a few moments later that her telephone rang. Her response was answered by a tearful, wailing voice, that said, "Oh, Miss Patty, oh, _can't_ you come here at once? Come right away!" "Come where? Who are you?" said Patty, bewildered, for she did not recognise the voice, and it sounded like some one in deep distress. "Oh, don't wait a _minute_! Every moment is precious! Just come _at once_!" "But how can I come, if I don't know who you are? I can help you better, if you'll control yourself and tell me something about yourself and your trouble. First of all, who are you?" "I'm Anne, Miss Galbraith's maid. You know me, Miss Patty. Oh, come quick; Miss Mona has gone!" "Gone! Where? Now, listen to me, Anne! Stop your crying, and tell me what you mean, and then I will go to you at once. Where are you? And where has Miss Mona gone?" "I'm in her apartment, and I don't like to tell you over the telephone where she's gone. But,--Miss Patty,--I think,--Oh, I fear,--she has eloped with Mr. Lansing!" The last sentence came in an explosive burst, as if the girl could keep her secret no longer. "What!" exclaimed Patty. And then, suddenly realising that it was a desperate situation, she said, "Don't say another word, Anne! I will go right straight to you. Stay there till I come." She knew the excitable character of the girl, and feared she might get hysterical if she talked further over the telephone. Patty hung up the receiver, and sat still for a moment, thinking deeply. "I won't tell Mrs. Allen," she finally decided, "but I must have some one to help me,--to go with me. I believe I'll call up Roger." But she couldn't bear to do that. It seemed too dreadful to tell Roger what had happened. She thought next of Kenneth, who was a standby as a loyal friend, but he was far downtown in his office, and might be busy with an important case. "Philip, of course," she said to herself; but even with her hand on the receiver, another thought flashed through her mind. "No one could help me to save Mona like Big Bill!" she thought, and on a sudden impulse she called up his hotel. "Bill,--it's Patty," she said, her voice trembling. "Yes, dear; what is it? What is the matter?" The kind, quiet voice, with its deep tones of sympathy and capability, made Patty realise that she had appealed to the right one. "Oh, Bill," she went on, "there's awful trouble, and you must help me." "Of course I will, Little Girl! Steady now; tell me what it's all about. Do you want me to come there?" "But you're just starting for the West," cried Patty, as she remembered this for the first time. "That doesn't matter, if _you_ want me. I'll be right over." "And wait a minute; tell me what you think we ought to do. I've heard from Anne that Mona is eloping with that awful Lansing man!" "Then there's no time to be lost! Take your little car, and go to The Plaza as fast as you can spin! I'll meet you there, in the Galbraiths' apartment." Bill hung up the receiver, without even a good-bye, and Patty gave a little sigh of relief, for it seemed as if he had taken the responsibility from her shoulders, and would manage the matter himself. She ordered her car, flung on her hat and coat, and with a hasty word to Mrs. Allen that she was going out, she drove her little electric herself down to the hotel. When she entered the Galbraiths' apartment, she found Farnsworth already there. "It's true," he said, looking at her with a grave face. "That is, I think it must be. Mona went away half an hour ago, and took a suit case with her. She went in a motor with Mr. Lansing. Anne is worried, because this morning she overheard the two telephoning." "I wasn't listening, Miss Patty," said the tearful maid. "That is, I didn't mean to, but Miss Mona was excited like, and her voice was so loud I couldn't help hearing." "I'm glad you did, Anne," said Patty, "it may help us to save Miss Mona yet. What else can you tell us?" "Nothing, except that Miss Mona left a note on her father's desk, and I thought maybe it might be to tell him she had gone." Big Bill strode over to the desk, and there, under a paperweight, lay a note, addressed to Mr. Galbraith. He picked it up, and looked at it, thoughtfully. "Patty," he said, "this isn't sealed. Considering all things, I think it is our duty to read it, but you know more about such matters than I do. What do you think?" Patty hesitated. She had always thought it little less than a crime to read a note addressed to another, but the circumstances made this case seem an exception. "We might telephone to Mr. Galbraith and ask his permission," she suggested. But Big Bill seemed suddenly to have made up his mind. "No!" he declared, "_I'll_ take the responsibility of this thing. To telephone would frighten Mr. Galbraith, and would delay matters too much, beside. I shall read this note, and if I can't square my action with Mr. Galbraith afterward, I'll accept the consequences." The impressive manner of the big man, his stern, set face, and honest, determined blue eyes convinced Patty that he was right, and together they read the note. In it, as they had feared, Mona told her father that she was going away to marry Mr. Lansing, because her father would not allow her to marry him otherwise. She expressed regret at the sorrow she knew this would bring to her father, but she said she was old enough to decide for herself whom she wished to marry, and she felt sure that after it was over he would forgive her, and call his two children back to him. "Mona never wrote that note of her own accord," exclaimed Patty, indignantly. "That man made her do it!" "Of course he did!" agreed Bill, in a stern voice. "I know Lansing,--and, Patty, the man is a scoundrel." "You know him? I didn't know you did." "Yes, I do! And I ought to have warned Mona more against him. I did tell her what his real nature is, but she wouldn't listen, and I never dreamed she was so deeply infatuated with him. But we mustn't blame her, Patty. She was simply under the influence of that man, and he persuaded her to go with him against her better judgment. But we must go after them and bring them back." "But you're going West to-night." "Not unless we rescue Mona first! Why, Patty, she _mustn't_ be allowed to marry that man! I tell you he's a scoundrel, and I never say _that_ about a man unless I _know_ it to be true. But this is no time to discuss Lansing. We must simply fly after them." "But how do you know where they've gone?" "I don't know! But we must find out, somehow. Perhaps the men at the door can tell us. Perhaps Anne can." "I only know this, sir," said Anne, who was wringing her hands and weeping; "when Miss Mona was telephoning, she said something about Greenwich." "Of course!" cried Bill. "That's exactly where they'd go! But wait, they would have to go for a license first." "Telephone the license man," said Patty, inspired by Bill's manner and tones. "Right-O!" and after some rather troublesome telephoning, Bill announced, "They did! they got a license, and they started in a motor for Greenwich about half an hour ago! Come on, Patty! Anne, you stay right here, in case we telephone. If Mr. Galbraith comes home, don't tell him a word about it. Leave it to me. I'll be responsible for this note." Bill put the note in his pocket, and almost pushing Patty out of the door, he had her in the elevator and downstairs almost before she knew it. "Shall we take my little car?" she asked, as Bill strode through the lobby, and Patty hurried to keep up with him. "Good Heavens, no! We want a racer. I'll drive it myself." By the power of sheer determination, the big Western man procured a fast car in an incredibly short time, and in a few moments he and Patty were flying up Broadway. "Now if you want to talk you may," said Bill, and his voice was quiet and composed, though he was alertly threading his swift way through the traffic. "I had to be a little short with you while we were hurrying off, because I didn't want to lose a minute. But now, all I have to do is to keep just inside the speed limit while we're in the city, and then I rather guess there'll be one big chase!" "Oh, Bill, you are just splendid!" exclaimed Patty, with shining eyes, unable to repress her admiration of his capability and strength. "But we haven't accomplished anything yet, Patty; we're only starting out to try. You know, it's a hundred to one shot that we miss them,--for we've very little idea where they've gone." "But it's a straight road to Greenwich." "Yes, but they may have turned off anywhere. They may change their minds a dozen times about their destination." "No, they won't," said Patty, positively; "not unless they think they're pursued, and of course they've no idea of that. Speed her up, Bill; the way is clear now! I don't believe they're going at this pace." "Patty, you're a good pal! I don't believe any other girl would be as plucky as you are in such a case." "Why, I haven't done anything," and Patty opened her eyes wide, in surprise. "You've done it all--Little Billee." "You've helped me more than you know. With you by my side, I'm bound to succeed." Big Bill bent to his wheel, and the swift machine flew along so fast that conversation became impossible. As they neared Greenwich, Patty's sharp eyes descried a dark red car ahead of them. "That's it!" she cried. "That's Mona's car! Chase 'em, Bill!" "The nerve of him, to elope in her own car!" growled Bill, through his clenched teeth. "I told you he was a scoundrel, Patty!" They were rapidly gaining on the red car, when, as it turned the corner, one of its occupants saw their pursuers, and Patty heard a shriek. "That's Mona's yell," she cried, in dismay. "They've seen us, Bill, and now they'll get away from us!" Sure enough, the pursuing car was swift, but the big Galbraith car was a speed wonder, and the elopers darted ahead with renewed determination to escape capture. "Oh, what a shame!" wailed Patty. "They recognised us, and now they'll get away." "Not if I know it!" and Farnsworth set his teeth hard. "Sit tight, Patty; we're going to go faster!" It didn't seem as if they could go any faster, but they did, and if it had been anybody driving except Farnsworth, Patty would have felt frightened. But she knew his skill, and too, she knew that he never let excitement or enthusiasm run away with his judgment. So she sat as still as she could, striving to catch her breath in the face of the wind; and refraining from speech, lest she distract Bill's attention even for a second. At last, when they had a long, clear view ahead, and they saw the red car ever increasing the distance between them, Bill gave up. "It's no use, Patty; we can't catch them! I've done all I can, but that car they're in is a world-beater! They went through Greenwich like a streak. They would have been arrested, but no one could stop them. Oh, I say, My Little Girl,--I have an idea!" "Is your idea faster than their car, Little Billee?" "You bet it is! Just you wait and see; Patty, we've _got_ 'em!" Farnsworth turned around and drove rapidly back to Greenwich, which they had just passed through. At a hotel there, he jumped out, told Patty to wait, and rushed into the office. It was nearly ten minutes before he returned, and Patty could scarcely believe that whatever plan he had could be of any use after such delay. He jumped in beside her, turned around, and in a minute they were again whizzing along, following the direction of the other car. "I'll tell you what I did, Patty," he said, chuckling. "I telephoned to the Stamford Chief of Police, and asked him to arrest those people for speeding as they crossed the city limit!" "Will they be speeding?" "_Will_ they be speeding? You _bet_ they will! And even if they aren't, they'll be arrested, all the same, and held without bail until we get there! Oh, Patty, if the situation were not so serious, I could laugh at this joke on Lansing!" On they went, at their highest speed, and reached Stamford not very much later than the red car they were following. At the city line, they found this car standing, with two or three policemen forbidding its further progress. Horace Lansing was in a violent fit of temper, and was alternating bribes with threats of vengeance, but the policemen were imperturbable, having been told the facts of the case by Farnsworth over the telephone. Mona was weeping bitterly, and though Patty went to her with affectionate words, she stormed back, "Go away, Patty Fairfield! You have no right to interfere in my affairs! It was your prying that found this out. Go away; I won't speak to you!" "By what right have you followed us, Miss Fairfield?" began Mr. Lansing, looking at Patty, angrily. But Farnsworth strode over to the speaker, and spoke to him, sternly but quietly. "Lansing," he said, "it's all up, and you know it! Now, I don't want to have a scene here and now, so you have my permission to go away wherever you like, on condition that you never enter the presence again, of Miss Galbraith or Miss Fairfield." "Ho!" said Lansing, with an attempt at bravado. "You give me your permission, do you? Let me tell you that Miss Galbraith is my promised wife. We have the license, and we're about to be married. It will take more than you to stop us!" "Indeed," said Farnsworth, and putting his hands in his pockets, he gave Lansing a contemptuous glance. "Well, then, I shall have to request assistance. If I tell this constable a good reason why he should detain you long enough to prevent your marriage to Miss Galbraith, would such an argument have any weight with you?" There was an instantaneous change in Horace Lansing's demeanour. From a blustering braggart, he became a pale and cringing coward. But with a desperate attempt to bluff it out, he exclaimed, "What do you mean?" but even as he spoke, he shivered and staggered backward, as if dreading a blow. "Since you ask me," said Farnsworth, looking at him, sternly, "I'll answer frankly, that unless you consent to go away and never again enter the presence of these ladies, I shall inform these policemen of a certain little bank trouble that happened in Chicago----" It was unnecessary to go on. Lansing was abject, and begged in pleading tones that Farnsworth would say no more. "I am going," Lansing stammered, and without a word of farewell to Mona or even a glance at Patty, he walked rapidly away. "Let him go," said Farnsworth. "I can't tell you girls about it, but I'll explain to Mr. Galbraith. Mona, that man is not fit for you to know! He is guilty of forgery and robbery." "I don't believe it!" declared Mona, angrily. "You _do_ believe it," and Farnsworth looked at her steadily, "because you know I would not tell you so unless I knew it to be true." Mona was silent at this, for she did know it. She knew Bill Farnsworth well enough to know that if he made an accusation of that sort, he knew it to be the truth. "But I love him so," she said, sobbing. "No, Mona, you don't love him." Bill spoke very gently, and as he laid his hand on Mona's shoulder, she raised her eyes to look into his kind, serious face. "You were not much to blame, Mona; the man fascinated you, and you thought the foolish infatuation you felt for him was love. But it wasn't, and you'll soon forget him. You don't want to remember a man who was a wrong-doer, I'm sure; nor do you want to remember a man who goes away and deserts you because he has been found out. Mona, is not his going away as he did, enough proof of his guilt?" But Mona was sobbing so that she could not speak. Not angry sobs now, but pathetic, repentant sorrow. "Now, it's up to you, Patty," said Farnsworth, cheerily. "You and Mona get into the tonneau of this Galbraith car, and I'll drive you home. You chirk her up, Patty, and tell her there's no harm done, and that all her friends love her just the same. And tell her if she'll stop her crying and calm herself before she gets home, nobody need ever know a thing about this whole affair." Mona looked up at this, and said, eagerly, "Not father?" "No, Mona dear," said Patty. "Sit here by me and I'll tell you all about it. How we read the note and kept it, and everything. And, Mona, we won't even let Roger know anything about all this, because it would hurt him very much." "But Anne," said Mona, doubtfully. "You say she told you where I went." "I'll attend to Anne," said Farnsworth, decidedly. "Can't you go home to dinner with Patty, Mona? I think that would do you good." "Yes, do," said Patty. "And stay over night with me. We'll telephone your father where you are, and then, to-morrow, you can go home as if nothing had ever happened." "It's a justifiable deception, Mona," said Bill, "for I know how it would grieve the poor man if he knew about your foolish little escapade,--which is all over now. It's past history, and the incident is closed forever. Don't you be afraid Lansing will ever appear against you. He's too thoroughly frightened ever to be seen in these parts again." "You come to dinner, too, Bill," said Patty, as they took their places; "though I fear we'll all be rather late." Farnsworth hesitated a moment, then he said, decidedly, "No, Patty, I can't do it. I was to take the seven o'clock train to-night, but though I'll miss that, I can take the nine o'clock, and I _must_ go." "But, Little Billee, I want to thank you for helping me as you did. I want to thank you, not only for Mona's sake, but my own." "That would be worth staying for, Little Girl, but it is a case of duty, you see. Won't you write me your thanks,--Apple Blossom?" "Yes," said Patty, softly, "I will." CHAPTER XX BRIDESMAID PATTY Early in February Christine was to be married, and the Fairfields had persuaded her to accept the use of their house for the occasion. Christine had demurred, for she wanted a simple ceremony with no reception at all. But the Fairfields finally made her see that Mr. Hepworth's position as an artist of high repute made it desirable that his many friends should be invited to his wedding. So Christine agreed to the plan, and Patty was delighted at the thought of the festivities in her home. The elder Fairfields had returned from their Southern trip, but Mrs. Allen was still with them, and there were other house guests from Christine's Southern home. The day of the wedding, Patty, assisted by Elise and Mona, was superintending the decorations. Christine had insisted that these should be simple, and as Mr. Hepworth, too, was opposed to the conventional work of a florist, the girls had directed it all themselves. "It does look perfectly sweet," said Patty, as she surveyed the drawing-room. "Personally, I should prefer all those dinky white telegraph poles stretched with ribbon and bunched up with flowers to make an aisle for the happy couple to walk through. But as it isn't my wedding, I suppose we must let the bride have her own way." "I'm tired of those tied up poles," said Elise, decidedly. "I think this is a lot prettier, and all this Southern jasmine is beautiful, and just like Christine." "She is the sweetest thing!" said Patty. "Every new present that comes in, she sits and looks at it helplessly, as if it were the very last straw!" "Well, of course, most of the presents are from Mr. Hepworth's friends," said Mona, "and they are stunning! I don't wonder Christine is overcome." "She has lots of friends of her own, too," said Patty. "All the girls gave her beautiful things, and you two quite outdid yourselves. That lamp of yours, Mona, is a perfect dream; and, Elise, I never saw such gems as your silver candlesticks. Christine's path through life will be well lighted! Well, everything's finished, and I think it's about time we went to dress. The ceremony's at four, and as I'm going to be a bridesmaid for the first time in my mad career, I don't want to be late at the party." "How beautiful the drawing-room looks," said Mrs. Allen, coming along just then. "Patty dear, doesn't this all remind you of the day Nan was married?" "Yes, Mrs. Allen; only the weddings are quite different. But Christine would keep this as simple as possible, so of course I let her have her own way." "Yes, Patty, that's the privilege of a bride. But some day you can have your own way in the direction of your own wedding, and I rather fancy it will be an elaborate affair. I hope I'll be here to see." "I hope you will, Mrs. Allen," laughed Patty; "but don't look for it very soon. My suitors are so bashful, you know; I have to urge them on." "Nonsense!" cried Elise. "Patty's greatest trouble is to keep her suitors off! She tries to hold them at arm's length, but they are so insistent that it is difficult." "I think you girls are all too young to have suitors," commented Mrs. Allen, smiling at the pretty trio. "Oh, Mrs. Allen," said Patty; "suitors doesn't mean men who want to marry you. I suppose it's sort of slang, but nowadays, girls call all their young men suitors, even the merest casual acquaintances." "Oh, I see," said Mrs. Allen. "I suppose as in my younger days we used to call them beaux." "Yes, just that," said Patty. "Why, Mr. Hepworth used to be one of our favourite suitors, until he persuaded Christine to marry him; but we have lots of them left." "Is that big one coming to the wedding?" asked Mrs. Allen. "She means Bill Farnsworth," said Patty to the others. "She always calls him 'that big one.' I don't know whether he's coming or not. He said if he possibly could get here, he would." "He'll come," said Elise, wagging her head, sagely. "He'll manage it somehow. Why, Mrs. Allen, he worships the ground Patty walks on!" "So do all my suitors," said Patty, complacently. "They're awful ground worshippers, the whole lot of them! But so long as they don't worship me, they may adore the ground as much as they like. Now, you people must excuse me, for I'm going to get into that flummery bridesmaid's frock,--and I can tell you, though it looks so simple, it's fearfully and wonderfully made." Patty ran away to her own room, but paused on the way to speak to Christine, who was already being dressed in her bridal robes. "You _sweet_ thing!" cried Patty, flinging her arms round her friend's neck. "Christine dear, you know I'm not much good at sentimental expressions, but I _do_ want to wish you such a heap of joy that you'll just almost break down under it!" Christine smiled back into Patty's honest eyes, and realised the loving friendship that prompted the words. "Patty," she said, "I can't begin to thank you for all you've done for me this past year, but I thank you most,"--here she blushed, and whispered shyly,--"because you didn't want him, yourself!" "Oh, Christine!" said Patty, "I _do_ want him, something dreadful! I shall just _pine_ away the rest of my sad life because I can't have him! But you wrested him from me, and I give him to you with my blessing!" And then Patty went away, and Christine smiled, knowing that Patty's words were merely jesting, and knowing too, with a heart full of content, that Gilbert Hepworth really wanted _her_, and not the radiant, mischievous Patty. * * * * * Promptly at four o'clock, the old, well-known music sounded forth, and Patty came slowly downstairs. Her gown was of white chiffon, over pink chiffon, and fell in soft, shimmering draperies, that looked like classic simplicity, but were in reality rather complicated. Christine had designed both their gowns, and they were marvels of beauty. On Patty's head was perched a coquettish little cap of the style most approved for bridesmaids, and she carried a clustered spray of pink roses. As she entered the drawing-room, intent on walking correctly in time to the music, she chanced to glance up, and saw Bill Farnsworth's blue eyes fixed upon her. Unthinkingly, she gave him a radiant smile, and then, with the pink in her cheeks deepened a little, she went on her way toward the group of palms, where the wedding party would stand. Not even the bride herself looked prettier than Patty; though Christine was very sweet, in her soft white chiffon, her misty veil, and her shower bouquet of white flowers, which she had expressly requested should be without ribbons. Only the more intimate friends had been invited to the ceremony, but immediately after, the house was filled with the reception guests. Patty was in gay spirits, which was not at all unusual for that young woman. She fluttered about everywhere, like a big pink butterfly, but ever and again hovering back to Christine, to caress her, and, as she expressed it, "To keep up her drooping spirits." Christine had never entirely overcome her natural shyness, and being the centre of attraction on this occasion greatly embarrassed her, and she was glad of Patty's gay nonsense to distract attention from herself. Kenneth Harper was best man, and, as he told Patty, the responsibility of the whole affair rested on himself and her. "We're really of far greater importance than the bride and groom," he said; "and they depend on us for everything. Have you the confetti all ready, Patty?" "Yes, of course; do you have to go to the train with them, Ken?" "No; my duties are ended when I once get them packed into a motor at the door. But Christine looks as if she couldn't survive much longer, and as for old Gilbert, he's as absent-minded as the conventional bridegroom." "Christine's all right," said Patty. "I'm going to take her off, now, to get into her travelling clothes. Oh, Ken, she has the loveliest suit! Sort of a taupe colour, you know, and the dearest hat----" "Patty! Do you suppose I care what she's going to wear away? But _do_ see to it that she's ready on time! You girls will all get to weeping,--that's the way they always do,--and you'll spin out your farewells so that they'll lose their train! Run along with Christine, now; Hepworth is fidgeting like the dickens." So the pretty bridesmaid took the pretty bride away, and Patty begged Christine to make haste with her dressing, lest she might lose the train. "And Mr. Hepworth will go away without you," Patty threatened. "Now, you do always dawdle, Christine; but this time you've got to hustle,--so be spry,--Mrs. Hepworth." Christine smiled at Patty's use of the new name, and she tried to make the haste Patty demanded. But she was slow by nature, and Patty danced around her in terror, lest she should really be late. "Here's your coat, Christine,--put your arms in, do! Now the other one. Now sit down, and I'll put your hat on for you. Oh, Mrs. Hepworth, _do_ hold your head still! Here, stick this pin in yourself, or I may jab it through your brain,--though I must confess you act as if you hadn't any! or if you have, it's addled. And Ken says that husband of yours is acting just the same way. My! it's lucky you two infants had a capable and clever bridesmaid and best man to get you off! There! take your gloves,--no, don't hold them like that! put them on. Wake up, Christine; remember, the show isn't over yet. You've got to go downstairs, and be showered with confetti, and, oh, Christine, _don't_ forget to throw your bouquet!" "I won't do it!" and Christine Hepworth woke up suddenly from her dreaming, and clasped her bridal bouquet to her heart. "Nonsense! of course you will! You've simply _got_ to! I'm not going to run this whole wedding, and then have the prima donna balk in the last act. Now, listen, Christine, you throw it over the banister just as you start downstairs! Will you?" "Yes," was the meek response; "I will." "And wait a minute; don't you throw it till I get down there myself, for I might catch it." "Do catch it, Patty, and then you can give it back to me. I want to keep it all my life." "Well, you can't, Christine; it isn't done! You'll have to direct your sentimentality in some other direction. Or, here, I'll give you a flower out of it, and that's plenty for you to keep for a souvenir of this happy occasion." "Why do I have to throw it, anyway?" persisted Christine, as she tucked the flower away for safe keeping. "First and foremost, because I tell you to! and, incidentally, because it's the custom. You know, whoever catches it will be married inside of a year. Now, I'm going on down, and then you come along with Nan, and I expect you'll find Mr. Hepworth down there somewhere,--if Ken hasn't lost him." Patty cast a final critical glance at Christine, and seeing that she was all right in every respect, she gave her one last kiss, and hurried downstairs. She found a group of laughing young people standing in the hall, all provided with confetti, and the girls all looking upward to watch for the descending bouquet. "Here's a good place for you, Patty Pink and White," and Farnsworth guided her to a place directly under the banister. At that moment Christine appeared at the head of the stairs. She stood a moment, her bouquet held at arm's length, and looked at it as if she couldn't quite bring herself to part with it. "There, _now_ she's going to toss it! _Quick_, Patty, catch it!" Big Bill whispered in her ear, and Patty looked upward. Then, seeing the direction in which the flowers fell,--for Christine really tossed them straight at her,--Patty whirled round and sprang aside, so that the bouquet was picked up by a girl who stood next to her. "Oh, Patty! you muffed it!" cried Farnsworth; "and what's more, you did it on purpose!" "'Course I did!" declared Patty. "I don't want to be married this year, thank you. But it was all I could do to dodge it!" And then the confetti was showered on the departing couple, Kenneth tucked them into the motor car, Patty jumped in too, for a last rapturous hug of Christine, and Kenneth almost had to pull her out. "Come, come, Patty," he cried. "Let them make their getaway! I think they've missed the train as it is. There, now, they're off! My, a best man's lot is not a happy one! But our trials are over now, Patty girl, and we can take a little rest! Let's go back and receive the congratulations of the audience on our good work." They went back to the house, laughing, and Patty succeeded in obtaining a few more blossoms from the bridal bouquet to save for Christine until she came back. "Why didn't you catch it, Patty?" said Kenneth. "Do you want to be an old maid?" "'Nobody asked me, sir, she said,'" and Patty dropped her eyes, demurely. "You mean there's nobody that hasn't asked you!" returned Kenneth. "I'm going to ask you, myself, some day; but not to-night. I've had enough to do with matrimonial alliances for one day!" "So have I," laughed Patty. "Let's put it off for a year, Ken." "All right," was the laughing response, and then they rejoined the other young people. After the reception was over, a few of Patty's more intimate friends were invited to remain to dinner with the Fairfields. "Can you stay, Little Billee?" asked Patty, dancing up to him, as he seemed about to leave. "I have to take a midnight train," he said, "and I have some business matters that I must attend to first. So if I may, I'll run away now, and come back this evening for a dance with you." "All right; be sure to come," and Patty flashed him a smiling glance, and danced away again. It was after eleven before Farnsworth returned, and Patty had begun to fear he would not come at all. "What are you looking at?" asked Philip Van Reypen, as Patty continued to glance over her shoulder toward the hall, while they were dancing. "Nothing," was the non-committal answer. "Well, then, you may as well look at me. At least, I'm better than nothing." "_Much_ better!" said Patty, with exaggerated emphasis; "_ever_ so much better! Oh, say, Philip, take me over to the hall, will you?" "What for? This dance has just begun." "Never mind!" said Patty, impatiently. "Lead me over that way!" Patty turned her own dancing steps in that direction, and when they reached the hall, there was Big Bill Farnsworth, smiling at her. "This is what I was looking for!" said Patty, gaily. "Run away now, Philip. Little Billee can only stay a minute, and we'll finish our dance afterward." Van Reypen was decidedly annoyed, but he didn't show it, for he knew Patty's caprices must be obeyed. So he bowed politely, and walked away. "He's mad as hops," said Patty, calmly; "but I had to see you for a few minutes, if you're really going on that midnight train. Are you, Little Billee?" "Yes, Apple Blossom, I am. I've time for just one turn round the room. Will you dance?" For answer, Patty put her hand in his, and they waltzed slowly round the room. "You are the busiest business man I ever saw," Patty said, pouting a little. "Yes, I _am_ very busy just now. Indeed, matters are rapidly coming to a crisis. It was only because I suddenly found that I must be in Boston to-morrow, that I could stop here to-day. And if matters turn out to-morrow as I hope they will, I must start back immediately to Arizona. But some day I hope to be less hurried, and then----" "And then?" asked Patty. "Then I hope to live in New York, and learn good manners and correct customs, and make myself fit to be a friend of yours." "Oh, Little Billee, you _are_ a friend of mine." "Well, something more than a friend, then. Patty,--I _must_ ask you,--are you engaged to Van Reypen?" "Goodness, no!" and Patty flashed a glance of surprise. "Then, Patty, mayn't _I_ hope?" "That's a question I _never_ know how to answer," said Patty, demurely; "if you mean that I'm to consider myself bound by any sort of a promise, I most certainly won't!" "No, I don't mean that, dear, but,----well, Patty, won't you wait?" "Of course I'll wait. That's exactly what I mean to do for years and years." "You mean to,--but you're so capricious." "Oh, no! not _that_, of all things! And, anyway, what does capricious mean?" "Well, it means like a butterfly, hovering from one flower to another----" "Oh, you think you're like unto a flower?" "I'll be any kind of a flower you wish, if you'll hover around me like a butterfly." "Well, be a timid little forget-me-not,--that will be lovely." "I'll forget-you-not, all right; but I can't be timid, it isn't my nature." And now they had stopped dancing, and stood in the hall, near the door, for it was almost time for Farnsworth to go. "It isn't because I'm timid," and the six feet three of humanity towered above her, "that I don't grab you up and run away with you, but because----" "Well, because what?" said Patty, daringly. "Because, Apple Blossom," and Bill spoke slowly, "when I see you here in your rightful setting, and surrounded by your own sort of people, I realise that I'm only a great, big----" "Bear," interrupted Patty. "You _are_ like a big bear, Bill! But such a nice, gruff, kind, woolly bear,--and the best friend a girl ever had. But I wish you'd be more of a chum, Little Billee. I like to be good chums with every one of my suitors! It's all very well for Christine to marry; she doesn't care for society, she just only loves Mr. Hepworth." "Some day you'll forget your love for society, because you'll get to love just only one man." "'And it might as well be you,'" hummed Patty, to an old tune. "Patty!" cried Farnsworth, his blue eyes lighting up with sudden joy; "do you mean that?" "No, _I_ never mean anything! Of _course_, I don't mean it,--but if I _did_, I'd say I didn't." "Patty Pink and White! you little scamp! if you tease me like this, how do you suppose I'm ever going to tear myself away to catch that midnight train to Boston?" "Why, you can't get that, Little Billee! it's too late, now!" "No, it isn't; and beside, I _must_ make it." He looked at his watch. "I've just exactly two minutes longer to stay with you." "Two minutes is a long time," said Patty, flippantly. "Yes, it is! it's just long enough for two things I have to do." "What have you to do?" asked Patty, wonderingly, looking up at him, as they stood alone in the hall. Farnsworth's strong face wore a determined look, but his blue eyes were full of a tender light, as he answered: "Two very important things,--Apple Blossom,--this,--and this!" He kissed her swiftly on one pink cheek and then on the other, and then, like a flash, he was gone. "Oh!" said Patty, softly, to herself, "Oh!" * * * * * * THE CAROLYN WELLS BOOKS FOR GIRLS Fresh, spirited stories that the modern small girl will take to her heart, these well known books by a famous author have won an important place in the field of juvenile fiction. Patty, with her beauty and frank good nature, and Marjorie full of vitality and good spirits, are two lovable characters well worth knowing, and their adventures will stir the eager imaginations of young readers. THE FAMOUS "PATTY" BOOKS Patty Fairfield Patty's Motor Car Patty at Home Patty's Butterfly Days Patty in the City Patty's Social Season Patty's Summer Days Patty's Suitors Patty in Paris Patty's Romance Patty's Friend Patty's Fortune Patty's Pleasure Trip Patty Blossom Patty's Success Patty--Bride THE MARJORIE BOOKS Marjorie's Vacation Marjorie in Command Marjorie's Busy Days Marjorie's Maytime Marjorie's New Friend Marjorie at Seacote GROSSET & DUNLAP _Publishers_ NEW YORK * * * * * * There is the high, happy spirit of youth in these famous BOOKS FOR GIRLS by JANE D. ABBOTT APRILLY The charming story of a young girl, child of the circus, and the adventures which led to her goal of happiness. HIGHACRES A school story of Jerry Travis and her chum Gyp Westley. A thread of romance and mystery in Jerry's life runs through the tale. KEINETH How Keineth Randolph kept a secret--a war secret--for a whole year makes one of the best stories ever written for girls. RED ROBIN In attempting to bring happiness into the lives of mill workers, Robin Forsythe, heir to a fortune, has many strange adventures. HEYDAY Twenty-three! The heyday of life. Jay, a small town girl, finds happiness in New York. LARKSPUR Especially interesting to any Girl Scout because it is the story of a Girl Scout who is poor and has to help her mother. HAPPY HOUSE How an old family quarrel is healed through a misunderstanding and an old homestead becomes a "happy house" in reality. GROSSET & DUNLAP _Publishers_ NEW YORK 
36671	----	[Transcriber's Note: Italic text is indicated by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=.] [Illustration: SLEEPY TOOK HER BY THE ARM AND CARRIED HER OFF, PROTESTING, * * * BUT HAPPY IN BEING COERCED. Page 37.] A HOUSE PARTY WITH THE TUCKER TWINS By NELL SPEED _Author of "The Molly Brown Series," "The Carter Girls Series," "At Boarding School With the Tucker Twins," etc., etc._ With Four Illustrations by ARTHUR O. SCOTT [Illustration] NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1921 BY HURST & COMPANY Contents I. MAXTON 7 II. THE COUNTRY STORE 19 III. ENGAGING IN MERCANTILE PURSUITS 35 IV. DEE TUCKER MAKES A SALE 51 V. THE HUMAN FLY 63 VI. "BIG MEETIN'" 78 VII. THE REASON WHY 96 VIII. THE CIRCUS 113 IX. THE PERFORMANCE 128 X. THE GHOST OF A GHOST 140 XI. THE PICNIC 148 XII. THE SHOPPER-ROON 165 XIII. TANGLEFOOT 185 XIV. A YOUNGER SON 203 XV. SLEEPY WAKES UP 219 XVI. THINGS HAPPENING 231 XVII. MORE THINGS HAPPENING 246 XVIII. THE END OF AN EVENTFUL DAY 259 XIX. PLANS FOR THE FUTURE 271 XX. A LETTER FROM ANNIE PORE TO PAGE ALLISON 283 XXI. A LETTER FROM GEORGE MASSIE TO PAGE ALLISON 296 XXII. A LETTER FROM PAGE ALLISON TO THE TUCKER TWINS 300 A House Party With the Tucker Twins CHAPTER I MAXTON THERE may be more fun than a house-party, but I doubt it. Certainly I, Page Allison, have never had it. What could be more delightful than to spend two weeks in a beautiful old country home with such a host as General Price, and to have as fellow guests all the girl friends you care for most in the world,--to say nothing of some of the male persuasion that at least you don't hate? Harvie Price had been promised this house-party by his grandfather as reward of merit, and, like most things earned by hard labor, it proved to be worth the work expended. The Tucker Twins of course were there, Mary Flannagan, Shorty Hawkins, George Massie (alias Sleepy), Wink White, Jim Hart, and Ben Raglan, whose other name was Rags. There were two men from the University whom we did not know before, but it did not take long for us to forget that they were new acquaintances. They fitted in wonderfully well and a few hours found them behaving like old and tried friends. Their names were Jack Bennett and Billy Somers, and both of them hailed from Kentucky. There was a new girl in the party, Jessie Wilcox. She wasn't quite so easy to know as the new boys. I always feel like crying when I think of dear little Annie Pore's connection with that house-party. She was of course the very first person Harvie asked, the one he wanted most. I think in his mind the party was given to Annie, and when Mr. Pore with characteristic selfishness and stubbornness refused to let her go, it was a blow indeed. His plea was that he needed her to keep the store for him. He had hired a clerk after Annie went to boarding-school, and owing to his growing business, had kept the boy on through vacation, but on the eve of the house-party had seen fit to get rid of him, having sent him on an unasked for and undesired holiday. "I found it out only this morning," said Harvie gloomily. He had come to meet us at the landing, most of us having arrived by boat from Richmond. He was doing his best to look cheerful, feeling that a cloud must not be cast over the entire party because one member could not be there. He said he felt he knew me well enough to speak out on the subject of Mr. Pore, and speak out he did. "But has your grandfather tried to persuade him to let her come?" "No! You see Grandfather is a great believer in State's Rights, and he carries his theories down to the individual. He says that Mr. Pore is a wrong-headed father but it is his own affair and he refuses to interfere. He takes the stand that he has no more right to dictate to Mr. Pore how to run his household, than Massachusetts had to interfere in our own little matter of slavery here in Virginia, back in the sixties." "Poor Annie! We shall have to work out some kind of a scheme for her. I'll tell Mary and the Tuckers. I am sure we can get the tiresome old Englishman to come around somehow." "I wish I thought so, but I tell you that Mr. Arthur Ponsonby Pore has never been known to change his mind. Besides he is leaving to-day for Richmond to be gone several days." That is often the way with persons who have not much mind to change; they seem to have none to spare; but Mr. Pore was a cultivated, learned gentleman,--surely he was amenable to reason. Price's Landing was a quiet little wharf almost hidden by the overhanging willows. It took the boat only a moment to drop one mail bag and take on another, or to do the same by the occasional passengers. It seemed hardly worth while to go through the motions of landing for such small traffic, but Harvie assured us that in watermelon time or when tobacco was being shipped they were a very important trading point, one of the busiest along the James. The village was about an eighth of a mile back from the landing and it looked as though not even watermelon time could wake it up. There were two stores, Mr. Pore's and a rival concern; a blacksmith shop, sprawling far out in the road; a schoolhouse; three churches; a post-office; and four residences. "I'd like to stop and have all of you see Annie now, but Grandfather is expecting us and perhaps we had better come back later on," said Harvie, who was driving one of the vehicles sent to meet us. The road to Maxton, the Prices' place, skirted the village and then went directly up quite a steep elevation. The house was built on top of the hill commanding a fine view of the river. The lawn sloped down to the water's edge where one could see a very attractive boat-house and several boats riding at anchor. "Lovely! Lovely!" we exclaimed. "I'm mighty afraid I'm going to run down that hill and jump in the water," cried Dum. "Well, hills are certainly made to run down and water to jump in," declared one of the new acquaintances, Billy Somers, who was standing on the springs of the vehicle in the rear holding on by the skin of his teeth and the back seat. "I bid to do what you do." The mansion (one could not call it just plain house) was a perfect specimen of colonial architecture, red brick of a rich rare tone with a great gallery across the front, the roof of which was supported by huge white pillars. The front door was a marvel of beautiful proportions, line and detail. A great ball might have been given on the porch, or gallery, as it is called in the South. Indeed, a sizable party might have been held on each one of the broad stone steps that led to the lawn. Only a very long-legged person could go up or down those stairs without taking two steps to a tread. A house like Maxton is very wonderful and beautiful but somehow never seems very homelike to me. Every time you go in and out of your front door to have to tackle those stairs would take from the homey feeling. Now at my home, Bracken, you are closer to Mother Earth and not nearly so grand and toploftical. Standing on the gallery to greet the guests were General Price and his maiden sister Miss Maria, the general tall and stately and Miss Maria short and fat. It was easy for the brother to look aristocratic and dignified, in fact he could not have looked any other way, so deserved no credit; but for the sister to look equally so was a marvel. Her figure reminded me of Mammy Susan's tomato pincushion, a treasure I had been allowed to play with in my childhood. She was quite as round in the back as the front and her waist was like the equator: an imaginary line extending from east to west. Her face was in keeping with her figure, round and fat, but through those rolls of flesh the high born lady looked out. Her voice was very sweet and the hand that she extended to us was as white as snow. She must have been about seventy years old, but thanks to her rotundity there were no wrinkles on her pink and white face. Of course she was dressed in black silk and old lace! How else could she have been clothed? The general would have served as a model for the make-up of a movie actor in a before-the-war film. The Tuckers and Mary and I decided later on that we felt just like a movie as we went up those grand broad steps with our host and hostess at the top. The hall carried out our feeling of being on the screen. "My, what a place to dance!" whispered Dee to me, but General Price heard her and smiled his approval. He was dignified himself but we were thankful he did not expect us to be. "You shall dance here to your heart's content, my dear. Many a measure has been trod in this hall." Dee looked a little depressed at being expected to tread a measure. That sounded rather minuetish to the modern ear. We wondered what he would think of the dances of the day. Maxton was laid out in the form of a cross with two great wings, one on each side of the hall. The girls were lodged upstairs in one wing, the boys in the other. Downstairs in the boys' wing were the parlors and smoking room and General Price's chamber and office; in the girls', the dining room, breakfast room, sewing room, chamber, linen room, storeroom, Miss Price's chamber and her small sitting room where she directed her household. There was a basement with more storerooms, pantries, a billiard room and a winter kitchen, but in the summer an outside kitchen was used. All of these things we found out later on a tour of inspection with our hostess. The great hall ran through the house and the back door was exactly like the front. Thanks to the lay of the land, however, there was not quite such a formidable array of steps. It seemed much more homelike in the back than the front. From the rear gallery one stepped into a formal garden, gravel paths, box hedges, labyrinth and all. "Oh, ain't it great, ain't it great?" cried Mary, dancing up and down the waxed floor of the great bedroom she and I were to occupy. Dum and Dee Tucker were put in the room with the other girl, Jessie Wilcox. If Annie could have come she was to have been with Mary and me. "I've got no business calling it great, though," she said as she stopped prancing, "when Annie can't be here. What are we to do about it, Page Allison?" "Let's call Tweedles in consultation. They can think up things." Tweedles were very glad to come. Miss Wilcox, who had motored over to Maxton several hours ahead of us, had already taken possession of the room and had begun to unpack her many fluffy clothes. Miss Maria had introduced all of us to our fellow visitor and had graciously expressed a desire that we should be good friends. We were willing, but it remained to be seen whether the stranger would meet us half way. She was a beautiful little creature with dark eyes and hair. Evidently she was very dressy or she would not have had to take up two double beds and all the chairs with her clothes. She seemed to have no idea of making room for the Tuckers nor did she make any excuse for spreading herself so promiscuously. "She needn't think I am going to move them," said Dum. "If they aren't off my bed by bedtime, I'll just go to sleep on them. I wish we could come in with you girls." "Of course that would never do," declared Dee. "We must stay where Miss Price put us." "Maybe Miss Wilcox will turn out to be fine," I suggested, hoping to turn the tide of Dum's disapproval. "Fine! She's too fine. I wish you could see her fluffy ruffles. But this isn't thinking up something to do about poor little Annie. My, I wish Zebedee could have come!" We all wished the same thing, but since he couldn't come we felt we must think up something for ourselves. "He could have talked old Ponsonby Pore into letting Annie come, I just know," said Dee. "Maybe we could do the same thing," I suggested. "Harvie says nothing will move him." "Well, one thing sure, we can go to see Annie and he can't drive us out, not after he has visited us at the beach. He'll just have to be polite to us." "Can't she come up in the evening? Surely she must stop keeping store sometimes," asked Mary. "Country stores never close. At least the one near us never does. They might miss the sale of a box of matches or a stick of candy. I used to think, when I was a little girl, that I would rather keep a store than do anything in all the world. I talked about it so much that Mammy Susan got right uneasy about me." "Well, Harvie and Sleepy are blue enough about it, so we must cheer up," said Dee. "We are to be here two weeks and if we behave real well maybe they will ask us for longer, and surely in that time we can make that old stickinthemud come around. Zebedee could think up a way in a minute." CHAPTER II THE COUNTRY STORE THE Prices had the right idea about entertaining a crowd of young people: that was to let them entertain each other. If a dozen boys and girls can't have a good time just because they are girls and boys then there is something very dull about them and the combination is hopeless. There was nothing dull about this crowd gathered in the hospitable Price mansion. Harvie was too well bred to let the disappointment about the non-appearance of one guest make him neglect the others. Poor George Massie was the one who could not conceal his feelings. Annie was the first and only girl he had ever cared for and now he sat, a mountain of woe, consuming large quantities of luncheon as though the business of eating were the only solace in life. "Wake up, Sleepy, the worst is yet to come!" teased Rags. Sleepy only groaned and dismally accepted another hot biscuit. The funny thing about Sleepy was that he was so in love with Annie that he did not at all mind being teased. "I am going down to see Annie right after luncheon. Don't you want to go too?" I whispered to Sleepy who was next to me. "Sure!" "We are trying to think up a plan by which we can get her hateful old father to let her join us here." "Brute!" "Don't you think the girl is pretty, sitting next to Wink?" Miss Wilcox had plunged into a flirtation with that budding young doctor, placed on her right, not forgetting to turn to her left quite often to include Jack Bennett in her chatter. "No! Like blondes best!" Miss Wilcox looked up quickly. I was almost sure she had heard Sleepy. She glanced quite seriously around the table, regarding each girl intently. Certainly there were no decided blondes there except Mary Flannagan, whose hair was red, and even the best friends of dear old Mary could not call her beautiful. The Tucker twins were more brunette than blonde, Dum's hair being red black and Dee's blue black. As for me, Page Allison, I was neither one thing nor the other. My hair was neither light nor dark and my eyes were grey. She need not look at me so hard. I wasn't the blonde that Sleepy liked best. Farther acquaintance with Jessie Wilcox explained her concern over Sleepy's remark. She was a very nice girl just so long as she was "it," but she could not brook a rival of any sort. She must be the center of attraction, admired by all, praised by all. The minute she felt that there was someone who was considered more beautiful than she was, could dance better, sing better, do anything better, that minute she was a changed being. Her previous visits to Maxton had been very delightful as she had always been praised and petted to her heart's content. Both General Price and his sister were devoted to her and she was ever a welcome visitor. Her grandfather's home was about ten miles from Price's Landing, and whenever she came from New York to see him she must spend part of her time with the old people at Maxton. Harvie admired her very much, as who would not? She was beautiful, intelligent, very quick-witted and charming. He had never seen her with any other girl except her best friend, who on one occasion had been at Maxton with her, and this friend, being hopelessly plain and rather slow of wit, but served as a foil to the little beauty. After overhearing Sleepy's announcement about blondes, she looked at me so steadily that I began to blush. I was suddenly very conscious of my tip-tilted nose and of the added toll of freckles that the summer always exacted from it. I wondered if anyone else was noticing the almost disagreeable expression of her usually sweet countenance. I was glad when Miss Maria arose as a signal for us to leave the table. "Make yourselves at home!" the general said in his hospitable way. "Maxton is yours to do with as you please. There are horses in the stables for any of you who want to ride or drive; there are boats on the river; there are swings on the lawn; the tennis court is in condition for matches if you care to play. All I ask of you is not to fall off the horses or let them run away with you and kill you; and not to tumble into the river and drown." "That seems a reasonable request," I laughed. "How about falling out of the swings or beating each other up with tennis rackets?" "Oh, well! I must not put too many restrictions on youth," he said, pinching my ear. Jessie looked at me again rather severely and once more I felt mighty freckled. "Let's get a rig and go see Annie," suggested Sleepy. "All right! Tweedles and Mary want to go, too." "Let's get in ahead of them," he pleaded. "Come on, Page!" shouted Dum. "We want you in a set of tennis." "Now I was just going to ask her to come for a row," cried Dee. "Wink and Jim told me to engage you. They have gone to see about the boat." "Sorry, but I've got a date with Sleepy." "Humph! Miss Allison seems to be rather in demand," said Jessie to Jack Bennett. She said it in a low voice but I heard quite distinctly. "Yes! They say she is the most popular girl at her school." "Oh, is that so? I can't see the attraction." "Well, she must have it because girls like her as well as the fellows. They say Dr. White is terribly smitten on her." "Absurd!" I quite agreed with her. The sooner Wink White stopped hypnotizing himself into thinking he was in love with me, the better I would have liked it. Of course every girl likes to have attention, but I thought entirely too much of Wink to be pleased to have him looking at me like a dying calf. He was such a nice boy, so good looking, so clever, so agreeable,--except when he was alone with me. Then his whole nature seemed to undergo a change. I dreaded being left with him and usually managed to avoid it. He was my fly in the ointment of this house-party. I did not at all relish having this young Kentuckian state it as a fact that Wink was interested in me. Jessie Wilcox was welcome to him if she could persuade him to transfer his affections. Sleepy and I skimmed away in a spruce red-wheeled buggy with a young horse that evidently liked to be moving. "Fierce about Annie!" he said. "I'd like to wring that old duffer's neck." "I hope he has gone before we get there, then," I laughed. "If Mr. Tucker could only get hold of him, I bet he could bring him around." Mr. Pore had not gone, however, when we drew up at the cross roads where the country store stood. He was engaged in trying to sell a large rake to a farmer, while Annie was busily employed in measuring off two yards and three-quarters of unbleached cotton for the farmer's wife and then computing the amount due when the cotton was worth eight and two-third cents a yard. She completed the calculation just as we came in. How glad she was to see us! Mr. Pore seemed pleased to renew my acquaintance, too. He gave only a formal greeting to Sleepy but shook my hand in what he meant to be a cordial way. The fact that I was part English and that part of me came up to his idea of social equality, made him look upon me as desirable. He had not forgotten that my mother and his wife had been friends in England. He honestly felt that there were no Americans who were his equals. General Price might be almost so, but not quite. He saw no reason why his beautiful daughter should not spend her young life weighing out lard and measuring calico for negroes, but every reason why she should not demean herself by mixing socially with any but the highest. Mr. Pore's store was like every other country store except that it was perhaps a little more orderly, not much though. Order in a country store seems to be impossible. The stock must be so large and so varied to suit all demands that there never is room for it. I have never seen a country store that was not crowded. How the keepers of such stores ever take stock of their wares is a mystery to me. Perhaps they never do, but just go on buying when the supply gets low, and selling off as they can, putting money in the till until it gets full and then sending it to the bank. Usually they run their affairs in a haphazard manner and their books would defy an expert to straighten out. No matter from what walk of life the country storekeepers are drawn, they are all more or less alike, whether they are younger sons of the nobility as was Mr. Pore or elder sons of the soil (with much soil sticking to them) as was old Blinker, who ran the rival emporium at Price's Landing. They always have more stock than they have store, and their books usually look as though entries had been made upside down. The Pores' store had shelves stretching from one end to the other, down both sides and reaching as high as the ceiling. On these shelves were piled dry-goods of all grades and material, lamps, shoes, harness, hardware, canned goods of every description, crackers, soap, starch, axle grease, false hair, perfume, patent medicines, toys, paint brushes, brooms, tobacco, writing paper, china and glass ware, jars, pots and pans, pokers, baseball bats, millinery, overalls, etc., etc. The things that were too tall for the shelves, like Grandfather's clock, consequently stood on the floor. The aisle between the counters was blocked with sewing machines, kitchen tables, chairs, lawn mowers, crates of eggs and cases of ginger ale and sarsaparilla. There were barrels of coarse salt and great tins of lard, firkins of mackerel and herring, barrels of flour and sacks of meal. One would think that everything in the world that could be bought or sold was in that little store, but no! A door to one side led into another room and this room was also full to overflowing. There were more barrels of provisions for man and beast; sacks of chicken feed and bran; stoves of all kinds; poultry netting; coils of wire fencing; gardening implements and away back in a corner I spied a coffin. What a setting for such a jewel as Annie Pore! Her beauty shone resplendent from its background of apron gingham and butter crocks. I fancied I could detect a little redness to her eyelids as though the disappointment in not being at Maxton with her friends had caused some weeping, but her manner was calm and her expression one of resignation to fate and the decrees of a selfish father. I could not help thinking how I would have behaved under the circumstances, or the Tucker twins. I would not have cried, to be sure, but neither would my expression have been resigned. As for Dum and Dee: they would no doubt have broken up the shop. "We are so sorry Annie can't come to the house-party," I ventured as the farmer who had been haggling for the rake decided not to take it. Why Mr. Pore was ever able to sell anything I could not see. His manner was so superior and condescending. Harvie told me afterwards that Mr. Pore had succeeded in spite of himself. He was scrupulously honest in the first place and then he always carried the best line of goods. As for the science of salesmanship: he had yet to learn its rudiments. He looked sore and irritated at having failed to make the sale but put on more than ever the manner of insulted royalty. I saw the farmer making for the rival store where a little later he emerged. Blinker had made the sale. When I ventured the above remark, Annie looked as though she wished I wouldn't, and her father, I am sure, regretted the fact that I was part English, and that English of good blood; otherwise he could easily have annihilated me. "It is a matter I do not care to discuss," he said with a freezing hauteur. "Oh, I am not discussing with you, my dear Mr. Pore! I am merely telling you. All of us are so devoted to Annie and we have looked forward to being with her on this house-party all summer. I am sure if Harvie had known earlier that you would not be able to spare Annie at this time, he would have been glad to postpone the party." "Ahem--I--am compelled to take this occasion for a business trip. When one is engaged in mercantile pursuits, it is necessary to make periodical visits to the city to replenish one's wares." "Oh, certainly, I understand, but we still are dreadfully sorry about Annie. Of course we know that you want her to have all the pleasure on earth. That is the way fathers are made. We are sure you will make your stay as brief as possible so that Annie can join us at Maxton." He looked somewhat taken aback and murmured something more about mercantile pursuits. Sleepy sat on a keg of nails with eyes as big as saucers while Annie had the startled expression of one who sees her friend enter the cage of a man-eating lion. "You see I am an only child, too, Mr. Pore, and my mother is dead, just like Annie's. I know better than anyone how much a father can be to a little motherless daughter, and how that father can plan and deny himself for his child. You can't tell me anything about the love of a father." As Mr. Pore had never attempted to tell of any such thing, this was most audacious of me. Annie was actually gasping and Sleepy choked, but Mr. Pore looked at me quite solemnly through his gold-rimmed glasses. "Sometimes my father is called away; you see a country doctor's time is not his own, either, and he has had to leave me just when I felt I most needed him--on birthdays--and--and--all kinds of holidays, but he comes back to me just as fast as he can. My father is thinking of getting an assistant and then he can have more time, I hope. You have had an assistant, too, have you not?" He bowed gravely. "Where is he, then?" "He is away on leave." "Ill? That is too bad!" "No, not ill! He is having a much-needed holiday." "Oh, then he has gone on a trip?" "I fancy not." "Why, then I am sure he would be glad to come back and relieve Annie so she can come to Maxton. Oh, Mr. Pore, do please write for him to come on back and take his holiday later!" "Really, Miss Allison----" he began in his most dignified Oxford donnish manner. "Oh, I just know you will! You and Father and Mr. Tucker are all just alike. You can't bear to deny your girls any pleasure." His expression was comical at having these virtues thrust upon him. "I--er--I--shall endeavor to return from this enforced journey, necessary to replenish the stock which one engaged in mercantile pursuits in the rural districts finds it expedient to carry, and on my return if all goes well with the business, I shall permit my daughter to enjoy the hospitality extended to her by my neighbor, General Price." "I knew you would! I knew you would!" and I shook his limp hand which Dee Tucker had once said reminded her of nothing so much as an old pump handle that had lost the sucker. Everybody knows how that feels, at least everybody who has had dealings with pumps. You grasp the handle expecting some resistance and a flow of water in response; but when the sucker has disappeared, the handle will fly up in a strange limp manner and unless the pumper is wary there is danger of getting a lick in the nose. I cared not for a response. If no flow of kindliness was the result of my enthusiasm, I cared not a whit. Annie was to be one of the house-party and I had saved the day. I remembered how Mr. Tucker, dear old Zebedee, had declared that he had won over Mr. Pore by treating him like a human being, that time he had persuaded him to let Annie come to Willoughby to the vacation party. I had treated him as I would any ordinary kind father and he had been so astonished and pleased at his portrait that he had unconsciously accepted it as a likeness and begun to pose to look like it. CHAPTER III ENGAGING IN MERCANTILE PURSUITS A WARNING whistle from the up-going steamboat made the dignified Mr. Pore step lively. With admonitions to Annie to keep an eye to business and with a limp handshake to Sleepy and me, a peck of a kiss on Annie's white brow, he seized his ancient Gladstone bag and made for the landing. That bag must have been a leftover from the old days in England, and more precious it was in its owner's eyes than the finest new suitcase that money might buy. All of us were relieved that he was gone. I giggled with joy and Annie smiled at Sleepy and me as she had not done since we arrived. "All the gang is coming down soon to see you, honey. They would have come with us but we slipped off," said I, going behind the counter to hug my little friend. I always have had a way of calling Annie my little friend, which is most absurd as she is inches taller than I am, but there has been a feeling somehow that she must be protected, and persons who must be protected seem little even when they are big. "Gee, I wish I could take you on a little drive before they come!" exclaimed Sleepy. "That is very kind of you but of course I can't leave the shop," sighed Annie. "Yes, you can! I am here!" "But I wouldn't let you keep shop for me," laughed Annie. "I'd like to know why not--I bet I can sell more things than you can. Just you try me." "It isn't that! I just couldn't let you. It is something I have to do but it is not right for you to do it." "Such nonsense! You just put on your hat and go with Sleepy. How do you know what is the price of things?" "Almost all the goods have marks on them but here is a list of prices, besides,--but Page, dear,--I just couldn't let you do it." "Well, you just can!" and I took off my own hat and put it on her head. I hadn't known before what a pretty hat it was. Any hat would be glorified by Annie's wonderful honey-colored hair. "Now give me your apron!" and I untied the little frilly affair that Annie wore to keep shop in and put it on myself. Sleepy took her by the arm and carried her off, protesting, laughing, holding back, but happy in being coerced. "Take her for a long drive, Sleepy! I can run this store and sell it out of supplies in no time, I am sure." I heard the sound of the red wheels of the spruce little buggy die away as the driver let the young horse have free rein. I gave a sigh of joy. Here I was keeping store at last! What would Mammy Susan say? It is not often that the acme of one's ambition is reached so young. I smoothed down my apron and slipped in behind the counter just as a customer entered. It was a farmer's wife who had driven over to the landing for provisions. She hitched her horse and ramshackle buggy in front of the store and came in prepared to spend a delightful hour. Going to the store in the country is the event of the week. Her eye had an eager gleam and there was a flush on her high cheek bones. She was a gaunt-looking woman with hair slicked up so tight under her stiff straw hat that it looked as though it must hurt. The hat had all the flowers that grow in an old-fashioned garden bedecking it, to say nothing of spiky bows of green ribbon and a rhinestone buckle. She had on a linen duster which had evidently been hastily donned over a calico house dress. "Where's Mr. Pore?" "He has gone to Richmond." "Where's Annie?" "She has stepped out for a moment. Please may I serve you?" "No, I reckon I'll come again when some of them are in. I'll go over to Blinker's and trade this morning." Heavens! Was I to stand still and see customers go over to the rival store? Had I missed my vocation after all my dreams? Was storekeeping not what I was cut out for? "I'm sorry you won't stay and see these new ginghams," I faltered. A gleam in her eye emboldened me to proceed. "They are making them up so pretty in Richmond now." "Well, I wonder if they are! Are you from Richmond?" "I have been visiting there but I am from Milton. I love to visit in Richmond. Don't you? It is such a good way to get the new styles." That had fetched her. She gave up all idea of trading with Blinker. What did he know of styles and the way ginghams were being made up in the city? I got down stacks of dry-goods and with my first customer began to plan a wonderful garment for the protracted meeting soon to take place. Gingham was decided not to be fine enough for the occasion and a pretty piece of voile was chosen instead. A silk drop skirt must go with it and bunches of velvet ribbon must set it off. The farmer's wife was having the time of her life and I was enjoying myself to the utmost. I measured off the material in a most professional manner, trembling for fear the customer would find out what a novice I was. I was thankful that she was to make it instead of me. With all of my learned talk about clothes, I could not have sewed up a pillowslip and had it fit the pillow. Next on the program was chicken feed. The rats had devoured her supply of wheat saved for the poultry and the corn had not yet been harvested. We had to go in the adjoining room for that and I had a chance to peep at my price list on the way. I persuaded her also into laying in a supply of canned soups and got her interested in a lawn mower and a patent churn. She declared she was coming over the next day with her husband and try to persuade him to purchase both of them for her. "Men-folks are mighty slow to get implements for the women. I ain't complaining of my old man, but he thinks he must have every new-fangled bit of farming machinery that comes along while I am churning with the same old big-at-the-bottom-and-little-at-the-top-little-thing-in-the- middle-goes-flippityflop churn that my mother had. As for the bit of lawn around the house that he 'lows me,--that has to be cut with a sickle just when I can catch a hand to do it. Now if I had that little lawn mower I could run it myself and keep things kind of tidy like 'round the house." "Of course you could," I assented. "Now don't you want some of this cheese? It is right fresh." I had noted a great new cheese in a glass case that had evidently been cut only that morning. "Do you ever make polenta? This cheese would be fine for that." "No, do tell! I never even heard of it." "Why, it is a great dish among the Italians and is the best thing you ever tasted." "I'm a great hand for cooking and sho' do relish a new recipe." "Take three cups of boiling water and one cup of corn meal and one cup of grated cheese, and a teaspoon of salt. Stir the meal into the boiling water and let it cook until it begins to get thick and then put in the cheese and salt and bake it in a well-greased pan. It is dandy eating." "Well now, doesn't that sound nice? Give me a pound of the cheese and one of those new pans to bake it in. My pans are all pretty nigh burnt out." "Did you ever try any of this glassware for baking? It is so nice and clean and the crust looks so pretty showing through. To be sure it is more expensive than tin, but it is so satisfactory." "I never heard of such a thing! Show it to me." I had noticed with some surprise that Mr. Pore had a supply of the fire-proof glass just coming into general use. He was certainly a progressive buyer for one who was such a poor salesman. I sold her two glass baking dishes and then more dry-goods. It took three trips for us to carry out all her packages to the buggy. More purchasers had arrived in the meantime. I foresaw a busy time. A little colored girl with three eggs tied up in a rag wanted to trade them for flour. "My maw is makin' a cake fur the barsket fun'ral an' she ain't got a Gawd's mouth er flour in the house. She say if'n she can trade these here fur some flour she'll be jes' a-kitin'." "Whar you git them aigs?" asked an old uncle suspiciously. I had just sold him a plug of "eatin' terbaccer." "I git 'em out'n the nesses, whar they b'long," she asserted, tossing her wrapped plaits scornfully. "Yer ain't got but one hen an' I done see yo' maw a-wringing her naick this ve'y mawnin'." "What'n if'n yer did? That ole blue hen been layin' two three times er day lately, an' my maw she says she mus' about laid out by this time, so she up'n kilt her fer the barsket fun'ral goin' on at de same time of de big meetin'. But laws a mussy! Do you know she was that full er aigs that it war distressful?" The child's eyes were wistful at the remembrance. "Well, well! Nobody can't tell 'bout women an' hens. It seems lak nobody don't speak up an' testify how much good they is in some sisters 'til they is dead an' gone. Same way with hens! Same way with hens! Is yo' maw gwinter bile it or bake it?" "Sh'ain't 'cided. If'n yer bile it yer gits soup extry an' if'n yer bake it yer gits stuffin' an' graby." I was thankful for the little training I had in mathematics when it was up to me to convert eggs into flour. Some problem! I put in a little extra flour to make sure and the child skipped off. At this juncture the Tucker twins, Mary Flannagan, and a troop of young men from Maxton blew in. I was secretly relieved that Miss Wilcox was not of the party. Not that I minded her seeing me keep store, but I had a feeling she might be a little scornful of Annie Pore. "Where is Annie?" cried Dum. "We are nearly dead to see her," declared Dee. "Gone driving with Sleepy. I am keeping store in her absence. His Lord High Muck-a-Muck has embarked for Richmond." "What fun! What fun! We bid to help!" "Maybe only one had better help, as purchasers coming in might be overcome by too many clerks," I laughed. "You are right! Dee must be the one because she is so tactful," said Dum magnanimously. So Dee took off her hat and got behind the candy and ginger ale side of the counter, and then such a buying and selling ensued as that country store had never witnessed. Of course everybody treated everybody else and then had to be treated in turn. I stayed on the dry-goods side, and while I was not doing such a thriving business as Dee, still I had my hands full. The farmer's wife had met some acquaintances and sent them to Pore's to see the new clerk who could tell them so much about Richmond styles. I had to draw a gallon of kerosene for one customer, but Wink insisted upon doing this for me. I did not want him to one little bit. If I was to be storekeeper, I preferred being one, not just playing at it. "I think you are wonderful, Page, to do this for Annie," he whispered to me as we made our way to the coal oil barrel. "Nonsense! What is wonderful about it?" "You are always kind to everybody but me." "Do you want me to keep store for you?" "No, I want you to keep house for me," he muttered. "But I did not know you had a house," I teased. He pumped vigorously at the coal oil. "I intend to have one some day." "A grand one, surely, if you expect to have a housekeeper!" "Page, you know what I mean!" He looked longingly into my eyes that I knew were full of mischievous twinkles. "All I know is, you have wasted about a quart of kerosene." The floor was flooded. It is a difficult thing to pump coal oil and make love at the same time. Poor Wink had done both of his jobs badly. He looked aghast at the havoc he had caused. "I am a bungling fool!" he cried. "No, Wink, you are not that. You are just not an adept at--pumping coal oil." "Why are you always different with me? You don't treat other fellows the way you do me." "You don't treat other girls the way you do me," I retorted. "Of course not! I don't feel towards them as I do towards you." "Well, it is a good thing your feelings don't make you grouchy with everybody. You just exude gloom as soon as you get with me. But this isn't keeping shop for Annie," and I grabbed the oil can from him and ran back into the store. I was very glad to see Wink make his way to Dee. He usually went to her after a bout with me. They were great friends and seemed to have a million things of interest to discuss and nothing to disagree about. I could have been just as good a friend to him if he had only dropped the eternal subject and treated me as he did Dee: like an ordinary girl who was ready for a good time but had no idea of a serious attachment. We were nothing but chits of girls, after all, and only out of school because Gresham happened to burn down before we had time to graduate. "Umm! How you do smell of coal oil!" cried Dee. "Don't dare to touch anything in my line of groceries until you have washed your hands. There's a basin back there." Wink laughed and washed his hands as commanded. Now if I had said to him what Dee had he would have been furious, and gloom impenetrable would have ensued. That afternoon I cut off and planned four different dresses for four farmers' wives, selling trimming and ribbons and fancy buttons. I made many trades with persons bringing in eggs and chickens and carrying off various commodities in exchange. I was never so busy in my life. Dee was equally so, even after we had persuaded the noisy crowd from Maxton to depart. "Goodness! I feel as though I had been serving at a church fair," cried Dee, sinking down exhausted on a soap box. She had just wheedled a shy young farmer into thinking that existence could not continue without a box of scented soap and a new cravat, although he had made a trip to the store for nothing more ornate than salt for the cattle. "How do you reckon Annie ever gets through the day if this one is a sample? I haven't stopped a minute and here come some more traders." The fact was that Dee and I had done about three times as much selling as the Pores usually accomplished. Word had gone forth that we were keeping shop, and everybody hastened to the country store. Dee found this out by accident over the telephone. There was such a violent ringing of the bell that she hastened to answer it, not being on to the country 'phone where everybody's bell rings at every call. This is what she overheard: "Say, Milly! Pore's have got some gals from Richmond clerking there. They can put you on to the styles." "So I hear! I'm gettin' the mule hitched up fast as I can to go over." And then a masculine voice took it up evidently from another section: "They say they are peaches, too!" "That you, Dick Lee? Where'd you hear about them?" "Saw Lem Baker on the way, goin' for salt. He got it from Jim Cullen." "I bet you'll be there soon yourself," broke in the voice of Milly. "Sure! My car is already cranked up gettin' up speed for the run. S'long!" "Wait! What you goin' to buy, Dick? Your sister told me you went to the store yesterday and laid in enough for a week." "Well, I may get a coffin," laughed the gay voice of Dick as he hung up the receiver. CHAPTER IV DEE TUCKER MAKES A SALE "PAGE! I've been eavesdropping! I declare I never meant to do it. I got into the swim of the conversation and somehow couldn't get out of it," cried Dee, blushing furiously. "I don't know what Zebedee would say if he knew it." "Why, honey, that isn't eavesdropping!" I laughed. "Country people always listen to everything they can over the 'phone. That is the only way we have of spreading the news. I can assure you that perfectly good church members in our county make a practice of running to the telephone every time a neighbor's bell rings. How many were on the line when you cut in?" "Three or four, I should say, I couldn't quite tell." Then Dee told me the conversation she had overheard, making me a party to the crime of eavesdropping. "Here comes Dick now, I do believe. He was the one who was all cranked up ready to come." There was a great buzzing and hissing on the road as a disreputable looking Ford came speeding down the hill. I have never seen such a dilapidated car, and still it ran and made good time, too. There was not a square inch of paint left on its faithful sides, and the top was hanging down on one side, giving it the appearance of a broken-winged crow. The doors flapped in the breezes, and the mud-guards were bent and twisted as though they had had many a collision. Dick, however, was spruce enough to make up for the appearance of his car. He had on a bright blue suit, the very brightest blue one can imagine coming in any material but glass or china; a necktie made of a silk U. S. flag, with a scarf pin which looked very like an owl with two great imitation ruby eyes; but I found on inspection it was the American Eagle. His shoes were very gay yellow and his socks striped red and white, carrying out the color scheme of his cravat. I ducked behind my side of the counter leaving the field clear for Dee. She stood to her guns and gave the newcomer a radiant smile. She was there to sell goods for Annie Pore and sell them she would. "Evenin'!" "How do you do? What can I do for you?" "Pretty day!" "Yes, fine! Is there something I can show you?" "Not so warm as yesterday and a little bit cooler than the day before!" "Yes, that is so. We've got in a fresh cheese,--maybe you would like a few pounds of it." "Looks like rain but the moon hangs dry." "Oh, I hope it won't rain,--but maybe it will--let me sell you an umbrella,--they are great when it rains." "We don't to say need rain for most of the crops, but it wouldn't hurt the late potatoes." "Oh, I'm glad of that!" "But the watermelons don't need a drop more. They are ripening fine,--rain would make them too mushy like. I'm going to ship a load of them next week. I 'low I'll get about three hundred off of that sandy creek bottom." "Fine! Watermelons are my favorite berry." Right there I exploded and the young man let out a great haw! haw! too that helped to break the ice, and also enabled Dee to stop her painful rejoinders to his polite small talk, and then he began to buy. I heard Annie and Sleepy as they hitched the horse at the post and I hoped devoutly the festive Dick would buy out the store before they got in. Already he had purchased six cravats, a new coal skuttle, a much-decorated set of bedroom china, a bag of horse cakes, some canned salmon and a box of axle grease when Annie made her appearance. She was looking so lovely that I did not blame Sleepy for having the expression of a hungry man. She was certainly good enough to eat. "Oh, Page, we had such a wonderful drive! I am so afraid we were gone too long, but George simply would not turn around." Annie was the only person who always called Sleepy by his Christian name. "He was quite right. I have had the time of my life. Dee is helping me. She is in the other room now, selling a young man named Dick everything in the store. Don't butt in on her; let her finish her sales. Here come the others! They said they would be back to see you." In came all the house-party and such a hugging and kissing and handshaking ensued as I am sure that little country store had never before witnessed. "Oh, Annie, we miss you so!" cried Mary. "Indeed we do!" from the others. "Maybe I can be with you in a day or so," said Annie. "Father is going to try to return in a very little while." "Well, until he does come back one of us is going to be with you every day," declared Dum. "Page and Dee need not think they are the only ones who are going to help." Annie's eyes were full of happy tears. "What have I done to deserve so many dear friends?" she whispered to me. "Nothing but just be your sweet self!" I answered. "I must peep in and see what Dee is doing to that poor defenseless Dick. I bet she has sold him a kitchen stove by this time." Annie and I made our way into the outer room, where at the far end we could see Dick and Dee in earnest converse. "It is a very excellent one," she was declaiming. "In fact, I am sure there is not a better one to be bought. It is air tight and water tight; of the best material; the latest style; the workmanship on it is very superior; the price is ridiculously low. Really I think all country people ought to have one in the house for emergencies. One never can tell when one will be needed and sometimes they are so difficult to get in a hurry." "That's so!" agreed the enamored Dick. "But I reckon I could get this any time from old man Pore if I should need it." "Oh, no! You see this is the only one in stock and somebody might come for this this very night, and then where would you be if you needed it? Then even if you could get another one, it might not be nearly so attractive as this one. They are going up, too, all the time,--effect of the war. Of course this was bought when they were not so high, and I am letting you have advantage of the price we paid for it. After this they will be up at least forty per cent.--that's the truth. The war prices are something fierce." "Ain't it the truth?" "Yes, and then you might not be able to get another lavender one. I just know lavender would be becoming to you. I'd like to see you in a lavender one." "Would you really now? That settles it then! I'll have to get old Pore to trust me, though, until I sell my melons." "Oh, that's all right. Just whenever you feel like paying." I was completely mystified. What on earth was that ridiculous girl selling to the young farmer? Annie was reduced to the limpness of a wet dishrag by what we had overheard. The giggles had her in their clutches and she could not speak. "Do you think you can help me out with it?" asked the young man. "Sure! It is not heavy yet." Around the labyrinth made by the farming implements, stoves, etc., came the buyer and seller, he backing and she carefully guiding him. Between them they carried a long something; I, at first, could not make out what. "A coffin!" I gasped. Through the door they made their way into the store proper. Some colored customers had just come in and these fell back with expressions of curiosity and awe equally mingled on their black faces. "Who daid? Who daid?" they whispered, but no one vouchsafed any information. Dee looked supernaturally solemn and Dick only wanted to get his latest purchase safely landed in his car. The house-party had adjourned to the porch in front, and when the lugubrious procession emerged from the store the gaiety suddenly ceased. As Dick backed out, the young men doffed their caps and the girls bowed their heads. What was their amazement when Dee turned out to have hold of the other end. Every man sprang forward to take her place, but she sadly shook her head and held on to her job. "It isn't heavy," she whispered. Dum's eyes filled with tears. She thought with sadness that in a short while it would be heavy when it fulfilled its destiny. She was very proud of her twin that she should be so kind and helpful at such a time. How like Dee it was to be assisting this poor young man, who had perhaps lost some one near and dear to him! No one spoke, but all remained reverently uncovered while the coffin was hoisted on the back seat of the ragged old car. The young men assisted in this, although Dee would not resign her place as chief mourner. "Who daid? Who daid?" clamored the darkies who seemed to spring up from the ground, such a crowd of them appeared in the twinkling of an eye. "I don't know," said Dum in a teary voice, "but isn't it sad?" "'Tain't Miss Rena Lee 'cause I jes' done seed her headin' fer the sto'," declared a little pickaninny. "She ain't a-trus'in' her bones ter Mr. Dick's artermobe. She done sayed she gonter dribe her ole yaller mule whar she gwinter go." "Ain't de Lees got a boardner? Maybe it's de boardner," suggested a helpful old woman. "Well, I wonder if it is! Here he come! I'm a-gwinter arsk him." Dick came out laden with his other purchases. "Lawsamussy! It mus' be de boardner an' all er her folks is a-comin' down, 'cause how come Mr. Dick hafter buy all them things otherwise? Look thar chiny an' coal skuttles an' what not!" "Who daid, Mr. Dick? Who daid?" "Nobody I know of!" grinned the young man. "Ain't it de boardner?" "What boarder?" "Miss Rena's boardner!" "Sister Rena hasn't any boarder that I know of. Here, get out of the road or I'll let you know who is dead!" He took a fond farewell of Dee and cranking up his noisy car, he jumped to his seat and speeded home with the coffin and the coal skuttle bouncing up and down right merrily. "Ain't nobody daid?" grieved a sad old woman. "No! Nobody ain't daid!" snapped an old man. "Nobody ain't eben a-dyin'. Now that thar Dick Lee done bought up th' only carsket in the sto' an' my Luly is mighty low--mighty low." "Sho-o' nuf I ain't heard tell of it. Is she in de baid?" "Well, not ter say in de baid--but on de baid, on de baid. Anyhow 'tain't safe to count on her fer long. White folks is sho' graspin' these days. They is sho' graspin'." The old man departed on his way grumbling. "Caroline Tucker, what did you sell that coffin to that young man for?" demanded Dum sternly. "Just to see if I could, Virginia Tucker. I told him I'd like to see him in a coffin lined with lavender, and he was so complimented, he immediately bought it to keep for a rainy day." Dee and I had made so many sales that Annie had to send a telegram informing her father of the diminished stock. It was necessary to order another coffin immediately in case the ailing Luly might need it. CHAPTER V THE HUMAN FLY GENERAL PRICE was vastly amused over the account of Dee's sale of the coffin to the amiable Dick. Miss Maria was frankly shocked, and Miss Wilcox amazed and a little scornful. "I never cared for slumming," she announced that night when we had retired to the girls' wing. "But helping Annie Pore keep store is not slumming," said Dee, the dimple in her chin deepening. Dee Tucker had a dimple in her chin just like her father. When father and daughter got ready for a fight, those dimples always deepened. "Most kind of you, I am sure, although that sort of adventure never appealed to me. I have taught in the mission school in New York's East Side, but when the class is over I always leave. I can't bear to mix with the lower classes. It is all right to help them but not by mixing." "But you don't understand,--Annie Pore is one of our very best friends. She is not the lower classes. She is better born than any of us and prettier and better bred and more accomplished----" "Ah, indeed! I should like to behold this paragon." "Well, you shall behold her all right! She is going to join us here in a day or so." Jessie Wilcox looked very much astonished and quite haughty. She could not understand the Prices asking such a person to meet her. The daughter of a country storekeeper was hardly one whom she cared to know socially. Dee had gone about it the wrong way to make the spoiled beauty look with favor on the little English girl:--prettier, better born, better bred, indeed! As for accomplishments: what accomplishments could a dowdy little country girl have that she had not? The Tuckers and Jessie Wilcox were not hitting it off very well in the great bedroom which they shared. Dum had declared she would not move the fluffy finery which was spread out on her bed and she stuck to her word. "What are you going to do with these duds?" she asked rather brusquely. "Oh, you just put them back in my trunk," drawled the spoiled roommate. "Humph! You had better ring for your maid. I'm not much on doing valet work." With that she caught hold of the four corners of the bedspread and with a yank deposited the whole thing adroitly on the floor, butter side up. Dee told me afterwards that Jessie's expression was one of complete astonishment. She was not used to being treated like the common herd. Much Dum cared! She got into the great four-posted bed with perfect unconcern, while Dee tactfully helped the pouting Jessie to hang up her many frocks. "She had better be glad I didn't go to bed on them," stormed the unrepentant Dum when she told me about it. "As for Dee: I was disgusted with her for being so mealy-mouthed. Catch me hanging up anybody's clothes! I bet you one thing,--I bet you she keeps her fripperies off my bed after this." I was in a way sorry for Jessie. I know it must be hard to be a spoiled darling turned loose with the Tucker twins. They were always perfectly square and fair in all their dealings, but they demanded squareness and fairness in others. Jessie was evidently accustomed to being waited on and admired, and the Tuckers refused to do either of these things necessary for the happiness of their roommate. She had always chosen her friends with a view to setting off her own charms, girls who were homely, less vivacious, duller. It did not suit her at all to be outshone in any way. She was certainly the prettiest girl in the house-party, that is, before Annie arrived, but she was not the most attractive. There never were more delightful girls in all the world than the Tucker twins, witty, charming, vivacious, and very handsome. I could see their development in the two years I had known them and realized that they were growing to be very lovely women. Mary Flannagan was nobody's pretty girl but she had something better than beauty, at least something that proves a better asset in life: extreme good nature and a sense of humor that embraced the whole universe. She had humor enough to see a joke on herself and take it. That, to me, is the quintessence of humor. Wherever Mary was there also were laughter and gaiety. She had a heart as big as all Ireland, from which country she had inherited her wit as well as her name. Mary was not quite so bunchy as she had been. Two years had stretched her out a bit, but she would always be something of a rolypoly. She was as active as a cat, and so determined was she to end up as a character movie actress she never stopped her limbering-up exercises. After I would get in bed at night she would begin. She would turn somersaults, stand on her head, walk on her hands, do cart-wheels, bend the crab, fall on the floor at full length and do a hundred other wonderful stunts. "I am so plain I'll have to go in for slap-stick comedy and maybe work up to the legit., but go in I will. Why, Page, there is oodlums of money in movies and think of the life!" "I can see you, Mary, as a side partner to Douglas Fairbanks. Can you climb up a wall like a fly?" I laughed. "No-o, not yet but soon! I can't get much practice in wall scaling. I am dying to try this wall outside our window. It is covered with ivy and would be easy as dirt, I know," and she poked her head out the window, gazing longingly at the tempting perpendicularity of the wall beneath. Mr. Thomas Hawkins, alias Shorty, thought Mary was just about the best chum a fellow could have, and great was his joy when Fate landed him at the same country house with the inimitable Mary. Shorty, too, had made out to grow a bit since first we saw him make the great play in the football game at Hill Top. He was a very engaging lad with his tousled mane, rosy cheeks and clear boy's eyes. "Is Shorty going to get into the movies, too?" I teased. "No,--navy!" "Oh, how splendid! I didn't know he had decided." "Yes! He has talked to me a lot about it," said Mary quite soberly. "What do you think about it?" "Me? Why, I think our navy is going to have to be enlarged and I can't think of anybody better suited to it than Shorty. He is a descendant of Sir John Hawkins, you know, and that means seafaring blood in his veins." How little did Mary and I think, as we lay in that great four-post bed and wisely discussed preparedness, that our country would really be at war in not so very many months, and that Shorty's entering the navy would be a very serious matter to all of his friends, if not to him. No thoughts of war were disturbing us. The great war was going on, but then we were used to that and we were too young and thoughtless for it to bother us. It was across the water and no one we knew personally was implicated. Maxton was too peaceful a spot for one to realize that such a thing as bloodshed could go on anywhere in all the world. Our great room with its two huge beds and massive wardrobe, bureau and washstand, had once sheltered Washington and later on Lafayette; and then as the ages had rolled by, General Lee had visited the Prices and had slept in the very bed where Mary and I were lying so sagely and smugly arguing for preparedness. Perhaps the mocking-bird that every now and then gave forth a silvery trill in the holly tree near our window was descended from the same mocking-bird that no doubt had sung to the great warrior as he lay in the four-poster. How quiet it was! A whippoorwill gave an occasional cry away off in the woods, and once I heard the chugging of a small steamboat puffing its way up the river, and then a little later the swish swash on the shore of the waves made by the stern wheel. But for that, the night was absolutely still. "Page," whispered Mary, "are you asleep?" "Fortunately not, or I'd be awake," I laughed. "I'm thinking about getting up and trying to scale that wall. I am 'most sure I could do it with all that ivy to dig my toes in." "Why don't you wait until morning?" "Because I don't want an audience. It is best to practice these stunts without anyone looking." "Suppose you fall!" "That's something movie actresses have to expect. I won't fall far if I do fall." "Will you mind if I look on?" "No, indeed! I can pretend you are the director." Everything was as quiet as the grave when Mary bounced out of bed to practice her stunt. I followed, nothing loath to see more of the wonderful night. Some nights are too beautiful to waste in sleeping. It has always seemed such a pity to me that we could not fill up on sleep in disagreeable weather, and then when a glorious moonlight night arrives, be able to draw on that reserve fund of sleep and just sit up all night. "Isn't it splendid out on the lawn? And only look at the river in the moonlight. I'd certainly like to be out there in a boat this minute with some very nice interesting person to recite poetry to me," I mused. "I heard Wink White begging you to take a row with him." "Yes, but I see myself doing it." "Don't you like him?" asked Mary, sitting in the window ready for the trial descent. "Of course I like him, but he's such a goose." "Shorty thinks he is grand." "So he is--grand, gloomy, and peculiar. If he'd only not be so sad and lonesome when he is with me." "Of course all of us have noticed how different he is with you, never laughing and joking as he does with us but sighing like a furnace. But here goes! This is no time for analyzing the character of young Doctor Stephen White,--this is a play of action." "But, Mary, ought you try to climb down in your nighty? It might get tangled around your feet." "Oh, but the movie ladies always have to get out of windows in their nighties. I must practice in costume to get used to it." "Barefooted, too?" "Of course! I need all these toes to hang on by. Next time I am going to have my ch-e-i-ild, but this first time perhaps I had better not try to carry anything." "I should think not,--but, Mary, do be careful." I was looking down the perpendicular wall and it began to seem to me to be a crazy undertaking. The vines were very thick and would no doubt offer a foot-rest to the daring girl, but suppose she lost her head or the vine pulled loose from the wall! It is a much easier matter to climb up and get in a window than it is to get out of one and climb down. There is something very scary about projecting one's bare foot into the unknown. Mary, however, was too serious in her desire to perfect herself for her chosen profession to stop and wiggle her toes with indecision. She was out of the window in a moment. I held my breath. "Oh, God save her! Oh, God save her!" I whispered. "Fireman, save my ch-e-i-ild!" came back in sibilant tones from Mary. I couldn't help laughing although I was trembling with fright. I almost beat Mary to the ground I leaned so far out of the window. Sometimes the thick ivy hid her from my sight and again she would loom out very white in the moonlight. Down at last! I felt like shouting for joy. Now began the ascent which was a small matter compared to the descent. When the climber was about half-way up, I suddenly became aware of figures on the edge of the lawn. "The servants returning from church," I thought. Harvie had told me that "big meetin'" was going on and his aunt was quite concerned about her servants, as they had a way of taking French leave at "big meetin'" time. With the house-party in session, a paucity of servants would be quite serious. Extra inducements had been offered and the whole corps had promised to remain, taking turn about in getting off early for night church. [Illustration: I ALMOST BEAT MARY TO THE GROUND I LEANED SO FAR OUT OF THE WINDOW. Page 74.] Anyone who has lived in the country, where colored servants are the only ones, knows what a serious time "big meetin'" can be. The whole negro population seems to go mad in a frenzy of religious fervor. Crops that are inconsiderate enough to ripen at that period remain ungathered; the washwoman lets soiled clothes pile up indefinitely; cooks refuse to cook; housemaids have a soul above sweeping; cows go dry for lack of milking; horses go uncurried and vehicles unwashed and ungreased. I smiled when I saw that straggling group returning from church, knowing they would not be fit for any very arduous tasks the next day. I remembered how Mammy Susan used to berate our darkies for their delinquencies on days following meetings. As the churchgoers approached the house, which they had to pass to reach the quarters on the other side of the great house, they suddenly became aware of Mary's white figure hanging midway between heaven and earth. Shouts and groans arose! One woman fell to the ground and, regardless of her finery, rolled on the grass imploring her Maker to save her. I trembled for fear Mary would fall, but she clung to the vine and scrambled up and in the window. The darkies ran like frightened rabbits. "They thought you were a ghost, I believe." "Well, I came mighty near giving up the ghost. When I heard those groans I thought something had me sure," panted the great actress, looking ruefully at a long rent in her very best nighty. "I did it all right, but being a great movie actress who is to play opposite Douglas Fairbanks is certainly hard on one's rags. Look, here's another tear! Another and another! I did that when the first darky squealed." Of course we went to bed giggling. "I wish Tweedles had seen you, but they would not have been willing to be mere audience. As for me,--I have no desire to be classified as a human fly. I wonder if we will hear some wild tale from those silly darkies." But Mary was fast asleep before she could express her opinion. I could not sleep until I got the following limerick out of my system: THE HUMAN FLY Our Mary, an actress so flighty, Scaled a wall in her very best nighty. A nail proved a snag And tore her fine rag, She came back a la Aphrodite. CHAPTER VI "BIG MEETIN'" I AWAKENED early the next morning in spite of having been manager of a movie studio at all hours of the night. Mary was sleeping heavily. After all, I fancy climbing up and down a brick wall is harder than merely watching someone else do it. She had a big scratch across her cheek and her thumb had bled on the pillow. She must have snagged it on the same nail she had her best nighty. I peeped out of my eastern window and found Dum Tucker was doing the same thing from hers. "Hello, honey! I'm so glad you're awake," she whispered. "Let's dress and go out." "Is Dee asleep?" "Sound! And the Lady Jessie is likewise snoozing, not looking nearly so pretty with her hair up in curl papers and her face greased with cold cream. I bet I can beat you dressing!" We sprang from our doors into the hall at the same time and feeling sure we were the only ones awake in all the great mansion, we had the never-to-be-scorned joy of sliding down the bannisters. I'd hate to think I could ever get so old I wouldn't like to slide down bannisters. Of course I know I shall some day get too old to do it, but not too old to want to. We ran out the great back door which opened on the formal garden. "My, I'm glad we waked! I was nearly dead to sit up all night," said Dum. "Me, too! Mary and I were awake very late. Did you hear anything?" "Did I!" "What did you hear?" "A strange scratching along the wall,--I thought it was a whole lot of snakes climbing up to our window. There is only one thing in the world I am afraid of, and that is snakes." "Mammy Susan says that 'endurin' of the war, they is sho' to be mo' snakes than in peaceable times.' Of course she has no idea that this war is away off across the water, and if it were inclined to breed snakes, it wouldn't breed them over here. But that snake you heard last night was Mary Flannagan scaling the wall. She is practicing all the time for the movies." "Pig, not to call us!" "I was dying to, but was afraid of raising too much rumpus." The garden was beautiful at all times, but at that early hour it was so lovely it made us gasp. A row of stately hollyhocks separated the flower garden from the vegetables. Banked against the hollyhocks were all kinds of old-fashioned garden flowers: bachelor's buttons, wall-flowers, pretty-by-nights, love-in-a-mist, heliotrope, verbena, etc. There was a thick border of periwinkle whose glossy dark green leaves enhanced the brilliancy of the plants beyond. One great strip was given up entirely to roses,--and such roses! "Gee! This is the life!" cried Dum, kneeling down among the roses, going kind of mad as usual over the riot of color. Dum's love of color and form amounted to a passion. "Only look at the shape of this bud and at the color way down in its heart. Oh, Page, I am so glad we came out! Only think, this rosebud might have opened and withered with not a soul seeing it if we had not happened along: "'Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear-- Full many a flower is born to blush unseen And waste its sweetness on the desert air.'" "I wonder where the servants are?" I queried. "At this hour in the country they are usually beginning to get busy. I tell you, Mammy Susan has 'em hustling by this time at Bracken." "I'm hungry as a bear! Don't you think we might get the old cook to hand us out a crust?" suggested Dum. "Getting up early always makes me famished." "Sure! She is a nice-looking old party and no doubt would be as pleasant as she looks. Her name is Aunt Milly." We made our way to the kitchen, determined to return to the garden to enjoy the crust or whatever the cook might see fit to give us. A covered way connected the summer kitchen with the wing of the house where the dining-room was. This open passage was covered with a lovely old vine, one not seen in this day and generation except in old places: Washington's bower. It is a very thick vine that sends forth great shoots that fall in a shower like a weeping willow. It has a dainty little purple blossom that the bees adore, and these turn later into squishy, bright red berries. The trunk of this vine is very thick and sturdy and twists itself into as many fantastic shapes as a wisteria. The kitchen was built of logs; in fact it was the original homestead of the family, having been erected by the earliest settlers at Price's Landing. Later on it had been turned into a kitchen when the mansion had been built. The great old fireplace with its crane and Dutch oven was still there, although the cooking was now done on a modern range. This black abomination of art, but necessity of the up-to-date housekeeper, was smoking dismally as we came in. "Aunt Milly, please give me a biscuit!" cried Dum to a fat back bending over the table. The owner of the back straightened up and turned. It was not Aunt Milly, but Miss Maria Price! "Oh!" was all we could say. The sedate black-silked and real-laced lady of the day before presented a sad spectacle when we made that early morning raid on the Maxton larder. In place of the handsome black silk she wore a baggy lawn kimono, and the fine lace cap had given place to a great mob cap that set off her moon-like face like a sunflower. Her countenance was so woebegone that it distressed us and two great tears were squeezing their way from her sad eyes. "Why, Miss Price! Please excuse us," I said, seeing that Dum was speechless. "Oh, my dear, it is all right now that you have seen me out here in this wrapper. These good-for-nothing darkies have one and all sent me word they are sick this morning and cannot come to work, and here I am with no breakfast cooked. I am so distressed that Harvie's friends should not be well served. What shall I do? What shall I do?" "Do! Why, let all of us help," exclaimed Dum. "Let his guests help! Why, my dear, I could not bear to do such a thing." "Well, you could bear to let us help a great deal better than we could bear having you work yourself to death and let us be idle," said I, putting my arm around her fat neck, that was just about the right height to put one's arm around. Her waist was out of the question, being not only so low down that I should have had to stoop to reach it but invisible at that, since it was, as I have said before, only an imaginary line. "I have never before in all the fifty years I have been keeping house at Maxton had to make a fire. I have done the housekeeping since Ma died. My sister-in-law, Harvie's grandmother, was too delicate to keep house, so I have always done it. I know exactly how things should be done but I have never had to do them. There has always been a cook in the kitchen at Maxton.--This is the first time.--And to think it should come to pass when Harvie's friends are here. I was opposed to having the house-party during big meeting. There is never any depending on the darkies at that time.--Oh me! Oh me!" "Now, Miss Price," I said, placing a chair behind her and gently pushing her heaving bulk into it, "you are to sit right here and tell Dum Tucker and me what to do. We love to do it." "But, child----" "First, let me pull out the dampers," I suggested, suiting the action to the word and thereby stopping the smoking of the range. "Now mustn't the rolls be made down?" I asked, seeing a great pan on the table with the lid sitting rakishly on one side of a huge mass of dough, already risen beyond its bounds. "Yes, but I----" "Let me do that. I love to fool with dough." "But do you know how?" "Of course I know how." After a scrubbing of hands made grubby by a weed I had pulled up in the garden, I began to make down the rolls after the manner approved by Mammy Susan, that most exacting of teachers. "Now what can I do?" demanded Dum. "You must sit still and tell us what next, and after we get things under way if you want the other girls to help, I'll call them." "The breakfast table must be set,--but, my dears, I can't bear to have guests working! Such a thing has never been known at Maxton!" Dum hastened to the dining-room where she exercised her own sweet will in the setting of the table. First she had the joy of cutting a bowl of roses for the center. She found mats and napkins in the great old Sheraton sideboard, and Canton china that Miss Price told her was the kind to use. The silver was still in the master's chamber where it was taken every night by the butler and brought out every morning by that dignified functionary. I think the non-appearance of the butler was almost as great a blow to Miss Price as the defection of the cook. "Jasper has been with us since before the war and the idea of his behaving this way!" she moaned. "I did not expect anything more from these flighty maids and the yard boy,--they have only been here five or six years,--but Milly and Jasper!" "But maybe they are ill," I said, trying to soothe her hurt feelings. "I don't believe a word of it! How could five of them get ill at once? More than likely that trifling Willie, the yard boy, has got religion. Milly told me he was 'seeking' and I have known there was something the matter with him lately, he has been so utterly worthless," and our hostess heaved a sigh with which I could thoroughly sympathize. I well knew that a "seeking" servant was but a poor excuse. "How well you do those rolls, my child! Who taught you?" Then I told Miss Maria of my old mammy who had been mother and teacher and nurse for me since I was born. I shaped pan after pan of turnovers and clover-leaves and put them aside for the second rising. "What next?" Miss Maria had decided to give over sighing and bemoaning, also apologizing for letting us work. She evidently came to the conclusion that the headwork had to go on and it was up to her to get busy in that line, at least. Dum and I were vastly relieved that she consented to sit still, as she took up so much room when she moved around that she retarded our progress quite a good deal. Seated in a corner by the table, she could tell us what to do without interrupting traffic. Herring must be taken out of soak and prepared for frying; batter bread must be made; apples must be fried (she did the slicing); coffee must be ground; chicken hash must be made after a recipe peculiar to Maxton, with green peppers sliced in it and a dash of sherry wine. The cooking part was easy, but keeping up the fire has always been too much for my limited intelligence. Wood and more wood must be poked in the stove at every crucial moment. In the midst of beating up an omelette one must stop and pile on more fuel. Peeping in the oven the rolls may be rising in regular array with a faint blush of brown appearing on each rounded cheek; the batter bread may be doing as batter bread should do: the crust rising up in sheer pride of its perfection sending forth a delicious odor a little like popcorn;--but just then the joy of the vainglorious cook will take a tumble,--the fire must be fed. "Now is this what you had planned for breakfast, Miss Maria? You see we have got everything under way, and if there was anything else I can do it," I asked. "Of course no breakfast is really complete without waffles," sighed the poor lady, "at least, that is what my brother thinks. He will have to do without them this morning, though." "Why? I can make them and bake them!" "But, child, you must be seated at the table with the other guests. I could not let you work so hard." "But I love to cook! Please let me!" "All right, but who can bring the hot ones in? It takes two to serve waffles. I, alas, am too fat to go back and forth." "Of course I am going to wait on the table," cried Dum, "and when I drop in my tracks, the other girls can go on with the good work." "Well, well, what good girls you are! I have been told that the girls of the present time are worthless and I am always reading of their being so inferior to their mothers, but I believe I must have been misinformed." "I hope you have been," laughed Dum. "My private opinion is that we are just about the same,--some good and some not so good; some bad and some not so bad. Anyhow, I am sure that there is not a girl on this party who would not be proud to help you, or boy, either, for that matter." "We shall have to call the boys to our aid, too, I am afraid," said Miss Maria, glancing ruefully at the wood-box. "The wood is low and we can't cook without wood, eh, Page?" "Won't I love to see them go to work," and Dum danced up and down the kitchen waving a dish-cloth. The quiet mansion was astir now. The rising bell had routed the sleepy heads out of their beds, and from the boys' wing came shouts of the guests who were playing practical jokes on one another or merely making a noise from the joy of living. Dee and Mary found us in the kitchen and roundly berated us for not calling them in time to help. Dee reported that Jessie Wilcox was still in the throes of dressing. "One of you might go pull some radishes and wash them and peel them," suggested Miss Maria. Dee was off like a flash and came back with some parsley, too, to dress the dishes. "Mary, get the ice and see to the water," was the next command from our general. "I must go now and put on something besides this old wrapper," and our aristocratic hostess sailed to the house, her lawn wings spread. Our next visitor was General Price himself, very courtly and very apologetic and very admiring. He had just learned of the defection of the servants when he called for his boots and they were not forthcoming. Jasper had blacked his boots and brought them to his door every morning for half a century, but no Jasper appeared on that morning. The boots remained unblacked. Another duty of the hitherto faithful butler had been to concoct for his master and the guests a savory mint julep in a huge silver goblet. This was sent to the guest chambers and every lady was supposed to take a sip from the loving cup. It was never sent to the boys, as General Price frequently asserted that liquor was not intended for the youthful male, and that he for one would never have on his soul that he had offered a drink to a young man. He seemed to have a different feeling in regard to the females, thinking perhaps that beautiful ladies (and all ladies were beautiful ladles in his mind) would never take more than the proffered sip. On that morning during the big meeting General Price must make his own julep. This he did with much pomp and ceremony, putting back breakfast at least ten minutes while he crushed ice and measured sugar and the other ingredients which shall be nameless. A wonderful frost on the silver goblet was the desired result of the crushed ice. The mint protruding from the top of the goblet looked like innocence itself. The odor of the fresh fruit mingling with the venerable concoction of rye was delicious enough to make the sternest prohibitionist regret his principles. "Now a sip, my dear; the cook must come first," he said, proffering me the completed work of art. "Oh no, General Price! I might not take even a sip if I am to cook waffles. I might fall on the stove." "A sip will do you good, just a sip!" he implored. It was good and just a sip did not do me any harm. I had not the heart to deny the courtly old man the pleasure of indulging in this rite that was as much a part of the daily routine as having his boots blacked and brought to his door or conducting family prayers. "Delicious!" I gasped. "More delicious now than it was," he declared, "since those rosy lips have touched the brim," and then he quoted the following lines with old-fashioned gallantry: "'Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. "'I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!'" He bowed low and handed me a beautiful rosebud, the same, I believe, before which Dum had stood so enthralled earlier in the morning. I took a long sniff and then pinned it in my hair, much to the old gentleman's delight. He turned away to have another fair guest take the prescribed sip, and that naughty Mary Flannagan buried her nose in my beautiful rose and whispered: "But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it blows and smells I swear, Not of itself but whiskee!" CHAPTER VII THE REASON WHY THAT was a very merry breakfast. From my kitchen fastness I could hear the peals of laughter as Mary pretended to be a field hand, brought into the dining-room for the first time, to wait on the table. I even left my waffles for a moment to peep in the door. Dee, who was helping with the waiting, spied me and gave the assembled company the tip, and before I could get away they grabbed me and pulled me into the room where I had to listen to three rousing cheers for the cook. A batch of waffles burnt up in consequence, although I ran down the covered way like Cinderella when the clock struck twelve. A warning smell of something burning gave me to understand my time was up. Baking waffles is a very exciting pastime. The metamorphosis that batter undergoes in almost a twinkling of an eye into beautiful crisp brown beauties is a never ending delight and joy to the cook. With irons just hot enough (and that is very hot indeed) and batter smooth and thin, smooth from much beating and thin from much milk and many eggs, I believe a baker of waffles can extract as much pure pleasure from her profession as a great musician can from drawing his bow across a choice Cremona; or a poet can from turning out successful verse; or a painter from watching his picture grow under his skilled hands. The house-party was full up at last, and then the cook and waitress must be seated in the places of honor and be waited on by the whole crowd. Not quite all of the crowd, I should have said, as Jessie was superior to waiting on anybody. She seemed quite scornful of us for being able to help Miss Maria. "I have never been an adept at the domestic arts," she said somewhat stiffly. "I could not cook or wash dishes if my life depended on it." "Humph!" sniffed Dum, "I reckon you could if you got good and hungry. Of course you couldn't do it well, that is, not as well as Page, for she can't be equalled. As for washing dishes,--you can take your first lesson after Page and Mary and Dee finish breakfast. All of these dishes have to be washed and there is no one to do it but the house-party." "Well, I guess not!" and Jessie looked at her pretty soft, beringed hands. "Very well then, you can do the upstairs work! Beds must be made, you know!" "Absurd! Do you take me for a housemaid?" "No, I wouldn't have you for one, but you might get a job for a few hours before the folks found out about you." Dum's tone was rollicking and good-natured. She seemed to have no idea that she was insulting the pretty Jessie. It never entered Dum's head that anyone would shirk a duty that was so apparent as taking the work of Maxton in hand. I enjoyed that breakfast very much. Harvie baked waffles for us and Wink White brought them in. The young men from Kentucky ran back and forth waiting on us, all of them making more noise and having more collisions than would have been the case had a regiment been feeding. Shorty had already begun to grease the buck-saw preparatory to sawing up wood for Miss Maria. He and Rags had volunteered to supply the fuel. Then the cows must be milked; the horses curried and fed; in fact, all the farm work must be done. I never saw nicer, more considerate boys than were on that party. They vied with one another in briskness and efficiency. They wanted to help us with dishwashing and housework, but there was enough outside work to keep them busy, and with all good intentions in the world, most men-folks are a hindrance rather than a help when it comes to so-called woman's work. How we did fly around! Miss Maria got real gay and giddy in the general whirlwind that ensued. Dum and Mary undertook to be housemaids, and such a spreading up of beds and flicking of dusters was never known. The beds did look a little bumpy, but what difference did it make? The dust they swished off with the feather dusters settled quietly back on the things, but why not? Maxton was beautifully kept and very clean but there is always dust on furniture in the morning, no matter how well it has been cleaned the day before. Jessie's bed they left unmade, declaring that she could sleep in the same hole for a month before they would even spread it up for her. "Lazy piece!" cried Dum. "I actually believe she does not mean to turn a hair." That young lady had taken herself off to the parlor where she was singing in the most operatic manner with a very well-trained strong voice with about as much sweetness to it as cut glass. The accompaniment she was rendering on the piano was brilliantly executed, so much so that I thought for a moment she had in a pianola record. I peeped in the parlor and smiled at her, fearing somehow that she must feel herself to be an outsider and that was why she was not entering into the fun of helping. I got no answering smile but something of a cold stare, so I beat a hasty retreat and hastened off to consult with Miss Maria about future meals. I found that lady sitting on a bench in the covered passage leading to the kitchen. Her spirit was willing but her flesh was too much for her. She must rest. I sank by her, not sorry at all to indulge in a little sly resting of my own. Cooking is great fun but certainly exhausting. "What for dinner, Miss Maria?" "Oh, my dear, I can't contemplate your helping about dinner, too!" I couldn't help having a little inward fun with myself over her speaking of my helping. I had certainly cooked breakfast myself, but since she fooled herself into thinking that I had only helped to cook it, it made no difference to me. "But someone will have to cook it unless the servants are miraculously cured in time for it." "That's so!" and she sighed a great sigh. "I know you wish we would all of us go home, but please don't wish it. We are having such a good time and don't want to leave one little bit." "Oh, my dear! Don't think I could have such inhospitable sentiments. My brother would be deeply distressed if he thought you thought I thought such things." Both of us laughed at her complicated thinks and then began the serious matter of dinner. "Thank goodness, I had those trifling creatures dress the chickens yesterday. That, at least, is out of the way." "Oh, good! Have you got them all dressed? Then let's have chicken gumbo. If we make enough of it, it will be the dinner, with a great dish of rice to help in each soup plate." "Splendid!" declared Dee, pausing for a moment to listen to the proposed menu. "And it will be such an economy in dishes, too. Just a plate and spoon all around and no frills." Dee had been as busy as possible washing dishes while Miss Maria wiped, and I cleared the table. "But, child, can you make a gumbo? It is very difficult, I am afraid." "Not a bit of it. I have Mammy Susan's recipe tucked away somewhere in my brain. I can get to work on it immediately and then it will be done for dinner. It can't cook too long." Dee and Wink undertook to gather the vegetables, but they took so long that a relief and search party had to be sent to the garden after them. They were so busy discussing the different kinds of bandages that they had forgotten their mission. Wink had taken a leaf from Adam's-and-Eve's-needle-and-thread and was demonstrating on Dee's arm the reverse bandage. Her other arm was already decorated with the figure eight style made from a long green corn leaf. How I wished Wink would treat me as sensibly as he did Dee. They seemed to be having such a good time as I, who was one of the search party, discovered them in the tomato patch solemnly debating the values of the various styles. Now if Wink had ever agreed to discuss such a thing as that with me he would have felt compelled to say all kinds of silly things, and as for bandaging my arm,--it would have been out of the question, as he would have felt it necessary to ask to kiss my hand or some such stuff. The right kind of gumbo must have tomatoes, okra, potatoes, onions and corn in it, and anyone who has served apprenticeship under Mammy Susan will make the right kind of gumbo. Miss Maria and I started in preparing those vegetables at nine o'clock and it took us one solid hour to finish, working as hard as we could go. I was beginning to be very fond of the old lady. She was so gentle and sweet. I asked her many questions about Maxton and its history, and since, like many gentlewomen of her age, she lived in the past, she was most happy to recount to me tales of the lovely old place and its aristocratic founders. "Oh, yes, we have a ghost," she laughed, when I asked her to tell me if there were any such inhabitants. "It is a lady ghost, too, and inhabits your wing of the house, as is the way with all the ladies of Maxton. It is the young sister of my great grandfather,--that makes her my great, great aunt." "Oh, please tell me about her!" "Well, all right, if you promise not to get scared. The darkies keep such tales going. They firmly believe in ghosts, and when they tell a ghost story they always say either they themselves have seen the dread shape or they know someone who has seen it. This ghost has not been seen at Maxton in my generation, but Jasper and Milly have heard the tale from their grandparents and they see that it is duly handed down to their grandchildren. The appearance of this spectre is supposed to presage dire calamity." "Do you know anyone who has seen it?" I asked, testing the skillet to see if it was hot enough to begin frying the chicken. Chicken for gumbo must be fried before you start the soup, if anything so rich and thick as gumbo could be called soup. "I knew an old man who thought he had seen it. Well, to go on with my tale:--this young great, great aunt of mine was engaged to be married to a gentleman of high degree, much older than herself. This of course was back in Colonial days. She had consented to the match in obedience to her father's commands, but she evidently did not relish it very much. The day came for the wedding and she was dressed in her white gown and veil. The company had assembled from miles around. A boat load of guests from Williamsburg had arrived and the feasting and dancing had begun. Among them was a young blade from over the seas who had paid court to the fair Elizabeth,--that was her name. It was whispered that she returned his love and that was the real reason for her reluctance to mating with the lord of high degree. "After being clothed in the wedding gown, Elizabeth had sent the women from her room on a plea that she must be alone to pray. She locked the door the moment they were gone and rushed to the window which was open, it being a warm moonlight night. Standing below the window was the lover. He called up to her to come down to him. The ivy was thick on the wall, as it is now, and for an agile young girl I fancy it was not such a very difficult climb. It must have taken a brave soul though to make the start. Many a time in my youth," and here Miss Maria blushed as red as one of the tomatoes she was peeling, "I have sat in that window, it is the room you are occupying, and tried how it would seem to climb down that wall. I have never done more than poke my foot out about an inch, though. Perhaps if the lover had been calling to me, it might have given me courage. Elizabeth got about half-way down when her long satin dress and veil got caught on a nail or snag of some sort, and no matter how she pulled she could not get loose. Just think of it! There the poor girl hung, with her lover frantically calling to her and the precious moments flying. Already they were knocking on the door of her chamber and crying out for admission. His steed was ready to fly with her if only she could get the gown loose. Material in those days was stouter than now. I'll wager anything that a piece of white satin could not be found now that would not tear, or any other material, for that matter." Remembering Mary's gown of the night before, I readily agreed with her. "Before the miserable lover could mount to her side to cut the dress loose, the plot was discovered and the poor girl had the agony of seeing her true love killed by the infuriated bridegroom to be. She swooned and it is said she never regained consciousness. Her poor little heart must have snapped in two. And now it is said that sometimes her white figure can be seen hanging from the ivied wall. Once in my youth the darkies thought they saw it as they were coming home from church on a moonlight night, but on investigation it turned out to be a towel that had blown out of the window and hung, perhaps on the identical nail that was the undoing of poor Elizabeth. I remember well," and she laughed like a girl again, "how scared they all of them were. It was in slave days and they were forced to come to work the next day, but nothing but being slaves could have made them come." "Oh, Miss Maria, Miss Maria!" I cried, dropping the potato I was peeling, "I know now what is the matter with your servants. They are not ill but they have seen the ghost!" And I told her about Mary's ambition and her escapade of the night before. The old lady almost rolled off her chair she laughed so. She was not one bit shocked but vastly interested. "To think of her doing it! No lover was calling her, either." "I don't know about that. How about it, Mary?" I called to my friend who had come down to help pick up chips now that the chamber work was accomplished. When I told Mary about the family ghost story and that she was no doubt responsible for the non-appearance of the servants, she was overcome with confusion. Miss Maria begged her to treat the matter as a joke. "Why, my dear, I never would have known all you dear girls as I now do if it had not happened. You would have come and gone as nothing but Harvie's guests, and now you are my own true friends. I am glad the reason why is unearthed, though, because now we can at least make those good-for-nothings come and wash the dinner dishes." She drew Mary down beside her on the bench. "But, Mary, you didn't answer me," I teased. "I asked you if a lover was calling you when you climbed down the wall." "Yes! He is calling me all the time!" cried Mary, striking an attitude of one being called by a lover. "His name is Douglas Fairbanks." "Douglas Fairbanks? I don't know the family," said dear old puzzled Miss Maria. "Who is Douglas Fairbanks?" "Why, Miss Maria, he is a movie actor, the very best ever!" explained Mary. "Where did you get to know him, child? Who introduced you?" "I don't know him, never saw him except on the screen!" "Ah, I see, a hero of romantic fiction!" "But he's not fiction--he's the realest flesh and blood person you ever saw in your life." Then Mary tried to tell our hostess of the wonders of the movie where Douglas was the star. The old lady endeavored to take it all in, but not having been to the city since the perfecting of the cineomatograph, it was up-hill work. Of course she knew that movies existed, but she could not grasp the joy of them, as she had nothing to go upon but the memory of a magic lantern. "Don't you like the theatre?" I asked. "Yes, indeed, I like it very much. To be sure I have never seen but two performances, but I got great enjoyment from them. You must remember, my dears, that I am country bred and have had little chance to see the city sights." I never realized before how cut off from the world persons are who depend on steamboats. Here was this dear lady, born and bred one of the finest ladies of the land, but being of a naturally retiring disposition and always having been occupied from her girlhood with keeping house she had let the world pass her by. "What were the two things you saw, Miss Maria?" asked Mary gently. "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch and the Old Homestead. I was quite shocked at the latter, was really glad I was with a lady. I think I would have sunk through the floor from mortification had there been a gentleman with me." "The Old Homestead shocking?" I asked wonderingly. "Not the Old Homestead! It must have been something else." "Oh, no, I remember the title distinctly. It was when they had that scene with that naked statue in the parlor. It was terrible to me." What a compliment to have paid the author and actor of that time-honored play! Actually the statue of the Venus de Milo had shocked this simple soul from the country just exactly as Denman Thompson had made it do the old man in the melodrama. Mary and I didn't laugh, but we almost burst from not doing so. "And now I must send Harvie down to the quarters to make those good-for-nothings return. Sick, indeed! I intend to make every last one of them take a dose of castor oil and turpentine!" And the intrepid lady was as good as her word. CHAPTER VIII THE CIRCUS THE gumbo being made and nothing to do but cook it, and that quite slowly, I was able to run from my self-imposed duties for a while and join the crowd that had formed to go to the negro quarters and persuade them that they were not sick, that there was no ghost, and that their duty and interests lay at Maxton. The cabins were at least a quarter of a mile from the great house, and very comfortable and picturesque they were. The road lay through a beautiful oak forest and then skirted a corn field. Each cabin had a good piece of ground around it and from every chimney there arose a curl of blue smoke. They were evidently expecting a visit from the family, because there were several little pickaninnies waiting at a turn in the road, and when they saw us they set off in a great hurry shouting: "Dey's a-comin'! Dey's a-comin'!" "That's to give them time to get into bed before we get there," said Harvie sagely. "I wish I knew Latin and Greek as well as I do the coloreds' methods." Sure enough, we could see the little nigs running from house to house shouting the warning. "I reckon we would all learn Latin and Greek if it was as simple as our friends' machinations," I said. "I bet you this minute Aunt Milly is stirring up a cake or something for big meetin' and she will have to hurry up and get it out of sight." It so happened Aunt Milly's house was the first one we entered. Harvie knocked on the door gently and then more briskly when there was no answer. Finally a smothered sound penetrated the closed door and windows. "Ummmm! Ummmm!" Taking it to mean we must enter, we opened the door. I sniffed pound cake. Aunt Milly's cabin boasted but one room and an attic and a lean-to kitchen. The old woman, whose bulk was only equalled by Miss Maria's, was lying in bed. Her coal black face had no look of illness but one of extreme determination. She was showing the whites of her eyes like a stubborn horse. "How you do, Mr. Harbie?" she said thickly. "An' all de yuthers ob you? Won't you take some cheers and set a while?" "No, thank you, Aunt Milly, we only came to see how you were getting on and to tell you that Aunt Maria hopes you will be up in time to wash the dinner dishes." "Me? No, Mr. Harbie! I'm feared I is seen my last days er serbice." "Why, Aunt Milly, are you so ill as all that?" "Yessir! Yessir! I got a mizry in my back an' my haid is fittin' tow bus'. I ain't been able to tas'e a mouthful er victuals sence I don' know whin. My lim's is all of a trimble and looks lak my blood is friz in my gizzard." "Have you had the doctor?" "No, not to say recent! I was that sorry tow lay up whin yo' comp'ny was a-visitin' of yo' grandpaw, but whin mawnin' come I jes' warn't fitten tow precede." "It is strange that all of you should have got sick the same day, Aunt Milly," said Harvie, his eyes twinkling with his knowledge of the subject. "You don't say that that there Jasper an' them gals didn't go do they wuck?" asked the old woman, but her tone was somewhat half-hearted. She was evidently not an adept at dissembling. "Now, Aunt Milly, you know that not a single servant turned up at the great house this morning, and these young ladies had to do all the cooking and housework, and we boys did the outside work. You need not try to make me think you didn't know it. We know exactly what is the matter with all of you----" "Laws-a-mussy, Mr. Harbie! Th' ain't nuthin' 'tall the matter with me, but I's plum wo' out. I been a-cookin' nigh onter mos' a hunnerd years." "But all these other servants haven't been cooking or anything else anywhere near that long. We all of us know what is the matter: last night coming home from big meeting there wasn't a thing the matter. You all of you meant to come back to work this morning. You came home late, but you had promised Aunt Maria to stay on while my guests were here, and you meant to do it. The moon was shining bright and just as you came over the hill and got out of that bit of pine woods, off there towards the landing, you saw a ghost----" "Gawd in heaben, Mr. Harbie! Did you see her, too?" Poor old Aunt Milly's eyes were almost popping out of her head. "No, I didn't see her; I wish I had," and Harvie gave Mary a nudge. "But Miss Page Allison here saw it, and Miss Mary Flannagan knows all about it because she was the ghost." "She--she--she was which?" "It was this way, Aunt Milly," said Mary, going over close to the old woman's bed. "I wanted to see if I could climb down the ivy on the wall outside of our window, and just as all of you came home from church my--my--garment got hung on a nail and I couldn't budge for a moment. I snagged my thumb, too, see!" "Well, if that don't beat all!" was all the old woman had strength to say. She threw back the bedclothes and disclosed her ample person fully clothed in a purple calico dress. "Hyar, gimme room tow git out'n this hyar baid. I's got a poun' cake a-cookin' in de oben an' I s'picion it nigh 'bout time ter take it out." She rolled out of bed and waddled to the stove. "I's moughty skeered the fire done gonter git low while Mr. Harbie was a-argufyin'. It would 'a' made a sad streak in my cake, an' that there is somethin' I ain't never been guilty ob yit." "Now, Aunt Milly," said Harvie, when our minds were set at rest as to the perfection of the cake which was done to a beautiful golden brown, "you send for the rest of the servants and tell them the truth about the ghost and let them know they must be up at the great house within an hour." "Sho'! Sho', child!" she assured him. Grabbing a broom from the corner she jabbed it under the bed, thereby causing much squealing. Three little darkies rolled out, looking very much like moulting chickens from the combination of dust and feathers they had picked up from their hiding place. "Here you lim's er Satan! Run an' fotch all de niggers on de plantation and tell 'em I say come a-runnin' tow my cabin as fas' as they laigs kin a carry 'em. You kin tell 'em I'se in a fit an' that'll fetch 'em." She chuckled and sank on a chair to have her laugh out. The three emissaries made all haste with the joyful news and in an incredibly short time the cabin was full to overflowing. We went out in Aunt Milly's little yard and Harvie mounted an old beehive so he could make a speech. Aunt Milly drove her black guests out, and they, feeling they had been cheated of their natural rights since she wasn't having a fit, stood sullenly at attention while the young master told them the truth about the ghost and gave them the ultimatum about returning to Maxton. They were not so easy to convince as Aunt Milly. Mary's thumb might have been snagged in some other way. Had they not seen the ghost with their own eyes, the ghost they had been hearing of ever since they were children? When news came of Aunt Milly's being in a fit they were sure that the prophetic calamity was upon them presaged by the appearance of the ghost. Mr. Harvie could talk all he wanted to, but they were from Missouri. They had seen and were convinced by what they saw. They were respectful but firm in their attitude of unbelief. Jasper spoke: "I ain't a-gibin' you de lie, Mr. Harbie, but I've done seed de ghoses an' you ain't. I's plum skeered ter go up ter de gret house. My gran'mammy done tell me yars an' yars gone by dat whin dat ghoses comes fer me to clar out. She say she after some nigger, my gran'mammy did. De tale runs dat it war a nigger what tole de bridegroom dat her beau lover was a-fixin' ter tote her off, an' whin dat ere ghoses comes she ain't come fer no good." "What would make you believe that it was not a ghost, Uncle Jasper?" asked Mary, who seemed to feel it was up to her to prove the falsity of the ghost story. "Nothin' but seein' it warn't. I b'lieve it war a ghoses 'cause I seen it war a ghoses, an' whin I see it ain't a ghoses I gonter b'lieve it warn't, an' not befo'." Mary drew Tweedles and me off in whispered conference and then mounted the beehive by the side of Harvie and made her maiden stump speech. The darkies clapped with delight. They had never seen a female prepare to make a speech except under the stress and excitement of getting religion. "Ladies and gentlemen----" she began. "Do she mean us?" came in a hoarse whisper from Willie, the yard boy, who was trying to get religion but who experienced great difficulties because of certain regulations in the way of not eating and not laughing. "Yes, I mean you," cried the orator. "Since I am the person who was climbing out of the window last night when you were coming from church, and since you will not believe it was not a ghost unless you see me do it, I will take the liberty to invite all of you up to the big house to see the show. It will be a free show, a circus in fact, and there may be a few other attractions, too. Will you come?" "Sho' we'll come!" came in a chorus. "How 'bout big meetin'?" asked one of the housemaids doubtfully. "Pshaw! This kin' er circus ain't no harm," declared one of the field hands. "Didn't de young miss say it war a free circus?" "Sho' it's free an' ain't we free, an' who gonter gainsay us?" and the other housemaid tossed her bushy head saucily. "Yes, an' free and free make six an' six days shall we labor an' do all the wuck, also the play, fur the sebenth is the sabbath of the Lawd my Gawd!" cried a voice from behind the cabin, and then there came into view the strangest figure I have ever beheld. It was a tall gaunt old colored man with a straggly grey beard. He was dressed in wide corduroy trousers and top boots; instead of a coat he wore a green cloth basque with a coarse lace fichu and tied around his waist was a long gingham apron. His hat was a wide brimmed black straw trimmed in purple ribbons with a red, red rose hanging coyly down over one ear. He was smoking a corn-cob pipe. In his hand he carried a covered basket. "Lady John!" exclaimed Harvie. "I am very glad to see you." "Well, now ain't you growed!" said the crazy old man in a voice as soft and feminine as one could hear in the whole south; but at that moment one of the little pickaninnies tried to peep in his basket, and with a masculine roar, he laid about him vigorously with his stick, and with a deep bass voice gave the little fellow a tongue lashing that drove him back into Aunt Milly's cabin. It seems that the old man had lost his reason many years before and was now obsessed with the desire to be considered a woman. He lived alone in a cabin some miles from Price's Landing, growing a little tobacco, enough corn for his own meal, a little garden truck and a few fruit trees. He had some chickens and when he could save enough eggs he would bring them over for Miss Maria Price to buy. The news of the ghost seen at Maxton had traveled to his cabin in that wonderful way that news in the country does travel, and he had come over to add his quota of superstition to the general store. Harvie introduced the old man to the members of the house-party. He caught hold of his apron as though it had been a silken gown and made a curtsey to each one. "Lady John, we are just asking all of these friends of ours to come up to the great house to a kind of circus. They won't believe that it was not a ghost they saw last night clinging to the ivy on the east wall and we are going to prove it to them. We shall be very glad to see you, too, if you want to come." "Thank you kindly, young marster, thank you kindly! I was on my way up there whin the crowd concoursing here distracted my intention. I'll be pleased to come, pleased indeed." He spoke in a peculiarly mincing way in a high voice. "I thought you was too pious like to go to the circus, Lady John," giggled the frivolous housemaid. "Well, you thought like young niggers think--buckeyes is biscuit!" he declared in his natural bass. "The Bible 'stinctly states that there was circuses in them days, an' I ain't never heard er no calamities a-befallin' them what was minded to intend 'em." "Is that so?" asked Dee. "I can't remember where it said so, but then I do not know the Bible as I should." "Child! Look in the hunnerd chapter er Zekelums an' there you'll fin' at the forty-'leventh verse that Gawd said to Noah: 'Go ye to the circus tents of the Fillystimes an' get all the wile animiles that there ye fin' an' have a p'rade 'til ye gits to the ark of the government.' Now if'n the Lord Gawd warn't a-tellin' Noah to git them animiles together for a show, what was it for? What was it for, I say?" There was no answer to this pointed remark, so he continued: "An' Brother Dan-i-el! Brother Dan-i-el, I say! What was he a-doin' in a cage of man-eatin' lions for if he warn't in a circus? Answer me that! And Brother 'Lige! Who ever hearn tell of a gold chariot out of a circus p'rade? A chariot of fire! I tell you they was monstous shows in them days. If them Bible charack'-ters warn't too good to ack in a circus, I reckon this po' ole nigger ain't a-goin' to set up himanher self as bein' above lookin' on." "Maybe you will act in our circus then," suggested one of the boys. "No, sir! No, sir! I an' Brother 'Lish will be contentment jes' to look on. Brother 'Lish, he didn't make no move to jine the p'rade whin Brother 'Lige wint by in his gran' chariot. He was glad to stan' aside and let Brother 'Lige git all the glory. He caught the velvet cloak with all the gran' 'broidry and was glad to get it. I bet nobody shouted louder than him whin Brother 'Lige stood up 'thout no cloak in his pink tights. I b'lieve that Brother 'Lish was glad to get that cloak an' it come in mighty handy, 'cause they do say that whin he was a-sittin' in Brother 'Lige's cabin that very night, the mantel fell on him. No, sir, it never hurt him at all, but I reckon they couldn't have much fire 'til they got it put back. But he had the cloak to wrop up in." This delightfully original interpretation of the scriptures fascinated all of us. I could see Mary was listening very attentively to Lady John. He would be another stunt for the clever girl. Mary was a great impersonator and could mimic anything or anybody. "Are you going to have the circus after dinner or before?" asked one of the party. "Before!" cried Mary. "I'd be afraid to trust the ivy with my weight plus the gumbo I intend to eat." CHAPTER IX THE PERFORMANCE WHEN we got back to Maxton, whom should we find sitting on the bench by Miss Maria but Mr. Jeffry Tucker? He looked as though he had known her all her life and no one would have dreamed that this was his second meeting with her. His first had been the summer before when that enterprising gentleman had made a trip to Price's Landing to persuade Mr. Pore to wake up to the fact that Annie was invited to go to Willoughby on a beach party and that all he had to do was let her go. "Zebedee, darling! Where did you come from?" cried Dee, breaking away from the crowd as she spied her youthful father and racing like a wild Indian to get the first hug. "Richmond via Henry Ford!" he managed to get out as Dum scrouged in for her share of hugging. "And, Page! Little friend!" he said, freeing one of his hands and clasping mine. How I did love to be called his little friend! He never called me that in a way that made me feel young and silly, either, but somehow he gave me the impression that he was depending on me, I don't know just for what but for something. I was as glad to see him as his own Tweedles were, I am sure. "Did you come down alone?" I asked. "No, indeed, I had the pleasure of the learned discourse of Mr. Arthur Ponsonby Pore on my journey hither." "Oh, good! He is back, then, and maybe we can have Annie," said Dee. "She is upstairs now," announced that wonderful man. "Oh, Zebedee! I just knew you could work it!" and Dee gave him another bear hug for luck. Dee had sent a telegram to her father asking him to get hold of Mr. Pore and persuade him to hurry back and release Annie. Miss Maria was anxious to hear of our success with the servants and was delighted to know of their contemplated return. When we told her that the only way to get them back was to have a circus, she was greatly amused. Zebedee, of course, entered into the scheme with his usual enthusiasm. "When is it to be?" "Now!" I answered. "The darkies are on their way, ten thousand strong." "But, my dear, there are only five house servants," said Miss Maria. "Yes, but all the field hands had laid off, too, because of the ghost. I fancy all of the colored people from the quarters are coming up to be convinced against their will that the ghost was not a ghost." "But suppose Mary can't climb down again. She might kill herself this time," wailed the poor hostess. "Not at all!" I reassured her. "It will be much easier to do it in daylight than in darkness." "Of course it will!" declared the intrepid movie star. "And, besides, last night was only the dress rehearsal, and all actors say that the dress rehearsal is much more nervous work than the real performance. Now I must go dress my part," and so we raced up to our room where we found dear Annie unpacking her suitcase with such a happy smile on her face that she looked like an angel. How we did chatter! We had to tell her all about our plan for the society circus. Looking out of the window where Mary was to make her fearsome descent, Annie shuddered. "I don't see how you can do it." "If _you_ only could, what a bride you would make!" exclaimed Mary. Mary had determined to dress as a bride and now began the work of finding suitable duds. Miss Maria came in to assist just when we were beginning to despair. None of us was blessed with enough clothes to be willing to spare any of them for such a hazardous undertaking, none save Jessie Wilcox and she had them to spare, but we would not have asked her for any to save her. That superior young lady had been quite scornful of us while we were working and then afterwards on the walk to the quarters. Now she had gone off for a row on the river with Wink, who seemed to think that when I was so enthusiastic over the arrival of the father of my best friends he had a personal grievance. He liked Zebedee a great deal himself but seemed to think I did not have the same right. I am sure Jessie was a brave girl to go rowing with a man who had such a one-sided way of looking at things. Anyone with such a biased judgment could not be trusted to trim a boat, I felt. When Miss Maria found out our trouble, she had Harvie bring from the attic a little old haircloth trunk, and throwing it open, told us to help ourselves. It was filled with all kinds of old-fashioned gowns, some of them of rich brocade and some of flowered chintz. At the very bottom we unearthed a wedding dress which had belonged to some dead and gone Price, Miss Maria did not even know to whom. It was yellow with age but had not a break in it. It was some squeeze to get the bunchy Mary in it, but with much pulling in and holding of the breath we finally got it hooked. "And here's a veil!" cried Dum, who had been standing on her head in the trunk hunting for treasures. It was nothing but a piece of white mosquito netting that had been put in this trunk by mistake evidently, but it was quite a find to us, and with a few dexterous twists we had Mary standing before us a blushing bride. "How about your shoes, Mary?" I asked. "Last night you said you had to have bare toes to dig in the wall." "So I have! Gee, what are we to do about it? It would never do to have a barefoot bride; but I simply could not climb down in shoes." "I have it!" cried Dum. "Let's have a cavalier down on the ground, your 'beau lover,' you know, like the Elizabeth of long ago, and you take off your slippers and throw them down to him." "Good! Page, please go tell Shorty I need him." Shorty was game and in a twinkling of an eye we had him rigged out as a very presentable if rather youthful "beau lover." The darkies had come and were seated on the ground about twenty feet from the house. News of a free show had spread like wildfire and I am sure at least fifteen were gathered there. It seemed hard that we must amuse fifteen to get five. The show opened with a boxing match between the young men from Kentucky, Jack Bennett and Billy Somers. This was most exciting and nothing but the presence of General Price kept the darkies from putting up bets on the fight. Next on the program was the Tuckers' stunt: Dum and Dee, back to back, were buttoned up in two sweaters which they put on hind part before and then fastened on the side, Dum's to Dee's and Dee's to Dum's. "This, Ladies and Gentlemen," said Zebedee, who was doing the part of showmaster, "is Milly Christine, the two-headed woman. She is the most remarkable freak of nature in the world to-day. She has two heads, four legs, four arms, but only one body. She is very well educated and can speak several languages at the same time. She also can sing a duet with herself (at least she thinks she can). Fortunately she is in love with herself, otherwise she would get very bored with herself. There is only one difficulty about being this kind of a twin: if you don't like what your twin likes you have to lump it. Now Milly, here, sometimes eats onions and poor Christine has to go around with the odor on her breath; and Christine got her feet wet and poor Milly has caught a bad cold from it." With this Dee sneezed violently, a regular Tucker sneeze which was as good as a show any time. "Milly is always getting sleepy and wanting to go to bed when Christine feels like dancing." Dee put her head on her breast and gave forth stertorous snores while Dum gaily waltzed around dragging the sleeping twin. There were roars of applause. Next Harvie came around the house walking on his hands and Jim Hart doing cartwheels. Rags had the stunt known as "Come on, Eph!" It is a strange thing, where the performer wiggles and shakes himself until his clothes seem to be slipping off. All the time he emits sounds from which one gathers that he wants Eph to come on. This brought down the house and Rags had an encore. I had to dance "going to church" while the twins patted for me. I never did have any little parlor tricks but they would not let me off. The darkies treated it quite seriously and when I went around shaking hands, which is part of the dance, they arose and joined the dance. This broke the ice and warmed them up for the ghost scene soon to follow. The circus was proving a great success. The rows of happy black faces gave evidence of that. We had decided to have some music next, but made the great mistake of putting Annie on the program ahead of Jessie. It was taken as an insult and that spoiled piece refused to sing at all. Annie sang charmingly, however. She accompanied herself on a banjo, and if my dance had started the darkies, her song got them all going. She sang, "Clar de Kitchen." I wonder if my readers know that old song. It was famous once on every plantation but in this day of rag time and imitation darky songs one hardly ever hears it. CLAR DE KITCHEN In ol' Kentuck, in de arternoon, We sweep de flo' wid a bran new broom, And arter dat we form a ring, And dis de song dat we do sing: _Chorus_-- O, clar de kitchen, ol' folks, young folks, Clar de kitchen, ol' folks, young folks, Ol' Virginy never, never tire. I went to de creek, I couldn't get across, I'd nobody wid me but a ol' blin' horse; But ol' Jim Crow come a-ridin' by, Says he, "Ol' fellow, yo' horse will die." It's clar de kitchen, etc. My horse fell down upon de spot. Says he, "Don't you see his eyes is sot?" So I took out my knife, and off wid his skin, When he comes to life I'll ride him agin. So clar de kitchen, etc. A jay-bird sat on a hickory limb-- He winked at me and I winked at him; I picked up a stone and I hit his shin, Says he, "You'd better not do dat agin." So clar de kitchen, etc. A bull-frog, dressed in soger's clothes, Went in de field to shoot some crows; De crows smell powder and fly away-- De bull-frog mighty mad dat day. So clar de kitchen, etc. I hab a sweetheart in dis town, She wears a yaller striped gown; And when she walks de streets around, De hollow of her foot makes a hole in de ground. Now clar de kitchen, etc. Dis love is a ticklish ting, you know, It makes a body feel all over so; I put de question to Coal-Black Rose, She's as black as ten of spades, and got a lubly flat nose. Now clar de kitchen, etc. "Go away," says she, "wid your cowcumber shin, If you come here agin I stick you wid a pin." So I turn on my heel, and I bid her good-bye, And arter I was gone she began for to cry. So clar de kitchen, etc. So now I'se up and off you see, To take a julep sangaree; I'll sit upon a tater hill And eat a little whip-poor-will. So clar de kitchen, etc. I wish I was back in ol' Kentuck, For since I lef' it I had no luck-- De gals so proud dey won't eat mush; And when you go to court 'em dey say, "O, hush!" Now clar de kitchen, etc. Of course before Annie got through, everybody was joining in the chorus, and the darkies were patting and some of them dancing. There wasn't the ghost of a ghost in their minds now and really we might have dispensed with the grand finale as far as they were concerned. Maxton was no longer a place to be shunned; but Mary was to go through with her act before lunch and I for one knew that that gumbo was stewing down mighty thick. I stole off once and stirred it and put it back a little. CHAPTER X THE GHOST OF A GHOST THE last patter occasioned by Annie's spirited tune had died away and a sudden hush fell upon the seated throng. It was time for the great act. We thought the impressiveness of the scene would be heightened if someone would tell the story. General Price suggested Lady John as the best raconteur of the neighborhood. Of course Lady John was more than pleased to comply. He loved to be in the lime light and to show off. This was his opportunity. "Ladies, gemmen an' niggers, what ain't neither, some er you," he declaimed, standing up on an ivy-covered stump and making his inimitable curtsey, "I is a-makin' this speechifying at the inquest of the white folks an' if respec' is not handed to me it is also infused to them." That rather silenced the tittering that Lady John's elevation had caused. "Gen'l Price is inquested me to lay befo' de meetin' de gospel of de ghoses what is thought by some to hant these here abode of plenty. Without more pilaverin' I'll lay holt the shank of the tale.--Mos' about a thousan' years ago whin my gran'mammy warn't mo'n a baby an' Gen'l Price here, savin' his presence, warn't even so much as thought about although his amcestroms were abidin' here, the tale runs they war a young miss of the family by name Lizzy Betty. Miss Lizzy Betty war that sweet an' that putty that all the young gemmen war mos' ready to eat her up. Ev'y steamboat that come a-sailin' up de ribber brought beaux for Miss Lizzy Betty. One young man come all dressed in gold an' wid a long feather in his hat an' a sword as long as a hoe han'le. He had no land an' he had no boat but he come on his hoss a-ridin' ober de hills, an' Miss Lizzy Betty she done tol' him she would be his'n through sickness an' through healthfulness.--But, ladies an' gemmen an' you niggers what is 'havin' better'n I ever seed you 'have befo', ol' Marse Price he got yuther notions in his haid. He see no reason why Miss Lizzy Betty shouldn't marry to suit him stid er herse'f. They was a rich ol' man what didn't carry all his b'longin's on his back, an' ol' Marse Price he go to de sto' an' come back with a dress an' veil for Miss Lizzy Betty an' he say fer her to go put it on an' he'd fotch the preacher. An' 'twas all the po' young thing could do to git word to her beau lover. All the comp'ny was dissembled an' de bride had comb out her har an' put on de dress an' veil, whin she say to her frien's an' de nigger maid fer them to lef her alone fer a moment so she could wrastle in prayer. So so soon as they got out her room, she locked de do' an' thin she peeped out'n de winder, an' thar, kind an' true, was de beau lover." At this point Mary poked her head out of the window and Shorty appeared below brave in all his finery, although it was not of pure gold as in Lady John's version. This was some astonishment to the old tale teller and he stopped in his narrative. "Hist!" called the bride to Shorty below. "Are you there, sweetheart?" "Aye, aye!" answered the future bluejacket. "Can you climb down the wall or shall I come up to you and carry you off in my flying machine?" "I am coming down!" choked Mary. "But, Algernon, I cannot scale the fearsome wall in shoes and hose; what must I do?" "Take them off, fair Lizzy Betty, and throw them down to me." With that, Mary threw down to the faithful Shorty some huge tennis shoes, the property of Harvie. Shorty caught them, one at a time, and each catch felled him to the earth, much to the delight of the audience. Then began the dangerous act. The agile Lizzy Betty was out of the window in a twinkling of an eye. Her mosquito net veil floated in the breezes. Her satin train she managed with great dexterity, kicking it from her, thereby disclosing to view the blue serge gym bloomers she was wearing. She swung herself down until midway she came upon the fated snag; there she paused and deliberately hooked her veil in the nail. Here old Lady John, seeing his chance, took up the tale and began: "As Miss Lizzy Betty was a-hurryin' down, an' she sho' could clam like a cat, she got her finery cotched on a rusty nail, an' thar she hung as helpless as a ol' coon skin tacked on de barn do'. De beau lover he dance up an' down like he goin' crazy." Shorty began to prance and cry out to his lady love; but she hung there weeping in loud boo hoos. "Bymby ol' Marse Price 'gun ter 'spicion sompen, an' he up'n bang on de chamber do'. 'Hyar there, Lizzy Betty! Come on an' git married! The victuals is a-gittin' col' whilst you is a-prayin'.' Po' Miss Lizzy Betty could a-hear 'em hollerin' and beatin' an' bangin', an' still her dress it cotch on de nail. Jes' then de rich ol' bridegroom come a-shamblin' roun' de house, an' he an' de beau lover clasp one anudder in mortal death grips. De ol' man, he got so clost to him dat de sword what was as long as a hoe han'le didn' do de beau lover no good whatsomever, but de lil' penknife what de ol' man carry for to whittle with went clean home to de beau lover's heart." At the proper cue, Wink, who had submitted to be dressed up in a red table cover with a Santa Klaus beard made out of a switch borrowed from Miss Maria, came sidling around the house. "Vilyun!" he cried, and grabbing Shorty around the waist, they wrestled and swayed until Shorty's long silk stockings, borrowed from Dum, came down and hung around his feet, and his fancy trunks, nothing more nor less than a bathing suit carefully rolled up, came unrolled and hung down in a most ludicrous manner. Finally the deadly penknife was dug into his ribs and he expired, calling to the lovely Lizzy Betty. "An' de lubly Miss Lizzy Betty, she tuk a fit then an' thar an' if'n her paw hadn't er got a ladder an' gone up'n unhooked her, she'd a-been hangin' thar yit, same as in dis hyar circus," and Lady John pointed impressively at the bunchy figure of Mary clinging to the ivy with fingers, teeth and toe-nails. The applause could have been heard down at the landing, I am sure. Mary unfastened her mosquito net veil from her head and finished her descent, leaving the veil caught to the snag. "Now, you black rascals," cried General Price, "you can see the ghost any night you've a mind. There she hangs, and I reckon I'll leave her there to shame you with. Now get to work!" His words were stem but his face wore a smile and his tone was kindly. The field hands went off to work, the uninvited guests melted away, and the house servants took up their tasks where we had left off. Willie, the yard boy, wore a broad grin on his countenance. I heard him say to one of the housemaids: "I done mist my chanst for de kingdom dis year. I 'lowed I'd come through to-night, but these hyar carryin's on done flimflammed me. I been a-laughin' an' singin' an' what's more a-dancin', an' 'twarn't no David a-dancin' befo' de Lord, nuther. 'Twas jes' a-pattin' an' Clar de Kitchen dance. I hear rumors of gumbo for dinner, too, an' I sho' is glad I done turned from grace. I hope de young misses what concocted of de gumbo done put my name in de pot. Dis here seekin' is pow'ful appetizin'." Our circus had been a decided success. Old and young, black and white had enjoyed it. Mary felt that she had redeemed herself. Had she not scared the servants off and then wiled them back? Had she not held thousands thrilled and breathless while she made her perilous descent? "It is wonderful for you to be able to climb that way," said our courtly host. "I have never seen a young lady so agile." "But I shall have to learn to climb in shoes," sighed our movie star. "Douglas Fairbanks can." CHAPTER XI THE PICNIC WHEN a crowd of young people get together there is sure to be a picnic if there is a spark of life in them. There were many sparks of life in this crowd, enough to supply many picnics. We had been at Maxton ten days when the picnic came off, and we had had ten days of unalloyed fun. Of course, we had many gags on each other and jokes that were only jokes because we were on a house-party together. Those jokes if told would sound very flat, indeed. I believe there is no bore so great as the person who has been off with a crowd for a fortnight and comes back and tries to bring to life all the silly jokes that were perpetrated. They may have been brilliant and witty at the time, but it takes the setting and the circumstance to make them appear so to someone not blessed with an invitation to said house-party. Mr. Tucker had come and gone and come again when we decided to go on the picnic. His faithful Henry Ford could bring him to Price's Landing in about one-fourth of the time it took if one trusted to the deliberate meanderings of the steamboat. He was a favorite with all of the party, young and old, and his arrival was hailed with delight. Miss Maria put on her best and filmiest lace cap for his benefit, and to her delight, that wonderful man noticed it and talked to her about old lace with a knowledge that astounded her. He told me afterwards he found lace a topic which always interested old ladies, so he had deliberately made it his business to find out about lace and be prepared to converse on the subject. He also had some general knowledge of crochet stitches, and knew how much yarn it took to knit a sweater. It was too ludicrous to see him solemnly talking fancy work with some ancient dame. Tweedles and I have been sent off into hysterics when we have found him bending over a rainbow afghan, with some old lady eagerly asking his advice as to the depth of the border or something else equally feminine. He seldom went home, after a week-end spent at some resort, that he did not have a commission to match embroidery silk for some lady who had calculated wrong, or send back a bale of wool for some energetic person who had suddenly decided to knit socks for the poor Belgians or a sweater for a long-suffering male relative. Certainly Zebedee's interest and knowledge on the subject of lace caps would have won Miss Maria's affections had they not already been his. General Price was as glad to see him as was his old sister. Of course, the European war was of paramount interest to everyone during those years, and Jeffry Tucker always brought some item of news to be recounted and discussed. He came laden with newspapers and magazines, and the general would bury himself under them, only emerging for meals. He and Zebedee would spend hours discussing the situation. Topographical maps were studied until one would think those two gentlemen could have found their way blindfolded over every inch of the western front. The Mexican situation, too, must be thoroughly threshed out. The old warrior was like some ancient war horse that sniffs the battle from afar. As a veteran of the Civil War he had many experiences to recount and analogies to bring forth. Mr. Tucker listened to him with an attention that was most flattering. Naturally General Price freely announced that Tucker was the most agreeable man of his acquaintance. Mr. Arthur Ponsonby Pore spent one evening with us at Maxton and the general and Zebedee hoped to get some new outlook from their English acquaintance on the subject of the war that so nearly touched him, since many of his kinsmen must surely be in the trenches; but Mr. Pore's interest seemed purely academic, and as his knowledge was principally gained from two- and three-week-old London _Graphics_, those voracious gentlemen got but little satisfaction from the hours spent with Arthur Ponsonby. "He cares more about what language will finally be spoken on the Servian border than he does about the submarine menace!" cried Zebedee indignantly, coming out on the gallery where I was getting a breath of air after a particularly trying dance with poor Wink, who never had learned how. We danced almost every night at Maxton,--tread many a measure, as our dear old host put it. Dee said she thought Wink was a good dancer and she seemed to be able to keep step with him very well, but the Gods evidently had ordained that Wink and I could do nothing in harmony. He either stepped on my toes or I stepped on his,--the latter arrangement I much preferred. "Well, when you come right down to it," I said, defending poor Mr. Pore, "that is, after all, a very important thing. What language is to be spoken there will mean which side is victorious." "I know that, little Miss Smarty, but I also know if I have to listen any longer to that Britisher's rounded periods, what language will be spoken here,--it will not be fit to print, either. How can a man sit still down on the banks of a river in a foreign country and feel that it is not up to him to do a single thing for his country when her very existence is in peril!" "But what can he do?" "Do? Heavens, Page, he can do a million things!" "He is too old to fight." "No one is ever too old to fight,--that is, to put up some kind of a fight. He does not even contribute to a relief fund! He as good as told me he did not. He says he is afraid that what he sent might fall into the hands of the Germans and help them, so he considers it more patriotic not to send anything. I've been taking up for that man against Tweedles, but ugh! I'm through now." "Oh no, you are not," I laughed; "if Mr. Pore should come out on the porch this minute and ask a favor of you, I bet you would be just as nice to him as you always have been." "Never! Five pounds of Huyler's if I am not as cold as a fish to His Nibs!" At this psychological moment His Nibs appeared. "Aw, I say, Mr. Tucker, when you return to Richmond, will you be so kind as to do a little commission for me?" Zebedee made inarticulate noises in his throat and Mr. Pore continued: "Some freight has gone astray and if you could look it up from that end, it would be of great assistance to me." "Have you written about it?" Zebedee's manner was not quite so Zebedeeish as I could have wished, since five pounds of Huyler's was at stake. "No, I have not corresponded with the wholesale firm from whom I purchased the goods, as I heard from my daughter that you were expected, and I considered that it would be much more satisfactory to all concerned if you could give it your personal attention." As soon as Mr. Pore mentioned Annie, Zebedee seemed to have a change of heart. He evidently felt that Annie's father must be cajoled into good behavior, and nothing must be done or said to make that stubborn parent have an excuse for taking any pleasures from Annie. "Certainly, Mr. Pore," he said politely, if a little distantly. "Just give me your bill of lading and I will look into the matter for you." In my mind's eye I saw the five pounds of candy. I had certainly won. But was it fair of me to take advantage of poor Zebedee's tender heart? Certainly not! "Shall it be chocolates?" he asked, when Mr. Pore had finished his transaction and taken himself off. "It shall be nothing!" I exclaimed. "Don't you know I know why you were decent to the old fish? It was not just plain politeness that made you do it, it was your feeling for Annie, poor little thing!" "How do you know so much?" "Why, I saw you change your mind the moment he dragged in Annie, and I knew what you were thinking just as much as though you had said it aloud: 'Don't do anything to make things hard for Annie.' Now isn't that so?" "Page, you are uncanny! Can you read everybody's mind?" "Of course not! Only yours," I laughed. "Do you know what I am thinking now?" He looked at me very intently. The light from the hall was flooding the gallery and I could see way down into his clear blue eyes. "N-o!" I hesitated, and I am afraid blushed, too. "But I wish you would think that it would be nice to go try that new wiggly dance Jessie Wilcox has just brought from New York." "I see, if you can't read my mind all the time, you can at least make me think what you want me to. Come on, honey, and show me the dance." I got the candy in spite of my protestations of not deserving it. The picnic was to be at Croxton's Ford, a beautiful spot about three miles down the river. The naphtha launch held eight quite comfortably and the rest were to go in rowboats. Mary and Shorty insisted upon paddling the canoe, although they were warned that it would be a tiring job, especially coming back. Miss Maria had planned to go with us although an all day picnic was a great undertaking for one of her shape, but she was very particular with girls intrusted to her and chaperoned most religiously. On the very morning of the picnic, sciatica seized her and she simply could not get out of bed. The general had business at the court-house and was off very early in the morning, so his going was out of the question. Miss Maria lay there groaning and moaning, miserable that her conscience could not consent to our going on such a jaunt, unchaperoned. As Tweedles and I had never been overchaperoned, in fact knew very little about such necessities, it seemed absurd to us. "Do you really mean we can't go without a chaperone?" wailed Dum, who had set her heart on a long row in a little red boat that appealed to her especially. "My dear, I am so sorry! I would get up if I could." "But I wouldn't have you get up, dear Miss Maria. I just want you to lie still and get well. We don't need a chaperone!" "I know you don't need one, my child, but I have never heard of a picnic at Croxton's Ford without a chaperone." "But Zebedee's a grand chaperone," put in Dee. "He is that particular! Why, Dum and Page and I have never been chaperoned in our lives." "Zebedee's the strictest thing!" maintained Dum. "So he may be," smiled the old lady, although one could see that the twinges in her poor hip were giving her great agony, "but as perfect as he is, he is not a woman." "No,--he is certainly not that." "Jessie Wilcox has never been on a picnic in her life without a chaperone, and I could not consent to one from Maxton unless it was perfectly regular." A tap on the door disclosed the sympathetic Zebedee. "Please let me come in," he begged. After a hasty donning of boudoir cap and bed sacque, he was admitted. "Mr. Tucker, I am so sorry, but I cannot let the girls go on a picnic without a chaperone," said the old lady. "Of course not!" and his eyes twinkled. "I'm going, though, and I am a perfect ogre of a chaperone, eh, Page?" "Yes, something fierce, but Miss Maria says you are not a woman." "That's so!" he said, puckering up his brows. We were mortally sure he was going to find a way. He always did. "How about Aunt Milly? She is perfectly respectable and would guard the young ladies like gold, I am sure." "We-ll, I remember before the war we often went great distances with our maids. I think she would do. Please send her to me." Zebedee rushed to do her bidding, but he evidently had an interview with Aunt Milly before he sent her to Miss Maria, as that old darky entered the bed chamber in a broad grin, tying something up in the corner of her bandanna handkerchief as she came. "Milly, I want you to chaperone for me to-day," said the poor invalid, groaning as she tried to move a bit in her great mahogany bed. "Sho', Miss Maria! Does you want me to do it wif goose grease? Or maybe you'd like dat mixture er coal ile an' pneumonia? Dat's a great mixture. 'Twill bun you up but it sho' do scatter de pain." "I don't mean massage, I said chaperone," and Miss Maria laughed in spite of her sciatic nerve. "Yassum! I 'lowed you meant rub, an' I's mo'n willin' to rub. You'll hab to 'splain. I ain't quite sho' in my min' what shopper-roonin' is, but if it'll ease yo' pain, you kin jes' call on ol' Milly." "It would ease my pain greatly if you would go with the young ladies on the picnic." "Cook for 'em?" "Oh no, Aunt Milly," I interrupted, "we never let the chaperone cook,--just to look after us and keep us straight." "Lawsamussy, chile! You all don't need nobody to keep you straight. Th' ain't nothin' wrong wid you all but jes' you's a little coltish." "I know they don't need anyone, Milly, but I have never heard of a picnic at Croxton's Ford without a chaperone, and I wouldn't be willing for them to go without one." "All right, Miss Maria! But you ain't thinkin' 'bout sendin' me nowhar in one er them thar skifty boats, is you?" "Oh no, Aunt Milly!" said Dee reassuringly. "You must have a comfortable seat in the stern of the naphtha launch. We will give you the place Miss Maria would have had could she have gone." "Well, Gawd save us! I ain't nebber set foot on or in the ribber in all my life an' I been born an' bred on its banks, too," and the old woman drew forth a big red bandanna handkerchief and wiped her eyes. As she did so she came upon the something round and hard tied up in its corner, and at the same time she glanced up at Mr. Tucker. He, in a seemingly absent-minded way, put his hand in his pocket and jingled his keys and coin. "Well, all right, Miss Maria! If you say I mus' go, I reckon 'tain't fer me to gainsay you. Who gonter do my wuck at home?" "There won't be much work to do, Milly, since all of the young people are going away, and the general has planned to spend the day at the court-house. The lunch baskets are ready, are they not?" "Yassum! I been up sence sunup a-packin' 'em. It seemed like ol' times to be a-packin' all them victuals. I 'member what a gret han' you was for pickaniggers whin you was a gal. I reckon it's a-cuttin' all them samwidges yistiddy dat done combusticated yo' hip now. You better let me rub you befo' I go a shopper-roonin'." "Thank you, Milly, but if you chaperone, that will be work enough for you for to-day. You had better get ready now. Tell Willie to take you to your cabin in the buggy and wait and drive you back. You must hurry and not keep the young ladies waiting." Aunt Milly waddled off, filled with importance and pride but secretly dreading a water trip. Dee insisted upon massaging the poor invalid, who really was suffering intensely. Dee was a born nurse and was never so happy as when she could take command in a sick room. She drove all of us out, insisting the patient must be quiet. Wink, who was really and truly a doctor now, was called in and readily prescribed and what's more produced the medicine from a little kit he carried about with him. Dee rubbed and rubbed until it was time to start on the picnic. Miss Maria was so soothed that she dozed off and Dee tiptoed out of the room without making a sound. No doubt the poor old lady enjoyed her day of quiet and rest. We must have been a great trial to her, because we were a noisy, hoydenish lot. Those of us who didn't sit up late at night making a racket, got up early in the morning to do so, and vice versa. She was so sweet and good-natured about us that she never let us feel we were a nuisance, but I am sure we must have been. CHAPTER XII THE SHOPPER-ROON OF course Aunt Milly kept us waiting. There is no telling what rite she performed in her cabin in preparation for the momentous occasion of chaperoning. We were all seated in the boats waiting, the lunch stowed carefully in the locker of the launch and the bathing suits tucked under the seats, when Willie came racing up in a light red-wheeled buggy, one side so bent down with Aunt Milly's great weight that the springs were touching. "Gawd pertec' me!" she prayed as Harvie and Zebedee between them handed her into the launch. The little craft did some perceptible sinking with the extra load and had to be lightened a bit. "Sleepy, you had better get out," teased Rags. Poor Sleepy had been having a strenuous week trying to monopolize Annie Pore. This was a difficult thing to do, as Annie seemed to attract the male sex willy nilly. She had no idea of flirting and never meant to hurt anyone, but there was something about her that appealed to the masculine element irresistibly. Wherever she went she made conquests by a certain clinging vine attitude she had towards the whole world. Mere man likes to be looked upon as a protector and Annie's timidity was meat and drink to his vanity. George Massie, alias Sleepy, was her slave; Harvie Price thought he looked upon her as a little sister, but I have never yet seen a big brother quite so anxious for the comfort of nothing but a sister; Jack Bennett seemed to find her very attractive and divided his allegiance between her and Dee; nothing but his loyalty to Sleepy kept Ben Raglan from entering the lists for the favor of the little English maid. He occasionally teased poor Sleepy, but that young giant never did know what I knew: that Rags really cared for Annie. Sleepy, knowing that the launch was the safest place in which to embark for a picnic and understanding how timid Annie was and how poor a swimmer, had ensconced her in that vessel in a protected spot, and had found a place at her feet where he could look up into her pretty face. "Me get out? Get out yourself!" he cried indignantly. "But it is not quality they want out but quantity," answered Rags. "You and Aunt Milly, being in the same boat, can't ride in the same boat." Now George Massie was not really fat, but because of his great bulk he was usually thought of as being so. Certainly his bones were well covered but his muscles were hard as iron. What fat was there was well hammered down. He must have weighed at that time at least two hundred and twenty pounds, but then his six feet two inches could carry a good many pounds. He was cursed with money if ever a young man was. His father was very wealthy and George had never been denied a single thing in all his life. His principal ambition had been to make the football team at the University and even that had been granted him,--not because of money but because of brawn. He was studying medicine in a desultory way, taking a year longer to finish his course than the more ambitious Wink, who was not cursed at all with money but had unbounded energy and ambition. Sleepy's friends, and he had many of those necessary things, all adored him. He was so honest, so straightforward, so sympathetic. They deplored his lack of ambition, however. I used to feel that Sleepy was a lesson to all of the young men in his set because they realized that after all too much money often had a softening effect on character. There seemed to be no especial use for George Massie to graduate, because after he got his diploma what difference would it make whether he got patients or not? His adoration of Annie Pore had had a good effect on him, so Jim Hart had told me. The last year at the University he had done better studying than he ever had in his life, and his friends had hopes of his waking up to the fact that the world might need him, even if he did not need the world's money in doctor's fees. "Yes, Sleepy! You'll have to vamoose," insisted Jack Bennett, trying to squeeze himself down between George Massie and Annie. "You are as big as any two other passengers," declared Rags. "If that is the case, then suppose two other passengers take to the life-boats," suggested Zebedee. "Come on, Page, you are light and easy to row and there is a nice little brown boat waiting for us." Dum and Billy Somers had already started in their picturesque red skiff, and Mary Flannagan and Shorty were well on their way in the canoe. They had been independent and had not had to wait while Aunt Milly arrayed herself in all the glories of a brand new purple calico and bright plaid head handkerchief. "All right!" I acquiesced to Mr. Tucker's proposal. After we were transferred to the little brown boat and on our way to Croxton's Ford, he said: "I am afraid I was selfish to ask you to come with me. I know I should not have taken you away from all of your young friends." "Why, Zebedee! How absurd! You are the youngest friend I have, much the youngest." "But you gave a very sad and unenthusiastic 'all right' to my proposition to come by skiff. Now, didn't you?" "But it wasn't that I didn't want to come with you," I declared. "Perhaps not, but merely that you didn't want to leave someone else to come with me. Now fess up, honey!" "I have nothing to fess up about." "Well, then, why did you look so crestfallen when I put it up to you to leave the launch?" and Zebedee dug his oars in the water with some viciousness. "I didn't mean to. I--I----" "You what?" "I had a reason for wanting to stay in the launch." "Didn't I say so? Who was the reason?" "It wasn't a who, at all--it was a which." "A which?" he asked somewhat mystified. "Yes, a which! If you must know, I wanted to be under the awning because of my freckled nose," and I blushed until it hurt. My nose was a great annoyance to me. It was such a little nose to get so many freckles on it. The fact that they disappeared in the winter was but cold comfort to me. "But I like freckles," he said quite solemnly, but his eyes were dancing with amusement. "But I don't, and it's my nose. You are the only person who does like 'em." "Who has been telling you he doesn't like them?" "Nobody to my face, or rather to my freckles, but I heard Jessie Wilcox talking to someone about me and she called me a speckled beauty,--just exactly as though I were a trout or a coach dog or a turkey egg or something. And I know after this day on the water I'll be a sight." "Do you care what she says?" "I care what anybody says." "Why, little friend, I did not dream you put so much value on the opinion of others, especially where mere personal appearance is concerned." I thought I detected a note of disappointment in his voice. "I don't about everything, but one's nose is mighty close to one, somehow." "So it is," he laughed, "and I am so sorry to have been the means of injuring that touchy member. I can't help feeling kind of happy, though, that it was the awning you were loath to leave and not some one of those boys. Here's a nice linen handkerchief; why don't you tie that over your nose?" Mr. Tucker always had the nicest linen handkerchiefs I ever saw, and he seemed to have clean, folded ones ready to produce for every emergency. I accepted his offer and tied it over the lower part of my face. "Now you look like a little Turkish lady. Please say you are glad you came in the little brown boat," and my boatman shipped his oars and drifted with the current. It was a very easy thing to say because I was very glad. Now that my poor little nose was protected, I was perfectly happy. I always enjoyed being with Zebedee. We never talked out and we seldom had a disagreement; not that we agreed on every subject by any means, but we could disagree without having a disagreement. We talked about everything under the sun from Shakespeare to the musical glasses. I couldn't help comparing this boat ride to the one I had been overpersuaded to take with Wink only a few days before. We had started out with the best of intentions on my part to avoid all shoals in conversation, but before we had been out ten minutes Wink was gnawing his little moustache in fury and I was wishing I had stayed on shore. A row with Wink was sure to end in a row (pronounced rou). The launch arrived at Croxton's Ford long before we did, but we came as fast as the current allowed, having drifted a good part of the way. The party had landed and had begun to make the camp for the day. It was a wonderful spot chosen for the picnic. A large creek, flowing into the river, broadened out almost into a lake, and in the mouth of this creek were innumerable small islands. Some of them had large trees growing on them, lovely sandy beaches and strips of verdure; others were too young to have trees but were covered with grass. The camp was pitched on the largest island, right at the mouth of the creek that afforded a landing for the launch. There was a famous spring on this island that was thought by the county people to have some great curative power. What it cured you of I don't know, but it tasted too good to be much good as a medicine, I imagine. Aunt Milly, who had proven herself to be an ideal chaperone, having slept during the entire journey, was now ensconced under a water oak on a warm sand bank with nothing to do but enjoy herself. This she did immediately by falling asleep again. "Whin I ain't a-wuckin', I's a-sleepin'," she droned as slumber enfolded her. Of course the camp fire must be made and potatoes and corn put to roast and the coffee-pot filled with the sparkling spring water. The trip down had made everybody hungry, whether accomplished without exertion as by those in the launch; or with the sweat of the brow as by Mary and Shorty in the canoe, or Dum and Billy Somers in the red skiff; or with just enough work to keep the boat in the current which was Zebedee's and my method of locomotion: one and all were hungry. "While dinner is cooking, let's have a swim," suggested Harvie. "You girls take this side of the island for a dressing-room and we'll take the other. Here are some low willows that make splendid walls." Bathing suits were produced and while our chaperone slumbered and slept, we got into them and then into the water. Such water! It was clear and soft, so much more so than the water of the big river. The bottom was clean sand with no disturbing rocks and snags. The trees shaded the place chosen for our swim where the sloping beach made it safe for the timid close to shore, but ten yards of perseverance plunged the bold swimmer into really deep water. The shouts of joy would have waked the dead had there been any on the island, but nothing waked the sleeping Aunt Milly. She had burrowed down in the unresisting sand almost as deep as some meteoric stone might have done. There she lay, having the rest that she deserved after the "mos' a hun'erd years er cookin'" that she declared she had served at Maxton. "This is my island!" cried Dum, swimming over to a beautiful spot about twenty yards from camp. She clambered out on the strip of sand and stood with arms outstretched looking very handsome, her lithe young figure drawn up to its full height. "I am monarch of all I survey! I'm queen of this land!" "Let me come help you rule," pleaded Billy Somers, who had followed her. "I don't need a prime minister just now, thank you, but you might get in the waiting list." "Thanks awfully!" and the young Kentuckian threw himself on the warm sand at her feet. What nice fellows those Kentuckians were, anyhow! They were full of life and fun, clean minded, clear thinking, well-mannered boys. Dum and Billy were friends from the moment they met and were usually the ringleaders in any larks that were started on the house-party. The strange thing about the friendship was that they looked alike, so very much alike that I believe some pioneer ancestor of Billy's must have come from the Tucker stock. Billy's hair had a bit more red in it than Dum's, not much, just enough to make his hair in the shade about the color Dum's was in the sun. Their foreheads were identical and their chins had the same tendency to get square when an argument was under way. They really looked quite as much alike as the twins themselves did. Zebedee declared that Billy made him feel a hundred years old because he looked so like his son, if he had ever had one. Billy was about three years older than the twins, and when we consider that the twins were born when their father was only twenty, no wonder the possibility of a son at seventeen made poor Mr. Tucker blue. [Illustration: "THIS IS OUR ISLAND AND WE ARE GOING TO PERMIT NO ALIENS TO LAND HERE." Page 178.] "This is our island and we are going to permit no aliens to land here," called Dum as a challenge to all of us. "I am Queen Dum and Billy is General Billdad. We have held counsel and herewith make the proclamation that there is to be no immigration to this kingdom." It took only a moment for us to answer the challenge. Dee headed the opposing forces, making a long dive that brought her up almost on the beach of the little kingdom. Dum was ready to push her back in the water and kerflop! she went before Zebedee could come to her aid. Then ensued such a battle as had not been fought in the United States since Custer's last rally. Of course Dum and Billy had the advantage of position, but we so far outnumbered them that it took all of their strength to keep us from landing. "Mary! Mary! You and Shorty come be our allies!" called Queen Dum to the couple who had gone to housekeeping on a small island near her own. Mary slid into the water like a turtle and Shorty followed. They landed from the rear and now the battle raged fiercely. I know I got pitched back into the water at least a dozen times. Having learned to swim only the summer before at Willoughby, I was not a past master in the art, but I could keep above water indefinitely, thanks to Zebedee, my instructor, who had made floating the first requisite. The odds were in our favor but the vantage they had in position was well-nigh discouraging us, when Zebedee and Wink made a flank movement and landed on the other side of the island, immediately pushing over the opposing forces into the foaming torrent and then pulling all of us onto dry land. "Victory! Victory!" we shouted; and then for the first time since the battle began to rage we remembered our chaperone. She had awakened and dug herself out of her warm sand nest. What were her charges up to? It never entered the old woman's head that we were playing a game, and I fancy we looked in dead earnest. When she had dozed off after landing we were all of us clothed and in our right minds, and suddenly she awoke to find us anything but clothed, according to her strict ideas of propriety among the quality, never having seen girls in bathing suits; and not only were we in disgraceful dishabille, but we were engaged in a distressing brawl. "My Gawd! My Gawd!" she wailed. "Here I been a-slumberin' an' sleepin' an' Miss Maria done tol' me to shopper-roon. I trus'ed de white folks an' look at 'em!" She covered her face with her hands and wept aloud. I fancy we were something to look at. Bathing caps were off and hair wet and tangled streaming down our backs. Dee had lost a stocking in the tussle and Rags had been bereft of more than half of his shirt, so that his white back gleamed forth in a most immodest abandon. Shorty had tapped Harvie on the nose and that scion of a noble race was bleeding like a stuck pig. The gore added color to the scene, and had not Aunt Milly already been certain that this was a real war we were raging, the blood of her young master would have convinced her. "Hi, you! You!" she called. "Quit dat!" The battle being won, we had stopped for repairs but there were still here and there some fitful hostilities. For instance: Shorty had determined that Harvie needed some cold water on his bleeding nose and was rolling him into the creek. Both of them were shouting and pommelling each other as they rolled. As they approached the large island where our camp was pitched, Aunt Milly became very much excited. Who were these vile wretches who had accepted the hospitality of the Prices and then turned against them, and while she, the natural protector of the young master, was sleeping, had well-nigh stripped him of his clothes and then bloodied him all over with his own blue blood, which was certainly flowing very redly? "Hi, you! You little low flung, no 'count, bench-legged trash! What you a-doin' ter Mr. Harbie?" she called to the all-unconscious Shorty, who was having the time of his life as he and his friend wallowed in the water, wrestling as they swam. But Aunt Milly saw no joke in such doings. She looked around for something to use as a weapon and spied the camp fire where the corn and potatoes were being prepared to fulfill their mission. They were done to a turn by that tune and the fire had died down to a bed of red embers. The old woman grabbed from the ashes a great yam and with an aim that astonished one, she threw it and hit Shorty a sounding whack on his back. "Wow!" yelled that young warrior. "You'd better wow! An' don' you lan' here; you go back ter dem Injuns whar you come wid." "Why, Aunt Milly! What on earth?" gasped Harvie as he saw the old woman stooping for more ammunition. "Yo' ol' Milly gwine he'p you, dat's what!" She aimed another at the astonished Shorty, but that young man turned himself into a submarine and disappeared. Harvie clambered out of the water spluttering and laughing. His nose had stopped bleeding now and the water had washed off all traces of the gory disaster. He caught the rampant Milly by the arm: "Aunt Milly, it's all a joke, a game! Nobody was abusing me. Don't throw away the potatoes, we are so hungry." "Lawsamussy, chile! You can't fool this ol' nigger. I's seen folks a-playin' an' I's a-seen folks a-fightin', an' if'n that there warn't a battle royal, I neber seed one." By this time all of us were headed for camp. As we came ashore her expression was still a belligerent one and she had a hot potato which she tossed from hand to hand ready for an emergency. It took all the tact the Tuckers could muster among them to convince Aunt Milly that we had not been fighting, and even after she seemed to be convinced, she growled a bit when Shorty appeared all dressed and spruce, with his hair plastered down tight and his arm linked in Harvie's. She had the fidelity of some old dog for its master and it would take some time to erase from her mind and heart that terrible scene of Mr. Harbie being beaten and blooded and pitched into the water. We led her back to her seat in the sand and brought her dinner to her. We would not let her help cook or serve, but treated her like a real chaperone and waited on her right royally. She rolled her eyes a bit when to Shorty was relegated the task of taking her a cup of coffee. He pretended to be very much frightened and trembled violently as he handed her the brimming cup. "Aunt Milly, how did you learn how to throw so well? You hit me with that potato just as though you belonged to a baseball nine." "I been a-practicin' all my life a-throwin' at rats," she growled. This brought down the house. CHAPTER XIII TANGLEFOOT A SUFFICIENT time having elapsed since dinner, we decided to go in swimming again; at least the Tuckers decided to and all of us followed suit (bathing suit!). Aunt Milly was becoming accustomed to the ways of her charges and gave her gracious consent when we humbly asked it. She even stopped rolling her eyes at Shorty when she saw that Harvie was not injured, after all, and that he himself bore no malice towards his friend. Mary, too, had something to do with mollifying the old woman. She went and sat on the sand bank by her side and explained to her how the battle royal started and what fun it had been. Of course ever since the circus, Mary had been a great favorite with all the servants. They looked upon her as a real celebrity. Mary had so many stunts and was always so willing to amuse persons that she was constantly being called on to do her dog fight or get off a feat of ventriloquism or something else. "Aunt Milly, if you forgive poor Mr. Hawkins for bloodying up Mr. Harvie, I'll go like a little pig caught under the gate for you." "Lawsamussy, chil', kin you do that?" "Sure! Will you forgive him if I do it?" "Lemme hear you do it fust an' I'll see," said Aunt Milly with a sly look. She was getting too much capital out of the grudge she had against Shorty to give it up too readily. So Mary went through all the agony of a little pig caught under the gate and even improved upon it to the extent of introducing another character into the act: she went like two pigs caught under the gate. Aunt Milly sat in her sand hole entranced. "Well, bless Bob! If it ain't it to the life! How you do it, honey?" So Mary had to do it once more and then Aunt Milly promised to forgive and forget. "Come on and help clear up the remains of the feast, Mary," insisted Dum, who was ever determined that there should be no shirkers. "I'm busy mollifying," declared Mary. "My talents lie more in this direction," and she could not help mimicking Jessie Wilcox just enough to give Dum the dry grins. Jessie had not helped at all about luncheon but had insisted that Aunt Milly should be made to do whatever we had the hardihood to suggest that she might do. Aunt Milly, however, having been told that she was to do no "wuck," did none, and presented a duck back to all insinuations from the haughty Jessie. "I don't care where your talents lie," insisted Dum, "you are going to come help clear these dishes off the cloth so I can fold it up." Mary began to sing to a catchy tune this music-hall ballad: "I want to be a actress, a actress, a actress, I tell you I won't live and die a common serving gal. I feel I've got the natur' To act in a the-a-ter, I'm just the kind of stuff to make a star profession-a-l-l." "Well, now ain't she cute?" and Aunt Milly shook her fat sides with laughter. "She ain't ter say purty but she is sho' got a way wid her. She ain't so handsome as some but she gonter keep her takin' ways til' Kingdom Come, whilst some folks what ain't nothin' but purty won' hab nothin' lef' a tall whin the las' trump soun's. I ain't a got no 'jections ter purty folks,--now that there little Miss Annie Po' is sho' sweet lookin' an' sweet tas'in', too, but she is wuth somethin' sides. But some ain't." A glance of her rolling eyes in the direction of Jessie gave us to understand who "some" meant. Jessie and Wink were having a most desperate flirtation. He had not left her side a moment during the whole day. Jessie glanced occasionally in my direction with a little exultant toss of her head as much as to say: "See, miss, I've got your beau!" She was more than welcome to him, but I didn't think it kind to lessen her delight in her conquest, so I did my best to make her happy by sighing deeply every time I caught her looking at me. The pleasure of going in swimming is going in again, so as I said before, as soon as a reasonable time had elapsed since our very filling dinner we again retired to our several tree-formed bath-houses and donned our suits for a farewell dip. "No more fights now!" commanded Zebedee sternly, just as though he had not been among the mighty warriors of the last fray. Tweedles promptly caught him and gave him a good ducking until he yelled for mercy and help from Aunt Milly, but that model chaperone had gone off to sleep again and was deaf to his cries. "That's what you get for being Mr. Tuckerish," declared Dum. Jessie Wilcox was a good swimmer but was determined not to get her hair wet, so had not entered very largely into our water sports. Tweedles and Mary and I had lost our bathing caps in the great naval battle, and since our heads were already wet, we decided to get them wetter and let our hair dry on the trip home. As for Annie, getting her feet wet was about all she could make up her mind to do, although her coils of honey-colored hair got a little damp. She would take shuddering steps into the water and when she got about knee-deep would lie down and go through the motions of swimming with one foot on the bottom. She had really learned to keep up on top of the water at Willoughby the summer before, but now had lost all confidence in herself and was content just to paddle around in the shallows. From one side of our large island there stretched a long narrow sand bar. The water just trickled through there, while the great volume of the creek flowed on the other side where we were swimming. There were many shallow spots where Annie could be perfectly safe, but she decided to walk out on the sand bar and there let down her hair and dry it in the sun. Her cavaliers who seldom left her alone for a moment happened to be engaged in some swimming stunts just then, so unattended she crossed the bar and, seating herself on the end of the neck of sand, she let down her beautiful hair and spread it out in the sun. "Only look at Annie! Isn't she lovely?" whispered Dum to me. "She looks like a mermaid or a Rhine maiden." "Please sing something, Annie!" I called. "What shall I sing?" laughed Annie, combing her hair with one of her side-combs and peeping at me through its golden glory. "Anything, so it has water in it!" Annie's voice had grown in richness and volume since the days at Gresham, although she had had no lessons since that time. She had taken advantage of the teaching she had received from Miss Cox and kept up her practicing by herself as best she could. Of course she should have been under some good master, and all of us felt indignant with Mr. Pore that he did not realize this and make some arrangement for his daughter. The outlay of money necessary for her musical education would have been great, but the returns would surely have been fourfold. Everyone who heard Annie sing could not but admire her voice. Even Jessie Wilcox praised it, although that young lady was not inclined to think anybody but herself worthy of compliments. The lovely thing about Annie was she was always ready to be obliging, and if her singing gave any pleasure, she was perfectly willing to contribute it to the general welfare. She never said she didn't have her music and could not sing without notes; she never gave the excuse of not being able to sing without accompaniment. When Annie sang, her shyness left her. She seemed to forget herself and lose all self-consciousness. As her clear soprano notes arose on the air, the noisy bathers quieted down and everyone listened. "On the banks of Allan Water When the sweet spring-time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all. For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she. On the banks of Allan Water When brown autumn spreads his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more. For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she. On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter's snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast. But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free; On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she." "Bully!" exclaimed the audience. "I'd like to meet that soldier," muttered Sleepy. "Please sing some more," begged Rags. And so she sang again. Now she stood up, took a few steps, and faced us as we paddled around. "Look what a big hole Annie made in the sand, almost as big as Aunt Milly's," whispered Dee to me. "Yes, the sand must be awfully soft. I'm glad it's not quicksand, though. That's so dangerous." But what I knew about the dangers of quicksand I kept to myself, as Annie had begun: "To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er; The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly shore; The dolphin wheels, the sea-cow's snort, And unseen mermaids' pearly song Comes bubbling up the weeds among----" And just then a strange thing happened: Annie began to sink. The little sand island she had chosen as a place of refuge where she might dry her hair was evidently only an island in the making, and the sand had not packed down. It was quicksand, but not so quick as it might have been, as she had been on it some minutes before it began to give way under her weight. She looked frightened and tried to pull her one foot up, but it stuck. The last lines of her song were in a fair way to be enacted before our very eyes if haste was not made. Annie gave a scream and made desperate struggles to extricate herself. The swimmers all started to her rescue, George Massie leading the way, shooting through the water like a shark. I clutched Zebedee as he went by me. "Get the little brown boat and I'll help! The sand may be dangerous all around there." He was a quick thinker and turned without a word, landed on the big island and I followed. We launched the little brown boat that we had shoved up among the weeds and in a very short time were floating out into deep water. With a few strong strokes of the oars we had arrived at the spot where we were in truth much needed. Sleepy had grasped Annie, who was now engulfed up to her knees. Of course he was about the worst person among us to have got first to her rescue because of his great weight. He gave a tremendous pull, grasping Annie around her waist. She came out of the sand making a noise like a whole drove of cattle lifting their hoofs out of the mud. Annie was perfectly limp with fright. She clung to George Massie like some little panic-stricken child. The frantic Rags reached the sand bar immediately behind Sleepy, and Harvie swam him a close second. The water was quite deep within a few feet of the fatal spot that the innocent Annie had chosen as the best place to dry her hair. The beach of quicksand shelved suddenly into swimming depth. As Harvie and Rags stepped from this swimming hole into shallow water they realized that they, too, had hurled themselves into danger. They stuck fast. Annie clung desperately to George. Her eyes were closed and she was so pale I thought she must have fainted. It was a few moments before the rest of the party realized that the three youths were being slowly sucked down. They knew it, however, from the moment they touched the bar. "Throw Annie out into the water!" said Harvie hoarsely. Annie had not fainted as I had thought, for at these words she clung so desperately to poor Sleepy that he could not loose her hands. Harvie reached over and unclasped them, holding them tightly until Sleepy could raise her up farther in his arms to throw her. "Float, Annie! You can float!" shouted Dee. "Do as I tell you!" Annie, ever inclined to obedience, spread her arms out as she struck the water and floated off as neatly as some well-built yacht launched for the first time. Of course the others grabbed her as soon as she got to them. By this time Zebedee and I had the little brown boat to the rescue. We came alongside the poor stick-in-the-muds. "Take Sleepy first!" cried the other two. "He's in worse than we are." Taking Sleepy first was no joke. He had sunk at least a foot and a half. Zebedee tugged at him and Sleepy tugged at himself. The little boat almost capsized and still the young giant could not pull his feet out of the treacherous mire. "You are not in far, Rags; come on and help trim the boat," I insisted, paddling the stern around in reach of Rags. He caught hold and with a quick spring was in the boat. "Now, Harvie!" I commanded. "We can't get Sleepy unless you come help." I knew perfectly well that Harvie had a notion he must not get in the boat until his friend was saved. In the meantime, Zebedee was struggling to raise Sleepy and the boat was in sad need of ballast. Harvie did as I bade him and with a mighty effort extricated himself and landed in the boat. The legs of both the boys were covered with mire up to their knees. All the time we were doing this, the rest of the party was not idle. Of course some of them had to look after the frightened Annie. Dum and Billy Somers had struck out immediately for the red boat which was beached on the far side of the island, realizing as they soon did that the only way to get the boys out of the quicksand was by boat. Mary and Shorty also made for the canoe, thinking it might be needed, too. Glad we were when the red boat came alongside of ours and we could lash them together to make more purchase for Sleepy. The little brown boat did not have weight enough to do the job alone. And now with a long pull and a strong pull and a pull all together, we at last got him out. If when Annie got her feet out of the sand she made a noise like a drove of cattle lifting their hoofs out of the mud, you can fancy what the noise was when Sleepy came out. It was like a great ground swell, and so much water had that young giant displaced, when he removed his bulk I am sure the depth of the creek was perceptibly lowered. Now it was all over we could giggle, which Dum and I did until Zebedee got really outdone with us and threatened to box us both. It had been a close shave and he felt it was not a time for giggling, but Dum and I were no respecters of time or place. When the giggles struck us, giggle we must. "If it had not been for your quickness, Page, it might have been a very serious tragedy," he said solemnly. "I never thought of the boats but was going to swim to Annie's assistance." "I have seen this quicksand before. I almost lost one of my dogs several years ago. He started out in the creek to get a stick I had thrown for him and as soon as he touched the sand he began to sink. I never heard such cries as he gave trying to pull his feet out. I got two fence-rails and crawled out to him and pulled him in. Father nearly had a fit when I told him about it. He sent men down and had the creek dredged." "I think we should put a sign up here," said Harvie, and a few days later he did paint "Danger" on a sign and came back to Croxton's Ford and planted it at the fatal spot. It had been a very trying experience, but young people don't brood over things that might have been serious. That is something left to the so-called philosophy of old age. By the time we were in dry clothes and on our way home, the fact that some of our party had been in a fair way to losing their lives seemed something to be joked about. Of course poor Sleepy came in for his share, but much he cared. He stretched himself at Annie's feet, and possessing himself of a little corner of her sweater, which he clutched tightly in his great hand just as a little baby might cling to its mother's dress, he dropped off into a sleep of exhaustion. He looked very peaceful and happy as he lay there and Annie looked down on his handsome head with affection and admiration in her blue eyes. "I know one thing," announced Rags; "I'll never see sticky fly-paper again without thinking of this day. I felt exactly like a poor fly stuck fast in tanglefoot. I am sure my legs are a foot longer than they were when I left Maxton this morning." As Ben Raglan's legs were abnormally long, we all devoutly hoped that the stretching was not permanent. Proportioned somewhat like a clothes-pin, he could not stand much lengthening of limb. "Shorty, it's too bad you weren't first aid man this time," teased Harvie. "It might have made a man of you. All you need is a good stretching." "Wait until I get you where Aunt Milly can't help you and I'll give you the pounding you need," answered the boy, as he paddled the canoe in the wake of the launch. Aunt Milly was comfortably ensconced in the seat of honor, sleeping the sleep of the just and generous chaperone. CHAPTER XIV A YOUNGER SON WE found Miss Maria much improved but still bed-ridden. She said Wink's medicine was the most efficacious she had ever had, as it had given her a day of rest free from pain. I fancy the quiet had done her as much good as the medicine. She regretted to report that Mr. Pore had telephoned a peremptory message to the effect that Annie should come home the first thing in the morning and bring her clothes. "Now isn't that the limit?" stormed Dum. "What on earth can he want? We haven't but three more days here and it seems to me he might----" But Annie looked so pained that Dum didn't say what he might do. "He needs me, I fancy," said Annie sadly. "So do we need you! And how about Sleepy and Harvie and Rags?" But Annie didn't know how about them, so she only blushed. "Maybe you can come back," I suggested. "No, I fancy not, or why should he say I must bring my clothes?" All of us were at a loss to fathom the behavior of Mr. Pore, but we were too tired to discuss it farther. We were thankful for the time we had been able to wrest Annie from his selfish demands. I was sorry, indeed, that Zebedee had attended to his old freight for him. I heartily agreed with Dum's sentiments which she muttered under her breath: "Pig!" "Anyhow, we are going down with you," declared Mary. "But I must go before breakfast," said Annie. "Well, we can travel on an empty stomach quite as well as you can and a great deal weller," insisted Dum, and Dee and Mary and I agreed. "Please don't awaken me," said Jessie as she twisted her hair into the patent curlers that she managed so well nobody but a girl could have told that her curls were not natural. "I certainly want to sleep in the morning. Dr. White begged me to go rowing with him before breakfast, but I can't bear to get up so early in the morning. It seemed to distress him terribly but then he is such a flirt one can never tell." All this with many glances in my direction. We had gathered in the room occupied by Tweedles and Jessie for a little chat before turning in for the night. "How cr-u-le!" exclaimed Mary. "What makes you think he is such a flirt?" "Ah, that would be telling!" and Jessie began dabbing on the cold cream. It is strange how indifferent some girls are to what other girls think of them. Jessie Wilcox, the most careful person in the world to look well when any males were around, did not mind in the least letting us see her with her hair twisted up in little wads and clasped with innumerable arrangements made of wire covered with leather. The things looked like huge ticks sticking out from her head, not such a shapely head, either, now that one saw it with the hair drawn back so tightly. Cold cream may be a future beautifier but certainly not a present one. She laid it on in generous hunks and then massaged herself, contorting her countenance in a most disconcerting manner. "I don't think Wink is a flirt at all," said Dee stoutly. "He is a very good friend of mine and I reckon I know him about as well as anybody in the world. Of course he will flirt if it is up to him, but that is not making him a flirt." "Ah, indeed!" and Jessie began rubbing cocoa butter on her neck. "Perhaps you don't know the flirtatious side of him." "Thank goodness, I don't. He and I talk sense to each other," and Dee scornfully sniffed the air. She and Dum hated the odor of cocoa butter, declaring it made their room smell like an apothecary's shop. "Why don't you and Dum come in our room for to-night?" I suggested, scenting mischief as well as cocoa butter in the air, since the usually tactful Dee was on the war-path. "You will be sure to disturb Jessie in the morning if you sleep in here. Come on! I'll sleep three in the bed with you and get in the middle at that," and so they came, expressing themselves privately as glad to get away from their roommate, who did smell so of cocoa butter and also looked so hideous with her hair done up in those tick-like arrangements and her face shiny with grease. "Cat! What does she mean by calling Wink a flirt?" raged Dee, who was surely a loyal friend. "Maybe he is one," suggested Dum. "Virginia Tucker, I am tired unto death but I'll challenge you to a boxing match if you say that again." "You are no more tired than I am and I'll say it again!" maintained Dum. "All I said was: 'Maybe he is,' and maybe he is!" No one of the name of Tucker ever took a dare, and the twins crawled out of the great bed where I had taken my place in the middle. "Girls! Girls! You are so silly," I cried wearily. "You haven't your boxing gloves and you know you might beat each other up with your bare fists. This is no fighting matter, Dee, at least nothing to fight Dum about. Go fight Jessie Wilcox! She is the one who has the proof of Wink's ways." We were relieved that my reasoning powers quelled the disturbance. Tweedles got back into bed. The twins very rarely resorted to trial by combat now. It had been their childish method of settling difficulties, as their father had brought them up like boys whose code of honor is to stop fussing and fight it out. "I can't see why you think it is such an awful thing to call Wink a flirt," I said, when all danger of a battle had subsided. "You certainly flirt sometimes yourself." "When?" indignantly. "When you sell coffins to healthy young farmers," I asserted. No more from Dee that night. We were up early the next morning to escort Annie home, so early that no one was stirring, not even the servants. It seemed ridiculous for her to go so early, but the message from her father was one not to be lightly ignored. She had told Miss Maria and the general good-by the night before and Harvie was to drive her home, but when we crept downstairs there was no Harvie to be found; so we made our way out to the stable where Mary and I hitched up. As we drove off, all five of us crowded into a one-seated buggy, we beheld a very sleepy Harvie waving frantically from the boys' wing and vainly entreating us to wait; but we weren't waiting for sleepy-heads that morning, and drove pitilessly away. There was an air of bustling in the store when we piled out of our small buggy. Mr. Pore was in his shirt sleeves, his glasses set at a rakish angle on his aristocratic nose and an unaccustomed flush on his usually pale countenance. He was busy pulling things off of the shelves and piling them up on the counters. The clerk (he called him a "clark," of course, after the manner of Englishmen), was just as busy. To my amazement I heard Mr. Pore say to a little boy who had been sent to the store on a hurry call for matches: "Haven't time to wait on you; go over to Blinker's." What did this mean? Actually sending customers to the rival store! "Father!" exclaimed Annie, as Mr. Pore gave her his usual pecky kiss. "I didn't know you were going to take stock to-day." "Neither did I, my dear." His tone was a bit softer than I had ever heard it. And "my dear"! I had never heard him call Annie that before. "What is it, Father?" "I have news from England." "Not bad news, I hope!" "Well, yes! I might call it bad news." "Oh, Father, I am so sorry!" "Ahem! My brother, the late baronet, is--er--no more." "You mean Uncle Isaac is dead?" "Yes!" "What was the matter? When did you hear?" "A cablegram states he was killed in a recent battle," and Mr. Pore went on making neat piles on the counter with cans of salmon. I wanted to shake him for more news that I felt sure he had. Annie took off her hat and tied on an apron ready to help in the arduous task of taking stock. Tweedles and Mary and I stood in the doorway as dumb as fish. Why should a man whose brother had recently died in England feel a necessity of taking stock in a country store? It was too much for us. Suddenly it flashed through my brain that maybe Mr. Pore was going to England. His brother, Sir Isaac Pore, had a son, so Annie had told me, who was, of course, in line for the title. Mr. Pore finished with the salmon and then spoke with his usual pomposity: "The message also states that my brother's only son has met with an untimely death in the Dardanelles." Annie dropped a box of soap and stood looking with big eyes at her father. "I find it necessary that we go to England, and before we go, I deem it advisable to make an inventory of our goods and chattels." "Go to England! When?" gasped Annie. "I fancy we can arrange to be off in about a week." This was news that touched all of us. Annie going to England! We might never see her again, and her dried-up old father was standing there announcing this fact with as much composure as though he had decided to move his store across the road or do something else equally ordinary. "You see," he continued with his grandiloquent manner, "the demise of my brother and his son, who is unmarried, advance me to the baronetcy, and----" "Then you are Sir Arthur Ponsonby Pore!" blurted out Dum. "Exactly!" he announced calmly, as though he had been inheriting titles all his life. "Is Annie Lady Anna then?" asked Mary. "No, she is still Miss Pore. Only a son inherits a title from a baronet," he said with a trace of bitterness. I remembered what Annie had told me of her brother's death and her father's resentment of her being a girl. "Well, she would make a lovely Lady Annie all the same," said Dee. "I bet everybody in England will just about go crazy about her." "Ah, indeed!" was his supercilious remark to this effusion. "We are going to come down and help you, Annie," I whispered. "I know there are lots of things we can do. You will need help about your clothes. I can't sew, but I can count clothes-pins and chewing-gum while you sew. Don't you want us to help, Mr. Pore?" That gentleman was as usual quite dumbfounded by being treated like an ordinary human being, and with some hemming and hawing he finally acknowledged that our assistance would be acceptable. His idea was to sell his business and stock to the highest bidder. Great was the consternation and surprise at Maxton when we announced the choice bit of news that we had picked up that morning before breakfast. Sleepy looked as though he might have apoplexy, his face got so red and his hand trembled so. Harvie got pale and suddenly realized that Annie was not just a little sister. Poor Rags put maple syrup in his coffee and cream on his waffle in the excitement occasioned by the unwelcome news. They were at breakfast when we burst in on them, at breakfast and rather sore with all of us for having run off without them. Jessie was holding the fort alone, the only female present, as Miss Maria was still unable to get up. That beautiful young lady was looking lovelier than ever in a crisp handkerchief-linen frock. Her curls were very curly and her lovely brunette complexion not at all the worse for the scorching sun of the day before. My poor nose had six more freckles than when I came to Maxton, six more by actual count, and there was not room for the extra ones at all. Mary's freckles were like the stars in the sky, every time you looked you could find another; Dee had her share, too; and Dum had begun to peel as was her habit. Jessie was pretty, very pretty, but the picture of her with her face all greased up and the tick-like curlers covering her head would arise whenever I looked at her. "Why doesn't Mr. Pore leave Annie here with us until the submarine warfare is over with?" asked Mr. Tucker. "We never thought of suggesting it," tweedled the twins. "I did think of it but I knew she wouldn't be willing to have Sir Arthur go alone," I said, rather proud of myself for being the first one to give him his title. "How much more suited he is to being a member of English aristocracy than engaging in mercantile pursuits in America," laughed the general. "I only wish his lovely wife might have shared the honor with him. Ah me, what a woman she was!" "He was mighty cold and clammy about his brother's death," said Dee. "When Annie asked if it was bad news he had he said he might call it bad news; but his tone was far from convincing." "He hasn't seen his brother for over twenty years and he rowed with all his family before he left England, so I reckon it was hard to squeeze out many tears over his death. I felt awful bad about the poor young son," and Dum looked ready to shed tears herself without having to resort to the squeezing process. "'An untimely death in the Dardanelles!' That sounds so tragic." "Yes, that made me feel like crying, too," said Dee. "Just think of a splendid young Englishman, handsome and brave and charming, being shot to pieces by German bullets! I have an idea he had succeeded to the title and estates only a few days before, and while he was sad about his father, he still was looking forward to being the baronet when he got home." "What makes you think he was handsome?" put in the more matter-of-fact Mary. "I am sure he must have looked like Annie, and just think what a wonderfully handsome man he must have been! He had her lovely hair, I almost know he did, and great blue eyes and a strong, straight back," and Dum wiped her own eyes that would fill when she thought of the splendid young Englishman gone to his death. "I don't like to break in on this grand orgy of feeling," I said, "but you must remember that Annie got her looks from her mother, as her father had none to spare. This poor young man may have been all the things you girls picture him to be, but he is just as likely to have inherited his looks from Uncle Arthur Ponsonby. He may have had no chin at all and have had champagne-bottle shoulders and a long neck." "Page, how can you? Don't you know that people who meet untimely deaths in the Dardanelles are always brave and handsome?" teased Zebedee. "For my part, I am sorrier for the present baronet, Sir Arthur, than for the late lamenteds. Only think how far the poor man has drifted from all the manners and customs of his race!" "Not manners, maybe customs! His manners are quite the thing to go with titles, I think. As for Annie,--she has a way with her that will make her shine in any society," I asserted. Everyone agreed with me audibly but Jessie. She had not yet adjusted herself to look upon Annie as anything but the badly-dressed daughter of a country storekeeper, who could sing better than she could and had attracted three out of the nine beaux on the house-party. CHAPTER XV SLEEPY WAKES UP HOUSE-PARTIES have to end sometime and the one at Maxton was no exception. We had been invited for two weeks, and although Miss Maria graciously asked us to extend the time of our stay, we felt that the old lady had had enough of high jinks for a while. We had become very fond of her and I think she liked us, too. The general was in love with the whole bunch, he declared. He made his gallant, bromidic speeches to each one in turn, playing no favorites. "If I were fifty years younger I would show these chaps a thing or two," he would say. My private opinion was that the chaps did not need a thing or two shown them, as they seemed quite on to the fact that Maxton was a romantic spot and that there is no time like the present for getting off tender nothings. There being Jacks to go around for the Jills and some to spare, if there were any heartaches they were among the males, as there were no wallflowers among the girls. If the death of Sir Isaac Pore and his son and heir did not cause overmuch grief in the heart of the storekeeper at Price's Landing, it had a dire effect on three young men in the great house on the hill. The only way in which they could give vent to their feelings was in heroic attempts to assist in the inventory of the stock. That meant at least that they could be near Annie and gain her gratitude. Annie's gratitude was not a difficult thing to gain. She was in a state of perpetual astonishment that all of us loved her so much. "What have I done to make all of you so kind to me?" she would ask. And the answer would be: "Everything, in that you are your own sweet self." Mr. Pore, or rather Sir Arthur, seemed to think we were helping in the shop because of our admiration and respect for him, and since he thus flattered himself we let him go on thinking so, and even encouraged him in this delusion since it simplified matters for all of us. Sleepy even sneaked the daughter off on a lovely long buggy ride while Dum checked up a shelf full of dry-goods, supposed to be done by Annie. The seemingly impossible was accomplished and that before we left Maxton: a complete inventory of the stock of a crowded country store was made and in order, all because of the many helpers. A purchaser was found by the expeditious Zebedee, and everything, including the good will, sold, lock, stock, and barrel, at a very good price considering the haste of the transaction. Annie and her father actually did get off within the week. How it was accomplished I can't see, and as we had left Maxton before they made their getaway I shall never know. Harvie, who was the only one of us left, said that Sir Arthur was as standoffish and superior as ever. He started on his journey with the same old Gladstone bag and, as far as Harvie could make out, the same English clothes he had brought to Price's Landing all those years and years ago. "If they weren't the same, where on earth could he have bought any like them? They don't make them in this country," he said, when he told me of it. Harvie, having awakened to the fact that Annie was a very charming, beautiful girl, whom he had for years looked upon as a kind of sister but who was not a sister and was moreover very much admired by other members of his sex, now was making up for lost time as fast as possible. He had no feeling of _noblesse oblige_ in regard to Sleepy. He surely had as much right to love Annie as George Massie had and more right to tell her of it, since she was almost his sister. He hovered around her to the last, doing a million little things to help her and assuring her in the meantime of his undying affection, but Annie never did seem to understand that he was being any more than a big brother to her. Never having had a big brother, she did not know that big brothers do not as a rule express their love for the little sisters in such glowing terms. George Massie went gloomily off when the house-party broke up. He felt that he could not in decency stay longer at Maxton since all the others were leaving, although he longed to be near Annie. He sought me out on the boat when we were bound for Richmond and sighing like a furnace sank down by my side. If it had been a sailboat we were traveling in instead of an old side-wheel steamboat, I am sure the great sigh he heaved would have sent us faster on our way. "Something fierce!" he muttered. "Yes, it is hard, but maybe they will come back sometime, or perhaps when you get your degree you can go over to England and see her." "Get my degree! Do you think I am going back to the University? Not on your life!" "But what will you do? You must have some ambition," I said rather severely. "Yes, I've got ambition all right; I'm going to do my bit in France as stretcher bearer. I decided last night." "Really?" "Sure! I'm just wasting my time at the University. I talked it out with Annie. She has lots of feeling about England and the war, and if she cares, then it is up to me to help her country some." "Oh, Sleepy! I think that is just splendid of you," I cried. "When will you go?" "Ahem--I'm thinking of going on the same boat with Mr.--Sir Arthur Pore." I could not help laughing. "Does Annie know?" "No, I was afraid she might make some objection. I think I'll just surprise her on the steamer." "Won't you have to get passports and permits and things before you can go?" "Yes, I'll set the ball rolling as soon as I get to Richmond. Mr. Tucker is attending to Sir Arthur's and I guess I'll go see him as soon as we land. He knows how to do so many things." That was certainly so. Mr. Jeffry Tucker not only could and would match zephyr for old ladies, but he knew just how to get passports for pompous English noblemen who had but recently kept country stores on the banks of the river, and for the lovely daughters. He also knew how to get rushed-through passports for rich young medical students who had taken sudden resolutions to do a bit in France because of a kind of vicarious patriotism. George Massie had a busy week. He must rush off to see his people, who no doubt were quite confounded by his unwonted energy. He must get the proper clothing for his undertaking and also make his will, since he had quite an estate in his own name. He must tell many relations farewell and explain as best he could his sudden passion for carrying the wounded off of the battle fields. When he came in to tell the Tuckers good-by before he went to New York to embark on the steamer with the unsuspecting Pores, he looked almost thin and quite wide awake, so they told me. The Tuckers had tried to persuade me to wait in Richmond with them for a few days before going to Bracken so that together we could see the last of our little English friend, for Sir Arthur and Annie were to take a train in Richmond for New York. But I had been too long away from my father and felt that I must hasten home to him. Needless to say that Zebedee had the passports all ready for them to sign and berths engaged on the New York sleeper and passage on an English vessel, sailing the following Saturday. Tweedles told me that Annie clung to them at parting as though they had been a life rope. The poor girl felt that she was going into a strange cold world. It must have been even worse for her than the memorable time when she started on what she thought was going to be that lonesome, forlorn journey to Gresham. That trip had proven to be very enjoyable in spite of all her fears; and perhaps this journey across the ocean was not going to be so very forlorn, either. I should not relish much the idea of a trip with Sir Arthur Ponsonby Pore. I can fancy his aloof manner with fellow passengers, who perhaps were seeking acquaintance with his lovely daughter; his disregard for the comfort of others; his haughtiness with the steward. The only way to travel in peace with the baronet would be to have him get good and seasick before the vessel got out of sight of Sandy Hook, and stay so until she was docked at Liverpool. Then he might prove a very pleasant traveling companion, provided he was so ill that he had to stay in his bunk. Of course as the days passed we became desperately uneasy about Annie. It seemed a perfect age since they had sailed and still no news of the safe arrival of the vessel. I was at Bracken, away from the constant calling of extras that was the rule in the city during those stirring war times. Tweedles told me they rushed out in the night to purchase a paper every time an extra was called, fearing news of a disaster to the _Lancaster_, the old-fashioned wooden boat the Pores had taken. Zebedee had promised to telephone to them if news came to his paper concerning the steamer, news either of disaster or safety. The following is the letter I received from Dee written in the excitement of a message but that moment received from her father. _Richmond, Va._ DEAREST PAGE: Zebedee has just cabled me that he has had a telephone message from Liverpool that a mine had struck the _Lancaster_ about five hours out from port and the open boats had to take to the passengers. All on board were saved although some of the passengers were much shaken up. (I hope Arthur Ponsonby was one of the much shaken.) We are greatly excited about poor Annie. She is so afraid of water. It is feared all baggage is lost. (Good-by to the Gladstone bag!) Dum and I can hardly wait for the cable that we just know Sleepy will send us as soon as he can. Aren't we glad, though, that Sleepy was along? He will take care of Annie no matter what happens. It may be weeks and months before we can get a letter from Annie, telling us all about it. We are awfully sorry it should have happened to Annie, but Dum and Zebedee and I just wish we had been along. I bet you do, too! These times are so stirring, I don't see how we can all of us sit still. If our country ever gets pulled into the mix-up I tell you I'm going to get in the dog fight, too. Zebedee says he is, too, and so is Dum. I want to study veterinary surgery so I can help the poor horses when they get wounded and look after the dear dogs who work so hard to bring in the wounded. Zebedee is afraid that is man's work but I tell him bosh! plain bosh! There is no such thing as man's work any more in this world. He says I'm an emancipated piece and I tell him I'm glad he realizes it. Dum and I are hard at work at war relief work. We go three times a week and roll bandages. I like the work but Dum sits up and lets tears drop on the bandages, thinking about all the poor soldiers they are to bind up. I cry a little, too, sometimes. Zebedee says if we bawl over new bandages, what would we do over real wounds? I tell him salt is a good antiseptic and a few sincere tears won't hurt the poor wounded. Dum and I have adopted a French war orphan between us. Ten cents keeps one for a day and it does seem mean of us not to give that much. We always waste that much money, and more, every day of our lives. It means only letting up a bit on the movies or drinking water instead of limeade when one is thirsty. Zebedee has got himself one all by himself and he is going to keep it by letting up on one cigar a day. He says his smoke is bitter to him now that he realizes that every time he lights a ten cent cigar he might be feeding a little Belgian baby. We offered to get him some rabbit tobacco and dry it nicely so he could smoke it in a pipe, but he said never mind. Poor Zebedee is so choosey about his smoke that he would rather give it up altogether than not have it good. We've got a scheme on hand for a jaunt but I'm going to let Zebedee have the pleasure of springing it on you if the plan works out. Dum says I'm not leaving a thing for her to tell. She says it is not ethical for one member of a family to write such a long letter to a person that other members correspond with, but I tell her I have told you very little news and that my letter has been more taken up with psychology and the conduct of life. Of course I started this letter to tell you about Annie and the good ship _Lancaster_, but since all I know about it is that it hit a mine and all hands were saved in open boats I could not enlarge on that bit of news much. We will let you know when we hear more. Zebedee and Dum and Brindle send you much love. Give mine to Dr. Allison and Mammy Susan, also many hugs to the dogs. Affectionately, DEE. CHAPTER XVI THINGS HAPPENING ONE of the delights of leaving home is coming back, at least so I always felt about my beloved Bracken. I indulged in many little jaunts during the summer but each home-coming was as pleasant as the trips. First there had been the house-party at Maxton, which had been so full of good times, then a short stay at home and almost before I had settled myself, a hurry call from the Tuckers to go to a mountain camp run by some very spunky girls from Richmond, the Carters. Those days in camp were a delightful experience and quite an eye-opener as to what girls can do if it is up to them. The Carter girls had been brought up in extravagant luxury, but when their father had a nervous breakdown and they suddenly found themselves with no visible means of support, they jumped in and ran a week-end boarding camp on the side of a mountain in Albemarle, and actually supported the whole family and made some money besides. They were the busiest people I ever saw, but they managed to tuck in a lot of fun along with it. I certainly hope to see more of those girls, as they interested me tremendously. Douglas was the oldest; she seemed to be the balance wheel for the family. I never saw such poise in a young girl,--not a bit "society," either. She had given up college and was going to stay at home and help. Helen was the next, a stylish creature with more clash and swing to her than even my beloved Tweedles. She was the one who directed the cooking as though she had been catering to boarders all her life, and I was told that she had never thought of such a thing until the spring before, when her father got ill. She evidently had no head for money and I am afraid had an extravagant way with her that gave poor Douglas some trouble. Then came Nan, a perfect love of a little thing, all poetry and charm but with a conscience that made her do her duty in spite of preferring to live in the clouds. Lucy was the youngest girl and showed promise of being perhaps the best-looking of all the very handsome sisters, but she was too young to say for certain. At any rate, she was a very attractive child. Then there was Bobby, the little brother, an _enfant terrible_ and a perfect little duck. Mr. Carter was the most pathetic figure I have ever seen: a big, strong man, accustomed to action and power, reduced to letting his daughters make a living for him. He seemed to have lost the power of concentration, somehow. Mr. Tucker said he thought he would get well but it was going to take a long time. He had worked beyond mental endurance trying to keep his family in luxury. Mrs. Carter was the kind of woman who reconciles one to being a half-orphan, not that my little mother would ever have been that kind, but I mean it is better to be motherless than to have the kind she was. I thought she was very pretty, very gracious, with a wonderful social gift, but the kind of woman who flops at the first breath of disaster. Those Carter girls will have her on their hands just like a baby until the end of time. Whenever she was crossed, she simply went to bed in a ravishing boudoir cap and bed sacque and there she lolled until she carried her point. The Carters were so interesting to me that I should like to tell more about them but they really should be in a book all to themselves, they and their week-end camp. I had never been right in the mountains before, but after my stay among them I felt that I liked it even better than the seashore. Father said that the last wonderful thing I saw was always the most wonderful thing in the world. He also said that that was just as it should be. That when persons begin to look backward all the time instead of forward, the sutures of their skulls are too firmly knit together and all of their pleasures have to be of memory. New things make no impression on their brains. He said he intended to keep his skull in a semi-pliable state like a baby's and go on looking at the world as a rattle for him to have a good time with. I had often thought that my dear father spent a terribly humdrum existence for a man of his ability and intense interest in current events. While I loved the country in general and Bracken in particular, I also loved to get out into the world occasionally and get a new outlook, a different view-point as it were; get somewhere where things were happening. Nothing much ever seemed to me to happen in the country. One day I said as much to him. He smiled and drew me to him. "Why, honey, things are happening all the time in the country just as much as in town. I like to get away occasionally, too, but not because I want to be where things are happening,--in fact, I like to get away from so many things happening at once as they do in my life here as a country doctor. The things that happen in cities I feel more impersonal about." "But you like to read about the things that happen in cities." "Yes, and city people like to read about the things that happen in the country, too. Aren't all the popular magazines filled with stories of rural life?" "Ye-s! But they are romances that are made up." "But not made up out of whole cloth! Come and go with me to-day on my rounds." "Oh, I'd love to, but Miss Pinkie Davis has come to sew for me and I have to be here to help." "Let her stay and we will give her a holiday. Poor Miss Pinkie has precious few holidays. She can read all the new magazines and rest her busy fingers." Of course Miss Pinkie was agreeable to the arrangement. She did have very few holidays and no time to read the romances she craved. We left her ensconced in a hammock on the shady porch with a pile of magazines beside her and a beatific smile on her paper doll countenance. Something interesting was already happening in the country, at least something interesting to Miss Pinkie. It was a wonderful day in late September. The winter corn had been cut and stacked in shocks that always reminded me of Indian wigwams. The tobacco had been housed the week before and now from each tobacco barn arose a mist of blue smoke. Groups of men could be seen standing around every barn gathered there to take part in the sacred rite of curing the green tobacco. A steady fire must be kept up day and night, and all the men in the countryside seemed to feel it could not be done without the personal supervision of each and every one of them. "Suppose the women had some important steady cooking to do where the fire had to be kept up day and night, do you think they would have to call in all the other women in the county to assist?" laughed Father. "Men are funny animals." "The tobacco crop was pretty good, wasn't it?" I asked. "Fine! Never saw a better. I guess many a poor soldier in the trenches will be thankful that it is so. They say this war is being fought on the wheat and tobacco crops." I thought Father gave me a sly glance, but when I asked him what he was looking at he said nothing much, he only thought my nose was growing a little. Everybody had a word of greeting for Dr. Allison as we drove by. We were stopped again and again, sometimes for a word of advice from the family physician as to Jim's sore throat or Mary's indigestion; sometimes to prescribe for a hog or cow that was indisposed, and once to decide if San Jose scale had attacked a peach orchard. We could not stop long with each person as we were on a hurry call, but Father always had a moment to spare; and then the colt had to make up for lost time and was given free rein at every good stretch of road. The colt was the colt by courtesy and habit. He had long ago passed the skittish age, but his spirit was one of eternal youth and his ways so coltish that no other name seemed to suit him. One could as soon think of Cupid's growing up to be an old gentleman as the colt's ever becoming a safe, steady nag. Enough things happened in the country for him, and he thought that each thing that happened was something for him to dance and prance about. A flock of belated blackbirds twittering in an oak tree was enough to make him get the bit in his teeth and run a quarter of a mile. A rabbit running across the road was something to shy over,--and I agree with the colt in that. As many times as I have seen it, there is something about a Molly Cottontail as she lopes across the road that always startles me. She bobs up so suddenly from nowhere and disappears as rapidly into the nowhere. Driving the colt was an excitement in itself that must have kept life from becoming dull to my dear father. There could be no loafing on that job. Reins had to be well up in hand and the driver must be fully cognizant of things that the imaginative animal no doubt looked upon as possible enemies. Sometimes I think he was playing a game with himself and making excitement to keep his existence from being humdrum. At any rate, it was great fun to be behind the spirited animal on that crisp September morn. No one could drive so well as Father. He had a sure, steady, gentle but firm touch on the rein that soothed the most nervous horse. Father's driving always reminded me of Zebedee's dancing. Our hurry call was to a young farmer's wife. The gates were wide open as though we were expected and no obstacles were to delay us. The husband, Henry Miller, was waiting for us at the stile block. His face was drawn and white and great tears were rolling down his weather-beaten cheeks. "She's awful bad off, Doctor. I'm afraid she's gonter die," he whispered huskily. "Oh no, my son! I have no idea of such a thing. Maybe you had better unhitch my horse. He is not much on the stand. Page, you help him, please." Now Father knew perfectly well that I could look after the colt by myself, but he simply wanted to occupy Mr. Miller. Silently we undid the straps and led him to the stable. I realized he was feeling too deeply to listen to my chatter, so I kept very quiet. When we started back to the house I told him he must not bother about me,--that I had a book and would just make myself at home out in the summer-house. "I will come, too," he faltered. "Looks like I'll go crazy if I have to stay alone." "Oh, do come! Maybe you would like me to read to you." "No, Miss Page! Just let me talk to you. You see I feel so bad about Ellen because she ain't been back to see her folks. I didn't know she wanted to go, but it seems she did and didn't like to say so. I ought to have known about it. If I hadn't have been a numskull I would a-known. I've been so happy just to be with her that I never thought she wasn't just as happy to be with me." "Why, Mr. Miller, I am sure she was. Everybody is always saying how happy Mrs. Miller is. Only the other day I heard Sally Winn declare she never saw such a contented young married woman. Sally says lots of young married women are not happy; that it takes a long time for them to get used to husbands instead of sweethearts; but that your wife didn't have to do that because you seemed just like a sweetheart all the time." "Did she say that,--did she truly? I wonder what made her think it." "Something your wife told her, I reckon!" "Oh, thank you! Thank you for that! She could have gone to her mother if I had known she wanted to." "Of course she could, but maybe she did want to go to her mother and didn't want to leave you. I bet that was the reason she didn't tell you she wanted to see her mother. She knew you would insist upon her going, and then she would have had to leave you." Now the poor anxious young man was smiling. He wiped his eyes and grasped my hand. "You are powerful like Doc Allison, Miss Page. He knows how to cure a sick spirit just as well as a sick body, and you sure can comfort a fellow, too." There was the creak of a screen door being hastily opened on the side porch of the farmhouse and an old colored woman came running out. Henry Miller jumped to his feet but could not go to meet her. Fear seemed to grip him. What news was she bringing? "Marse Hinry, it's a boy! It's a boy!" "A boy?" "Yassir, a boy, an' jes' as peart as kin be, an' Miss Ellen----" "Is she dead?" "Daid! Law, chile, she is the livinges' thing you ever seed an' what's mo' she is a-axin' fer you jes' lak she can't stan' it a minute longer 'thout she see you. Baby cryin' fer you, too!" and sure enough we did hear a faint squeaky cry issuing from an upstairs room. The newly-made parent sprinted to the house as though he were in a Marathon race, and the old colored woman and I looked at each other and wiped the tears off that would roll down our cheeks. "Young paws allus is kinder pitable," she remarked, and then hastened back to her labors. Father came out soon, his lean face beaming with smiles, his arm thrown around the shoulders of the ecstatic Henry. We were to stay to dinner at the farmhouse, much to the delight of the old colored cook. It was deemed a great privilege in the county to have Doc Allison stop for dinner. "I done made a dumplin' fer Marse Hinry," she said, as we were sitting down to the hospitable board. "In stressful times men-folks mus' eat or they gits ter broodin' on they troubles, an' whin men-folks gits ter broodin' if'n they ain't full er victuals fo' yer know it they is full er liquor." As Henry Miller was a most respectable, church-going young man this amused Father very much. "That's so, Aunt Min, so you feed him up. He had better look out, anyhow, because before you know it that young man upstairs will be whipping him." This delighted the negress, who chuckled with glee as she passed the dumplings. "I is glad it's a boy 'cep'n' they is been so many boys born here lately that this ol' nigger is beginning ter s'picion that these here battles I hear 'bout is goin' ter spread this-a-way. In war time all the gal babies is born boys." "Oh, I hope not, Aunt Min," said Father gravely. "Yassir! An' the snakes! I never seed the like of snakes this summer gone by. That means the debble is busy an' the debble is the father of war." "True, true!" sighed the doctor. "Well, I hope it won't come to us until the youngster upstairs is able to help defend us." While we were at dinner, Father was called up on the Millers' telephone. Mrs. Reed, an old lady on the adjoining farm, was very ill and the doctor must leave his dumpling unfinished and fly to her. The colt was harnessed with the expedition used in a fire engine house and we were on our way in an incredibly short time. CHAPTER XVII MORE THINGS HAPPENING THE Reeds were aristocrats of the first rank. There were no men in the family at all, no one but old Mrs. Reed, who had been a widow for at least forty years, and her two old maid daughters, Miss Elizabeth and Miss Margaret. Weston was a beautiful place if somewhat gone to seed by reason of the impossibility of obtaining the necessary labor to keep it up. The house was a low rambling building, part brick and part frame, where rooms had been added on in days gone by when the family was waxing instead of waning, as was now the case. Miss Elizabeth insisted upon my coming in the house although I longed to be allowed the privilege of exploring the garden, which I had remembered with great pleasure from former visits with my father. No matter if potatoes had to go unplanted and wheat uncut, the ladies of Weston had never permitted the flower garden to be neglected. I could see it from the window of the parlor through the half closed blinds. Cosmos and chrysanthemums were massed in glowing clumps, holding their own in spite of a light frost we had had the night before. The monthly roses, huge bushes that looked as though they had been there for centuries, were blooming profusely. Mrs. Reed was very, very low, so low that her daughters feared the worst. A door opened from the parlor into her bedroom, which the daughters spoke of always with a kind of reverence as "the chamber." Through this door I could hear the low clear voice of the old lady as she greeted the doctor. "How do you do, James? I am glad to see you once more." "Yes, Mrs. Reed, I am more than glad of the privilege of seeing you. May I feel your pulse?" His tone was that of a man who requests to kiss one's hand. "You may, James, but there is no use. I am quite easy now, but only a few moments ago my heart quite stopped beating. Each time I swing a little lower. Did I hear someone say you had little Page with you?" "Yes, madame! She is in the parlor." "I want to see the child." I heard quite distinctly but I did not want to go in, shrinking instinctively from the ordeal of speaking to the old lady who was swinging so low. Miss Elizabeth came for me. It seemed impossible to me that anyone could be older than Miss Elizabeth, who looked a hundred. She was in reality almost seventy. The mother was ninety but did not look any older than the daughter nor much more fragile. Miss Margaret was much more buxom than Miss Elizabeth and perhaps ten years younger. She was regarded by the two older ladies as nothing more than a child. "Mother wants to see you," whispered the weeping Miss Elizabeth. Miss Elizabeth always did weep about everything. In fact, in the course of her threescore years and almost ten, so many tears had flowed down her cheeks that they had worn a little furrow from the corner of her eye to the corner of her mouth, where it made a neat little twist outward just in time to keep the salt water out of her mouth. These wrinkles in the poor lady's cheeks gave to her countenance a whimsical expression of laughter. The little twist at the end of the furrow was responsible for this. I went as bidden and hoped no one knew how I hated it. "Page, Mrs. Reed wants to see you a moment," said Father very gently. "How do you do?" I whispered in such a wee voice that I felt as though someone away off had said it and not I. I knew that Mrs. Reed was deaf, too, and that I should have spoken in a loud tone. "I'll be better soon, child," answered the old lady, who did not seem to be deaf at all. They say sometimes just before death that faculties become quite acute. "How pretty you are, my dear, almost as pretty as your mother. I hope you appreciate what a good man your father is." Her voice was very low and I had to lean over to catch what she was saying. Her thin old hands were lying on the outside of the counterpane and they seemed to me to look already dead. I had never seen a dead person but I fancied that their hands must look just that way. I was deeply grateful to Fate that I did not have to take one of those hands. "Yes; ma'am--I--believe I do. He is the best man in the world." "He is so honest. Now he knows I am almost gone and he would not tell me a lie about it for anything,--would you, James?" "No, madame!" and Father put his finger again on her wrist. Miss Elizabeth wept silently and Miss Margaret sobbed aloud. "Tell me, has Ellen Miller's baby come?" "Yes, I have just come from there. It is a fine boy and mother and baby doing well." "Good! I am glad when I hear some men are being born into the county. Too many women! Too many women! What are you girls crying for?" she asked, turning her head a little on the pillow and looking with wonder at the two old ladies she called girls. "There is no use in crying for me. I am glad to die,--not that I have not been happy in my life,--yes, very happy! But there are more on the other side than this side now for me. Your father and brothers, my father and mother and brothers and sisters, all my friends. Do you think I'll know them, James?" "Yes, madame, I think you will." "I don't expect them to know me," the faint old voice went on. "How could they know me, so old and wrinkled and feeble? My husband was only fifty-five when he died and I was still nothing more than a child of fifty. My hair had not turned and I was very lively. Do you think he will be disappointed to find me so old?" Her mind was wandering now and her voice trailed off to the finest thread. Father motioned me to go, but before I could turn the old lady suddenly sat up in bed and called to her daughters: "Don't forget to have the giant-of-battle rose trimmed back and those hollyhocks transplanted!" Then she fell back on her pillow and closed her eyes. I slipped out of the room and ran into the garden where Father found me a half hour later. "How is Mrs. Reed, Father?" I asked. He looked at me wonderingly. "She is well again," he answered gently. "She was dead, my dear, before you left the room." "Oh, Father!" I gasped. "I was sorry for you to be there, but I got fooled. I thought the old lady was going to live a few hours longer, but doctors know mighty little when you come down to life and death. Come, honey! We must go. I have a sick child to see on my way home." We had to stop at a little country store on the way to see the sick child to get some chewing-gum for the youthful patient. Father always had chewing-gum for the sick kiddies and that kept him in high favor with them. Doc Allison was looked upon as a kind of concrete Santy who gave un-Christmas presents. He carried peppermints always in his pocket, and when a child was told to poke out his tongue he more than likely would find a peppermint on it before he pulled it in again. The child was better and our stay did not have to be very lengthy. All the children in the family had insisted upon showing their tongues to the giver of peppermints, which delayed us a few moments. "And now for home!" said Father, who was looking tired. He actually handed the reins to me to drive while he filled his pipe for a peaceful smoke. We were passing through a settlement where there was the usual post-office, country store, church and schoolhouse, with a few houses straggling around, when a young man ran out into the road and called desperately to Father to stop. I drew rein and he came panting to the buggy. "Doc Allison, please come be witness for us!" "Witness? What for?" "Well, Julia and I have walked off to get married. I won't say 'run off' because both of us are of age and have been of age for a good five years. But Julia's mother is that cantankerous that she won't let her get married if she knows about it, and so we have come to the parson's with license and all; but he says we must have witnesses and there's no one in the settlement right now but the postmaster and the storekeeper and they can't leave their jobs, and besides they are afraid of the old lady. She is on her way here now, I believe, so you'll have to hurry." We found the bride in the parson's parlor looking nervously out of the window. She, too, was afraid of the old lady. I was sorry for the parson because he must have been afraid, too, but he went manfully through the ceremony. He had hardly finished with: "Whom God hath united let no man put asunder," when there was a terrible commotion in the road. An old lady came driving up in a spring wagon. She had blood in her eye, a terribly rampagious old lady. She stepped out of the wagon and I noticed she had on top boots. She wore a short, scant skirt and a workman's blue chambray shirt and a man's hat pulled down over as determined a countenance as I have ever seen. "Mrs. Henderson!" gasped the preacher, turning pale, and well he might as Mrs. Henderson was someone to stand in awe of. "Come on home here, girl!" she said roughly, as she made her way into the parson's parlor. "Her home is where I live now," said the young man, putting his arm around the bride. "Nonsense! I never got too late to anything in my life. I telephoned these folks over here that they had better not stand as witness to any ceremony until I got here, and I know they wouldn't do it." She had been too enraged to notice Father and me, but now when Father stepped up and spoke to her, she fell back in confusion. "My daughter and I were fortunately in time to witness the ceremony," he said quietly. "It is all over now and your daughter is safely married." "Married!" "Yes, Mrs. Henderson, and I advise you to sit still a moment and compose yourself. You will have apoplexy some of these days flying off in these rages." He looked at her very sternly. "Your daughter has married a good young fellow and she will be much happier than she would be remaining single." "What business is it of yours, I'd like to know?" "No business at all, except that I was asked to witness the ceremony by your son-in-law; and if you should get sick from the excitement you are working yourself into, you will send for me post haste," answered Father coolly. "Never! Not after the bad turn you have done me!" "Well, that's as you choose," he laughed. Then he kissed the bride, who had said never a word but clung to her husband; shook hands with the groom and the parson; held out his hand to the irate, booted old woman. She would have none of him, however, but folded her arms and sniffed indignantly. She made me think of: "But Douglas 'round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms and thus he spoke:" One couldn't help laughing at her but feeling sorry for her, too. "She'll have to pay for this," said Father, as we started again for home. "She has been going into rages like this all her life and usually has a spell of sickness after one like to-day's." "But, Father, you surely would not go to her after the way she spoke to you!" "Of course I would if she needs me. Country doctors can't be too touchy. It isn't as though she could get someone else as she could in town. In cities a doctor isn't so important as he is in the country. There are always plenty more to answer a call that he turns down. I have never in my life refused a patient." We had a quiet drive home, Father smoking his pipe, while I gave undivided attention to the prancings and shyings of the colt. I was thinking of all the happenings of the day. "A penny for your thoughts!" he said, pinching my ear. "I bet I know what you are ruminating." "Well!" "You have come to the conclusion that a good deal can happen in a country neighborhood in a day: a birth, a death, a marriage and a quarrel." CHAPTER XVIII THE END OF AN EVENTFUL DAY THINGS kept on happening. When I got out of the buggy to open the big gate leading into the avenue, a gate that was supposed to work by pulling a string but which never did, I saw some peculiar tracks in the dust of the road. "An automobile has gone in," I exclaimed, "and hasn't gone out, either! Look, the tracks don't come back!" "Heavens! I do hope I am not to go out again," said Father wearily. "I'd like to sit on the back of my neck in my sleepy-hollow chair and talk or listen as the case might be. I am too tired even to read." "Me, too! And hungry's not the word!" "A midday dinner gets mighty far off by supper time. I hope Susan realizes that." A dusty Ford car was drawn up near the stile block. It looked familiar, but then all Fords have a way of looking that. "Who on earth can it be? Well, if I have to go out again at least you and the colt won't," sighed the poor country doctor. "I am going to make the owner of that car carry me wherever I am to go and what's more bring me back. I am not going to sit on the front seat with him, either, and listen to his jabber. Me for the rear and a whole seat to myself. I might even get a nap." A sudden opening of the front door and who should come tearing out but Dum and Dee Tucker and Zebedee? Of course the lines of the dusty car were familiar: Henry Ford himself, faithful servitor! The tired feeling vanished very quickly in our joy at the disclosure of the owner of the car. Father was always glad to see the Tuckers but was doubly glad now, because it being the Tuckers, meant it was not someone to snatch him away from his sleepy-hollow chair. At Mammy Susan's instigation the twins were already installed in my room. There were plenty of guest chambers at Bracken, but we always liked to be in the same room. Whenever we had tried sleeping in separate rooms we felt we had missed something. "How did it happen?" I cried, hugging the twins again as we hastened to my room to make ourselves fit for the supper that Mammy Susan warned us she was a-dishin' up. "Well, we are having a Tucker discussion and we thought you and Dr. Allison should be called in consultation, especially as you are one of the parties concerned," answered Dum. "Me?" "Yes, you! We'd like to know what plan we could make where you were not concerned," put in Dee. "Please tell me what it is!" "Wait until after supper, and when the men-folks light their pipes, then we can talk it out. You can do twice as much with Zebedee when he is fed," said the knowing Dee. "Father, too, is more amenable to reason," I laughed. Mammy Susan had fully realized that a midday dinner is a long way from supper and had planned a royal feast for us, and when the Tuckers arrived she added to her menu to suit their tastes and appetites. Mammy Susan always remembered what guests liked best, and no matter how much trouble it was to her, usually managed to have that particular dish. The Tuckers were prime favorites with the dear old woman and she could not do enough for them. Supper over, we adjourned to the library where a cheery wood fire was crackling in the great fireplace. There was frost in the air and a fire was quite acceptable, although we had the windows wide open. Father and I loved to make up a big fire and then have plenty of cold fresh air. "I can't see the use er heatin' up the whole er Bracken, but if Docallison is a-willin' ter pay fer cuttin' the wood, 'tain't fer me ter 'jec'," said Mammy Susan as she peeped in to see that there was plenty of wood, hoping in her secret soul that there would not be so she could have some excuse for quarreling with the yard boy. Mammy Susan waged an eternal warfare with the yard boy, whoever he might be. We had so many it was hard to keep up with their changing names, so Father called them all George. It was dear Mammy's one failing. She simply could not live in peace with other servants. We had long ago given up trying to have a housemaid, as Mammy Susan would have complained of the lack of efficiency of a graduate of a domestic science school of the first standing. No one could help her cook. Mrs. Rorer herself would have been found wanting in the culinary department of Bracken. "Humph! Wood enough fer onct!" she grumbled. "If'n I hadn' er got right behin' that there so-called George there wouldn' er been. He is the triflinges' nigger," she mumbled, as she went through the hall. Zebedee ran after her and her grumblings were changed to chucklings by something that passed between them. "Poor old Susan!" said Father, as he sank into the deepest hollow of his chair. "She is so capable herself that she expects all of her race to toe the mark, too. She is very lenient with the white people whom she loves and absolutely adamantine with the coloreds. The white folks can do no wrong and the black folks can do no right." Pipes were filled for the two parents and a box of candy opened for the daughters, and then we were ready for the business of the day to be discussed. "Dr. Allison, what are you going to do with Page this winter?" asked Mr. Tucker. "Do with Page! Why--nothing but--nothing at all." "Oh, but, doctor----" broke in Dum and in the same breath Dee clamored: "We want----" but nobody heard what we wanted as I had to put in my oar saying I thought I ought to stay at home. "Now, see here, if we all of us talk at once we won't get anywhere, and we might just as well have stayed in Richmond," complained Zebedee. "Well, let's appoint a chairman then," I suggested, "and everybody address the chair. I nominate Mr. Tucker chairman pro tem." He was duly elected. "Nominations are in order for chairman," and the chairman pro tem rapped for order. "I nominate Mr. Tucker for chairman," said Father contentedly from his easy chair. "I second the nomination," from me. "I nominate Dr. Allison!" cried Dum. "Second the nomination!" said Dee, jumping to her feet for a speech. "Zebedee is too Mr. Tuckerish when he gets in the chair to suit me, and besides he will have to be talking too much in this meeting to occupy the chair with any grace." "I withdraw my name as candidate," said the first nominee graciously. "Any other nominations? The chair hears none,--then it is in order to make the election of Dr. Allison unanimous." It was done so with three rousing cheers. Father always enjoyed the Tuckers' foolishness and he was now in a state of relaxation and contentment, after a strenuous day spent in doing his duty, that fitted in well with our cheerful guests. "Well, I'm glad to have the chair if I can sit in it," he said. "Friends, since there are no minutes, we can dispense with the reading of them. What is the business of the day?" "Mr. President, what are we going to do with our daughters this coming winter?" said Zebedee, rising to his feet and speaking after due acknowledgment from the chair. "'The time has come' the walrus said, 'to talk of many things,' but this business of occupying these girls, whom a Merciful Providence has confided to our care, is a serious matter. They are too young to stop school altogether, especially since they don't want to make débuts----" "Who said we didn't? We'd do anything rather than go back to school," interrupted Dum. "Mr. Tucker has the floor," said Father with mock severity. "I rise to a question of privilege," announced Dee solemnly. "We are 'most as old as Zebedee was when he got married and quite as old as our mother was." At this Zebedee laughed a little and wiped his eyes once. He always had a tear ready for his young wife who was spared to him such a little while. "Well, honey, even if you are, times have changed. Young folks don't stop school as soon as they used to." "Didn't I tell you he would get Mr. Tuckerish? Just listen to him! Talking about young folks as though he were a million." "Address the chair!" and Father rapped for order. "May I ask your indulgence for a moment, Mr. President?" asked Zebedee meekly. "As I was saying, when the gentleman from nowhere interrupted me: our daughters are too young to stop studying altogether. Don't you think so?" "If you will allow the chair to express an opinion, I am afraid they are." "Of course Gresham's burning down was most inopportune, as they would have been safely placed for another year there, but now that it is burned and not rebuilt yet----" "We wouldn't go back there, anyhow, with that old Miss Plympton bossing things," asserted Dum. "Now what I want to find is some way to have them go on studying and learning and still not be bored to death," and Zebedee sat down. "A Daniel come to judgment!" I whispered. "Are you addressing the chair?" asked Father. "No, I was just talking to myself." "Of course, I want to study art more than anything in the world!" exclaimed Dum, bouncing on her feet and forcing an acknowledgment from the chair before Dee had time to get it. "I can't see the use in burdening myself with Latin and math when I am nearly dead to model things." "Well, you haven't overburdened yourself with knowledge yet, I am glad to say," teased her father. "Are you addressing the chair?" asked our president sternly. "If not, pray do so." "Well, Mr. President, I want to study physiology and anatomy," said Dee. "And for the life of me I can't see what good ancient history and French would do me." "And I want to be a writer, and it seems to me the best way to be one is--just to be one," I remarked. "Exactly!" smiled Father. "And now we want to talk over what is the best way for these girls to get what they want and still not be idle," said Mr. Tucker. "I should like to hear what our honored president has to say." "Well, friends, this has kind of been sprung on me. I have been living in a kind of fool's paradise, thinking that maybe our girls knew enough to stop; but I see that I was wrong. Girls never know enough to stop. I'll let my third do whatever you let your two-thirds do, if it isn't too wild." "But, Father, I am going to stay right here at Bracken with you! You know you need me." "Of course I need you, but you don't think I need you any more than Tucker needs his daughters. You will settle down soon enough and now is the time to gather material for writing. Things make an impression on you now that wouldn't when you are older. One can put off writing longer than getting experience," and Father drew me down on the arm of his chair. "Where do you think these monkeys should go to get these varied industries they are longing for, Tucker?" "New York, I should say." CHAPTER XIX PLANS FOR THE FUTURE NEW YORK! The very sound of the name thrilled me. It was all I could do to keep from following the twins in their demonstration of joy and gratitude lavished on their father. I contented myself, however, by rumpling up my father's hair. "When?" gasped Father, when I had finished with him. "Immediately if not sooner!" said Zebedee, coming out unscathed from the embraces of his girls. "I have been thinking a lot about it and I really believe it would be the best thing for them. They can in a way find themselves, and they don't get in any more scrapes without us than they do with us." "That's so," agreed Father. "Oh, we won't get in any scrapes at all!" declared Dee. "Not a single one, if you only trust us!" maintained Dum. "I'm not going to take my oath upon it that you won't get into some, but if you talk over anything you are contemplating, in the way of adventure, with wise little Page, I don't believe your scrapes will amount to much." Zebedee always complimented me by insisting that my judgment was good, and for a wonder, the girls did not mind when he praised me. They were very jealous of their father's praise when it was laid on too thickly, except where I was concerned, but they agreed with him heartily when he lauded me to the skies. "You shouldn't say that," I said, blushing. "I might prove myself unworthy of the trust imposed in me,--and then what?" "Then I shall have to declare myself at fault in character reading." "But, Page, you know you always hold us down! When we get into trouble it is against your judgment. If we listen to you, we keep straight," said Dum. "You mean I preach!" "That's the funny thing about you, Page: you give us sage, grown-up advice without preaching. We wouldn't listen a minute if you preached." "All right, I promise never to do that objectionable thing," I laughed. "But really and truly, I don't think Father ought to afford this trip for me." "Child, it's not a trip," and Father put his arm around me again. "It's part of your education. New York need not be such an expensive place if you girls go there with economical ideas in your heads, instead of extravagant ones." "Certainly! We had better allowance them and that will be part of their training, as well as what they will get from the several schools. My girls know very little about finances and it is high time they learned. Experience is the only way for them to learn, as whenever I try to instill in them principles of economy they say I am Mr. Tuckerish," and Zebedee tried to look stern. The idea of his instilling principles of economy in anybody's mind was so funny all of us had to laugh. One thing Mr. Tucker insisted on was not spending money until you had it; but the minute you did have it, what was it meant for but to spend? "Easy come, easy go!" was the motto for the whole Tucker family. "Oh, we will live so cheap I haven't a doubt we'll save oodlums of money!" cried Dum. "Mrs. Edwin Green told me a lot about how cheap one can live in Bohemia. She told us whenever we went to New York she was going to give us a letter of introduction to her brother and sister-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Kent Brown." Mrs. Edwin Green was the lovely young woman we had met in Charleston when we took our famous trip down there. She was a Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky who had married Professor Edwin Green of Wellington College. They were the very nicest couple I ever knew and we became great friends with them. We corresponded with her and a letter from "Molly Brown" was highly prized by all of us. "Yes, and she said we were to visit her at Wellington if we got anywhere near. Won't it be great?" and Dee danced around the library from pure glee. "How will we live in New York?" I asked. "Shall we board or what?" "Board, by all means! If you try to live any other way you will run into debt, I am afraid," said Zebedee. "But we just naturally despise boarding," pouted Dum. "We've been boarding all our lives, it seems to me." "But when you board, you are in a measure chaperoned," said her cautious parent. "Chaperoned! Oh, Zebedee, you make me laugh. What boarding-house keeper has time to chaperone? Besides, isn't Page along to chaperone?" "What do you think about it, Page? Come along now with that sage advice," teased Father. "I have never boarded and don't know how I'd like it, but it seems to me the best thing for us to do would be to board when we first get there, and then if we can't stand it, take a little flat and keep house, or rather, flat." "Ah, I see why your advice is so sought after by our worthy friends, the Tuckers; you are as wise as Solomon and cut the baby in two and satisfy all parties. You will go to boarding to suit Tucker and then get a flat to suit the daughters, eh, honey?" "Fifty-fifty is a safe course to pursue, and safety first is best and wisest for an official umpire," I maintained. "I must say that the oracle has spoken well," said Zebedee. "Of course, if they are not happy boarding they must not keep to it, but it is better for them to start that way. They can learn the ropes and decide later on to get a flat if it seems wiser. We can go on with them and establish them, eh, doctor?" "I reckon so, if my patients behave. Now that old Mrs. Reed is dead, I can leave perhaps--Ellen Miller's baby safely here, too!" "Oh, Father, that will be simply grand, if you can only go!" "I haven't had a trip for a long, long time, and I think it is up to me to treat myself." All of us thought so, too. It made it easier for me if Father was contemplating going with us for a little recreation. He worked so hard, had so little fun in his life. What fun there was he made for himself by treating life as something very amusing when all was told. His patience was only equalled by his sense of humor. "Don't give out that you are going on a trip, Father, and then all of your cranky patients won't have time to trump up any illnesses. If Sally Winn hears of your intended departure, she will get up seven fits of heart failure and more fluterations and smotherines than enough to keep you at home." "Poor Sally! I wish she could go on a trip herself. It would do more towards curing her than all the pink, pump water in the world." Sally Winn was Father's hypochondriacal patient who called him up at all hours of the day and night for an imaginary heart trouble that was supposed to be carrying her off. She did not feel safe with Father out of the county and never let him get away if she could help it. "Why don't you suggest it to her? She might come on and visit her cousin, Reginald Kent." "Reginald Kent! By Jove, I forgot that fellow when I proposed New York as a good place for you girls to top off your very incomplete education," and Zebedee groaned. "Well, what is the matter with Reginald Kent?" bridled Dum. "Matter! Nothing's the matter, that's what's the matter. See here, Dum Tucker, if you go to New York and fall in love with that good-looking, clever young man I'll kill myself," declared the desperate Zebedee, always afraid that some man would come along and cut him out with his girls. "Nonsense, Zebedeedlums! Reginald Kent will have to fall in love with me before I fall in love with him." "Well, if that's so, I'll fix him! I'll tell him what a bad proposition you are: mean, ungenerous, deceitful, secretive. I'll put him on to you." As these were all the things Dum was not, we felt safe. "Shan't we let Mary Flannagan know our plans? She may want to join us there," suggested Dee. "Of course we want dear old Mary," Dum and I cried together. We all of us thought with regret of what a winter like the one we were planning to have would have meant to Annie Pore. Mary was a great favorite with both Father and Mr. Tucker, so they readily consented to our writing to her, suggesting that she should join us in New York if her mother thought well of the plan. "She can go on with her movie stunts, and take up dancing and gym work in real earnest under the right instructors," said Dee. "I hope she won't try to climb down any walls in New York," I laughed. "We mustn't get in a flat with ivy on the walls." "Oh, so it is to be a flat, is it? I understood you were to board first," said Zebedee, pretending to be insulted. "So we are, but of course we will end up in a flat, and I fancy Mary will stand in awe of the boarding-house keeper enough to keep her from scaling her walls." Our whole evening was spent in talking over our plans for topping off our education in New York. Father and Zebedee were like two boys in the suggestions they made. They had perfect faith in us, knowing that we had sense enough to bring us safely through the experience. I have wondered since if our mothers had been alive if they would have consented to the plan, but, of course, if our mothers had been alive, our education would not have been quite so loose-jointed. Mothers are much more particular than fathers about their daughters' education. To be sure, Mrs. Flannagan did consent to Mary's going, but then she was rather a haphazard lady herself, looking upon life with a humorous twinkle in her Irish eye. She believed heartily in the doctrine of live and let live, and, forsooth, if Mary had mapped out for herself a career as a movie actress, why let her work it out! She, her mother, was certainly not going to block her game. Mammy Susan was the one who kicked up about my going. For once she and Cousin Park Garnett were of the same mind. Cousin Park almost got out an injunction on Father to restrain him as one who was not in his right mind. A lunacy commission would have had him locked up in the State Asylum, according to that irate dame. She never would have known about my going if she had not chosen to make a visitation at Bracken just when I was in the throes of getting ready to spend the winter in New York. Her own house was having some repairs, so she had made a convenience of our hospitality to escape the discomforts of paperhangers and painters. I was afraid at first that she would stay so long Father could not get away, but a lawsuit she was engaged in came to court and she was forced to cut her untimely visit short. I found out afterwards that the case, which was a trifling matter of back-yard fences, was put up first on the docket by some adroit wire-pulling done by no less a person than Mr. Jeffry Tucker, the ever ready. It was done so silently that Cousin Park never found it out. She was forced to return to her dismantled house, much to the regret of the workmen who were revelling in the absence of an exacting housekeeper. Mammy Susan, however, had her say out in regard to my going away from home: "I's gonter speak my min' if'n it's the las' ac' er my life. Gals ain't called on ter be a-trapsin' all the time. Mammy's baby ain't never gonter be content at Bracken no mo'. Always a-goin' an' never a-comin'. An' me'n Docallison so lonesome, too. I wisht you was twins--I 'low I'd keep one er you at home." "Which one, Mammy Susan?" "T'other one!" [Illustration: MAMMY SUSAN, HOWEVER, HAD HER SAY OUT IN REGARD TO MY GOING AWAY FROM HOME. Page 282.] CHAPTER XX A LETTER FROM ANNIE PORE TO PAGE ALLISON _Grantley Grange,_ _Grantley, England._ MY DEAREST PAGE: It takes such an interminable time to get mail in these war times that I am afraid my letter will seem like last year's almanac by the time it reaches you. I must begin at the beginning and tell you of our journey across the ocean, but before I plunge into the lengthy recital I must inform you that I am very happy in my new home. I could not be anything but happy when I realize how much better off poor Father is. Of course the family is in the deepest mourning because of the death of Uncle Isaac and my cousin Grant, and there is an air of sadness in the whole village of Grantley; but everybody is very kind to us and I am sure I shall soon grow to love my aunts, the Misses Grace and Muriel Pore. These ladies are older than my father but they are quite strong and robust and it is wonderful what they can accomplish in the way of work. All the women of England are busy at one thing or another. Women, great ladies who have never done any form of work before, not even dressed their own hair, are washing dishes in hospitals or doing other menial tasks. Uncle Isaac was a widower, so the aunts have had entire charge of the housekeeping at Grantley Grange for many years. I think they are very kind to me in not looking upon me as an interloper. Aunt Grace tells me that their father, my grandfather, bitterly regretted his sternness towards my father and mother and was willing at any time to make amends, but my father would never answer his letters. Poor Father is so sensitive. That has always been his trouble. I live in constant terror now for fear someone will hurt his feelings and he will refuse to see people or make himself miserable. He is to make himself useful and serve his country by teaching the boys in a school at Grantley. All of the young teachers have gone to the front and the nation needs teachers for the boys and girls. I am so happy that Father is to serve his country, somehow, and this is, after all, a very noble service as it is for the future good of the British Empire. I know you wonder what I am going to do. I was willing to nurse if my aunts thought it wise, but was relieved when they decided that I could be of more use doing other things that life has already trained me to do. I know I should fail at the crucial moment as a nurse. I am so timid and do not seem to be able to shake off this shyness. It has been decided that I shall go every day to sing to the soldiers in the neighboring hospitals. That sounds like very little to do but when I tell you that I spend on an average of seven hours a day going to the various hospitals, you will realize that while it is very little to do, it takes a great deal of time to do it. So many of the old estates near here have been turned over to the Government for hospitals that one can motor from one to the other in a short time. The wounded soldiers are very kind to me and express themselves as liking very much to hear me sing. They like the American songs, especially the darky songs. I sang "Clar de Kitchen" to them yesterday and they made me give them three encores. I thought of the last time I sang it when we had the circus at Maxton, and I choked with emotion at the remembrance of all of my dear friends. Life at Price's Landing seems very far off and unreal, although there are times when this life seems to be the unreal thing and I expect any moment to awaken and find it all a dream. I remember in my little room over the store how low the ceiling was, so low over my bed where it sloped to the dormer window that I could lie there and touch it with my hand, and many a time have I bumped my head when I sprang too hurriedly from my bed. I learned to put up my hand and gauge the distance before I got up, in that way saving my poor head many a bump. I find myself now, when morning comes and the sun peeps in the windows of my great bedroom, reaching up expecting to touch the low ceiling of my little room in Virginia. It gives me a strange sensation, almost as great a shock as when you take one more step up when you have reached the top of the stairs. The ceilings at Grantley Grange are quite as high as any I have ever seen. Too high for beauty, I think, but I don't dare say so. My aunts think perhaps there are more wonderfully beautiful places than the Grange, but they have never seen them,--except the great show places, of course. It is very beautiful and the time may come when I shall feel at home, but I still feel strange and something of an alien. Father is as at home as though he had never left England. I wish all of you could see poor Father in his proper surroundings. He always was so out of place in the store. I think he felt irritated all the time that he was doing what he was doing, but a certain obstinacy in his character kept him from seeking more congenial employment. His sisters are very tender with him and I am hoping that he will begin to show to them the affection that I am sure he feels. Now haven't I put the cart before the horse? I intended first to tell you all about our voyage over, and then lead up to conditions here, but I have left the first to the last. In the first place poor Father was dreadfully seasick from the moment we got on the steamer, even before we started. There is something about the smell of machinery and rigging that makes him very ill. I tried to persuade him to stay on deck, but he would go to his stateroom, and there he stayed for the entire crossing. I was anxious to see the last of my country. (I realize now that United States is my country. I realized it the moment I knew I was to live in England.) I stayed on deck as we steamed out of the harbor and kissed my hand good-by to New York's sky line and the Statue of Liberty. I felt very lonesome and very far away from all of my dear friends. There were letters down in my stateroom and I turned to go get them, when whom should I find at my side but George Massie? Page, I was never more astonished in all my life! I was glad, too, very glad. All the lonesome feeling left me. He told me that you and the Tuckers knew all about his coming and approved, so that was enough for me. The ocean did not seem near so vast nor the sky so high up. Father was very miserable, so miserable that I had to call in the ship's surgeon. The doctor made light of his malady but that did not make it any easier to bear. I had to nurse him a great deal, and as he shared his stateroom with another man it was rather embarrassing for me to go in at night and attend to poor Father's many wants. In fact, the man objected. Then it was I decided to tell Father of George Massie's presence on board. Of course, he had no way to know my friend was there. He was very angry at first, but I had sudden courage and told him that we had not chartered the ship and other passengers had as much right there as we had, and that Mr. Massie was going abroad to serve the Allies. I also told him that George was willing to do anything for him he could, and would attend to him during the night when I could not come in his stateroom. Father became reconciled to George's presence then, and he could hardly have kept up his anger after the faithful way in which he nursed him for the rest of the journey. Of course, he did not have to be nursed all the time and we had much time on deck. The weather was perfect and I was not ill one moment. I had a seat at the captain's table and that dear old man saw to it that I was bountifully served. He was so kind to me, and to everyone in fact, but he seemed to think I needed especial care and my own father could not have been more attentive to me. I know that the news of our boat having struck a mine must have been a great shock to all of my friends. I am sure that George's cablegram that all was well must have set your minds at rest, however. It happened just at dusk after a wonderfully calm day. The sea had been like a mill-pond all day and the sun very hot, so hot that we had sought the shade of the boats on deck. Towards sunset the wind had suddenly risen and the waves had begun to look very high. Of course all waves look high to me, as I am fully aware that I am the most timid person in all the world. It turned quite cold, so cold that I put on my heavy coat. We were almost at the end of our journey. I had everything packed and in order; and at last we had persuaded Father to dress and come on deck. He had been much better for days and had been able to retain nourishment, which meant a return of his normal strength. He had even ventured down to dinner on that evening. We had hoped to arrive in Liverpool by eight o'clock but we were proceeding very slowly and cautiously as the danger zone was filled with possible disaster. The captain assured us that we would land sometime during the night but he advised all of us to go to bed at the usual hour. Our voyage had been a very pleasant one. I had made many friends and was glad to feel that I had been able to throw off some of the miserable shyness that has always been such a handicap to me. For several days we had been wearing life-preservers by command of the captain. Of course we felt confident that there was no use in it, but still we had to do it. George was too big for any of those furnished by the ship's company, the straps refusing to meet; but I had pieced out the straps with some stout cotton cloth. We were at dinner on that eventful day, all of us looking very strange and bulky in our safety-first garb, when suddenly there was an explosion that shook all of us out of our seats. I was dreadfully frightened but managed to appear calm for Father's sake, who because of his recent illness was much unnerved. "Get your warm coats and any small hand baggage with your valuables!" the captain shouted, "and report on deck immediately." I tell you we obeyed without any demur! Many of the passengers hurried up, not going to their staterooms at all, but Father felt he must get his Gladstone bag and I had a small satchel all packed, which I took. I never heard so much shouting in all my life. The women were screaming and the men shouting. There was only one child on board, a dear little girl of seven, and she and I were the calmest ones among the females. I was frightened at first but a sudden courage came to me. It may have been because the little girl slipped her hand in mine. Her mother had fainted and her husband was carrying her up on deck. The child's name was Winnie. She was a gentle little thing. We had made friends the very first day on board and had had many long talks together. Her mother was ill most of the time and Winnie and I had time to become very intimate. When she slipped her hand in mine, I knew that she expected me to look after her, and then it was God sent me strength to do it. The engines stopped the moment we hit the mine and the boat was listing so that when we got on deck we found a decided slant, so much so that it was difficult to walk. The life-boats were being loaded and launched. I was shocked to see how some of the men crowded in. The sailors were a rude lot from all the quarters of the globe, and few of them showed any desire to save anything but their own skins. George Massie was everywhere. I was astounded at his powers of swearing, but he said afterwards that it was the only way to control people in times like that. He simply took command of the boats, for which the captain had no time. The officers were a rather weak lot and one and all concerned for their own safety. They say so many of the good seamen have enlisted that many of the passenger ships are manned by weaklings. The captain was splendid and did his duty like the English gentleman he was. Of course at first we feared it was a submarine that had hit us. Its being a mine that we had hit made us much more comfortable. At least, we were not to fall into the hands of the Germans. "The ship is sinking so slowly that I can assure you there is no immediate danger," George had had time to tell Father and me. "It is safe to wait for the last boat, so let me help launch these others first and then I can get into the boat with you. These sailors are too crazy to trust without a commander." The captain had determined not to leave the ship until he was sure there was no chance of saving it. The chief engineer was to stay with him and several sailors volunteered. It so happened that they were able to get into port on their own steam and we might have stayed safely on board, but of course the chances were that she would sink and it was deemed wiser for us to take to the boats. I wish all of you might have seen Father. He was very calm and brave after the first shock was over. He was not strong enough to help much but he was willing to help, and when the men crowded into the boats leaving women shrieking for places, he swore with almost as much fervor as George Massie himself. Do you know, Page, I know it sounds silly, but I believe I love my father more and am closer to him since I know he can swear a little? He swore to some purpose, too, as he called the selfish men such terrible names that two of them were actually abashed and got out of the first boat to give their places to two women. To make the scene more dismal it had begun to rain, such a cold, penetrating rain! Poor little Winnie clung to me and I could hear her praying: "Please God, save Mamma, and Papa, and me, and Miss Pore, and her papa, too, and the giant." She always called George the giant. "Don't let us get drownded dead!" We got off at last! Winnie and her mother and father were in the boat with us. That was something George Massie managed. He saw that the father, Mr. Trask, was a good, reliable man and could help with the boat, and he also felt that Mrs. Trask and Winnie would need me, which they did. There were five other men in the boat with us and one other woman: a nice old Irish chambermaid, who never stopped praying a single moment until we were safe on the high seas in our tiny boat with the waves dashing all around us and the rain pouring on us. I felt much safer on the steamer, although when we left her she had listed until her decks were at an angle of forty-five degrees. Of course the wireless had been busy sending appeals for help but we were three hours getting any. Mrs. Trask was very ill and had to lie in the bottom of the boat, where her husband and Father made her as comfortable as possible. Winnie sat in my lap and I wrapped her in a great rug that George had thrown around me. We kept each other warm under the rug and gave each other courage, too. The vessel that picked us up was not very gracious about it. They had picked up so many shipwrecked persons since the war began that it was an old story to them and not at all interesting. It was a fishing smack and smelled worse than anything I have ever imagined in the way of odors. Poor Mrs. Trask actually fainted again from the stench of fish offal. True to the captain's promise, we did land sometime during the night, but we were not safely in bed as he had hoped, but propped up in the foul little cabin of the fishing smack trying to choke down some vile black coffee that one of the men, not so hardened to shipwrecks as the rest, had humanely concocted for us. This is about all, dear Page! We got to bed when we reached Liverpool and stayed there for twenty-four hours. I kept Winnie with me, thereby saving the poor little thing the agony of seeing her mother die. Poor Mrs. Trask passed away the day after we landed. She was not strong enough to stand the shock and exposure. Mr. Trask is an Englishman and was going home to enlist and leave his wife and child with his own people. His wife thought it right but was evidently in the deepest misery over his decision. Maybe she was not sorry to die. I am so sorry for him and for the dear little girl. She is to come to Grantley Grange to visit me soon. I can never tell you how splendid George Massie was. He was so brave and so determined. I did not dream he could command men as he did. He says it is football training that made him know what to do and how to do it. He is going to France next week to join the Red Cross as a stretcher bearer, I think. I shall miss him ever so much but know it is right for him to help if he can. Service is in the air here in England. There is no more talk of who you are or what you own or what your ancestors have done. It is: _What can you do? Then do it!_ It is a tremendous experience to be in the midst of this war. No one talks anything but war. There are no entertainments of any sort except the theatres. I believe they keep them open to cheer up the people. The fields are full of women; the factories are kept up by them; the trams and busses are run by them,--in fact they do anything and everything that men did before the war. You remember, do you not, how I was so afraid my clothes would look poor and mean and out of style? Well, on the contrary, for once in my life, I am better dressed than the persons with whom I come in contact. I am really ashamed to be so much better dressed than the other girls. It seems so frivolous of me. I know you can't help smiling to think of what the others' clothes must be. I am writing to my dear Tuckers, too, and if you read their letter and they read yours you can piece together what my life here is. Please send them on to Mary Flannagan when you have finished reading them. I have not time to write another long letter just now. Besides singing to the soldiers, I am to teach music to the children in Father's school. You can readily see how busy I am to be. I shall never cease to miss my dear friends in Virginia. Some day I hope to come back to America, but in the meantime I am going to do my bit here in England. Please write to me! Your devoted friend, ANNIE PORE. CHAPTER XXI A LETTER FROM GEORGE MASSIE TO PAGE ALLISON _Paris, France._ _Poste Restante._ MY DEAR PAGE: I left England last week after having stopped with the Pores at Grantley Grange for ten days or so. Say, Page, the old one ain't half bad! If you could have heard him swear when the beasts crowded in the life-boats ahead of the women, you would have forgot the grouch we had on about the way he has always done Annie. Say, that man can swear! I wonder where he has kept it all these years. Of course, if a fellow ever is going to swear, it will be at a time like that, and if he doesn't swear some, it is because he is dumb. It is the kind of time when some women pray and some weep and most men swear. They don't mean anything, but it is just a kind of safety valve. Annie says I swore like a trooper, but I wasn't conscious of it at all. It just popped out of me. You see I had to intimidate the men who were behaving like cads, and the only way I knew how to do it was to swear, unless it was to biff them one with the oars, and I did not want to do that except as a last resort. The swearing worked. It was a very terrible experience and one I hope never to have to undergo again. It was not only terrible to think that all of those people might be at the bottom of the ocean in a short while, but it was almost worse to see the way people can be so scared that they think only of themselves. I reckon a fellow ought not to blame them. It seemed just blind animal instinct for self-preservation. My Annie was a trump. She was as calm and quiet as though shipwrecks had been an every-day experience with her. She looked out for a little child and its sick mother and helped people and quieted women and men, and after we had been afloat in our life-boat for hours and it was cold and rainy and the poor sick woman and an old Irish chambermaid began to despair and the kid began to cry, what should my Annie do but begin to sing "Abide With Me." I have never heard her sing better than she did out in the middle of that dirty sea. It did all of us good, and before you knew it, a little fishing smack almost ran us down in the darkness and then had the decency to stop and haul us aboard. I reckon you think I'm pretty gaully to be saying "my Annie" so glibly. She's not really my Annie but she is going to be if I can make good. Of course I know she is too young to make her give an answer to me yet, but this war is going to age all of us, and when it is over I'll be a steady old man with white whiskers, and if Annie likes 'em, I'm going to get her answer then. I don't want to tie her up but leave her free. She might see a handsome Johnny that will put crimps in my plans and I want her to take him if she likes him, but I tell you, Page, I'm going to pray every day and all day from now until the war is over that she will like me best. The old man likes me. It seems I earned his undying gratitude by waiting on him when he was seasick and the doctor on board had made light of his ailment. I made out he was sick unto death and worked my fool fat self to a shadow fetching and carrying for him. Then when the explosion came and I did my best to keep order, he kind of cottoned to me more. I believe when I come back from the wars and beg an answer from Annie that His Nibs will be willing. He is much more attractive in his English setting. He really isn't half bad. His sisters are making a lot over Annie and now he is kind of getting stuck on her himself. 'Tain't so bad to be a woman in England now. Folks are thinking a good deal of women, and I tell you they should do so. Annie says he has always been sore that she was not a boy. Looks as though he had a hunch that he might inherit the title some day. I call him the old man right to his face, as somehow I can't school myself to say Sir Arthur. It is too story booky for me. I am here in France waiting to be sent out with the Red Cross. I may drive an ambulance and I may just be a stretcher bearer. I will do whatever they see fit to put me to doing. There is plenty to do, they tell me, and they welcome every American who comes over with joy and gratitude. I wish we were in it as a nation. I believe we will end there, and if we do, I tell you someone else can drive the ambulance, as I mean to get in the game without a red cross on my sleeve. You don't know what I feel towards all of you girls, all of Annie's friends. I have lived to bless the day that I met you, although on that day I did anything but bless it. You remember how you bundled me up in the soiled clothes ready to send me to the laundry? I'll never forget it! Also, I'll never forget that you and the Tucker twins never told the rest of the fellows about it. That was sure white of you! Please put in a good word for me when you write to Annie, my Annie. Yours truly, GEORGE MASSIE. CHAPTER XXII A LETTER FROM PAGE ALLISON TO THE TUCKER TWINS _Bracken, Va._ _Milton P. O._ MY DEAREST TWEEDLES: I am sending you letters from Annie and from Sleepy. I am awfully excited about Sleepy. He seems to be wide awake. Father says he will come through the war and be a distinguished person of some sort, he believes. I think Annie's letter is awfully interesting. Isn't it fun for old Sir Arthur Ponsonby Pore to have won the love of the Lady Annie by swearing? I know your father will die laughing over it. I am up to my neck with Miss Pinkie Davis in the house, getting some sewing done so I won't have to be worried with shirt-waists and things when we get to New York. Mammy Susan is still miffed with me for going, and I feel awfully bad about it. Isn't it great that Mary can go, too? Do you reckon we'll see Jessie Wilcox in New York? Not if she sees us first, I fancy! Four girls in a flat and that flat not so very swell wouldn't appeal to Miss Wilcox, I think. Father is giving iron tonics right and left, and has made up a gallon of pump water with a beautiful pink vegetable dye in it for Sally Winn so she won't have to die before he gets back. Poor Joe Winn is very sad that I did not let him know you were here on the last trip. I really forgot to do it. We were having such a wildly exciting time making our plans for New York that poor Joe never came into my head. It is so splendid that Father is going, too. If these people will only stay well until he can get started, then they can be sick all they want and have a doctor over from the crossing. There is a perfectly good doctor there, that is, a perfectly good doctor if one is prepared for death! Good-by! I must stop and help Miss Pinkie. How I do hate to sew! To think in a few days almost I'll be IN NEW YORK WITH THE TUCKER TWINS. Your best friend, PAGE ALLISON. THE END HURST & COMPANY'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE NEW BOOKS FOR GIRLS TUCKER TWINS BOOKS By NELL SPEED Author of the Molly Brown Books. Cloth Bound. Illustrated. [Illustration: AT BOARDING SCHOOL WITH THE TUCKER TWINS] =At Boarding School with the Tucker Twins= There are no jollier girls in boarding school fiction than Dum and Dee Tucker. The room-mate of such a lively pair has an endless variety of surprising experiences--as Page Allison will tell you. [Illustration] =Vacation with the Tucker Twins= This volume is alive with experiences of these fascinating girls. Girls who enjoyed the Molly Brown Books by the same author will be eager for this volume. The scene of these charming stories is laid in the State of Virginia and has the true Southern flavor. Girls will like them. HURST & COMPANY, Publishers, NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE NEW BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE AND OLD PEOPLE WHO FEEL YOUNG PAUL AND PEGGY BOOKS By FLORENCE E. SCOTT Illustrated by ARTHUR O. SCOTT _Cloth Bound._ [Illustration: HERE AND THERE WITH PAUL AND PEGGY] _Here and There with Paul and Peggy_ _Across the Continent with Paul and Peggy_ _Through the Yellowstone with Paul and Peggy_ These are delightfully written stories of a vivacious pair of twins whose dearest ambition is to travel. How they find the opportunity, where they go, what their eager eyes discover is told in such an enthusiastic way that the reader is carried with the travellers into many charming places and situations. Written primarily for girls, her brothers can read these charming stories of School Life and Travel with equal admiration and interest. HURST & COMPANY, Publishers, NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE STORIES OF COLLEGE LIFE FOR GIRLS MOLLY BROWN SERIES By NELL SPEED Cloth. Illustrated. [Illustration: Molly Brown's Freshman Days] _Molly Brown's Freshman Days_ Would you like to admit to your circle of friends the most charming of college girls? Then seek an introduction to Molly Brown. You will find the baggagemaster, the cook, the Professor of English Literature and the College President in the same company. _Molly Brown's Sophomore Days_ What is more delightful than a reunion of college girls after the summer vacation? Certainly nothing that precedes it in their experience--at least, if all class-mates are as happy together as the Wellington girls of this story. Among Molly's interesting friends of the second year is a young Japanese girl, who ingratiates her "humbly" self into everybody's affections. _Molly Brown's Junior Days_ Financial stumbling blocks are not the only thing that hinder the ease and increase the strength of college girls. Their troubles and their triumphs are their own, often peculiar to their environment. How Wellington students meet the experiences outside the class-rooms is worth the doing, the telling and the reading. _Molly Brown's Senior Days_ This book tells of another year of glad college life, bringing the girls to the days of diplomas and farewells, and introducing new friends to complicate old friendships. _Molly Brown's Post Graduate Days_ "Book I" of this volume is devoted to incidents that happen in Molly's Kentucky home, and "Book II" is filled with the interests pertaining to Wellington College and the reunions of a post graduate year. _Molly Brown's Orchard Home_ Molly's romance culminates in Paris--the Paris of art, of music, of light-hearted gaiety--after a glad, sad, mad year for Molly and her friends. If you do not know Molly Brown of Kentucky, you are missing an opportunity to become acquainted with the most enchanting girl in college fiction. HURST & COMPANY, Publishers, NEW YORK HURST & COMPANY'S BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE REX KINGDON SERIES By GORDON BRADDOCK Cloth Bound. Illustrated. [Illustration: REX KINGDON of RIDGEWOOD HIGH GORDON BRADDOCK] _Rex Kingdon of Ridgewood High_ A new boy moves into town. Who is he? What can he do? Will he make one of the school teams? Is his friendship worth having? These are the queries of the Ridgewood High Students. The story is the answer. _Rex Kingdon in the North Woods_ Rex and some of his Ridgewood friends establish a camp fire in the North Woods, and there mystery, jealousy, and rivalry enter to menace their safety, fire their interest and finally cement their friendship. _Rex Kingdon at Walcott Hall_ Lively boarding school experiences make this the "best yet" of the Rex Kingdon series. _Rex Kingdon Behind the Bat_ The title tells you what this story is; it is a rattling good story about baseball. Boys will like it. Gordon Braddock knows what Boys want and how to write it. These stories make the best reading you can procure. HURST & COMPANY, Publishers, NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Varied hyphenation was retained. This includes cart-wheels and cartwheels. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 82, "squshy" changed to "squishy" (later into squishy) Page 86, "Shereton" changed to "Sheraton" (great old Sheraton sideboard) Page 260, word "have" inserted into text (She would have none) Illustration after page 282, "MAMY" changed to "MAMMY" (MAMMY SUSAN, HOWEVER, HAD HER) 
28805	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28805-h.htm or 28805-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h/28805-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h.zip) DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY by EVELYN RAYMOND Illustrations by S. Schneider Chatterton-Peck Company New York, N. Y. Copyright 1908 by Chatterton-Peck Co. [Illustration: THE MOONLIGHTED FIGURE BY THE LILY POND. _Dorothy's House Party._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I END OF AN INFAIR 9 II CHOOSING THE GUESTS 21 III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST 35 IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING 44 V RIDDLES 61 VI A MORNING CALL 79 VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING 93 VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS 106 IX HEADQUARTERS 118 X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS 133 XI MORNING TALKS 145 XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH 159 XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN 174 XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND 189 XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING 203 XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY 215 XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED 229 XVIII CONCLUSION 244 DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY CHAPTER I THE END OF AN INFAIR Dorothy sat up in bed and looked about her. For a moment she did not realize where she was nor how she came to be in such a strange and charming room. Then from somewhere in the distance sounded a merry, musical voice, singing: "Old Noah of old he built an ark-- One more river to cross! He built it out of hickory bark-- One more riv----" The refrain was never finished. Dorothy was at the open window calling lustily: "Alfy! Alfy Babcock! Come right up here this very, very minute!" "Heigho, Sleepy Head! You awake at last? Well, I should think it was time. I'll be right up, just as soon as I can put these yeller artemisias into Mis' Calvert's yeller bowl." A fleeting regret that she had not waked earlier, that it was not she who had gathered the morning nosegay for Mrs. Betty's table, shadowed the fair face of the late riser; but was promptly banished as the full memory of all that happened on the night before came back to her. Skipping from point to point of the pretty chamber she examined it in detail, exclaiming in delight over this or that and, finally, darting within the white-tiled bathroom where some thoughtful person had already drawn water for her bath. "Oh! it's like a fairy-tale and I'm in a real fairy-land, seems if! What a dainty tub! What heaps of great soft towels! and what a lovely bath-robe! And oh! what a wonderful great-aunt Betty!" A moisture not wholly due to the luxurious bath filled Dorothy's eyes, as she took her plunge, for her heart was touched by the evidences of the loving forethought which had thus prepared for her home-coming before she herself knew she possessed a birthright home. Of her past life the reader if interested may learn quite fully, for the facts are detailed in the two books known as "Dorothy's Schooling," and "Dorothy's Travels." So though it was still a radiantly happy girl who welcomed Alfaretta it was a thoughtful one; so that Alfy again paused in her caroling to demand: "Well, Dolly Doodles, what's the matter? If I'd been as lucky as you be I wouldn't draw no down-corners to my mouth, I wouldn't! I'd sing louder'n ever and just hustle them 'animals' into that 'ark' 'two by two,' for 'There's one more river to cross! One more river--One more river to cro-o-o-oss!'" But without waiting for an answer the young farm girl caught her old playmate in her strong arms and gave her a vigorous hug. "There, Miss Dorothy Calvert, that don't begin to show how tickled I am 'bout your good fortune! I'm so full of it all 't I couldn't hardly sleep. Fact. You needn't stare, though 'tis a queer thing, 'cause if there's one thing more to my liking than another it's going to bed on such a bed as Mis' Calvert has in every single one of her rooms. There ain't no husk-mattresses nor straw shake-downs to Deerhurst. No, siree! I know, for I went into every single chamber from roof to cellar and pinched 'em all. The 'help' sleep just as soft as the old lady does herself. Softer, Ma says, 'cause old-timers like her if they didn't use feathers just laid on hard things 't even Ma'd despise to have in her house. However, everybody to their taste! and say, Dolly, which of all them pretty dresses are you goin' to put on? What? That plain old white linen? Well, if you don't beat the Dutch and always did! If I had all them silks and satins I'd pick out the handsomest and wear that first, and next handsome next, and keep right on, one after another, till I'd tried the lot, if I had to change a dozen times a day. See! I found them cardinal flowers down by the brook and fetched 'em to you." With one of her sudden changes of mood Alfaretta dropped down upon the floor and pulled from the pocket of her old-fashioned skirt a cheap paper pad. It was well scribbled with penciled notes which the girl critically examined, as she explained: "You see, Dorothy, that your story is like reading a library book, only more so; and lest I should forget some part of it I've wrote it all down. Listen. I'll read while you finish fixin'. My! What a finicky girl you are! You was born----" "But, Alfy, please! I protest against hearing my own history that way!" cried the other, making a playful dash toward the notes, which Alfaretta as promptly hid behind her. Then, knowing from experience that contest was useless, Dorothy resigned herself to hearing the following data droned forth: "You was born----" "Of course!" "'Twon't do you a mite of good to interrupt. I'm in real down earnest. You'll--you'll be goin' away again, pretty soon, and having come into your fortunes you'll be forgettin'----" Here Alfy sobbed and dabbed her knuckles into her eyes--"'Cause Ma says 'tain't likely you'll ever be the same girl again----" "I should like to know why not? Go on with your story-notes. I'd even rather hear them than you talking foolishly!" "Well, I'll have to begin all over again. You was born. Your parents were respectful--respective--hmm! all right folks though deluged with poverty. Then they died and left you a little, squallin' baby----" "Alfy, dear, that's unkind! I don't admit that I ever could be a squaller!" Alfaretta raised her big eyes and replied: "I ain't makin' that up. It's exactly what Mis' Calvert said her own self. 'Twas why she wouldn't bother raisin' you herself after your Pa and Ma died and sent you to her. So she turned you into a foundling orphan and your Father John and Mother Martha brung you up. Then your old Aunt Betty got acquainted with you an' liked you, and sort of hankered to get you back again out of the folkses' hands what had took all the trouble of your growing into a sizable girl. Some other folks appear to have took a hand in the business of huntin' up your really truly name; and Ma Babcock she says that Mis' Calvert'd have had to own up to your bein' her kin after awhile, whether or no; so she just up and told the whole business; and here you be--a nairess! and so rich you won't never know old friends again--maybe--though I always thought you--you--you--Oh! my!" Alfaretta bowed her head to her knees and began to cry with the same vigor she brought to every act of her life. But she didn't cry for long; because Dorothy was promptly down upon the floor, also, and pulling the weeper's hands from her flushed face, commanded: "It's my turn. I've a story to tell. It's all about a girl named Alfaretta Babcock, who was the first friend I ever had 'up-mounting,' and is going to be my friend all my life unless she chooses otherwise. This Alfy I'm talking about is one of the truest, bravest girls in the world. The only trouble is that she gets silly notions into her auburn head, once in a while, and it takes kisses just like these--and these--and these--to drive them out. She's going to be a teacher when she grows up----" Alfy's tears were dried, her face smiling, as she now interrupted: "No. I've changed my mind. I'm either going to be a trained nurse or a singer in an opera. Premer donners, they call 'em." "Heigho! Why all that?" Alfaretta dropped her voice to a whisper and cautiously glanced over her shoulder as she explained: "Greatorex!" "Miss Greatorex? What has that poor, learned dear to do with it?" demanded Dorothy, astonished. "Everything. You see, she's the first woman teacher I ever saw--the first _woman_ one. Rather than grow into such a stiff, can't-bend-to-save-your-life kind of person I'd do 'most anything. Hark! There's somebody to the door!" Both girls sprang to open it and found a maid with a summons to breakfast; also with the request that "Miss Dorothy should attend Mrs. Calvert in her own room before going below stairs." Dorothy sped away but Alfaretta lingered to put the cardinal flowers into a vase and to admire afresh the beautiful apartment assigned to her friend. There was honest pleasure in the good fortune which had come to another and yet there was a little envy mingled with the pleasure. It was with a rather vicious little shake that she picked up the soft bath-robe Dorothy had discarded and folded it about her own shoulders; but the reflection of her own face in the mirror opposite so surprised her by its crossness that she stared, then laughed aloud. "Huh! Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Alfy Babcock? When you put on that two-sticks, ten-penny-nails-look you're homely enough to eat hay! 'Tain't so long ago that Dolly hadn't no more in this world than you've got this minute. Not half so much either, 'cause she hadn't nobody belongin', nobody at all, whilst you had a Ma and Pa and a whole slew of brothers and sisters. All she's found yet is a terrible-old great-aunt and some money. Pa says 'money's no good,' and--I guess I'll go get my breakfast, too." Her good temper quite restored, this young philosopher skipped away and joined her mother and sisters in the great kitchen where they were already seated at table. In Mrs. Calvert's room the happy old lady greeted Dorothy with such a warmth of affection that the girl felt no lack of others "belongin'"--for which lack Alfaretta had pitied her--and only yearned to find a way to show her own love and gratitude. There followed a happy half-hour of mutual confidences, a brief reading of the Word, a simple prayer for blessing on their new lives together, and the pair descended to the cheerful room where their guests were assembling: each, it seemed, enjoying to the utmost their beautiful surroundings and their hostess's hospitality. Jests flew, laughter rang, and the Judge could scarcely refrain from song; when just as the meal was over James Barlow appeared at the long, open window, his mail bag over his shoulder, and instant silence succeeded as each person within waited eagerly for his share in the contents of the pouch. There were letters in plenty, and some faces grew grave over their reading, while for the Judge there was a telegram which Jim explained had just come to the office where was, also, the post-office. "Hmm! that ends my vacation in earnest! I meant to stay a bit longer out of business, but--Mrs. Calvert, when's the next train cityward, please?" Mrs. Betty returned: "I've half a mind not to tell you! But, of course, if--Dorothy, you'll find a parcel of time tables in that desk by the fireplace. Take them to Judge Breckenridge, please." Nor was he the only one to make them useful; for it followed that the Deerhurst "infair," begun on the night before and planned to extend over several days must be abruptly ended. The hostess was herself summoned elsewhere, to attend the sick bed of a lifelong friend, and the summons was not one to be denied. Even while she was reading the brief note she knew that she must forsake her post and with a thrill of pride reflected that now she had one of her own kin to install in her place. Young as Dorothy was she must act as the hostess of Deerhurst, even to these gray-headed guests now gathered there. But, presently it appeared, that there would be no guests to entertain. President Ryall was needed to supervise some changes at his college; merchant Ihrie must hasten to disentangle some badly mixed business affairs; Dr. Mantler would miss the "most interesting case on record if he did not come at once to his hospital;" and so, to the four old "boys," who had camped together in the Markland forests, the end of playtime had indeed come, and each after his kind must resume his man's work for the world. Young Tom Hungerford's furlough from West Point expired that morning, and his mother felt that when he returned to the Academy she must establish herself for a time at the hotel near-by. At her invitation Mrs. Cook and Melvin were to accompany her; that these Nova Scotians might see something of lads' military training outside their own beloved Province. Catching the general spirit of unrest, Miss Greatorex suddenly announced that it was time she returned to the Rhinelander. Maybe she dreaded being left the only adult in the house, for as yet no mention had been made as to the disposal of her charges, Molly and Dolly. Certainly, she felt that having been burdened with their cares during the long summer she was entitled to a few days' rest before the beginning of a new school year. The lady added: "Besides all that, I shall have no more than sufficient time to arrange my specimens that I obtained in Markland." A short silence fell once more upon that company in the breakfast room, and somehow the brilliant sunshine seemed to dim as if a storm were rising; or was it but a mist of disappointment rising to Dorothy's eyes as she glanced from one to another and realized how well she loved them each and all, and how sad the parting was. But her last glance fell upon her Aunt Betty's face and she bravely smiled back into the kindly eyes so tenderly smiling upon her. After all, that was the Calvert way! To meet whatever came with "head erect and colors flying," and she, too, was Calvert. She'd prove it! Cried she, with that characteristic toss of her brown curls: "Well, if everybody _must_--what can I do to help? As for you two, darling 'father' and 'mother,' I hope nothing's going to take you away from Deerhurst all of a sudden, like the rest!" But there was, although there was no suddenness in this decision. As they presently informed her, the crippled ex-postman had made himself so useful at the sanitarium where he had spent the summer that he had been offered a permanent position there, at a larger salary than he had ever received as letter-carrier in Baltimore. He had also secured for his wife Martha a position as matron of the institution; and the independence thus achieved meant more to that ambitious woman than even a care-free home with her beloved foster-child. The death of their old aunt had released Martha from that separation from her husband which had so sorely tried her and, though sorry to part again from Dorothy, she was still a very happy woman. "We shall always love one another, Dolly dear, but we've come to 'the parting of the ways.' Each as the Lord leads, little girl; but what is the reason, now that Mrs. Calvert's grown-up party has ended, what is the reason, I say, that you don't give a House Party of your very own?" CHAPTER II CHOOSING THE GUESTS Those who must go went quickly. By trains and boats, the various guests who had gathered at Deerhurst to welcome Dorothy's home-coming had departed, and at nightfall the great house seemed strangely empty and deserted. Even Ma Babcock had relinquished her post as temporary housekeeper and had hurried across the river to nurse a seriously ill neighbor. "I may be back tomorrer and I may not be back till the day after never! I declare I'm all of a fluster, what with Mis' Calvert goin' away sort of leavin' me in charge--though them old colored folks o' her'n didn't like that none too well!--and me havin' to turn my back on duty this way. But sickness don't wait for time nor tide and typhoid's got to be tended mighty sharp; and I couldn't nohow refuse to go to one Mis' Judge Satterlee's nieces, she that's been as friendly with me as if I was a regular 'ristocratic like herself. No, when a body's earned a repitation for fetchin' folks through typhoid you got to live up to it. Sorry, Dolly C.; but I'll stow the girls, Barry and Clarry and the rest, 'round amongst the neighbors somewhere, 'fore I start. As for you, Alfy----" "Oh, Mrs. Babcock! Don't take Alfy away! Please, please don't!" cried Dorothy, fairly clutching at the matron's flying skirts, already disappearing through the doorway. Mrs. Babcock switched herself free and answered through the opening: "All right. Alfy can do as she likes. She can go down help tend store to Liza Jane's, t'other village, where she's been asked to go more'n once, or finish her visit to you. Ary one suits me so long as you don't let nor hender me no more." Not all of this reply was distinct, for it was finished on the floor above, whither the energetic farm-wife had sped to "pack her duds"; but enough was heard to set Alfaretta skipping around the room in an ecstasy of delight, exclaiming: "I'm to be to the House Party! Oh! I'm to be to the Party!" But this little episode had been by daylight, and now the dusk had fallen. The great parlors were shut and dark. Prudent old Ephraim had declared: "I ain't gwine see my Miss Betty's substance wasted, now she's outer de way he'se'f. One lamp in de hall's ernuf fo' seein' an' doan' none yo chillen's go foolin' to ast mo'." So the long halls were dim and full of shadows; the wind had risen and howled about the windows, which were being carefully shuttered by the servants against the coming storm which Dinah prophesied would prove the "ekernoctial" and a "turr'ble one"; and to banish the loneliness which now tormented her, Dorothy proposed: "Let's go into the library. There's a fine fire on the hearth and the big lamp is stationary. Ephraim can't find fault with us for using that. We'll make out a list of the folks to ask. You, Alfy, shall do the writing, you do write such a fine, big hand. Come on, Molly girl! I'm so glad you begged to stay behind your Auntie Lu. Aren't you?" "Ye-es, I reckon so!" answered the little Southerner, with unflattering hesitation. "But it's mighty lonesome in this big house without her and West Point's just--just heavenly!" "Any place would be 'heavenly' to you, Molly Breckenridge, that was full of boys!" retorted Dolly. "But don't fancy you'd be allowed to see any of those cadets even if you were there. Beg pardon, girlie, I don't want to be cross, but how can I have a decent party if you don't help? Besides, there's Monty and Jim left. They ought to count for something." "Count for mighty little, seems if, the way they sneak off by themselves and leave us alone. Gentlemen, _Southern_ gentlemen, wouldn't act that way!" "Oh, sillies! What's the use of spoiling a splendid time? It's just like a cow givin' a pailful of milk then turnin' round and kickin' it over!" cried good-natured Alfy, throwing an arm around each girl's shoulders and playfully forcing her into the cheery library and into a great, soft chair. Of course, they all laughed and hugged one another and acknowledged that they had been "sillies" indeed; and a moment later three girlish heads were bending together above the roomy table, whereon was set such wonderful writing materials as fairly dazzled Alfaretta's eyes. So impressed was she that she exclaimed as if to herself: "After all, I guess I won't be a trained nurse nor a opera singer. I'll be a writin' woman and have just such pens and things as these." "Oh, Alfy, you funny dear! You change your mind just as often as I used to!" "Don't you change it no more, then, Dorothy C.?" demanded the other, quickly. "No. I don't think I shall ever change it again. I shall do everything the best I can, my music and lessons and all that, but it'll be just for one thing. I lay awake last night wondering how best I could prove grateful for all that's come to me and I reckon I've found out, and it's so--so simple, too." "Ha! Let's hear this fine and simple thing, darling Dolly Doodles, and maybe we'll both follow your illustrious example!" cried Molly, smiling. "To--to make everybody I know as--as happy as I can;" answered the other slowly. "Huh! That's nothing! And you can begin right now, on ME!" declared Miss Alfaretta Babcock, with emphasis. "How?" "Help me to tell who's to be invited." "All right. Head the list with Alfaretta Babcock." "Cor-rect! I've got her down already. Next?" "Molly Breckenridge." "Good enough. Down she goes. Wait till I get her wrote before you say any more." They waited while Alfy laboriously inscribed the name and finished with the exclamation: "That's the crookedest back-name I ever wrote." "You acted as if it hurt you, girlie! You wriggled your tongue like they do in the funny pictures;" teased Molly, but the writer paid no heed. "Next?" "Dorothy Calvert." "So far so good. But them three's all girls. To a party there ought to be as many boys. That's the way we did to our last winter's school treat," declared Alfaretta. "Well, there's Jim Barlow. He's a boy." "He's no _party_ kind of a boy," objected Molly, "and he's only--_us_. She hasn't anybody down that isn't us, so far. We few can't make a whole party." But Dolly and Alfy were wholly serious. "Montmorency Vavasour-Stark," suggested the former, and the writer essayed that formidable name. Then she threw down the pen in dismay, exclaiming: "You'll have to indite that yourself or spell it out to me letter by letter. He'll take more'n a whole line if I write him to match the others." "Oh! he doesn't take up much room, he's so little," reassured idle Molly, with a mischievous glance toward the doorway which the other girls did not observe; while by dint of considerable assistance Alfy "got him down" and "all on one line!" as she triumphantly remarked. "That's two boys and three girls. Who's your next boy?" "Melvin Cook. He's easy to write," said Dolly. "But he's gone." "Yes, Alfy, but he can come back. They'll all have to 'come' except we who don't have to." A giggle from behind the portières commented upon this remark and speeding to part them Dolly revealed the hiding figures of their two boy house-mates. "That's not nice of young gentlemen, to peep and listen," remarked Molly, severely; "but since you've done it, come and take your punishment. You'll have to help. James Barlow, you are appointed the committee of 'ways and means.' I haven't an idea what that 'means,' but I know they always have such a committee." "What 'they,' Miss Molly?" "I don't know, Mister Barlow, but you're--it." "Monty, you'll furnish the entertainment," she continued. The recipient of this honor bowed profoundly, then lifted his head with a sudden interest as Dorothy suggested the next name: "Molly Martin." Even Alfy looked up in surprise. "Do you mean it, Dorothy C.?" "Surely. After her put Jane Potter." James was listening now and inquired: "What you raking up old times for, Dorothy? Inviting them south-siders that made such a lot of trouble when you lived 'up-mounting' afore your folks leased their farm?" "Whose 'Party' is this?" asked the young hostess, calmly, yet with a twinkle in her eye. "All of our'n," answered Alfaretta, complacently. "How many girls now, Alfy?" questioned Molly, who longed to suggest some of her schoolmates but didn't like a similar reproof to that which fell so harmlessly from Alfaretta's mind. "Five," said the secretary, counting upon her fingers. "Me, and you, and her, and----five. Correct." "Mabel Bruce." "Who's she? I never heard of her," wondered Molly, while Jim answered: "She's a girl 'way down in Baltimore. Why, Dorothy C., you know she can't come here!" "Why not? Listen, all of you. This is to be _my_ House Party. It's to be the very nicest ever was. One that everyone who is in it will never, never forget. My darling Aunt Betty gave me permission to ask anybody I chose and to do anything I wanted. She said I had learned some of the lessons of poverty and now I had to begin the harder ones of having more money than most girls have. She said that I mustn't feel badly if the money brought me enemies and some folks got envious." Here, all unseen by the speaker, honest Alfaretta winced and put her hand to her face; but she quickly dropped it, to listen more closely. "Mabel was a dear friend even when I was that 'squalling baby' Alfy wrote about. I am to telegraph for her and to send her a telegraphic order for her expenses, though Aunt Betty wasn't sure _that_ would be acceptable to Mr. and Mrs. Bruce. To prevent any misunderstanding on that point, you are to make the telegram real long and explicit. I reckon that's what it means to be that committee Molly named. She'll make six girls and that's enough. Six boys--how many yet Alfy?" "Three. Them two that are and the one that isn't." "Mike Martin." Both Jim and Alfy exclaimed in mutual protest: "Why Dorothy! That fellow? you must be crazy." "No, indeed! I'm the sanest one here. That boy is doing the noblest work anybody ever did on this dear old mountain; he's making and keeping the peace between south-side and north-side." "How do you know, Dorothy?" asked Jim, seriously. "No matter how I know but I do know. Why, I wouldn't leave him out of my Party for anything. I'd almost rather be out of it myself!" Then both he and Alfaretta remembered that winter day on the mountain when Dorothy had been the means of saving Mike Martin from an accidental death and the quiet conference afterward of the two, in that inner room of the old forge under the Great Balm Tree. Probably something had happened then and there to make Dolly so sure of Mike's worthiness. But she was already passing on to "next," nodding toward Alfy, with the words: "The two Smith boys, Littlejohn and Danny." Jim Barlow laughed but did not object. The sons of farmer Smith were jolly lads and deserved a good time, once in their hard-worked lives; yet he did stare when Dorothy concluded her list of lads with the name: "Frazer Moore." "You don't know him very well, Dolly girl. Beside that, he'll make an odd number. He's the seventh----" "Son of the seventh son--fact!" interrupted Alfaretta; "and now we'll have to find another girl to match him." "I've found the girl, Dolly, but she won't match. Helena Montaigne came up on the train by which your Father John left for the north. You could hardly leave her out from your House Party, or from givin' her the bid to it, any way." "Helena home? Oh! I am so glad, I am so glad! Of course, she'll get the 'bid'; I'll take it to her myself the first thing to-morrow morning. But you didn't mention Herbert. Hasn't he come, too?" James Barlow nodded assent but grudgingly. He had never in his heart quite forgiven Herbert Montaigne for their difference in life; as if it were the fault of the one that he had been born the son of the wealthy owner of The Towers and of the other that he was a penniless almshouse child. Second thoughts, however, always brought nobler feeling into the honest heart of Jim and a flush of shame rose to his face as he forced himself to answer. "Yes, course. The hull fambly's here." Dorothy checked the teasing words which rose to her lips, for when ambitious Jim relapsed so hopelessly into incorrect speech it was a sign that he was deeply moved; and it was a relief to see Alfaretta once more diligently count upon her fingers and to hear her declare: "We'll never'll get this here list straight and even, never in this endurin' world. First there's a girl too many and now there's a girl too short!" "Never mind; we'll make them come out even some way, and I'll find another girl. I don't know who, yet, and we mustn't ask any more or there'll be no places for them to sleep. Now we've settled the guests let's settle the time. We'll have to put it off two or three days, to let them get here. I wish your cousin Tom Hungerford could be asked to join us but I don't suppose he could come," said Dolly to her friend Molly. "No, he couldn't. It was the greatest favor his getting off just for those few hours. A boy might as well be in prison as at West Point!" "What? At that 'heavenly' place? Let's see. This is Wednesday night. Saturday would be a nice time to begin the Party, don't you all think?" "Fine. Week-end ones always do begin on Saturday but the trouble is they break up on Monday after;" answered Molly. "Then ours is to be a double week-ender. Aunt Betty said 'invite them for a week.' That's seven days, and now Master Stark comes your task. As a committee of entertainment you are to provide some new, some different, fun for us every single one of those seven days; and it must be something out of the common. I long, I just long to have my home-finding House Party so perfectly beautiful that nobody in it will ever, ever forget it!" Looking into her glowing face the few who were gathered about her inwardly echoed her wish, and each, in his or her own way, resolved to aid in making it as "perfect" as their young hostess desired. Monty heaved a prodigious sigh. "You've given me the biggest task, Dolly Doodles! When a fellow's brain is no better than mine----" "Nonsense, Montmorency Vavasour-Stark! You know in your little insides that you're ''nigh tickled to death' as Alfy would say. Aren't you the one who always plans the entertainments--the social ones--at your school, Brentnor Hall? You're as proud as Punch this minute, and you know it, sir. Don't pretend otherwise!" reproved Molly, severely. "Yes, but--that was different. I had money then. I hadn't announced my decision to be independent of my father and he--he hadn't taken me too literally at my word;" and with a whimsical expression the lad emptied his pockets of the small sums they contained and spread the amount on the table. "There it is, all of it, Lady of the Manor, at your service! Getting up entertainments is a costly thing, but--as far as it goes, I'll try my level best!" They all laughed and Dorothy merrily heaped the coins again before him. "You forget, and so I have to remind you, that this is to be _my_ Party! I don't ask you to spend your money but just your brains in this affair." "Huh! Dorothy! I'm afraid they won't go much further than the cash!" he returned, but nobody paid attention to this remark, they were so closely watching Dorothy. She had opened a little leather bag which lay upon the table and now drew from it a roll of bills. Crisp bank notes, ten of them, and each of value ten dollars. "Whew! Where did you get all that, Dorothy Calvert?" demanded Jim Barlow, almost sternly. To him the money seemed a fortune, and that his old companion of the truck-farm must still be as poor in purse as he. She was nearly as grave as he, as she spread the notes out one by one in the place where Monty had displayed his meager sum. "My Great-Aunt Betty gave them to me. It is her wish that I should use this money for the pleasure of my friends. She says that it is a first portion of my own personal inheritance, and that if I need more----" "More!" they fairly gasped; for ten times ten is a hundred, and a hundred dollars--Ah! What might not be done with a whole one hundred dollars? "'Twould be wicked," began James, in an awestruck tone, but was not allowed to finish, for practical Alfaretta, her big eyes fairly glittering, was rapidly counting upon her fingers and trying to do that rather difficult "example" of "how many times will seven go into one hundred and how much over?" "Seven into ten, once and three; seven into thirty--Ouch!" Her computation came to a sudden end. The storm had broken, all unnoticed till then, and a mighty crash as if the whole house were falling sent them startled to their feet. CHAPTER III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST For an instant the group was motionless from fear; then Jim made a dash for the front entrance whence, apparently, the crash had come. There had been no thunder accompanying the storm which now raged wildly over the mountain top, and Alfy found sufficient voice to cry: "'Tain't no lightnin' stroke. _Somethin's_ fell!" The words were so inadequate to the description that Molly laughed nervously, and in relieved tension all followed James forward; only to find themselves rudely forced back by old Ephraim, gray with fear and anxiety. "Stan' back dere, stan' back, you-alls! 'Tis Eph'am's place to gyard Miss Betty's chillens!" He didn't look as if the task were an agreeable one and the lads placed themselves beside him as he advanced and with trembling hands tried to unbar the door. This time he did not repulse them, and it was well, for as the bolts slid and the heavy door was set free it fell inward with such force that he would have been crushed beneath it had they not been there to draw him out of its reach. "Oh! oh! oh! The great horse chestnut!" cried Dorothy, springing aside from contact with the branches which fell crowding through the doorway. Hinges were torn from their places and the marvel was that the beautifully carved door had not itself been broken in bits. Jim was the first to rally and to find some comfort in the situation, exclaiming: "That's happened exactly as I feared it would, some day; and it's a mercy there wasn't nobody sittin' on that piazza. They'd ha' been killed dead, sure as pisen!" "Killing generally does mean death, Jim Barlow, but if you knew that splendid tree was bound to fall some day why didn't you say so? We--" with a fine assumption of proprietorship in Deerhurst--"we would have had it prevented," demanded Dorothy. Already she felt that this was home; already she loved the fallen tree almost as its mistress had done and her feeling was so sincere, if new, that nobody smiled, and the lad answered soberly: "I have told, Dolly girl. I kept on tellin' Mrs. Calvert how that lily-pond she would have dug out deeper an' deeper, and made bigger all the time, would for certain undermine that tree and make it fall. But--but she's an old lady 't knows her own mind and don't allow nobody else to know it for her! Old Hans, the gardener, he talked a heap, too; begged her to have the pond cemented an' that wouldn't hender the lilies blowin' and'd stop trouble. But, no. She wouldn't listen. Said she 'liked things perfectly natural' and--Well, she's got 'em now!" "Jim Barlow, you're--just horrid! and--ungrateful to my precious Aunt Betty!" cried Dorothy, indignant tears springing to her eyes. To her the fallen tree seemed like a stricken human being and the catastrophe a terrible one. "It's taken that grand chestnut years and years and years--longer'n you or I will ever live, like enough--to grow that big, and to be thrown down all in a minute, and--you don't care a mite, except to find your own silly opinion prove true!" "Hold on, Dolly girl. This ain't no time for you an' me to begin quarrelin'. I do care. I care more'n I can say but that don't hender the course o' nature. The pond was below; 'twas fed by a spring from above; she had trenches dug so that spring-water flowed right spang through the roots of that chestnut into the pond; and what could follow except what did? I'm powerful sorry it's happened but I can't help bein' common-sensible over it." "I hate common-sense!" cried Molly, coming to the support of her friend. "Anyway, I don't see what good we girls do standing here in this draughty hall. Let's go to bed." "And leave the house wide open this way?" Dorothy's sense of responsibility was serious enough to her though amusing to the others, and it was Monty who brought her back to facts by remarking: "The house always has been taken care of, Dolly Doodles, and I guess it will be now. Jim and I will get some axes and lop off these branches that forced the door in and prop it shut the best way we can. Then I'll go down to the lodge with him to sleep for he says there's a room I can have. See? You girls will be well protected!" and he nodded toward the group of servants gathered at the rear of the great hall. "So you'd better take Molly's advice and go up-stairs." Dolly wasn't pleased to be thus set coolly aside in "her own house" but there seemed nothing better to do than follow this frank advice; therefore, taking a hand of each of her girl friends, she led the way toward her own pretty chamber and two small rooms adjoining. "Aunt Betty thought we three'd like to be close together, and anyway, if we had all come that I wanted to invite we'd have to snug up some. So she told Dinah to fix her dressing-room for one of you--that's this side mine; and the little sewing-room for the other. She's put single beds in them and Dinah is to sleep on her cot in this wide hall outside our doors. It seemed sort of foolish to me, first off, when darling Auntie planned it, as if anything could happen to make us need Dinah so near; but now--My! I can't stop trembling, somehow. I was so frightened and sorry." "I'm sorry, too, and I'm scared, too; but I'm sleepier'n I'm ary one," yawned Alfaretta. "I'm sleepy, too;" assented Molly; and even the excited Dorothy felt a strange drowsiness creeping over her. It would be the correct thing, she had imagined, to lie awake and grieve over the loss of Mrs. Calvert's beloved tree, which would now be cut into ignominious firewood and burned upon a hearth; but--in five minutes after her head had touched her pillow she was sound asleep as her mates already were. Outside, the storm abated and the moon arose, lighting the scenery with its brilliance and setting the still dripping trees aglitter with its glory. Moonlight often made Dorothy wakeful and did so on this eventful night. Its rays streaming across her unshaded window roused her to sit up, and with the action came remembrance. "My heart! That money! All those beautiful new bills that are to buy pleasant things for my Party guests! I had it all spread out on the library table when that crash came and I never thought of it again! Nobody else, either, I fancy. I'll go right down and get it and I mustn't wake the girls or Dinah. It was careless of me, it surely was; but I know enough about money to understand it shouldn't be left lying about in that way." Creeping softly from her bed she drew on her slippers and kimono as Miss Rhinelander had taught her pupils always to do when leaving their rooms at night, and the familiar school-habit proved her in good stead this time. Once she would have stopped for neither; but now folding the warm little garment about her she tiptoed past old Dinah, snoring, and down the thickly carpeted stairs, whereon her slippered feet made no sound. Quite noiselessly she came to the library door and pushed the portière aside. Into this room, also, the moonlight streamed, making every object visible. She had glanced, as she came along the hall, toward the big door, bolstered into place by the heavy settle and hat-rack; and the latter object looked so like a gigantic man standing guard that she cast no second look but darted within the lighter space. Hark! What was that sound? Somebody breathing? Snoring? A man's snore, so like that of dear Father John who used, sometimes, to keep her awake, though she hadn't minded that because she loved him so. The sound, frightful at first, became less so as she remembered those long past nights, and mustering her courage she tiptoed toward the figure on the lounge. Old Ephraim! Well, she didn't believe Aunt Betty would have permitted even that faithful servant to spend a night upon her cherished leather couch; but the morning would be time enough to reprimand him for his audacity, which, of course, she must do, since she stood now in Mrs. Calvert's place, as temporary head of the family. She felt gravely responsible and offended as she crossed the room to the table where three chairs still grouped sociably together, exactly as the three girls had left them. Ah! yes. The chairs were in their places, Alfaretta's list of guests as well, and even the little leather bag out of which she had drawn the wealth that so surprised her mates. But the ten crisp notes she had so spread out in the sight of all--where were they? Certainly nowhere to be seen, although that revealing moonlight made even Alfy's written words quite legible. What could have become of them? Who had taken them? And why? Supposing somebody had stolen in and stolen them? Supposing that was why he was sleeping in the library? Yet, if there had been thievery there, wouldn't he have kept awake, to watch? Supposing--here a horrible thought crept into her mind--supposing _he_, himself, had been the thief! She was southern born and had the southerner's racial distrust of a "nigger's" honesty; yet--as soon as thought she was ashamed of the suspicion. Aunt Betty trusted him with far more than she missed now. She would go over to that window and think it out. Maybe the sleeper would awake in a minute and she could ask him about it. The question was one destined to remain unasked. As she stood gazing vacantly outward, her hands clasped in perplexity, something moving arrested her attention. A small figure in white, or what seemed white in that light. It was circling the pond where the water-lilies grew and was swaying to and fro as if dancing to some strange measure. Its skirts were caught up on either side by the hands resting upon its hips and the apparition was enough to startle nerves that had not already been tried by the events of that night. Dorothy stood rooted to the spot. Then a sudden movement of the dancer which brought her perilously near the water's edge recalled her common sense. "Why, it's one of the girls! It must be! Which? She doesn't look like either--is she sleep-walking? Who, what can it mean?" Another instant and she had opened the long sash and sped out upon the rain-soaked lawn; and she was none too soon. As if unseeing, or unfearing, the strange figure swept nearer and nearer to the moonlit water, its feet already splashing in it, when Dorothy's arms were flung around it to draw it into safety. "Why--" began the rescuer and could say no more. The face that slowly turned toward her was one that she had never seen before. It was the face of a child under a mass of gray hair, and its expression strangely vacant and inconsequent. Danger, fear, responsibility meant nothing to this little creature whom Dorothy had saved from drowning, and with a sudden pitiful memory of poor, half-witted Peter Piper who had loved her so, she realized that here was another such as he. In body and mind the child had never grown up, though her years were many. "Come this way, little lady. Come with me. Let us go into the house;" said the girl gently, and led the stranger to the window she had left open. "You must be the odd guest I needed for my House Party, to make the couples even, and so I bid you welcome. Strange, the window should be shut!" But closed it was; nor could all the girl's puny pounding bring help to open it. Against the front door the great tree still pressed and she could not reach its bell; and confused by all she had passed through Dorothy forgot that there were other entrances where help could be summoned and sank down on the piazza floor beside her first, her uninvited guest, to wait for morning. CHAPTER IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING But a few moments sufficed to show that this would not do. Despite her own heavy kimono she was already chilled by the air of that late September night, while the little creature beside her was shivering as if in ague, although she seemed to be half-asleep. She reasoned that Ephraim must have waked and closed the library window and departed to his own quarters. But there must be some way in which a girl could get into her own house; and then she exclaimed: "Why, yes! The sun-parlor, right at the end of this very piazza. All that south side is covered with glass and if I can get a sash up we can climb through. The place is as nice as a bedroom. Anyway, I'll try!" She left the stranger where she lay and ran to make the effort, and though for a time the heavy sash resisted her strength, it did yield slightly and her fresh fear that it had been locked vanished. Yet with her utmost endeavor she could lift it but a few inches and she wondered if she would be able to get her visitor through that scant opening. "I shall have to make her go through flat-wise, like crawling through fence bars, and I wonder if she will! Anyhow, I must try. I--I don't like it out here in the night and we'll both be sick of cold, and that would end our party." Dorothy never quite realized how that affair was managed. Though the wanderer appeared to hear well enough she did not speak and had not from the first. Probably she could not, but she could be as stubborn and difficult as possible and she was certainly exhausted from exposure. It was a harder task than lifting the great window, but, at last, by dint of pushing and coaxing, even shoving, the inert small woman was forced through the opening and dropped upon the matted floor, where she remained motionless. Dolly squeezed herself after and stooped above her guest, anxiously asking: "Did that hurt you? I'm sorry, but there was no other way. Please try to get up and lie down. See? There are two nice lounges here and lots of 'comfy' chairs. Shawls and couch-covers in plenty--Why! it'll be like a picnic!" The guest made no effort to rise but waved the other aside with a sleepy, impatient gesture, then fell to shaking again as if she were desperately cold. Dorothy was too frightened to heed these objections and since it was easier to roll a lounge to the sufferer than to argue, she did so and promptly had her charge upon it; but she first stripped off the damp cotton gown from the shaking body and wrapped it in all the rugs and covers she could find. She did not attempt to penetrate further into the house then, because she knew that Ephraim had bolted and barred the door leading thither. She had watched him do so with some amusement, early in the evening, and had playfully asked him if he expected any burglars. He had disdained to reply further than by shaking his wise old head, but had omitted no precaution because of her raillery. "Well, this may not be as nice as in my own room but it's a deal better than out of doors. That poor little thing isn't shivering so much and--she's asleep! She's tired out, whoever she is and wherever she came from, and I'm tired, also. I can't do any better till daylight comes and I'll curl up in this big chair and go to sleep, too," said Dorothy to herself. She wakened to find the sunlight streaming through the glass and to hear a chorus of voices demanding, each in a various key: "Why, Dorothy C!" "How could you?" "Yo' done gib we-all de wussenes' sca', you' ca'less chile! What yo' s'posin' my Miss Betty gwine ter say when she heahs ob dis yeah cuttin's up? Hey, honey? Tell me dat!" But Dinah's reproofs were cut short as her eye fell upon the rug-heaped lounge and saw the pile of them begin to move. As yet no person was visible and she stared at the suddenly agitated covers as if they were bewitched. Presently, they were flung aside; and revealed upon a crimson pillow lay a face almost as crimson. "Fo' de lan' ob lub! How come dat yeah--dis--What's hit mean, li'l gal Do'thy?" Dolly had not long been missed nor, when she was, had anybody felt serious alarm, though the girl guests had both been aggrieved that she should not have wakened them in time to be prompt for breakfast. They dressed hurriedly when Norah came a second time to summon them, explaining: "Miss Dorothy's room is empty and her clothes on the chairs. I must go seek her for she shouldn't do this way if she wants to keep cook good natured for the Party. Delaying breakfast is a bad beginning." Then Norah departed and went about her business of dusting; and it was she who had found the missing girl in the sun-parlor, and it had been her cry of relief that brought the household to that place. Demanded old Ephraim sternly: "Why fo' yo'-all done leab yo' baid in de middle ob de night an' go sky-la'kin' eround dis yere scan'lous way, Missy Dolly Calve't? Tole me dat!" "Why do you leave yours, to sleep on the library couch, Ephraim?" she returned, keenly observing him from the enclosure of her girl friends' arms, who held her fast that she might not again elude them. Ephraim fairly jumped; though he looked not at her but in a timid way toward Dinah, still bending in anxious curiosity over the stranger on the couch; and she was not so engrossed but that her turbaned head rose with a snap and she fixed her fellow servant with a fiercely glaring eye. Between these two equally devoted members of "Miss Betty's" family had always existed a bitter jealousy as to which was the most loyal to their mistress's interests. Let either presume upon that loyalty, to indulge in a forbidden privilege, and the wrath of the other waxed furious. Both knew that for Ephraim to have lain where Dorothy had discovered him, during that past night, was "intol'able" presumption, and at Dinah's care would be duly reported upon and reprimanded. Alas! The old man's start and down-dropped gaze was proof in Dorothy's opinion of a graver guilt than Dinah imputed to him, and when he made no answer save a hasty exit from the room her heart sank. "Oh! how could he do it, how could he!" and then honesty suggested. "But I haven't asked him yet if he did take the bills!" and she smiled again at her own thoughts. Attention was now diverted to Dinah's picking up the stranger from the couch and also departing, muttering: "I 'low dis yeah's a mighty sick li'l creatur'! Whoebah she be she's done fotched a high fevah wid her, an' I'se gwine put her to baid right now!" Illness was always enough to enlist the old nurse's deepest interest and she had no further reproof for the delayed breakfasts or Ephraim's behavior. There followed a morning full of business for all. Jim Barlow and old Hans, with some grumbling assistance from the "roomatical" Ephraim, whose "misery" Dinah assured him had been aggravated by sleeping on a cold leather lounge instead of in his own feather-bed--these three spent the morning in clearing away the fallen tree, while a carpenter from the town repaired the injured doorway. When Dorothy approached Jim, intending to speak freely of her suspicions about the lost money, he cut her short by remarking: "What silliness! Course, it isn't really lost. You've just mislaid it, that's all, an' forgot. I do that, time an' again. Put something away so careful 't I can't find it for ever so long. You'll remember after a spell, and say, Dolly! I won't be able to write that telegram to Mabel Bruce. I've got no time to bother with a parcel o' girls. If I don't keep a nudgin' them two old men they won't do a decent axe's stroke. They spend all their time complainin' of their j'ints!" "Well, why don't you get a regular woodman to chop it up, then?" "An' waste Mrs. Calvert's good money, whilst there's a lot of idlers on her premises, eatin' her out of house and home? I guess not. I'd save for her quicker'n I would for myself, an' that's saying considerable. I'm no eye-servant, I'm not." "Huh! You're one mighty stubborn boy! And I don't think my darling Aunt Betty would hesitate to pay one extra day's help. I've heard her say that she disliked amateur labor. She likes professional skill," returned the girl, with decision. James Barlow laughed. "I reckon, Dolly C., that you've forgot the days when you and I were on Miranda Stott's truck-farm; when I cut firewood by the cord and you sat on the logs an' taught me how to spell. 'Twouldn't do for me to claim I can't split up one tree; and this one'll be as neat a job as you ever see, time I've done with it. Trot along and write your own telegrams; or get that Starky to do it for you. Ha, ha! He thought he could saw wood, himself. Said he learned it campin' out; but the first blow he struck he hit his own toes and blamed it on the axe being too heavy. Trot along with him, girlie, and don't hender me talkin'." The "Little Lady of the Manor," as President Ryall had called her, walked away with her nose in the air. Preferred to chop wood, did he? And it wasn't nice of him--it certainly wasn't nice--to set her thinking of that miserable old truck-farm and the days of her direst poverty. She was Dorothy Calvert now; a girl with a name and heiress of Deerhurst. She'd show him, horrid boy that he was! But just then his cheerful whistling reached her, and her indignation vanished. By no effort could she stay long angry with Jim. He was annoyingly "common-sensible," as he claimed, but he was also so straight and dependable that she admired him almost as much as she loved him. Yes, she had other friends now, and would doubtless gain many more, but none could ever be a truer one than this homely, plain-spoken lad. She spied the girls and Monty in the arbor and joined them; promptly announcing: "If our House Party is to be a success you three must help. Jim won't. He's going to chop wood. Monty, will you ride to the village and send that telegram to Mabel Bruce?" The lad looked up from the foot he had been contemplating and over which Molly and Alfy had been bending in sympathy, to answer by another question: "See that shoe, Dolly Calvert? Close shave that. Might have been my very flesh itself, and I'd have blood poisoning and an amputation, and then there'd have been telegrams sent--galore! Imagine my mother--if they had been!" "It wasn't your flesh, was it?" "That's as Yankee as I am. Always answer your own questions when you ask them and save a lot of trouble to the other fellow. No, I _wasn't_ hurt but I _might_ have been! Since I'm not, I'm at your service, Lady D. Providing you word your own message and give me a decent horse to ride." "There are none but 'decent' horses in our stable, Master Stark. I shall need Portia myself, or we girls will. You can go ask a groom to saddle one--that he thinks best. I see through you. You've just been getting these girls to waste sympathy on you and you shall be punished by our leaving you alone till lunch time. I'll write the message, of course. I'd be afraid you wouldn't put enough in. Only--let me think. How much do telegrams cost?" "Twenty-five cents for ten words," came the prompt reply. "But ten would hardly begin to talk! Is telephoning cheaper? You ought to know, being a boy." "Long distance telephoning is about as expensive a luxury as one can buy, young lady. But, why hesitate? It won't take all of that hundred dollars," he answered, swaggering a trifle over his superior knowledge. Out it came without pause or pretense, the dark suspicion that had risen in Dorothy's innocent mind: "But I haven't that hundred dollars! It's gone. It's--_stolen_!" "Dorothy Calvert! How dare you say such a thing?" It was Molly's horrified question that broke the long silence which had fallen on the group; and hearing her ask it gave to poor Dorothy the first realization of what an evil thing it was she had voiced. "I don't know! Oh! I don't know! I wish I hadn't. I didn't mean to tell, not yet; and I wish, I wish I had kept it to myself!" she cried in keen regret. For instantly she read in the young faces before her a reflection of her own hard suspicion and loss of faith in others; and something that her beloved Seth Winters had once said came to her mind: "Evil thoughts are more catching than the measles." Seth, that grand old "Learned Blacksmith!" To him she would go, at once, and he would help her in every way. Turning again to her mates she begged: "Forget that I fancied anybody might have taken it to keep. Of course, nobody would. Let's hurry in and get Mabel's invitation off. I think I've enough money to pay for a message long enough to explain what I want; and her fare here--well she'll have to pay that herself or her father will. I've asked to have Portia put to the pony cart and we girls will drive around and ask all the others. So glad they live on the mountain where we can get to them quick." "Dolly, shall you go to The Towers, to see that Montaigne girl?" asked Alfaretta, rather anxiously. "Yes, but you needn't go in if you don't want to, Alfy dear. I shall stay only just long enough to bid her welcome home and invite her for Saturday." "Oh! I shouldn't mind. I'd just as lief. Fact, I'd _admire_, only if I put on my best dress to go callin' in the morning what'll I have left to wear to the Party? And Ma Babcock says them Montaignes won't have folks around that ain't dressed up;" said the girl, so frankly that Molly laughed and Dorothy hastened to assure her: "That's a mistake, Alfy, dear, I think. They don't care about a person's clothes. It's what's inside the clothes that counts with sensible people, such as I believe they are. But, I'll tell you. It's not far from The Towers' gate to the old smithy and I must see Mr. Seth. I must. I'm so thankful that he didn't leave the mountain, too, with all the other grown-ups. So you can drop me at Helena's; and then you and Molly can drive around to all the other people we've decided to ask and invite them in my stead. You know where all of them live and Molly will go with you." "Can Alfy drive--safe?" asked Molly, rather anxiously. Dolly laughed. "Anybody can drive gentle Portia and Alfy is a mountain girl. But what a funny question for such a fearless rider as you, Molly Breckenridge!" "Not so funny as you think. It's one thing to be on the back of a horse you know and quite another to be behind the heels of another that its driver doesn't know! Never mind, Alfy. I'll trust you." "You can," Alfaretta complacently assured her; and the morning's drive proved her right. A happier girl had never lived than she as she thus acted deputy for the new little mistress of Deerhurst; whose story had lost none of its interest for the mountain folk because of its latest development. But it was not at all as a proud young heiress that Dorothy came at last to the shop under the Great Balm Tree and threw herself impetuously upon the breast of the farrier quietly reading beside his silent forge. "O, Mr. Seth! My darling Mr. Seth! I'm in terrible trouble and only you can help me!" His book went one way, his spectacles another, dashed from his hands by her heedless onrush; but he let them lie where they had fallen and putting his arm around her, assured her: "So am I. Therefore, let us condole with one another. You first." "I've lost Aunt Betty's hundred dollars!" Her friend fairly gasped, and held her from him to search her troubled face. "Whe-ew! That is serious. Yet lost articles are sometimes found. Out with the whole story, 'body and bones'--as my man Owen would say." Already relieved by the chance of telling her worries, Dorothy related the incidents of the night, and she met the sympathy she expected. But it was like the nature-loving Mr. Winters that he was more disturbed by the loss of the great chestnut tree than by that of the money. Also, the story of the stranger she had found wandering by the lily-pond moved him deeply. All suffering or afflicted creatures were precious in the sight of this noble old man and he commented now with pity on the distress of the friends from whom the unknown one had strayed. "How grieved they'll be! For it must have been from some private household she came, or escaped. There is no public asylum or retreat within many miles of our mountain, so far as I know. I wonder if we ought to advertise her in the local newspaper? Or, do you think it would be kinder to wait and let her people hunt her up? Tell me, Dolly, dear. The opinion of a child often goes straight to the point." "Oh! Don't advertise, please, Mr. Seth! Think. If she belonged to you or me we wouldn't want it put in the paper that--about--you know, the lost one being not quite right, someway. If anybody's loved her well enough to keep her out of an asylum they've loved her well enough to come and find her, quiet like, without anybody but kind hearted people having to know. If they don't love her--well, she's all right for now. Dinah's put her to bed and told me, just before I came away, that it was only the exposure which had made her ill. She had roused all right, after a nap, and had taken a real hearty breakfast. She's about as big as I am and Dinah's going to put some of my clothes on her while her own are done up. Everybody in the house was so interested and kind about her, I was surprised." "You needn't have been. People who have lived with such a mistress as Madam Betty Calvert must have learned kindness, even if they learned nothing else." Dorothy laughed. "Dear Mr. Seth, you love my darling Aunt Betty, too, don't you, like everybody does?" "Of course, and loyally. That doesn't prevent my thinking that she does unwise things." "O--oh!!" "Like giving a little girl one hundred dollars at a time to spend in foolishness." Dorothy protested: "It wasn't to be foolishness. It was to make people happy. You yourself say that to 'spread happiness' is the only thing worth while!" "Surely, but it doesn't take Uncle Sam's greenbacks to do that. Not many of them. When you've lived as long as I have you'll have learned that the things which dollars do _not_ buy are the things that count. Hello! 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'" The blacksmith rose as he finished his quotation and went to the wide doorway, across which a shadow had fallen, and from whence the sound of an irritable: "Whoa-oa, there!" had come. It was a rare patron of that old smithy and Seth concealed his surprise by addressing not the driver but the horse: "Well, George Fox! Good-morning to you!" George Fox was the property of miller Oliver Sands, and the Quaker and his steed were well known in all that locality. He was a fair-spoken man whom few loved and many feared, and between him and the "Learned Blacksmith" there was "no love lost." Why he had come to the smithy now Seth couldn't guess; nor why, as he stepped down from his buggy and observed, "I'd like to have thee look at George's off hind foot, farrier. He uses it----" he should do what he did. How it was "used" was not explained; for, leaving the animal where it stood, the miller sauntered into the building, hands in pockets, and over it in every part, even to its owner's private bedroom, as if he had a curiosity to see how his neighbor lived. Seth would have resented this, had it been worth while and if the miller's odd curiosity had not aroused the same feeling in himself. It was odd, he thought; but Seth Winters had nothing to hide and he didn't care. It was equally odd that George Fox's off hind foot was in perfect condition and had been newly shod at the other smithy, over the mountain, where all the miller's work was done. "It seems to be all right, Friend Oliver." "Forget that I troubled thee," answered the gray-clad Friend, as he climbed back to his seat and shook the reins over his horse's back, to instantly disappear down the road, but to leave a thoughtful neighbor, staring after him. "Hmm. That man's in trouble. I wonder what!" murmured Seth, more to himself than to Dorothy, who had drawn near to slip her hand in his. "Dear me! Everybody seems to be, this morning, Mr. Seth; and you haven't told me yours yet!" "Haven't I? Well, here it is!" He stooped his gray head to her brown one and whispered it in her ear; with the result that he had completely banished all her own anxieties and sent her laughing down the road toward home. CHAPTER V RIDDLES "There's a most remarkable thing about this House Party of ours! Every person invited has come and not one tried to get out of so doing! Three cheers for the Giver of the Party! and three times three for--all of us!" cried happy Seth Winters, from his seat of honor at the end of the great table in the dining-room, on the Saturday evening following. Lamps and candles shone, silver glittered, flower-bedecked and spotlessly clean, the wide apartment was a fit setting for the crowd of joyous young folk which had gathered in it for supper; and the cheers rang out as heartily as the master of the feast desired. Then said Alfaretta, triumphantly: "The Party has begun and I'm to it, I'm in it!" "So am I, so am I! Though I did have to invite myself!" returned Mr. Winters. "Strange that this little girl of mine should have left me out, that morning when she was inviting everybody, wholesale." For to remind her that he "hadn't been invited" was the "trouble" which he had stooped to whisper in Dorothy's ear, as she left him at the smithy door. So she had run home and with the aid of her friends already there had concocted a big-worded document, in which they begged his presence at Deerhurst for "A Week of Days," as they named the coming festivities; and also that he would be "Entertainer in Chief." "You see," confided Dolly, "now that the thing is settled and I've asked so many I begin to get a little scared. I've never been hostess before--not this way;--and sixteen people--I'm afraid I don't know enough to keep sixteen girls and boys real happy for a whole week. But dear Mr. Winters knows. Why, I believe that darling man could keep a world full happy, if he'd a mind." "Are you sorry you started the affair, Dolly Doodles? 'Cause if you are, you might write notes all round and have it given up. You'd better do that than be unhappy. Society folks would, I reckon," said Molly, in an effort to comfort her friend's anxiety. "I'm as bad as you are. It begins to seem as if we'd get dreadful tired before the week is out." "I'd be ashamed of myself if I did that, Molly, I'll go through with it even if none of you will help; though I must say I think it's--it's sort of mean for you boys, Jim and Monty, to beg off being 'committees.'" "The trouble with me, Dolly, is that my ideas have entirely given out. If you hadn't lost that hundred dollars I could get up a lot of jolly things. But without a cent in either of our pockets--Hmm," answered Monty, shrugging his shoulders. Jim said nothing. He was still a shy lad and while he meant to forget his awkwardness and help all he could he shrank from taking a prominent part in the coming affair. Alfaretta was the only one who wasn't dismayed, and her fear that the glorious event might be abandoned was ludicrous. "Pooh, Dorothy Calvert! I wouldn't be a 'fraid-cat, I wouldn't! Not if I was a rich girl like you've got to be and had this big house to do it in and folks to do the cookin' and sweepin', and--and rooms to sleep 'em in and everything!" she argued, breathlessly. "You funny, dear Alfaretta! It's not to be given up and I count on you more than anybody else to keep things going! With you and Mr. Seth--if he will--the Party cannot fail!" and Alfy's honest face was alight again. It had proved that the "Learned Blacksmith" "would" most gladly. At heart he was as young as any of them all and he had his own reasons for wishing to be at Deerhurst for a time. He had been more concerned than Dorothy perceived over the missing one hundred dollars, and he was anxious about the strange guest who had appeared in the night and who was so utterly unable to give an account of herself. So he had come, as had they all and now assembled for their first meal together, and Dorothy's hospitable anxiety had wholly vanished. Of course, all would go well. Of course, they would have a jolly time. The only trouble now, she thought, would be to choose among the many pleasures offering. There had been a new barn built at Deerhurst that summer, and a large one. This Mr. Winters had decreed should be the scene of their gayest hours with the big rooms of the old mansion for quieter ones; and to the barn they went on that first evening together, as soon as supper was over and the dusk fell. "Oh! how pretty!" cried Helena Montaigne, as she entered the place with her arm about Molly's waist, for they two had made instant friends. "I saw nothing so charming while I was abroad!" "Didn't you?" asked the other, wondering. "But it _is_ pretty!" In secret she feared that Helena would be a trifle "airish," and she felt that would be a pity. "Oh! oh! O-H!" almost screamed Dorothy, who had not been permitted to enter the barn for the last two days while, under the farrier's direction, the boys had had it in charge. Palms had been brought from the greenhouse and arranged "with their best foot forward" as Jim declared. Evergreens deftly placed made charming little nooks of greenery, where camp-chairs and rustic benches made comfortable resting places. Rafters were hung with strings of corn and gay-hued vegetables, while grape-vines with the fruit upon them covered the stalls and stanchions. Wire strung with Chinese lanterns gave all the light was needed and these were all aglow as the wide doors were thrown open and the merry company filed in. "My land of love!" cried Alfaretta. "It's just like a livin'-in-house, ain't it! There's even a stove and a chimney! Who ever heard tell of a stove in a barn?" "You have! And I, too, for the first time," said Littlejohn Smith at her elbow. "But I 'low it'll be real handy for the men in the winter time, to warm messes for the cattle and keep themselves from freezin'. Guess I know what it means to do your chores with your hands like chunks of ice! Wish to goodness Pa Smith could see this barn; 'twould make him open his eyes a little!" "A body could cook on that stove, it's so nice and flat. Or even pop corn," returned Alfaretta, practically. "Bet that's a notion! Say, Alfy, don't let on, but I'll slip home first chance I get and fetch some of that! I've got a lot left over from last year, 't I raised myself. I'll fetch my popper and if you can get a little butter out the house, some night, we'll give these folks the treat of their lives. What say?" Whatever might be the case with others of that famous Party these two old schoolmates were certainly "happy as blackbirds"--the only comparison that the girl found to fully suit their mood. When the premises had been fully explored and admired, cried Mr. Seth: "Blind man's buff! Who betters me?" "Nobody could--'Blind man's' it is!" seconded Monty, and gallantly offered: "I'll blind!" "Oh! no choosing! Do it the regular way," said Dolly. "Get in a row, please, all of you, and I'll begin with Herbert. 'Intry-mintry-cutry-corn; Apple-seed-and-apple-thorn; Wire-brier-limber-lock; Six-geese-in-a-flock; Sit-and-sing-by-the-spring; O-U-T--OUT!' Frazer Moore, you're--IT!" The bashful lad who was more astonished to find himself where he was than he could well express, and who had really been bullied into accepting Dorothy's invitation by his chum, Mike Martin, now awkwardly stepped forward from the circle. His face was as red as his hair and he felt as if he were all feet and hands, while it seemed to him that all the eyes in the room were boring into him, so pitilessly they watched him. In reality, if he had looked up, he would have seen that most of the company were only eagerly interested to begin the game, and that the supercilious glances cast his way came from Herbert Montaigne and Mabel Bruce alone. Another half-moment and awkwardness was forgotten. Dorothy had bandaged the blinder's eyes with Mr. Seth's big handkerchief, and in the welcome darkness thus afforded he realized nothing except that invisible hands were touching him, from this side and that, plucking at his jacket, tapping him upon the shoulder, and that he could catch none of them. Finally, a waft of perfume came his way, and the flutter of starched skirts, and with a lunge forward he clasped his arms about the figure of: "That girl from Baltimore! her turn!" he declared and was for pulling off the handkerchief, but was not allowed. "Which one? there are two Baltimore girls here, my lad. Which one have you caught?" Mabel squirmed, and Frazer's face grew a deeper red. He had been formally introduced, early upon Mabel's arrival, but had been too confused and self-conscious to understand her name. He was as anxious now to release her as she was to be set free, but his tormentors insisted: "Her name? her name? Not till you tell her name!" "I don't know--I mean--I--'tain't our Dolly, it's t'other one that's just come and smells like a--a drug store!" he answered, desperately, and loosened his arms. Mabel was glad enough to escape, blushing furiously at the way he had identified her, yet good-naturedly joining in the laugh of the others. Though she secretly resolved to be more careful in the use of scents of which she was extravagantly fond; and she allowed herself to be blindfolded at once, yet explaining: "Maybe I shall have to tell who you are by just such ways as he did me. I never was to a House Party before and you're all strangers, 'cept Dolly C., and anybody'd know her!" But it wasn't Dolly she captured. Susceptible Monty beheld in the little Baltimorean a wonderfully attractive vision. She was as short and as plump as he was. Her taste ran riot in colors, as did his own. He was bewildered by the mass of ruffles and frills that one short frock could display and he considered her manner of "doing" her hair as quite "too stylish for words." It was natural, therefore, that he should deliberately put himself in her way and try his best to be caught, while his observant mates heartlessly laughed at his unsuccessful maneuvers. But it was handsome Herbert upon whose capture Mabel's mind was set, and it was a disappointment that, instead of his arm she should clutch that of James Barlow. However, there was no help for it and she was obliged to blindfold in his turn the tall fellow who had to stoop to her shortness, while casting admiring glances upon the other lad. So the game went on till they were tired, and it was simple Molly Martin who suggested the next amusement. "My sake! I'm all beat out! I can't scarcely breathe, I've run and laughed so much. I never had so much fun in my life! Let's all sit down in a row and tell riddles. We'll get rested that way." To some there this seemed a very childish suggestion, but not to wise Seth Winters. The very fact that shy Molly Martin had so far forgotten her own self-consciousness as to offer her bit of entertainment argued well for the success of Dorothy's House Party with its oddly assorted members. But he surprised Helena's lifted eyebrows and the glance she exchanged with the other Molly, so hastened to endorse the proposition: "A happy thought, my lass; and as I'm the oldest 'child' here I'll open the game myself with one of the oldest riddles on record. Did anybody ever happen to hear of the Sphinx?" "Why, of course! Egypt----" began Monty eagerly, hoping to shine in the coming contest of wits. Seth Winters shook his head. "In one sense a correct answer; but, Jamie lad, out with it! I believe _you_ know which Sphinx I mean. All your delving into books--out with it, man!" "The monster of the ancients, I guess. That had the head of a woman, the body of a dog, the tail of a serpent, the wings of a bird, the paws of a lion, and a human voice;" answered Jim blushing a little thus to be airing his knowledge before so many. "The very creature! What connection had this beauty with riddles, if you please?" They were all listening now, and smiling a little over the old farrier's whimsical manner, as the boy student went on to explain: "The Sphinx was sent into Thebes by Juno for her private revenge. The fable is that he laid all that country waste by proposing riddles and killing all who could not guess them. The calamity was so great that Creon promised his crown to anyone who could guess one, and the guessing would mean the death of the Sphinx." "Why do you stop just there, Jim, in the most interesting part? Please go on and finish--if you can!" cried Dorothy. Mr. Winters also nodded and the boy added: "This was the riddle: What animal in the morning walks on four feet, at noon on two, and at evening on three?" "At it, youngsters, at it! Cudgel your brains for the answer. We don't want any mixed-anatomy Sphinxes rampaging around here," urged the farrier. Many and various were the guesses hazarded but each fell wide of the mark. Helena alone preserved a smiling silence and waited to hear what the others had to say. "Time's up! Five minutes to a riddle is more than ample. Helena has it, I see by the twinkle of her eyes. Well, my dear?" "I can't call it a real guess, Mr. Winters, for I read it, as James did the story. The answer is--_Man_. In his babyhood, the morning of life, he crawls or walks on 'all fours'; in youth and middle age he goes upright on two feet; and at evening, old age, he supplements them by a staff or crutch--his three feet." "Oh! how simple! Why couldn't I guess that!" exclaimed Molly, impatiently. "But who did solve the silly thing, first off?" "Oedipus; and this so angered the Sphinx that he dashed his head against a rock and so died." "Umm. I never dreamed there could be riddles like that," said Molly Martin; "all I thought of was 'Round as an apple, busy as a bee, The prettiest little thing you ever did see,' and such. I'd like to learn some others worth while, to tell of winter evenings before we go to bed." "I know a good one, please, Mr. Seth. Shall I tell it?" asked Frazer Moore. "Pa found it in a 'Farmers' Almanac,' so maybe the rest have seen it, too." "Begin, Frazer. Five minutes per riddle! If anybody knows it 'twon't take so long," advised Mr. Seth, whom Dolly had called "the Master of the Feast." "What is it men and women all despise, Yet one and all so highly prize? Which kings possess not? though full sure am I That for the luxury they often sigh. That never was for sale, yet, any day, The poorest beggar may the best display. The farmer needs it for his growing corn; Nor its dear comfort will the rich man scorn; Fittest for use within a sick friend's room, Its coming silent as spring's early bloom. A great, soft, yielding thing that no one fears-- A little thing oft wet with mother's tears. A thing so hol(e)y that when it we wear We screen it safely from the world's rude stare." "Hmm. Seems if there were handles enough to that long riddle, but I can't catch on to any of them. They contradict themselves so," cried Dorothy, after a long silence had followed Frazer's recitation. Handles enough, to be sure; but like Dorothy, nobody could grasp one, and as the five minutes ended the mountain lad had the proud knowledge that he had puzzled them all, and gayly announced: "That was an easy one! Every word I said fits--AN OLD SHOE!" "Oh!" "A-ah!" "How stupid I was not to see!" "'The farmer needs it for his growing corn!'" cried the Master, drawing up his foot and facetiously rubbing his toes. "Even a farmer may raise two kinds of corn," suggested he and thus solved one line over which Jane Potter was still puzzling. Thereupon, Monty sprang up and snapped his fingers, schoolroom fashion: "Master, Master! Me next! Me! I know one good as his and not near so long! My turn, please!" They all laughed. Laughter came easily now, provoked even by silliness, and again a thankful, happy feeling rose in the young hostess's heart that her House Party was to be so delightful to everybody. Helena Montaigne now sat resting shoulder to shoulder with proud Alfaretta upon a little divan of straw whose back was a row of grain sheaves; Mabel was radiant amid a trio of admiring lads--Monty, Mike Martin, and Danny Smith; Herbert was eagerly discussing camp-life with shy Melvin, who had warmed to enthusiasm over his Nova Scotian forests; and all the different elements of that young assembly were proving most harmonious, as even smaller parties, arranged by old hostesses, do not always prove. "All right, Master Montmorency. Make it easy, please. A diversion not a brain tax," answered Seth. "'If Rider Haggard had been Lew Wallace, what would 'She' have been?'" "'Ben Hur'!" promptly shouted Frazer, before another had a chance to speak, and Monty sank back with a well-feigned groan. "I read that in the Almanac, too. I've read 'Ben Hur,' it's in our school lib'ry, but not 'She,' though Pa told me that was another book, wrote by the other feller." "I'll never try again; I never do try to distinguish myself but I make a failure of it!" wailed Monty, jestingly. "But Herbert hasn't failed, nor Melvin. Let's have at least one more wit-sharpener," coaxed Dorothy. But Herbert declined, though courteously enough. "Indeed, Dorothy, I don't know a single riddle and I never could guess one. Try Melvin, instead, please." The English boy flushed, as he always did at finding himself observed, but he remembered that he had heard strangers comment upon the obligingness of the Canadians and he must maintain the honor of his beloved Province. So, after a trifling hesitation, he answered: "I can think of only one, Dorothy, and it's rather long, I fancy. My mother made me learn it as a punishment, once, when I was a little tacker, don't you know, and I never forgot it. The one by Lord Byron. I'll render that, if you wish." "We do wish, we do!" cried Molly, while the Master nodded approvingly. So without further prelude Melvin recited: "'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell, And Echo caught softly the sound as it fell; On the confines of Earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the Depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the Sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the Lightning and heard in the Thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest Breath, Attends at his Birth and awaits him in Death; It presides o'er his Happiness, Honor, and Health, Is the prop of his House and the end of his Wealth. Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the Wretch who expels it from Home. In the Whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the Whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'Twill not soften the Heart; and tho' deaf to the ear 'Twill make it acutely and instantly Hear. But in Shade, let it rest like a delicate flower-- Oh! Breathe on it softly--it dies in an Hour." Several had heard the riddle before and knew its significance; but those who had not found it as difficult to guess as Frazer's "Old Shoe" had been. So Melvin had to explain that it was a play of words each containing the letter H; and this explanation was no sooner given than a diversion was made by Mabel Bruce's irrelevant remark: "I never picked grapes off a vine in my life, never!" "Hi! Does that mean you want to do so now?" demanded Monty, alert. He, too, had grown tired of a game in which he did not excel, and eagerly followed the direction of her pointing, chubby finger. A finger on which sparkled a diamond ring, more fitting for a matron than a schoolgirl young as she. Along that side of the barn, rising from the hay strewn floor to the loft above, ran a row of upright posts set a few inches apart and designed to guard a great space beyond. This space was to be filled with the winter's stock of hay and its cemented bottom was several feet lower than the floor whereon the merry-makers sat. As yet but little hay had been stored there, and the posts which would give needful ventilation as well as keep the hay from falling inward, had been utilized now for decoration. The boyish decorators had not scrupled to rifle the Deerhurst vineyards of their most attractive vines, and the cluster of fruit on which Mabel had fixed a covetous eye was certainly a tempting one. The rays from two Chinese lanterns, hung near it, brought out its juicy lusciousness with even more than daylight clearness, and Mabel's mouth fairly watered for these translucent grapes. "That bunch? Of course you shall have it!" cried Monty, springing up and standing on tiptoe to reach what either Jim or Herbert could have plucked with ease. Alas! His efforts but hindered himself. The vine was only loosely twined around the upright and, as he grasped it, swung lightly about and the cluster he sought was forced to the inner side of the post, even higher than it had hung before. "Huh! That's what my father would call 'the aggravation of inanimate things'! Those grapes knew that you wanted them, that I wanted to get them for you, and see how they act? But I'll have them yet. Don't fear. That old fellow I camped-out with this last summer told me it was a coward who ever gave up 'discouraged.' I'll have that bunch of grapes--or I'll know the reason why! I almost reached them that time!" cried the struggler, proudly, and leaped again. By this time all the company was watching his efforts, the lads offering jeering suggestions about "sheets of paper to stand on," and Danny Smith even inquiring if the other was "practising for a climb on a greased pole, come next Fourth." Even the girls laughed over Monty's ludicrous attempts, though Mabel entreated him to give up and let somebody else try. "I--I rather guess not! When I set out to serve a lady I do it or die in the attempt!" returned the perspiring lad, vigorously waving aside the proffered help of his taller mates. "I--I--My heart! Oh! Jiminy! I--I'm stuck!" He was. One of the newly set uprights had slipped a little and again wedged itself fast; and between this and its neighbor, unfortunate Montmorency hung suspended, the upper half of his body forced inward over the empty "bay" and his fat legs left to wave wildly about in their effort to find a resting place. To add to his predicament, a scream of uncontrollable laughter rose from all the observers, even Mabel, in whose sake he so gallantly suffered, adding her shrill cackle to the others. All but the Master. Only the fleetest smile crossed his face, then it grew instantly grave as he said: "We've tried our hand at riddles but here's another, harder than any of the others. Monty is in a fix--how shall we get him out?" CHAPTER VI A MORNING CALL So ended the first "Day" of Dorothy's famous "Week." At sight of the gravity that had fallen upon Seth Winter's face her own sobered, though she had to turn her eyes away from the absurd appearance of poor Monty's waving legs. Then the legs ceased to wave and hung limp and inert. The Master silently pointed toward the door and gathering her girl guests about her the young hostess led them houseward, remarking: "That looks funnier than it is and dear Mr. Seth wants us out of the way. I reckon they'll have to cut that post down for I saw that even he and Jim together couldn't move it. It's so new and sticky, maybe--I don't know. Poor Monty!" "When he kept still, just now, I believe he fainted. I'm terribly frightened," said Helena Montaigne, laying a trembling hand on Dolly's shoulder. "It would be so perfectly awful to have your House Party broken up by a tragedy!" Mabel began to cry, and the two mountain girls, Molly Martin and Jane, slipped their arms about her to comfort her, Jane practically observing: "It takes a good deal to kill a boy. Ma says they've as many lives as a cat, and Ma knows. She brought up seven." "She didn't bring 'em far, then, Jane. They didn't grow to be more than a dozen years old, ary one of 'em. You're the last one left and you know it yourself," corrected the too-exact Alfaretta. "Pooh, Alfy! Don't talk solemn talk now. That Monty boy isn't dead yet and Janie's a girl. They'll get him out his fix, course, such a lot of folks around to help. And, Mabel, it wasn't your fault, anyway. He needn't have let himself get so fat, then he wouldn't have had no trouble. I could slip in and out them uprights, easy as fallin' off a log. He must be an awful eater. Fat folks gen'ally are," said Molly Martin. Mabel winced and shook off the comforter's embrace. She was "fat" herself and also "an awful eater," as Dolly could well remember and had been from the days of their earliest childhood. But the regretful girl could not stop crying and bitterly blamed herself for wanting "those horrible grapes. I'll never eat another grape as long as I live. I shall feel like--like a----" "Like a dear sensible girl, Mabel Bruce! And don't forget you haven't eaten any grapes _yet_, here. Of course, it will be all right. Molly Martin is sensible. Let's just go in and sit awhile in the library, where cook, Aunt Malinda, was going to put some cake and lemonade. There'll be a basket of fruit there, too; and we can have a little music, waiting for the boys to come in," said Dorothy, with more confidence in her voice than in her heart. Then when Mabel's tears had promptly ceased--could it have been at the mention of refreshments?--she added, considerately: "and let's all resolve not to say a single word about poor Monty's mishap. He's more sensitive than he seems and will be mortified enough, remembering how silly he looked, without our reminding him of it." "That's right, Dorothy. I'm glad you spoke of it. I'm sure nobody would wish to hurt his feelings and it was--ridiculous, one way;" added Helena, heartily, and Dorothy smiled gratefully upon her. She well knew that the rich girl's opinion carried weight with these poorer ones and of Alfaretta's teasing tongue she had been especially afraid. Nor was it long before they heard the boys come in, and from the merry voices and even whistling of the irrepressible Danny, they knew that the untoward incident had ended well. Yet when the lads had joined them, as eager for refreshments as Mabel now proved, neither Jim, Mr. Seth, nor Monty was with them; and, to the credit of all it was, that the subject of the misadventure did not come up at all, although inquisitive Alfy had fairly to bite her tongue to keep the questions back. They ended the evening by an hour in the music room, where gay college songs and a few old-fashioned "rounds" sent them all to bed a care-free, merry company; though Dorothy lingered long enough to write a brief note to Mrs. Calvert and to drop it into the letter-box whence it would find the earliest mail to town. A satisfactory little epistle to its recipient, though it said only this: "Our House Party is a success! Dear Mr. Seth is the nicest boy of the lot, and I know you're as glad as I am that he invited himself. I thank you and I love you, love you, love you! Dolly." Next morning, as beautiful a Sunday as ever dawned, came old Dinah to Dorothy with a long face, and the lament: "I cayn't fo' de life make dat li'l creatur' eat wid a fo'k an' howcome I erlows he' to eat to de table alongside you-alls, lak yo' tole me, Miss Do'thy? I'se done putten it into he' han', time an' time ergin, an' she jes natchally flings hit undah foot an' grabs a spoon. An' she stuffs an' stuffs, wussen you' fixin' er big tu'key. I'se gwine gib up teachin' he' mannehs. I sutney is. She ain' no quality, she ain'." "But that's all right, Dinah. She's only a child, a little child it seems to me. And whether she's 'quality' or not makes no difference. I've talked it all over with Mr. Seth and he says I may do as I like. Whoever she is, she's somebody! She came uninvited and sometimes it seems as if God sent her. She can't understand our good times but I want her to share them. So, now that you say she is perfectly well, just let her take the place at table near the door where we settled she should sit. Let Norah wait upon her and I do believe the sight of all of us, so happy, will give some happiness to her. 'Touched of God,' some people call these 'naturals.' She's a human being, she was once a girl like me, and she's simply--_not finished_! She isn't a bit repulsive and I'm sure it's right to have her with us all we can." "She's a ole woman, Miss Do'thy, she ain' no gal-chile. He' haid's whitah nor my Miss Betty's. I erlow she wouldn'----" "There, there, good Dinah! You and I have threshed this subject threadbare. You are so kind to me, have done and will do so much to make my Party go off all right, that I do hate to go against anything you say. But I can't give up in this. That poor little wanderer who strayed into Deerhurst grounds, whom nobody comes to claim, shall not be the first to find it inhospitable. I've written Aunt Betty all about this 'Luna' and I know she'll approve, just as Mr. Winters does. So don't try to keep her shut up out of sight, any longer, Dinah dear. It goes to my heart to see her pace, pace around any room you put her in by herself. Like a poor wild animal caged! It fairly made me shiver to see her, yesterday, when you led her into the great storeroom and left her. She followed you to the door and peered, and peered, out after you but didn't offer to follow. As if she were fastened by invisible chains and couldn't. Then around and around she went again, playing with those bits of bright rags you found in the pocket of her own dress. I'm so glad she likes that red one of mine and that it fits her so well. So don't worry, Dinah, over the proprieties of your Miss Betty's home. There's something better than propriety--that's loving kindness!" Nobody had ever accused old Dinah of want of kindness and Dorothy did not mean to do so now. The faithful woman had been devoted to the unknown visitor, from the moment of discovering her asleep upon the sun-parlor lounge; but she could not make it seem right that such an afflicted creature, and one who was evidently so far along in life, should mix at all familiarly with all those gay young people now staying in the house. But she had never heard her new "li'l Missy" talk at such length before and she was impressed by the multitude of words if not by their meaning. Besides, her quick ear had caught that "Luna," and she now impatiently demanded: "Howcome you' knows he' name, Miss Do'thy, an' nebah tole ole Dinah?" "Oh! I don't know it, honey. Not her real one. That's a fancy one I made up. She came to us in the moonlight and Luna stands for moon. So that's why, and that's all! So go, good Dinah, and send your charge in with Norah. All the others are down and waiting and, I hope, as hungry for their breakfast as I am!" Dinah departed, grumbling. In few things would she oppose her "Miss Do'thy" but in the matter of this "unfinished" stranger she felt strongly. However, she objected no more. If Mr. Seth Winters, her Miss Betty's trusted friend, endorsed such triflin', ornery gwines-on, she had no more to say. The blame was on his shoulders and not hers! Since nobody knew a better name for the stranger than "Luna" it was promptly accepted by all as a fitting one. She answered to it just as she answered to anything else--and that was not at all. She allowed herself to be led, fed, and otherwise attended, without resistance, and if she was especially comfortable she wore a happy smile on her small wrinkled face. But she never spoke and to the superstitious servants her silence seemed uncanny: "I just believe she could talk, if she wanted to, for she certainly hears quick enough. She's real impish, witch-like, and she fair gives me the creeps," complained Norah to a stable lad early on that Sunday morning. "And I don't half like for Miss Dolly to 'point me special nurse to the creatur'. I'd rather by far be left to me bedmakin' an' dustin'. She may be one of them 'little people' lives at home in old Ireland--that's the power to work ill charms on a body, if they wish it." "True ye say, Norah girl. 'Twas an' ill charm, she worked on me not an hour agone. I was in the back porch, slippin' off me stable jacket 'fore eatin' my food, an' Dinah had the creature by the hand scrubbin' a bit dirt off it. I was takin' my money out one pocket into another and quick as chain-lightnin' grabs this queer old woman and hides the money behind her. She may be a fool, indeed, but she knows money when she sees it! and the look on her was like a miser!" "Did you get it back, lad?" "'Deed, that did I! If there's one more'n another this Luny dwarf fears--and likes, too, which is odd!--it's old black Dinah; and even she had to squeeze the poor little hand tight to make its fingers open and the silver drop out. Then the creature forgot all about it same's she'd never seen it at all, at all. But Tim's learned his lesson, and 'tis that there's nobody in this world so silly 't he don't know money when he sees it! 'Twas a she this time, though just as greedy." But if Norah dreaded the charge of poor Luna the latter made very little trouble for her attendant. She did not understand the use of knife and fork and all her food had to be cut up, as for a helpless infant; but she fed herself with a spoon neatly enough, though in great haste. Afterwards she leaned back in her chair and stared vacantly at one or another of the young folks gathered around that big table. Finally, her eyes rested upon the gaily bedecked person of Mabel Bruce and a smile settled upon her features; while so unobtrusive was she that her presence was almost forgotten by the other, happy chatterers in the room. "Who's for church?" asked Mr. Winters, with a little tap on the table to secure attention. "Hands up, so I can count noses!" Every hand went up, even Luna following the example of the rest, quite unknowing why. Seeing this, Dorothy must needs leave her seat and run around to the poor thing's chair and pat her shoulder approvingly. "The landau will hold four, and it's four miles to our church. Who is for that?" again demanded the Master. There was a swift exchange of glances between him and the young hostess as she returned: "Shall I say?" "Aye, aye!" shouted Monty, with his ordinary fervor. The considerate silence of his house-mates concerning his mishap in the barn had restored his self-possession, and though he had felt silly and awkward when he had joined them he did not now. "Very well. Then I nominate Jane, Molly Martin, Alfaretta, and Mabel Bruce, for the state carriage," said Dorothy. "Sho! I thought if that was used at all 'twould be Helena and the other 'ristocratics would ride in that," whispered the delighted Alfy to Jane. But the young hostess had quickly reflected that landaus and other luxurious equipages were familiar and commonplace to her richer guests but that, probably, none of these others had ever ridden in such state; therefore the greater pleasure to them. The Master produced a slip of paper and checked off the names: "Landau, with the bays; and Ephraim and Boots in livery--settled. Next?" "There's the pony cart and Portia," suggested Dolly. "Helena and Melvin? Jolly Molly, and Jim to drive? Satisfactory all round?" again asked the note-taker; and if this second apportionment was not so at least nobody objected, although poor Jim looked forward to an eight-mile drive beside mischievous Molly Breckenridge with some misgiving. "Very well. I'll admit I never tackled such an amiable young crowd. Commonly, in parties as big as this there are just as many different wishes as there are people. I congratulate you, my dears, and may this beatific state of things continue till the end of the chapter!" cried Mr. Seth, really delighted. "Why, of course, Mr. Winters. How could we do otherwise? In society one never puts one's own desires in opposition to those of others. That's what society is for, is what it means, isn't it? Good breeding means unselfishness;" said Helena, then added, with a little flush of modesty: "Not that I am an oracle, but that's what I've read and--and seen--abroad." "Right, Miss Helena, and thank you for the explanation. And apropos of that subject: What's the oldest, most unalterable book of etiquette we have?" Nobody answered, apparently nobody knew; till Melvin timidly ventured: "I fancy it's the Bible, sir. My mother, don't you know, often remarks that anybody who makes the Bible a rule of conduct can't help being a gentleman or gentlewoman. Can't help it, don't you know?" Old Seth beamed upon the lad who had so bravely fought his own shyness, to answer when he could, and so prove himself by that same ancient Book a "gentleman." "Thank you, my boy. You've a mother to be proud of and she--has a pretty decent sort of son! However, we've arranged places for but half our number. As I said the distance is four miles going and it will seem about eight returning--we shall all be so desperately hungry. We might go to some church nearer except that at this distant one there will be to-day a famous preacher whom I would like you all to hear. He is a guest in the neighborhood and that is why we have this one chance. Come, Dolly Doodles. You're the hostess and must provide for your guests. How shall eight people be conveyed to that far-away church?" "I've been thinking, Master. There's the big open wagon, used for hauling stuff. It has a lot of seats belonging though only one is often used. So Ephy told me once. We could have the seats put in and the rest of us ride in that." "Good enough. The rest of us are wholly willing to be 'hauled' to please our southern hostess. The rest of us are--let's see." "You, Mr. Seth; Littlejohn and Danny; Mike and Frazer; Luna and me. Coming home, if we wish, some of us could change places. Well, Mabel? What is it? Don't you like the arrangement?" "Ye-es, I suppose so. Only--you've put four girls in our carriage and four boys in your own. That isn't dividing even; and if it's such an awful long way hadn't we--shouldn't--shan't we be terrible late to dinner?" Poor Mabel! Nature would out. That mountain air was famous for sharpening every newcomer's appetite and it had made hers perfectly ravenous. It seemed to her that she had never tasted such delicious food as Aunt Malinda prepared and that she should never be able to get enough. A shout of laughter greeted her question but did not dismay her, for the matter was too serious; and she was greatly relieved when the Master returned, kindly and with entire gravity: "Little Mabel is right. We shall all be glad of a 'snack' when service is over and before we start back. Dolly, please see that a basket of sandwiches is put up and carried along. Also a basket of grapes. Some of us are fond of grapes!" he finished, significantly, and that was the only reference made to the episode of the night before. But there was one more objector and that outspoken Alfy, who begged of Dorothy, in a sibilant whisper: "Do you mean it? Are you really goin' to take that loony Luna to meeting?" "I certainly am. She is not to be hidden, nor deprived of any pleasure my other guests enjoy. Besides, somebody who knows her may see and claim her. Poor thing! It's terrible that she can't tell us who she is nor where she belongs!" "Hmm. I'm glad she ain't goin' to ride alongside of me, then. Folks will stare so, on the road, at that old woman rigged out like a girl." "Never mind, Alfy dear. Let them stare. She's delighted with the red frock and hat, and it's something to have made her happy even that much. Remember how she clung to those bits of gay rags Dinah found on her? She certainly knows enough to love color, and I shall keep her close to me. I'd be afraid if I didn't her feelings might be hurt by--by somebody's thoughtlessness." "Mine, I s'pose you mean, Dorothy C. But--my stars and garters! Look a-there! Look round, I tell you, quick!" Dolly looked and her own eyes opened in amazement. Framed in the long window that reached to the piazza floor stood a curiously garbed old man holding firmly before him two tiny children. He wore an old black skull cap and a ragged cassock, and he announced in a croaking voice: "I pass these children on to you. I go to deliver the message upon which I am sent;" and having said this, before anyone could protest or interfere, he was disappearing down the driveway at an astonishing pace, as if his "message" abided not the slightest delay. CHAPTER VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING "Of all things! If that don't beat the Dutch!" cried Alfaretta, and at sound of her voice the others rallied from their amazement, while Mr. Winters begged: "Run, lads, some of you and stop that man. Owen Bryan spoke of a half-crazy fanatic, a self-ordained exhorter, who had lately come to the mountain and lived somewhere about, in hiding as it were. An escaped convict, he'd heard. Run. He mustn't leave those children here." Jim and Frazer were already on the way, obedient to the Master's first words, without tarrying to hear the conclusion of his speech. But they were not quick enough. They caught one glimpse of a ragged, flying cassock and no more. The man had vanished from sight, and though they lingered to search the low-growing evergreens, and every hidden nook bordering the drive, they could not find him. So they returned to report and were just in time to hear Dorothy and Molly questioning the babies, for they were little more than that. They were clad exactly alike, in little denim overalls, faded by many washings and stiff with starch. Their feet were bare as were their heads, and clinging to one another they stared with round-eyed curiosity into the great room. "Oh! aren't they cute! They're too funny for words. What's your name, little boy? If you are a boy!" demanded Molly. The little one shook her too familiar hand from his small shoulder and answered with a solemnity and distinctness that was amazing, when one anticipated an infantile lisp: "A-n an, a ana, n-i ni, anani, a-s as, Ananias." Monty Stark rolled over backward on the floor and fairly yelled in laughter, while the laughter of the others echoed his, but nothing perturbed by this reception of his, to him, commonplace statement, master Ananias looked about in cherubic satisfaction. Then again demanded Molly of the other midget. "What's yours, twinsy? For twins you must be!" Evidently tutored as to what would be expected of her the other child replied in exact imitation of her mate and with equal clearness: "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, sapphi, r-a ra, Sapphira." Utter silence greeted this absurd reply, then another noisy burst of laughter in which even the really disturbed Master joined. "Surely a man must be out of his mind to fasten such names on two such innocents! But they must be taken elsewhere. Deerhurst must not become a receptacle for all the cast-off burdens of humanity. I must go ask Bryan all he knows about the case," said Mr. Seth, as soon as he had recovered his gravity. But Dorothy nodded toward the great clock and with a frown he observed the hour. If they were to make ready for their long drive to church, yet be in time for the beginning of the service, they must be making ready, so he consented: "I don't suppose any great mischief can be done by their remaining here till we get back; but----" "Why not take them with us, Teacher?" asked Alfaretta. "We could take one in the lander with us." Her tone was as complacent as if the vehicle in question were her own and her head was tossed as she waited for his reply. But it was Dorothy who forestalled him and her decision was so sensible he did not oppose it: "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but I think we would better take them. If we leave them they may get into mischief and the servants have enough to do without worrying with them. They're so little we can tuck them into the big wagon with us and it won't hurt even babies to go to church. But I wonder which is which! Now they've moved around and changed places I can't tell which is Ananias and which Sapphira! Poor little kiddies, to be named after liars!" "I know. This one has a kink in its hair the other one hasn't. I think it was Sapphira. Or--was it Ananias? Baby, which are you?" Neither child replied. They clung each to the other and stared at this too inquisitive Molly Breckenridge with the disconcerting stare of childhood, till she turned away and gathering a handful of biscuits from the table bade them sit down and eat. She forbade them to drop a single crumb and they were obedient even to absurdity. A half-hour later the three vehicles were at the door and the happy guests made haste to take the places allotted them; the big wagon following last, with Luna smilingly, yet in a half-frightened clutch of Dorothy, sitting on the comfortable back seat. Mr. Seth had lifted her bodily into the wagon and she had submitted without realizing what was happening to her till the wagon began to move. Then she screamed, as if in terror, and hid her face on Dolly's shoulder. "Doan' take he'. 'Peah's lak she's done afeered o' ridin'. Nebah min', Miss Do'thy. Some yo' lads jes' han' he' down to Dinah and she'll be tooken' ca' ob, scusin' dey is a big dinnah in de way an' half de he'ps' Sunday out. Han' 'er down!" However, without physical force this was not to be done. When Jim strove to lift her, as he might easily have done in his strong arms, she clung the closer to her little hostess and screamed afresh. So he gave up the attempt and turned his attention to the twins, the last arriving members of this famous House Party. There was no reluctance about them--not the slightest. They were fairly dancing with impatience and Ananias--or was it Sapphira?--was already attempting to enter the "wagging" by way of climbing up the "nigh" horse's leg, while her--or his--mate clung to the spokes of the forward wheel, wholly ready to be whirled around and around with its forward progress. "Evidently, these babies aren't afraid to ride!" cried Dorothy, laughing yet half-frightened over the little creatures' boldness. "Please set them right on the bottom, between your knees and Littlejohn's, Mr. Seth! Then they'll be safe. And there, Luna dear, poor Luna, you see we're off at last and--isn't it just lovely?" Luna made no more response than usual but her hidden face sank lower and more heavily upon Dorothy's shoulder, till, presently, she was sound asleep. Then Mike Martin climbed back over the seats to the spot and deftly placed his own cushion behind the sleeper's head. Dolly thanked him with a smile but wondered to see him stare at the sleeper's face with that puzzled expression on his own. Then he scratched his head and asked in a whisper: "Can you tell who she looks like? Terrible familiar, somehow, but can't guess. Can you?" Dorothy shook her head. "No, I've never seen another like her. I hope I never will." "If we could think, we might find her folks and you could get rid of her," continued the lad. "I don't know as I'm so anxious to be rid of her. I do believe she's happy--happier than when she came--and--Look out! If the wagon goes over another thank-ye-ma-am and you're still standing up you'll likely be pitched over into the road. My! But the horses are in fine fettle this morning!" A fresh jolt made Mike cling fast to escape the accident she suggested and he returned to his place, riding on the uncushioned seat as cheerfully as any knight errant of old. Dorothy was his ideal of a girl. She had taught him the difference between bravery and bullying and she had been his inspiration in the task to which he had pledged himself--to be a peacemaker on the mountain. Once, her coolness and courage had saved his life, and on that day he had promised to fulfil her desire, to bridge the enmity between south-side and north-side. His methods had not always been such as Dorothy would have approved but the result was satisfactory. In school and out of it, peace prevailed on the "Heights," and Mike Martin was a nobler boy himself because of his efforts to make others noble. There was a little stir of excitement in the small country church when Seth Winters and his following of young folks entered it, and by mere force of numbers so impressing the ushers that the very front pews were vacated in their behalf, although the farrier protested against this. However, he wasn't sorry to have his company all together, and motioned Dorothy into the same pew with himself, and to a place directly under the pulpit. Into this, also, they led the still drowsy Luna, Dorothy gently settling her in the corner with her head resting upon the pew's back, and here she slept on during most of the service. Here, also, they settled the twins, but could not avoid seeing the curious and amused glances cast upon this odd pair as they trotted up the aisle in Dorothy's wake. "Two peas in a pod," whispered one farmer's wife to her seat neighbor. "Where'd they pick up two such little owls? They're all eyes and solemn as the parson himself, but them ridiculous clothes! My heart! What won't fashionable folks do next, to make their youngsters look different from ours!" returned the other. Nobody guessed that the funny little creatures were an accidental addition to the House Party; and after the strangers were settled nobody was further concerned with them. The service began and duly proceeded. The singing was congregational and in it all the young people joined, making the familiar hymns seem uncommonly beautiful to the hearers; and it was not till the sermon was well under way that anything unusual happened to divert attention. Then there came a soft yet heavy patter on the uncarpeted aisle and two black animals stalked majestically forward and seated themselves upon their haunches directly beneath the pulpit. With an air of profound interest they fixed their eyes upon the speaker therein and, for an instant, disconcerted even that self-possessed orator. "Ponce and Peter! Aunt Betty's Great Danes! However has this happened!" thought poor Dorothy, unable quite to control a smile yet wofully anxious lest the dogs should create a disturbance. However, nothing happened. The Danes might have been regular worshipers in the place for all notice was accorded them by the well trained congregation; and after they were tired of watching the minister the animals quietly stretched themselves to sleep. Their movement and the prodigious yawn of one had bad results. The twins had been having their own peaceful naps upon the kneeling bench at Mr. Seth's feet, but, now, with the suddenness native to them, awoke, discovered the dogs, and leaped out of the pew into the aisle. There they flung themselves upon the dogs with shrieks of delight. It was as if they had found old friends and playmates--as later developments proved to be true. Poor Mr. Winters stared in consternation. He detested a scene but saw one imminent; and how to get both dogs and babies out of that sacred place without great trouble he could not guess. But Dorothy put her hand on his arm and gently patted it. She, too, was frightened but she trusted the animals' instincts; she was right. After a moment's sniffing of the twins, they quietly lay down again and the twins did likewise! and though they did not go to sleep again they behaved well enough, until growing impassioned with his own eloquence the speaker lifted his voice loudly and imploringly. That was a sound they knew. Up sprang one and shouted: "Amen!" and up sprang the other and echoed him! The minister flushed, stammered, and valiantly went on; but he never reached the climax of that sermon. Those continually interrupting groans and "Amens!" uttered in that childish treble, were too much for him. A suppressed titter ran over the whole congregation, in which all the Deerhurst party joined though they strove not to do so; and amid that subdued mirth the clergyman brought his discourse to a sudden end. The benediction spoken there was a rush for the door, in which the Great Danes and the twins led; riotously tumbling over one another, barking and squealing, while the outpouring congregation stepped aside to give them way. Happy-hearted Seth Winters had rarely felt so annoyed or mortified, while Dorothy's face was scarlet even though her lips twitched with laughter. These two lingered in their places till the clergyman descended from his pulpit and prepared to leave the church. Then they advanced and offered what apologies they could; the farrier relating in few words the story of the morning and disclaiming any knowledge as to the identity of the twins or how the dogs had been set loose. "Don't mention it. Of course, I could see that it was accidental, and it isn't of the slightest consequence. Doubtless I had preached as long as was good for my hearers and--I wish you good morning," said the minister, smiling but rather hastily moving away. Mr. Winters also bowed and followed his party out of doors. But he wasn't smiling, not in the least; and it was a timid touch Dorothy laid upon his arm as she came to the big wagon to take her place for the drive home. He looked down at her, and at sight of tears in her eyes, his anger melted. "There, there, child, don't fret! It was one of those unavoidable annoyances that really amount to nothing yet are so hard to bear. Here, let me swing you up. But we must get rid of those youngsters! Sabbath day or not I shall make it my business so to do at the earliest possible moment. By the way, where are they now?" For a moment nobody could say, though the Deerhurst wagons waited while the lads searched and all the regular congregation departed to their homes. Then called Mabel from her seat of honor in the landau: "Dolly Doodles, whilst we're waiting we might as well eat our lunch." For once Mabel's greediness served her neighbors a good purpose. Mr. Seth promptly replied, with something like a wink in Dorothy's direction: "Couldn't do better. There's the church well, too, a famous one, from which to quench our thirst. There's an old saying that 'Meal time brings all rogues home' and likely the presence of food may attract our little runaways. Indeed, I've half a mind to leave them behind, any way. 'Pass them on' to the world at large as that old man 'passed them on' to us." To this there was protest from every side, even Alfaretta declaring she had never heard of such a heartless thing! But she need not have feared, and Dorothy certainly did not. She knew the big heart of her old friend too well; and producing the basket of sandwiches she went about offering them to all. Nobody declined although Monty triumphantly exclaimed: "We haven't any right to be so hungry for an hour yet, 'cause if the dogs hadn't come to church we'd have been kept in that much longer." Then still munching a sandwich he set about to bring water for all, in the one tin dipper that hung by the well, the other lads relieving him from time to time. They were all so merry, so innocently happy under the great trees which bordered the church grounds, that the Master grew happy, too, watching and listening to them and forgot the untoward incident of the service; even forgot, for a moment, that either twins or dogs existed. Then, after both fruit and sandwich baskets had been wholly emptied and all had declared they wanted no more water, the cavalcade prepared to move; Dorothy begging: "Can Luna and I sit on the front seat, with Littlejohn driving, going back? See, she's no longer afraid and I always do love to ride close to the horses." "Very well. Here goes then," answered Mr. Seth gently lifting Luna--wholly unresisting now and placidly smiling--to the place desired while Dolly swiftly sprang after. Then the others seated themselves and Ephraim cracked his whip, the landau leading as befitted its grandeur. Then there were shrieks for delay. From Molly Breckenridge at first, echoed by piping little tongues as the lost "twinses" came into sight. Over the stone wall bordering the road leaped Ponce and Peter, dripping wet and shaking their great bodies vigorously, the while they yelped and barked in sheer delight. Behind them Ananias and Sapphira, equally wet, equally noisy, equally rapturous, and beginning at once to climb into the richly cushioned landau as fast as their funny little legs would permit. Then came another shriek as, rather than let her beautiful clothes be smirched by contact with the drenched children, Mabel Bruce drew her skirts about her, gave one headlong leap to the ground, and fell prone. CHAPTER VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS The laughter which rose to the lips of some of the observers was promptly checked as they saw that the girl lay perfectly still in the dust where she had fallen, making no effort to rise, and unconscious of her injured finery. "She'd better have kep' still an' let 'em wet her," said Alfy, nudging Jane Potter. "She ain't gettin' up because she can't," answered Jane and sprang out of the landau, to kneel beside the prostrate girl; then to look up and cry out: "She's hurt! She's dreadful hurt!" Unhappy Mr. Winters set his teeth and his lips were grim. "If ever I'm so misguided as to engineer another young folks' House Party, I hope----" He didn't express this "hope" but stooped and with utmost tenderness lifted Mabel to her feet. She had begun to rally from the shock of her fall and opened her eyes again, while the pallor that had banished her usual rosiness began to yield to the returning circulation. Already many hands were outstretched to help, some with the dipper from the well, others with dripping wooden plates whereon their luncheon had been packed. Mabel pushed the plates aside, fretfully, explaining as soon as she could speak: "If that gets on my clothes--they're so dusty--Oh! what made me--Oh! oh! A-ah!" Then she began to laugh and cry alternately, as the misfortune and its absurdity fully appeared, and Helena saw that the girl was fast becoming hysterical. Evidently, in their wearer's eyes, the beautiful frock now so badly smirched and the white gloves which had split asunder in her fall were treasures beyond compute, and Helena herself loved pretty clothes. She felt a keen sympathy in that and another respect--she had suffered from hysteria and always went prepared for an emergency. Stepping quietly to Mabel's side, she waved aside the other eager helpers, saying: "I'm going to ride back in the landau, Alfy, please take my place in the cart. Here, Mabel, swallow a drop of this medicine. 'Twill set you right at once." Her movements and words were as decided as they were quiet and Mabel unconsciously obeyed. She submitted to be helped back into the carriage and as Helena took the empty seat beside her, Ephraim drove swiftly away. Thus ignored the dripping twins stared ruefully after the vanishing vehicle and Mr. Seth looked as ruefully at them. But Molly begged: "Let them go in the cart with us. Alfy's frock and mine will wash, even if they soil us. One can ride between Jim and me and Melvin and Alfy must look after the other. Let's choose. I take Ananias. I just love boys!" "Be sure you've chosen one then," laughed Jim as he rather gingerly picked up one infant and placed it behind the dashboard. He had on his own Sunday attire and realized the cost of it, so objected almost as strongly as Mabel had done to contact with this well-soused youngster. "Say, sonny, what made you tumble in the brook? Don't you know this is Sunday?" "Yep. Didn't tumble, just _went_. I'm no 'sonny'; I'm sissy. S-a-p sap, p-h-i----" began the little one, glibly and distinctly. "You can't be! You surely are Ananias! Your hair is cut exactly like a boy's and you wear boy's panties! You're spelling the wrong name. Look out! What next?" cried Molly anxiously, as the active baby suddenly climbed over the back of that seat to join her mate behind. There master Ananias--or was it really Sapphira?--cuddled down on the rug in the bottom of the cart and settled himself--herself--for sleep. Neither Alfy nor Melvin interfered with these too-close small neighbors; but withdrawing to the extreme edges of the seat left them to sleep and get dry at their leisure. After that the homeward drive proceeded in peace; only Herbert calling out now and then from his place in the big wagon to make Melvin admire some particular beauty of the scene, challenging the Provincial to beat it if he could in that far away Markland of his own. "But you haven't the sea!" retorted Melvin, proudly. "We don't need it. We have the HUDSON RIVER!" came as swiftly back; and as they had come just then to a turn in the road where an ancient building stood beneath a canopy of trees, he asked: "Hold up the horses a minute, will you, Littlejohn? I'd like our English friend to say if he ever saw anything more picturesque than this." "This" was a more than century-old Friends' meeting-house. Unpainted and shingled all over its outward surface. "Old shingle-sides" was its local name, and a lovelier location could not have been chosen even by a less austere body of worshipers. Meeting had been prolonged that First Day. The hand clasp of neighbor with neighbor which signaled its close had just been given. From the doorways on either side, the men's and the women's, these silent worshipers were now issuing; the men to seek the vehicles waiting beneath the long shed and the women to gossip a moment of neighborhood affairs. Mr. Winters was willing to rest and "breathe the horses" for a little, the day being warm and the drive long, and to observe with interest the decorous home-going of these Plain People; and it so chanced that the big wagon, where Dorothy sat on the front seat with Luna resting against her, halted just beside the entrance to the meeting-house grounds. From her place she watched the departing congregation with the keen interest she brought to everything; and among them she recognized the familiar outlines of George Fox, the miller's fine horse; and, holding the reins over its back, Oliver Sands, the miller himself. So close he drove to the big wagon that George Fox's nose touched Littlejohn's leader, and the boy pulled back a little. "Huh! That's old Oliver in his First Day grays! But he's in the grumps. Guess the Spirit hasn't moved him to anything pleasant, by the look," he remarked to Dorothy beside him. "He does look as if he were in trouble. I don't like him. I never did. He wasn't--well, nice to Father John once. But I'm sorry he's unhappy. Nobody ought to be on such a heavenly day." If Oliver saw those watching beside the gate he made no sign. His fat shoulders, commonly so erect, were bowed as if he had suddenly grown old. His face had lost its unctuous smile and was haggard with care; and for once he paid no heed to George Fox's un-Quakerlike gambols, fraught with danger to the open buggy he drew. A pale-faced woman in the orthodox attire of the birthright Friends sat beside the miller and clung to him in evident terror at the horse's behavior. It was she who saw how close the contact between their own and the Deerhurst team, and her eye fell anxiously upon the two girlish figures upon the front seat of the wagon. For a girl the unknown Luna seemed, clad in the scarlet frock and hat that Dorothy had given; while Dolly, herself, clasping the little creature close lest she should be frightened looked even younger than she was. "Sisters," thought Dorcas Sands, "yet not alike." Then casting a second, critical glance upon Luna she uttered a strange cry and clutched her husband's arm. "Dorcas, thee is too old for foolishness," was all the heed he paid to her gesture, and drove stolidly on, unseeing aught but his own inward perturbation which had found no solace in that morning's Meeting. Dorcas looked back once over her shoulder and Dorothy returned a friendly smile to the sweet old face in the white-lined gray bonnet. Then the bonnet faced about again and George Fox whisked its wearer out of sight. "I declare I'd love to be a Quakeress and wear such clothes as these women do. They look so sweet and peaceful and happy. As if nothing ever troubled them. Don't you think they're lovely, Littlejohn?" "Huh! I don't know. That there Mrs. Sands--Dorcas Sands is the way she's called 'cause the Friends don't give nobody titles--I guess there ain't a more unhappy woman on our mountain than her." "Why, Littlejohn! Fancy! With such a--a good man; isn't he?" "Good accordin' as you call goodness. He ain't bad, not so bad; only you want to look sharp when you have dealings with him. They say he measures the milk his folks use in the cookin' and if more butter goes one week than he thinks ought to he skimps 'em the next. I ain't stuck on that kind of a man, myself, even if he is all-fired rich. Gid-dap, boys!" With which expression of his sentiments the young mountaineer touched up the team that had rather lagged behind the others and the conversation dropped. But during all that homeward ride there lingered in Dorothy's memory that strange, startled, half-cognizant gaze which gentle Dorcas Sands had cast upon poor Luna. But by this time, the afflicted guest had become as one of the family; and the fleeting interest of any passer-by was accepted as mere curiosity and soon forgotten. After dinner Mr. Winters disappeared; and the younger members of the House Party disposed themselves after their desires; some for a stroll in the woods, some in select, cosy spots for quiet reading; and a few--as Mabel, Helena, and Monty--for a nap. But all gathered again at supper-time and a happy evening followed; with music and talk and a brief bedtime service at which the Master officiated. But Dorothy noticed that he still looked anxious and that he was preoccupied, a manner wholly new to her beloved Mr. Seth. So, as she bade him good-night she asked: "Is it anything I can help, dear Master?" "Why do you fancy anything's amiss, lassie?" "Oh! you show it in your eyes. Can I help?" "Yes. You may break the news to Dinah that those twins are on our hands for--to-night at least. I'm sorry, but together you two must find them a place to sleep. We can't be unchristian you know--not on the Lord's own day!" He smiled his familiar, whimsical smile as he said this and it reassured the girl at once. Pointing to a distant corner of the room, where some considerate person had tossed down a sofa cushion, she showed him the ill-named babies asleep with their arms about each other's neck and their red lips parted in happy slumber. "They've found their own place you see; will it do?" "Admirable! They're like kittens or puppies--one spot's as good as another. Throw a rug over them and let them be. I think they'll need nothing more to-night, but if they do they're of the sort will make it known. Good-night, little Dorothy. Sleep well." After a custom which Father John had taught her, though he could not himself explain it, Dorothy "set her mind" like an alarm clock to wake her at six the next morning and it did so. She bathed and dressed with utmost carefulness and succeeded in doing this without waking anybody. Those whose business it was to be awake, as the house servants, gave her a silent nod for good-morning and smiled to think of her energy. The reason appeared when she drew a chair to a desk by the library window and wrote the following letter: "MY DARLING AUNT BETTY: "Good-morning, please, and I hope you'll have a happy day. I've written you a post card or a letter every day since you went away but I haven't had one back. I wonder and am sorry but I suppose you are too busy with your sick friend. I hope you aren't angry with me for anything. I was terrible sorry about somebody--losing--stealing that money! There, it's out! and I feel better. Sorrier, too, about it's being _him_. Well, that's gone, and as you have so much more I guess you won't care much. Besides, we don't need much. Dear Mr. Seth is just too splendid for words. He thinks of something nice to do all the time. "Yesterday we went to church and so did the dogs and the twins. I haven't told you about them for this is the first letter since they came and that was just after breakfast Sunday. A crazy man brought them and said he'd 'passed them on.' They're the cutest little mites with such horrible names--Ananias and Sapphira! Imagine anybody cruel enough to give babies those names. They aren't much bigger than buttons but they talk as plain as you do. They said 'A-ah!' and 'A-A-men!' in the middle of the sermon and stopped the minister preaching. I wasn't sorry they did for I didn't know what they'd do next nor Luna either. They three and Mr. Seth are the uninvited, or self-invited, ones and they're more fun than all the rest. Mabel fell out the carriage, or jumped out, and spoiled her dress and fainted away. "My House Party is just fine! Monty got stuck in the barn and had to be sawed apart. I mean the barn had to be, not Monty; and not one of us said a word about it. "I'm writing this before the rest are up because afterward I shan't have a minute's chance. It's a great care to have a House Party, though the Master--we call Mr. Winters that, all of us--takes the care. I don't know what we would do without him, and what we can without that stolen money. Monty says if he had that or had some of his own, he'd be able to manage without any old Master, he would. That was when he wanted to go sailing Sunday afternoon and Mr. Seth said 'no.' "Monty's real smooth outside but he has prickly tempers sometimes; and I guess he--he sort of 'sassed' the Master, 'cause he refused to give us any money to hire a sail boat and Monty hadn't any left himself. But it all blew over. Mr. Seth doesn't seem to mind Monty any more'n he does his tortoise-shell cat; and he's a very nice boy, a very nice boy, indeed. So are they all. I'm proud of them all. So is Mabel. So is Molly B. Those two are so proud they squabble quite consid'able over which is the nicest, and the boys just laugh. "Oh! I must stop. It's getting real near breakfast time; and dear Aunt Betty, will you please send me another one hundred dollars by the return of the mail? I mean as quick as you can. You see to-day, we're going around visiting 'Headquarters' of all the revolution people. There's a lot of them and they won't cost anything to see; but to-morrow there's 'The Greatest Show on Earth' coming to Newburgh and I _must_ take my guests to it. I really must. "Good-by, darling Aunt Betty. "DOROTHY. "P. S.--I've heard that people can telegraph money and that it goes quicker that way. Please do it. "D. "P. P. S.--Mr Seth says that this Headquartering will be as good as the circus, but it isn't easy to believe; and Melvin isn't particularly pleased over the trip. I suppose that's because our folks whipped his; and please be sure to telegraph the money at once. The tickets are fifty cents a-piece and ten cents extra for every side-show; and Molly and I have ciphered it out that it will take a lot, more'n I'd like to have the Master pay, generous as he is. Isn't it lovely to be a rich girl and just ask for as much money as you want and get it? Oh! I love you, Aunt Betty! "DOROTHY; for sure the last time." One of the men was going to early market and by him the writer dispatched this epistle. Promptly posted, it reached Mrs. Calvert that morning, who replied as promptly and by telegram as her young relative had requested. The yellow envelope was awaiting Dorothy that evening, when she came home from "Headquartering" with her guests, and she opened it eagerly. But there seemed something wrong with the message. Having read it in silence once--twice--three times, she crumpled it in her hand and dashed out of the room scarlet with shame and anger. CHAPTER IX HEADQUARTERS "Well, lads and lassies--or lassies and lads, it's due you to hear all I've found out concerning Ananias and Sapphira. I don't believe that those are their real names but I've heard no other. The curious old man who left them here is, presumably, insane on the subject of religion. He appeared on the mountain early in the summer, with these little ones, and preëmpted that tumble-down cottage over the bluff beyond our gates. Most of you know it by sight; eh?" "Yes, indeed! It looks as if it had been thrown over the edge of the road, just there where it's so steep. Old Griselda, the lodge-keeper's wife I live with claims it's haunted, and always has been. Hans says not, except by tramps and such," answered James Barlow. "Tramps? Are tramps on this mountain? Oh! I don't like that. I'd have been afraid to come if I'd known that!" protested Molly Breckenridge with a little shiver. Of course they all laughed at her and Monty valiantly assured her: "Don't you worry. I'm here." Then added as an after-thought, "and so are the other boys." Laughter came easily that Monday morning and it was Monty's turn to get his share of it, and he accepted it with great good nature. They were such a happy company with almost a whole week of unknown enjoyment before them, and the gravity of Mr. Seth's face did not affect their own hilarity. Dorothy had confided to Alfaretta that she had written to Mrs. Calvert for "another hundred dollars" and the matter was a "secret" between these two. "You, Alfy dear, because you never had, and likely never will have, a hundred dollars of your own, may have the privilege of planning what we will do with mine. That's to prove I love you; and if you plan nice things--real nice ones, Alfy--I'll spend it just as you want." Sensible, but not too-sensitive, Alfaretta shook her head, and asked: "Do you know how to make a hare pie?" "Why, of course not. How should I? I'm not a cook!" "First catch your hare! You haven't got your money yet and I shan't wear my brains out, plannin' no plans--yet. You couldn't get up nicer times'n the Master does, and he hasn't spent a cent on this House Party, so far forth as I know, savin' what he put in the collection plate to church, yesterday. Come on; he promised to tell all he'd found out about the twinses and all the rest of us is listenin' to him now." So Dorothy had followed to the wide piazza where the young people had grouped themselves affectionately about their beloved Master; who now repeated for the newcomers' information: "The old man is the children's grandfather, on their father's side. The twins are orphans, whom the mother's family repudiate, and he has cared for them, off and on, ever since their father died, as their mother did when they were born." "Oh! the poor little creatures!" cried Helena Montaigne, and snuggled a twin to her side; while there were tears in Molly Breckenridge's eyes as she caressed the other. "I said 'off and on.' The off times are when the old man is seized by the desire to preach to anyone who will listen. Then he wanders away, sleeps where the night finds him, and eats what charity bestows. Ordinarily, he does not so much as place the babies anywhere; just leaves them to chance. When they are with him he is very stern with them, punishing them severely if they disobey his least command; and they are greatly afraid of him. Well, here they are! I've tried to place them elsewhere, in a legitimate home; but I hesitate about an Orphanage until--Time sometimes softens hard hearts!" with this curious ending Mr. Winters relapsed into a profound reverie and nobody presumed to disturb him. Until Mabel Bruce suddenly demanded: "Where's their other clothes?" The farrier laughed. Mabel was an interesting study to him. He had never seen a little girl just like her; and he answered promptly: "That's what neither Norah nor I can find out. Only from the appearance of some ashes in the fireplace of the hut I fear they have been burned. I took Norah down there early this morning, for a woman sees more than a man, but even she was disappointed. However, that's easily remedied. One of the Headquarters we shall visit is in Newburgh, where are also many shops. Some of you girls must take the little tackers to one of these places and outfit them with what is actually needed. Nothing more; and I will pay the bill." "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but you will not! I will pay myself," cried Dorothy, eagerly. "With what, Dolly dear? I thought you were the most impecunious young person of the lot." "I am--just now; but I shan't be long," answered the young hostess, with a confident wink in Alfaretta's direction. To which that matter-of-fact maid replied by a contemptuous toss of her head and the enigmatical words: "Hare pie!" "Wagons all ready, Mr. Winters!" announced a stable boy, appearing around the house corner. "Passengers all ready!" shouted Danny Smith, perhaps the very happiest member of that happy Party. Never in his short, hard-worked life had he recreated for a whole week, with no chores to do, no reprimands to hear, and no solitude in distant corn-fields where the only sound he heard was the whack-whack of his own hoe. A week of idleness, jolly companionship, feasting and luxury--Danny had to rub his eyes, sometimes, to see if he were really awake. "All ready, all?" "All ready!" Much in the order of their Sunday's division they settled themselves for the drive to Newburgh, where the first stop was to be made, except that Molly Breckenridge declared she must ride beside Dorothy, having something most important to discuss with her friend. Also, she insisted that the twins ride with them, on the wagon-bottom between their feet. "They can't fall out that way, and it's about them--I'll tell everybody later." It was an hour when nobody wished to dash the pleasure of anybody else, so Mr. Seth nodded compliance; saying: "Then I'll take this other little lady alongside myself!" and lifted Luna to the place. This time she showed neither fear nor hesitation. She accepted the situation with that blankly smiling countenance she wore when she was physically comfortable, and the horses had not traveled far before her head drooped against the Master's shoulder, as it had against Dorothy's, and she fell asleep. "Poor thing! She has so little strength. She looks well but the least exertion exhausts her. Like one who has been imprisoned till he has lost the use of his limbs. I wonder who she is! I wonder, are we doing right not to advertise her!" thought the farrier; then contented himself with his former arguments against the advertising and the fact that Mrs. Calvert would soon be coming home and would decide the matter at once. "Cousin Betty can solve many a riddle, and will this one. Meanwhile, the waif is well cared for and as happy as she can ever be, I fancy. Best not to disturb her yet." When the wagon stopped at the door of the old stone Headquarters on the outskirts of Newburgh city, Helena said: "It will save time, Mr. Winters, if some of us drive on to the business streets and do the shopping for these twins. I'm familiar with this old house--have often brought our guests to see it; so I could help in the errands." "And I!" "And I!" cried Molly and Dolly, together. "Our school used to come here to study history, sometimes, right from the very things themselves. Besides--" Here Molly gave her chum such a pinch on the arm that Dolly ended her explanation with a squeal. So it was quickly settled. Mr. Winters handed Helena his purse, which she at first politely declined to take--having designs herself in that line. But when he as courteously and firmly insisted, she took it and said no more. Helena Montaigne would never carry her own wishes to the point of rudeness; yet in her heart she was longing to clothe the really pretty children after a fancy of her own. However, she put this wish aside, and the three girls with the orphans were swiftly driven to the best department stores the city afforded. Here trouble awaited. At the statement that one was a girl and one a boy--which her own perception would not have taught her--the saleswoman produced garments suitable for the two sexes. "Now which shall I fit first?" she asked smiling at the close resemblance of the pair. "Why, ladies first, I suppose!" laughed Helena and moved one child forward. The other immediately placed itself alongside, and Molly exclaimed: "Now, I don't know which is which! Anybody got a ribbon? or anything will answer to tie upon one and so distinguish them. Baby, which are _you_?" The twin she had clasped smiled at her seraphically but made no reply; merely cocked its flaxen head aside and thrust its finger in mouth. At once its mate did likewise, and Helena tossed her hands in comical dismay. "Oh! Get the ribbon, please! Then we'll make them _spell_ themselves and tie the mark on before we forget." So they did; and the attendant listened in amusement to the performance; till finding themselves of so much interest to others the midgets began again glibly to spell and--both together. Prancing and giggling, fully realizing their own mischievousness, the babies made that hour of shopping one which all concerned--save themselves--long remembered. Also, if there were the slightest difference between the garments selected for them they set up such a violent protest that peace could only be restored by clothing them alike. So they emerged from the establishment clad in snowy little suits that seemed as fitting for a girl as for a boy, with pretty hats which they elected to wear upon their backs, and sandals on their stubby feet--the nearest approach to shoes to which they would submit. A big box of suitable underwear was put into the wagon and they were lifted in after it, while Molly begged to walk a block or two till she found a confectioner's. Here she expended all her pocket-money, and climbing back beside Dorothy politely opened her big box and offered it to her friends. Incidentally, to the twins; who stared, tasted, and stared again! "My heart! I don't believe they have ever tasted candy! They don't know what it means!" cried Molly, laughing. They soon found out. In a flash they had seized the pasteboard box and snuggled it between them. Then with it securely wedged beneath their knees they proceeded to empty it at lightning speed. "Why! I never saw anything eat like that, not even a dog! You can't see them swallow!" said Helena, amazed. "They're getting themselves all daubed with that chocolate, too--The pity!" "Give it back to me, at once!" commanded Molly sternly, but she spoke to unhearing ears. Then she tried to snatch it away, but they were too strong for her, as anybody who has ever thus contested with sturdy five-year-olds can guess. "They'll make themselves ill! and they'll ruin their new clothes. What will Mr. Winters say? Molly, how could you!" wailed Dorothy. "I wish we'd never brought them. I mean, I wish you hadn't thought of candy. I wish----" "You'd hold your tongue!" snapped Molly, so viciously that her friends both stared and Dolly said no more. "I don't mean to be so horrid, girls, but it is so vexatious! I'd spent all I had and meant it to be such an addition to our picnic dinner in the woods. I'm ashamed--course--and I apologize. Though I remember Miss Penelope says that apologies and explanations are almost worse than useless. Besides----" Here Molly paused and looked at Dorothy most meaningly; but whatever she meant to say further Dolly stopped by a shake of her head, adding: "Now it's my turn to apologize, Helena dear, but there's something we two have in mind that we want to spring on the whole lot of you at once. Will you forgive and wait?" "Surely. But--those children! I hope we'll get back to the others soon and that Mr. Winters will have more influence with them than we've had." It proved that he had. One glance and word from him and the twins cowered as if they expected cruel blows, and without the slightest resistance permitted him to take away the nearly empty box. "Doesn't look very tempting now, I think. Best throw it away, especially as I had already provided sweeties for the crowd. Now, lads, westward ho! It's nearly dinner time again, and I believe it's being with so many other hungry youngsters makes me one too!" cried the Master, stepping to his place and saying with an air of authority which nobody disputed: "Hand over the twins. I'll take them under my care for the rest of this day!" The Headquarters which they were next to visit, and on whose grounds they were to picnic, was bordered by a stream that just there widened into a little lake. As they approached the place, cramped by their long ride, most of the lads left the wagons to finish the distance on foot. "Ever hear the story of General Lafayette and this creek, Melvin?" asked Herbert. "Good enough to tell and not against your side either." "Go on," said Melvin, resignedly. "I fancy I can match any yarn of yours with one of my own, don't you know." "Can't beat this. In those days there was no bridge here, not even a footbridge. One had to ford the stream. The General was going to a party at that very house yonder and was in his best togs. Course, he didn't want to get his pumps wet so he hired an Irishman--more likely a Britisher--to carry him over. Half way over--a little slip--not intentional, of course!--and down goes my General, ker-splash! Just this way it was! Only it's turn and turn about, now. Young America totes old England and----" "Lads, lads! That footbridge is unsafe! See! The plank's gone in the middle--Oh! the careless fellows!" Having been a boy himself the farrier was prepared for pranks; and the good-natured badinage between Herbert and the young Canadian had aroused no anxiety till now. He had been near enough to hear Herbert's recital of the Lafayette incident but had merely been amused. Now--Oh! why didn't they keep to the wide, safe bridge, that wagons used! Already it was too late even for his warning. Herbert had only meant to catch up the slighter Melvin, scare him by pretending to drop him, but in reality carry him pick-a-pack safely to the further shore. He considered himself an athlete and wished to show "young England how they do things in Yankeeland," and with a shout he darted forward. Headlong he came to the spot above the water where no foothold was--a space too wide for even his long legs to cover, and all the watchers shivered in fear. But from his elevation on Herbert's back, Melvin had already seen the chasm and as if he had been shot from a catapult--he cleared it! "Hip, hip, hooray! England forever!" yelled Frazer Moore and every other lad in the company added his cheers. Then Melvin, from his side the chasm, doffed his cap and bowed his graceful acknowledgments for his country's sake. And at sight of that the girls cheered, too, for Herbert had already regained his feet in that shallow stream and they could see that he had taken no hurt beyond a slight wetting. "Never mind that. He'll dry off, same as the twins did," laughed Molly Breckenridge. Which he did, for the sun was warm and his plunge had been a brief one; and in fact this "little international episode," as Monty called it, but served to increase the jollity of that day. Such a day it proved; without cloud or untoward incident to mar its happiness; and as they wandered here and there, inspecting for the last time the historical spot which had given them hospitable shelter, none dreamed of any mishap to come. Even the twins were tired enough to behave with uncommon docility, beyond continually removing from one another the ribbon which should have designated Ananias from Sapphira. "They've changed it so often I've really forgotten which is which, but I'm sure--that is I think--I'm really positive--that the hair with a kink belongs to Sapphira! After all, that isn't such a dreadful name when you say it softly," said Molly. "I think this is the loveliest old house I ever saw. I'd just like to stay here forever, seems if. The funny roof, so high up in front and away down, low almost as the ground behind. The great chimney--think of standing in a chimney so big you can look straight up, clear through to the sky!" murmured studious Jane Potter. "'Tisn't as big as the Newburgh one, and they haven't any such Hessian boots, though it does have a secret staircase and chamber," answered Jim who, also, was greatly interested in the ancient building. "But come on, Janie; they're getting ready to leave." "In just a minute. Just one single minute, 'cause I shan't ever likely come here again, even if I do live so near it as our mountain." Home through the twilight they drove, for kindly Seth couldn't abridge for his beloved young folks that long, delightful day; and they were ready to declare, most of them, that even the circus to come could hardly be more enjoyable than this day's "Headquartering" had been. It was then, on that happy return, that Dorothy had found the telegram awaiting, and had caught it up with a loving thought of her indulgent Aunt Betty. Then her happiness dashed as by cold water she had flown out of the room and shut herself in her pretty chamber to cry and feel herself the most unhappy girl in all the world. Twice had Norah come to her door to summon her to supper before she felt composed enough to go below among her guests. Over and over she assured herself that none of them should ever know how badly she had been treated. Nobody, of course, except Alfaretta, and the first thing that girl would be sure to ask would be: "Have you caught your hare?" In other words: "Did she send the money?" But in this she did poor Alfy great injustice. It had needed but one glance to tell her--being in the secret--what sort of an answer had come to Dorothy by way of that unexplained yellow envelope. Well, it was too bad! After all, Mrs. Betty Calvert must be a terribly stingy old woman not to give all the money she wanted to her new-found, or new-acknowledged great niece! Huh! She was awful sorry for Dolly Doodles, to have to belong to just--great aunts! She'd rather have Ma Babcock, a thousand times over, than a rich old creature like Dolly had to live with. She would so! Therefore it was not at all of news from town that warm-hearted Alfaretta inquired, as Dorothy at last appeared in the supper room, but with an indifferent glance around: "Why, where's Jane Potter?" CHAPTER X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS Where, indeed, was good Jane Potter! The least troublesome, the most self-effacing, staidest girl of them all. "Didn't she ride home with _you_?" "Why no. I supposed she did with _you_. That is--I never thought." "But--somebody should have thought!" cried Dorothy, diverted from her own unhappiness by this strange happening. "Yes, and that 'somebody' should have been myself," admitted Mr. Seth, after question had followed question and paling faces had turned toward one another. "Are you sure she isn't in her room?" asked Helena. "Sure as sure. I thought it funny she didn't come to clean herself, I mean put on her afternoon things; but I guessed she was too tired, and, anyway, Jane never gets mussed up as I do," answered Molly Martin, tears rising in her eyes. The Master rose from his unfinished meal. "Then we've left her behind and the poor child will be terrified. I'll have one of the work horses put to the pony cart at once, and go back for her. I'd like one of you lads to go with me. I might need somebody." Jim rose and Herbert, and, oddly enough, Mr. Winters nodded to Herbert; adding to Dorothy: "Have a bottle of milk and some food, besides a heavy wrap sent out to the cart. She will have missed her supper." "But you and Herbert are missing yours, too. I shall send something extra for you two and mind you eat it. I--I'm sure you'll find Jane all right only maybe frightened," said Dorothy, doing her utmost to banish anxiety from her friends, though she felt troubled enough in her own mind. If it had been any other girl but Jane, the steady! However, there was the long evening to get through, even though the rescuing party made their best speed. Many miles stretched between the old mansion and this with the distance to cover twice; and all the time there lay on the hostess's heart the burden of her own personal grief. But she mustn't think of that. She must not. She was a Calvert, no matter what Aunt Betty said. A gentlewoman. Only yesterday Helena had explained that a gentlewoman, "in society," had no thought save for the comfort of others. Well, she was in "society" now, and--She almost wished she wasn't! She'd rather have been a poor little girl, unknowing her own name, who'd never dreamed of being an heiress and who'd have been free to run away and hide and cry her eyes out--if she wished! So she put her best efforts to her task of entertaining and a jolly evening followed; though now and then one or another would pause in the midst of a game and ask: "Ought we to be carrying on like this, while we don't know what's happened to Janie?" Then the spirit of fun would sway them all again; for, as Alfaretta practically put it: "Whether we laugh or cry don't make any difference to her. Time enough to solemn down when we find out she's hurt." They were rather noisily singing the old round of "Three Blind Mice," with each particular "mouse" putting itself into its neighbors' way, so that the refrain never would come out in the proper order, when it was caught up by lusty voices in the outer hall and Mr. Seth's deep tones leading. "They've come! They've come--and it must be all right, else they wouldn't sing like that!" cried Molly Martin, infinitely relieved on her friend's and room-mate's account; she and the sedate Jane being as close chums as Dolly and the other Molly were. "The Campbells Are Coming," whistled Herbert merrily, and with the air of a courtier led the embarrassed Jane into the midst of the circle. She jerked her hand away with the reproof: "Don't be silly! I've made trouble enough without acting foolish over it." She seemed so completely ashamed of herself that Dorothy pitied her and hastened to put her arm about her and say: "Why should you think of trouble to anybody else since you're--alive?" "Alive! Did you think I might be dead, then? That makes it worse, still. I was never in the slightest danger. I was only just a--dunce." "You couldn't ever be that, Jane Potter!" cried Molly Martin, enthusiastically embracing the restored one from her other side. But Jane shook herself free from the caresses of both and calmly explained: "Since you'll all want to know I may as well tell just how thoughtless I was. I wanted to find that secret staircase Jim had told about, and the hidden chamber above it, under the roof. I couldn't at first. It led out of the paneled chamber, he said, where all the side walls looked like doors and only one of them would move. Finally, after I'd tried 'em all, and that took some time, I slid one open. It was the secret stair; nothing but a close sealed cupboard, so little that even I could hardly squeeze up it. It wasn't a regular stair, only tiny three-cornered pieces of board nailed in the back angles, first one side and then another. They are far apart and some are gone. I thought I'd never get up the thing, but I hadn't stayed behind to be worsted by a sort of old grain-chute like that." "Weren't you scared? Didn't you feel as if some enemy were after you?" Molly Breckenridge interrupted to ask. Jane coolly sat down and glanced contemptuously at the questioner. All the company felt a trifle disappointed by Jane's manner. They had expected a more exciting revelation. "What should I be afraid of? I haven't any enemies, as I know." "But it must have been very dark in such a place, a shut-in box like that," protested Helena, who as well as the others thought Jane might have made more out of her adventure. "No, it wasn't, not there. The panel-door let the light through from the big room where there are no blinds or curtains. All the light there was--only dusk, you know--came through. It was at the top, after I'd climbed off the top step into the hidden chamber that it got dark--black as night. Because, you see, I accidentally hit my foot against the trap-door and it fell shut. That's all. I ain't dead, you see, and there's nothing to be sorry for except the trouble I gave Mr. Winters and this boy. I've told them I was sorry, so that's all there can be done about it now. Anyway I've learned something, and that is how a prisoner must feel, shut up in a box like that." A sort of groan came from the further side of the room where the Master had sunk into a great chair as if he were utterly weary. Then he said: "I'm glad Jane is so philosophical. I think she doesn't know just how dangerous her situation was. The 'hidden chamber' under the roof was nothing but a closely sealed box, without any possible ventilation. Nobody could have lived long shut up in that space, breathing the vitiated air. It was well we found her, and you must all thank God for a tragedy averted. Nor would I have thought of looking there for her if Jim hadn't remembered talking with her about the place and told Herbert just as we started. He'd inspected it himself, had read of it, yet even I who had visited that old mansion many times didn't know of its existence." "Oh! I wish you'd told us all, Jim Barlow, when we were there! I think it was selfish mean of you not to, when we were sight-seeing on purpose," pouted Jolly Molly. "Wish't I had, now, since you all seem to care. I didn't think then anybody--I mean--I didn't think at all, except for myself," frankly answered the lad, which made them laugh again and so restored their ordinary mood. "Well, it's about breaking up time. I move that Dorothy C. give us a bit of music from her violin," said the Master, smiling upon his beloved child. She smiled in return but it was such a wan little attempt that it pained more than pleased him. Something was sorely troubling sunshiny Dolly and he wondered what, not knowing the purport of her begging letter to Mrs. Calvert nor what the telegram had said. He feared she was still grieving about the lost one hundred dollars and could sympathize in that, for he also grieved and puzzled. He made up his mind to ask her about it at the first opportunity; meanwhile, there was the obliging girl already tuning her violin and asking from her place beside the mantel piece: "What shall it be--when I've done squeaking this way?" "Yankee Doodle!" "God Save the King!" cried Herbert and Melvin, together; and immediately she began, first a strain of one, then the other, till even the mischievous petitioners cried that they had had enough of that medley and would be glad of a change. One after another she played the selections asked, watching with curiosity which all the others shared, the strange effect her music had on Luna. The waif now seemed to consider herself entirely one of the Party--the "Silent Partner," Danny called her; for though she never spoke she had learned to keep close to some one or other of the young folks, and so to avoid that big room where Dinah had placed her earlier on her visit. She took no part in any of their games but watched them with that vacant smile upon her wrinkled face, keeping out of the way of being jostled by cuddling down in some corner just as the twins did. Indeed, there was a close intimacy between the three "uninvited"; the little ones promptly realizing that no matter how mischievous they had been and how much they deserved punishment, they would be unmolested in Luna's neighborhood. She paid scant attention to them, no more than she did to anything, except gay colors and music. She slept much of the time, and just as the twins did; cuddled upon the floor or lounge or wherever drowsiness had overcome her. Yet let even the faintest strain of music be heard and she would instantly arouse, her eyes wide open and her head bent forward as one intently listening; and the strangest part of this attraction was that she dumbly realized the sort of melody she heard. At the jumble of the two national airs she had smiled, then frowned, and finally looked distressed. It was this expression upon the dull face she watched that had made Dorothy give over that nonsense, even more than the protests of her mates; and now as Molly begged: "Something of your own making-up, Dolly Doodles!" she let her bow wander idly over the strings, until a sort of rhythmic measure came to her; fragments she knew of many compositions but bound into a sheaf, as it were, by a theme of her own. It was a minor, moving melody and slowly but effectually touched the heart of every listener. Melvin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, picturing to his sometime homesick soul a far-away Yarmouth garden, with roses such as bloomed no other where and a sweet-faced, widowed mother gently tending them. Helena pondered if she did right to be in this house, a guest, with her own home so near and her parents thus deserted of both their children, and unconsciously she sighed. James Barlow and Jane Potter, after the habit of each, drifted into thought of the wide field of learning and the apparent hopelessness of ever crossing far beyond its boundaries. "The worst of studying is that it makes you see how little bit you can ever know;" considered the ambitious lad, while Jane regretted that she had not been left in peace in that old house from which she had been rescued and so have had the chance of her life to learn history on the spot. More or less, all within the sound of that violin grew thoughtful; but it was upon poor, "unfinished" Luna that the greatest stress was wrought. She did not rise to her feet but began to creep toward the player, inch by inch, almost imperceptibly advancing as if drawn forward by some invisible force. Presently they all became aware of her movement and of nothing else, save that low undercurrent of melody that wailed and sobbed from the delicate instrument, as the player's own emotions ruled her fingers. Even the Master sat erect, he who made a study of all mankind, touched and influenced beyond himself with speculations concerning this aged woman who was still a child. "Music! Who knows but that was the key to unlock her closed intelligence? Oh! what a pity that it came so late! But how sad is Dorothy's mood to evoke such almost unearthly strains! It's getting too much for her and for that helpless creature. I must stop it;" thought the farrier, but didn't put his thought into action. Just then he could not. "Makes me think of a snake charmer I saw once," whispered Monty Stark to Littlejohn. "Ssh! Luna's cryin'! Did you ever see the beat? Alfy Babcock, stop snivellin' as if you was at a first class funeral!" returned master Smith, himself swallowing rather hard as he happened to think of his mother bringing in her own firewood. Luna had reached the spot directly before Dorothy and was on her knees looking up with a timid, fascinated stare. Her small hands were so tightly clasped that their large veins seemed bursting, and great tears chased one another down her pink, wrinkled cheeks. Her close cropped head was thrown back and her back was toward the windows over which no curtains had been drawn. In her gay frock, which firelight and lamplight touched to a brilliant flame color, she must have appeared to one beyond the panes like a suppliant child begging pardon for some grave misdoing. Suddenly Alfaretta screamed, and Molly Breckenridge promptly echoed her; then bounded to Dorothy's side and snatched the violin from her hands. "Stop it, Dolly, stop it! I couldn't help doing that, for in another minute you'd have had me and--and everybody crazy! What made you----" "Why, Alfaretta! Whatever is the matter? Why do you stand like that, pointing out into the night as if you'd seen a ghost?" demanded Jane Potter, going to her schoolmate and shaking her vigorously. "Don't yell again. It's--it's more frightful to hear you than it was to be locked up in that hidden chamber, with a spring-locked trap shut between you and liberty." Which was the only admission this self-contained young person ever gave that she had once known fear. Alfy gulped, shivered, and slowly answered: "So I did. It--was a ghost. Or--or--just the same as one! A--lookin'--a lookin' right through the window--with his face--big and white--He--he wore a hat----" "Wise ghost! Not to cavort around bare-headed on a damp September night!" cried Monty, as much to reassure his own shaken nerves as those of the mountain girl. "Dorothy's music was so strange--weird you might say--that she's made us all feel spooky; but we have no apparitions at Deerhurst, let me tell you," said Herbert, consolingly. "Huh! You may say what you like, but that one apparited all right. I seen it with my very own eyes and nobody else's!" retorted Alfaretta, with such decision and twisting of good English that those who heard her laughed loudly. The laughter effectually banished "spookiness" and as now poor Luna sank down upon the floor in her accustomed drowsiness, her enwrapt mood already forgotten, the Master lifted her in his strong arms and carried her away to Dinah and to bed. But as he went he cast one keen glance toward the windows, where nothing could now be seen--if ever had been--save the dimly outlined trees beyond. Yet even he almost jumped when Jim, having followed him from the room, touched his arm and asked: "What do you s'pose sent old Oliver Sands to peekin' in our windows?" [Illustration: THE GHOST AT THE WINDOW. _Dorothy's House Party._] CHAPTER XI MORNING TALKS "Did anybody ever know such a succession of beautiful days?" asked Helena, next morning, stepping out into a world full of bird-song and sunshine. "And without doing anything extraordinary, nothing that anybody in the world couldn't have done, what a happy time we're having. Why, Dolly darling, you--what's wrong, honey? Are you in trouble? Can I help you?" Dorothy had been sitting on the broad piazza, waiting for her guests and breakfast, a very sober, worried girl. But she now sprang up to greet her friend and tossing back her dark curls seemed to toss away anxiety also. A smile rose the more readily, too, for at that moment there came around the corner Monty Stark and Danny Smith, kindred spirits, each singing at the top of his voice: "The elephant now goes round and round, The band begins to play, The little boys under the monkeys' cage Had better get out of the way-- Better get out of the wa-a-a-ay!" "Mornin' ladies! And let me assure you there'll be peanuts and pink lemonade enough to go around; for Daniel, my friend here, has just unearthed a quarter from one of his multitudinous pockets and I'll agree--to-lay-it-out-for-him-to-the-best-possible-advantage--Right this way, ladies and gentlemen, only ten cents to see the Double Headed Woman and to witness the astonishing feat of an Anaconda Swallowing his own Skin! Right this way, only ten----" "Monty Stark, behave yourself! The place for you, young sir, is in the monkeys' cage, not _under_ it! What have you horrid boys been doing out there in the barn so early, waking tired little girls out of their beauty-sleep?" demanded Molly B., appearing on the scene and interrupting the boy's harangue. "Oh! Just doing a few stunts. Practising, you know, against they call on us to take part in the 'ceremonies.' But it's a pity about that beauty-sleep. You needed it and I apologize! I mean I never saw you so charming! Hooray for the circus!" "Hooray!" answered Herbert, coming through the doorway, a twin on either arm. "Say it, 'Nias! Say it, 'Phira!" The youngsters squirmed to get away, to slide down out of the boy's grasp, but he held them securely till, at last grown desperate, one of them began gravely and distinctly to recite the doggerel which Monty and Daniel had just sung. The performance received great applause and amid the jests and laughter all turned to follow the summons to breakfast; Herbert restraining the little ones long enough to adjure them to: "Mind, you've promised! And you know what happened to some folks you're named for! No, I shouldn't have said that, poor innocents! I mean you must do what I told you or you'll lose what I promised." "Yep. We's do it, we's do it! I wants my brekkus!" answered one, while the other echoed: "Brekkus, brekkus!" Herbert placed them at a small low table in the corner where Dinah had decided they must eat, or "take deir meals; fo' as fo' eatins, dey's cwyin' fo' dem all de whole endu'in time! 'Peahs lak dem li'l ones nebah would get filled up an' nebah had ernough yet in dis yere world." Yet once at table nobody could find fault with their behavior, except for the extreme rapidity with which they stowed away their rations. They seemed afraid to drop a crumb or mess themselves in any way and the furtive looks they shot out from beneath their long lashes were pitiful, as if they feared their food would be snatched from them and themselves punished with blows. That many blows had been administered, Dinah had early found out, since when bathing them she saw the scars upon their poor little bodies. This had been sufficient to reconcile her to the extra care and labor their presence imposed upon her; for labor, indeed, they caused. For instance: stealing into the kitchen where Aunt Malinda had set upon the hearth a big pan of bread "sponge," to rise, they industriously dotted its top with lumps of coal from the hod, in imitation of a huckleberry pudding which had appeared at table. They even essayed to eat the mixture; but finding this impracticable set to work to force one another down into the pan of dough--with sufficient success to ruin the new suits they wore as well as Aunt Malinda's "risin'." Having discovered that sugar was sweet they emptied a jar of what looked like it into a fine "floating island" and turned the custard to brine. They hid Ephraim's glasses, and Dinah's bandana; they unloosed the dogs, let the chains be fastened ever so securely; they opened the gate to the "new meadow" and let the young cattle wander therein; and with the most innocent, even angelic expressions, they plotted mischief the livelong day. But they redeemed all their wickedness by their entire truthfulness. Despite their handicap of names, they acknowledged every misdemeanor and took every punishment without a whimper. "They're regular little imps! But, alanna, what'd this big house be widout 'em and their pranks?" cried poor Norah, laughing and frowning together, when called upon for the third time that morning to change the youngsters' clothes; the last necessity arising from the fact that they had filled the bathtub and taken a glorious dip without the formality of removing their garments. "You're the plague of my life, so you are; but poor motherless darlin's, I can't but love you! And sorra the day, when him 't you belongs to comes for you again!" When that morning's meal was over, the Master planned their day as had become his habit. Said he: "A circus day and the first day of the county fair, as this is, will crowd the streets of the city with all sorts of teams and people. I've decided not to risk Mrs. Calvert's horses in Newburgh to-day. We can all go up by train and have no anxiety about anything. It's but a down-hill walk, if a rather long one, from here to our own station, and in town there'll be plenty of stages to carry us to the grounds. Jim has consented to ride over on horseback early and secure our places on the front row of seats, if this is possible. I've seen no reserved seats advertised, but I don't like those insecure upper benches--or boards--of the tiers of scaffolding, where a fellow has to swing his feet in space or jab his toes into the back of the spectator below. Besides, I always did like to be close to the 'ring' when I go to the circus." "O, Teacher! As if you ever went!" cried Alfaretta, giggling. "Go? Of course I go every chance I get--to a real country circus--which isn't often. There's nothing so convinces me that I am still a little boy as the smell of tanbark and sawdust, and the sound of the clown's squeaking voice!" They laughed. It was so easy and so natural to laugh that morning. Even Helena, who had enjoyed many superior entertainments, felt her pulses thrill in anticipation of that day's amusement; and she meant to let herself "go" for all the fun there might be, with as full--if not as noisy an abandon--as any "mountain girl" among them. Continued Mr. Seth, closely observing Dorothy who, alone of all the company, was not smiling: "Now, for the morning. I suggest that you pass it quietly at home; tennis, reading, lounging in hammocks--any way to leave yourselves free from fatigue for the afternoon. Dinah says 'Y'arly dinnah'; because all the 'help' want to go to the circus and I want to have them. So we must get the dishes washed betimes, for the 'Greatest Show On Earth' opens its afternoon performance at two o'clock sharp precisely to the minute! and I, for one, cannot, positively cannot, miss the Grand Entrance! Umm. I see them now, in fancy's eye, the cream colored horses, the glittering spangles, the acrobats in tights, the monkeys, the--the----" "Oh! Don't say any more, dear Master, or I shall have to ride over with Jim this morning and see the street parade!" cried Molly Breckenridge clasping her plump hands in absurd entreaty, while every lad present looked enviously upon the thus honored James. "_I_ could buy circus tickets if I put my whole mind to it. How about you, Littlejohn Smith?" observed Monty. "Give me the cash and let me try!" Danny said nothing but his eyes were wistfully fixed upon vacancy, while Frazer Moore sadly stated: "All I ever did see about a circus--so far--was the parade. I run away to that--once." "And got a lickin' for it afterwards, I remember," commented Mike Martin. This was too much for the discipline of that dear old "boy," Seth Winters, and he cried: "See here, lads! I can't stand for that. Nor need I be afraid of fatigue for _you_. Nothing will tire a single boy of the lot, to-day, except missing some part of this delectable Show! Scamper! Scatter! Trot! Vamoose! In short, run to the stables and see if there are horses enough to go around, counting in the workers. There'll none of them be needed at Deerhurst to-day. Then you can all ride to town with our treasurer and put your horses up at the big livery on the High Street back of the town. See to it that they are made perfectly safe and comfortable for the day, and tell the proprietor that they are to be looked after for me. Here, Jamie lad, is an extra ten dollar bill. Use it judiciously, for anything needed, especially for luncheon for eight hungry boys. Better get that at some reputable restaurant and not on the grounds. Also, one of you meet the rest of us at the station at one o'clock with the tickets. Our whole big Party will make our own Grand Entrance!" "Oh! thank you, thank you!" With a simultaneous cry of rapture the lads sped stablewards, leaving some rather downcast girlish faces behind them. "I--I can ride horseback," said Molly B., with a sigh. "So can I; and 'tain't far to our house. I guess Pa Martin'd have let me have old Bess to ride on," responded the other Molly. "Shucks! Molly M. How'd you look, rockin' along on that old mare? Besides, you couldn't keep in sight, even, of the way them boys'll tear along. Another besides; you know, well's I do, that Mr. Martin wouldn't hold with no such nonsense as your trapesin' after a circus parade. Who wants to, anyway? We're born girls and we can't be boys, no matter how much we try. Since I ain't let to go I'd rather--I guess I'd rather stay to home and crochet some lace," said practical Alfaretta and pushed back from table. "Wait a minute, Alfy. There's something else I've got to say. It has been a secret between Dolly and me, but of course we can't keep it always and I can't a minute longer. It's this: We two girls have adopted for all their lives the two twins! We've adopted them with our pocket-money," proudly stated Molly B. "Molly! Molly!" cried Dorothy, her face aflame and her eyes swiftly filling. "Yes I shall tell, too. Secrets are the killingest things to bear. I expect Papa will scold and Auntie Lu make fun but I'm doing it for charity. I shall put away every bit of my allowance to educate my--my son--and I shall call him Augustus Algernon Breckenridge. I thought you might as well know," and with this startling statement the Judge's daughter threw back her head and eyed the company defiantly. The girls stared, all save Dorothy, and the Master laughed, while from their corners the twins echoed a shrill cackle; then immediately began to practice the somersaults which Herbert had been at such pains to teach them. Then Molly rose, with what she considered great dignity, and, forcing Ananias to stand upon his feet, said in a sweet maternal tone: "Come, my little boy. I want you to keep nice and rested till I take you to the circus." Then she led him away, Sapphira tugging at her skirts and Alfaretta remarking: "Guess you'll have to adopt the pair, Molly Breckenridge. Them two stick closer'n glue!" In another moment all but the Master and Dorothy had left the room, and seizing this opportunity he called her to him. "Dolly Doodles, I want to talk with you a little. Let's go out to the old barn--I mean the new one--and have a visit. We haven't had any cosy confidence talks, remember, since this House Party began." It was the very thing she craved. Frank and outspoken by nature, long used to telling everything to this wise old friend, they had no sooner settled themselves upon the straw divan, than out it came, with a burst of sobs: "Oh! dear Mr. Seth, I'm so unhappy!" "Yes, child. I've seen it. Such a pity, too, on a circus day!" "Please, please don't tease me now. Aunt Betty thinks--thinks--I hardly know--only--read that!" From the tiny pocket of her blouse she pulled the fateful telegram and thrust it into his hand. He had some ado to smooth it out and decipher the blurred writing, for it had been wet with many tears and frequently handled. "You have made me dangerously angry. You must find that money. Heretofore there has been no thievery in my house." Signed, "Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert." The farrier whistled softly, and slowly refolded the document; then drew Dorothy's wet face to his shoulder and said: "Yes, little girl, we must find that money. We must. There is no other way." "But how can we? And why should she--she be so angry after having told me I was all the world to her and that all she had was mine, or would be." "Well, dearie, 'would be' and 'is' are two widely differing conditions. Besides, she is Betty Calvert and you are you." "That's no answer, as I can see." "It is all the answer there is. She is an old, old lady though she doesn't realize it herself. All her life long she has been accustomed to doing exactly what she wished and when she wished. She has idealized you and you have idealized her. Neither of you is at all perfect--though mighty nice, the pair of you!--and you've got to fit yourselves to one another. Naturally, most of the fitting must be on your part, since you're the younger. You will love each other dearly, you do now, despite this temporary cloud, but you, my child, will have to cultivate the grace of patience; cultivate it as if it were a cherished rose in your own old garden. It will all come right, don't fear." "How can it come right? How ever in this world? I've promised to adopt one of the twins and Molly trusts me in that and I haven't a cent. I'm poorer than I used to be before I was an heiress. Molly will never believe me again. Then there's all this expense you're paying--the circus tickets and railway fares and all. It was to be _my_ House Party, my very own, to celebrate my coming into my rightful name and home and it isn't at all. It's yours and--Oh! dear! Oh! dear! Nothing is right. I wish I could run away and hide somewhere before Aunt Betty comes home. I shall never dare to look at her again after I've made her 'dangerously angry.' What can that mean? I used to vex Mother Martha, often, but never like that. Oh! I wish I was _her_ little girl again and not this----" Seth laid his finger on her lip and the wish she might have uttered and bitterly regretted was never spoken. But the old man's face was grave as he said: "You did not know, but my Cousin Betty means that you have excited her beyond physical safety. She has a weak heart and has always been cautioned against undue agitation. It has been a sad business altogether and I wish you had had more confidence in me and come to me with that letter before you sent it. As for the 'expenses' of your Party--it is yours, dear, entirely--they are slight and my contribution to the general happiness. The only real thing that does matter, that will be most difficult to set straight is--your suspicion of old Ephraim. It was that I believe which angered Mrs. Calvert, far more than the money loss, although she is exact enough to keep a cent per cent account of all her own expenses--giving lavishly the meanwhile to any purpose she elects. Poor Ephraim! His heart is wellnigh broken, and old hearts are hard to mend!" Dorothy was aghast. "Does he know? Oh! has anybody told him that I suspected him?" "Not in words; and at first he didn't dream it possible that his honesty could be doubted. But--that's the horrible part of suspicion--once started it's incurable. Side glances, inuendoes, shrugged shoulders--Oh! by many a little channel the fact has come home to him that he is connected in all our minds with the loss of your one hundred dollars. Haven't you seen? How he goes about with bowed head, with none of his quaint jests and 'darkyisms,' a sober, astonished old man whose world is suddenly turned upside down. That's why he refused my money this morning which I offered him for his circus expenses. 'No, Massa Seth, I'se gwine bide ter home.' Yet of all the family of Deerhurst, before this happened, he would have been the most eager for the 'Show.' However, he refuses; and in a certain way maybe it is as well. Otherwise the place would be left unguarded. I should keep watch myself, if I didn't think my Dorothy and her mates were better worth protecting than all Deerhurst. "So now, shorten up that doleful countenance. The mischief that has been done must be undone. Aunt Betty must come home to a loving, forgiving child; old Ephraim must be reinstated in his own and everybody's respect; and to do this--that money must be found! Now, for our friends--and brighter thoughts!" "That money _shall_ be found! I don't know how, I cannot guess--but it shall!" answered Dorothy with great confidence, born of some sudden inspiration. The talk with the Master had lightened her heart and it was with a fine resolution to be everything that was dutiful and tender toward Aunt Betty that she left the barn and rejoined her mates. CHAPTER XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH Deerhurst was deserted. With a down-sinking heart old Ephraim had watched the last of the merry-makers vanish through the gateway, even gray haired Hans and Griselda joining their fellow employees on this trip to the circus. The watcher's disappointment was almost more than he could bear. His love of junketing was like a child's and for many days, as he drove his bays about the countryside, he had gloated over the brilliant posters which heralded the coming of "The Greatest Show on Earth." He had even invited Aunt Malinda to accompany him at his expense, and now she had gone but he was left. "Hmm. It do seem pow'ful ha'd on me, hit sutney do. But--if all dem folkses is suspicionin' 't ole Eph'aim is a t'ief--My lan', a T'IEF! Not a step Ah steps to no ca'yins' on, scusin dey fin's Ah isn't. If my Miss Betty was to home! Oh! fo' my Miss Betty! She's gwine tole dese yeah Pa'ty folks somepin' when she comes ma'chin' in de doah. Dey ain' no suspicions ertwixt my Miss Betty an' me." His thoughts having taken this course Ephraim found some comfort. Then the responsibility of his position forced itself to mind. No, he couldn't go stretch himself on the back porch in the September sunshine and sleep just yet. Though it was against all custom and tradition in that honest locality, he would lock up the whole house. He would begin at the front door and fasten every window and entrance even to the scullery. There should nothing more be missing, and no more suspicion fixed on a poor old man. He didn't yet know who had set the miserable idea afloat in the beginning, and he didn't dream of its being Dorothy. He had found himself strangely questioned by the other servants and had met curious glances from the visitors in the house. Finally, a stable lad had suddenly propounded the inquiry: "What did you do with that money, anyway, Ephy? If you don't hand it back pretty soon there'll be trouble for you, old man." He had returned indignant inquiries himself, at last worming the whole matter out; and then, with almost bursting heart, had gone to Seth Winters with his trouble. The farrier had comforted as best he could, had assured the old negro of his own utmost faith in him, but--he could not explain the absence of the money and his assurances had been of small avail. Whenever he was alone poor Ephraim brooded over the matter. He now avoided his fellow workers as much as he could. His appetite failed, his nights were sleepless, and Dinah impressively declared that: "He's yeitheh been hoodooed or he stole dat money." She was inclined to accept the first possibility, but with the superstition of her race felt that one was about as derogatory as the other. So nobody, except Mr. Winters, had been very sorry to have him stay behind on this occasion when jollity and not low spirits was desirable. At last when all was secure, the care-taker retired to his bench and his nap, and had been enjoying himself thus for an hour or so, when the sound of wheels and somebody's "Whooa-a!" aroused him. "Ah, friend! Can thee afford to waste time like this?" demanded a blandly reproving voice; and Ephraim opened his eyes to behold George Fox and his owner reined up before him. He knew that equipage and wondered to see it at Deerhurst, whose mistress, he knew, had scant liking for the miller. "Yes, sah. I'se reckon Ah c'n afford hit; bein' mo' inclined to take mah rest 'an to go rampagin' eroun' to circuses an' such. On yo' way dar, sah?" "I? _I!_ On my way to a circus? Thee must know little of a Friend's habits to accuse me of such frivolity. Where is that Seth Winters?" asked Oliver Sands, well knowing what the answer would be and having timed his visit with that knowledge. "He's done gone to de Show, sah. He natchally injoys a good time. Yes, sah, he's one mighty happy ole man, Massa Seth Winters is, sah." "One mighty----" began the miller then checked himself. "I came--but thee will answer just as well. I'd like to inspect that new barn Elisabeth Calvert has put up; and, if thee will, show me through her house as well. I've heard of its appointments and Dorcas, my wife, is anxious to learn of the range in the kitchen. Thee knows that women----" Again the visitor paused, suggestively, and Ephraim reflected for a moment. He knew that his Miss Betty was the soul of hospitality and might upbraid him if he refused to show a neighbor through the premises. Even strangers sometimes drove into the park and were permitted to inspect the greenhouses and even some of the mansion's lower rooms. He had heard such visitors rave over the "old Colonial" appointments and knew that Deerhurst's mistress had been secretly flattered by this admiration. Ah! but that was before this dreadful thing had happened! When--before somebody had stolen, some unknown thief had been within those walls! "Well, sah, Ah is sutney sorry but, sah, when I'se lef' to care-take, sah, I care-takes. Some uddah time, when Miss Betty done be yeah, sah, sutney, sah----" The negro's exaggerated courtesy affronted Oliver Sands. It was not his policy to contest the point, and if he had fancied he could persuade this loyal care-taker to admit him that he might search the house as he had searched many other houses of late, he silently admitted his own mistake and drove away with no further word than: "Gid-dap, George Fox!" But he drove home with head on breast and a keen disappointment in his heart; which expressed itself in a stern rebuke to his wife as he entered her kitchen and met her timid, inquiring glance: "Thee has maggots in thy head, Dorcas Sands. I advise thee to get rid of them." She might have retorted with equal truth: "So is thee maggotty, Oliver, else would thee do openly that which should bring thee peace." But being a dutiful wife she kept silence, though she brooded many things in her tender heart; and the incident passed without further comment than Seth Winters's ambiguous remark, when Ephraim told of the miller's call: "So the leaven is working, after all." But while this trivial affair was happening at Deerhurst, the train had swiftly carried the household to the hill-city a few miles up the river; and almost before they were comfortably settled in the crowded car, the conductor was announcing: "Newburgh next! All out for Newburgh!" "Here we are! And here's our stage! We've chartered a whole one to carry us up the hill. A hard climb and no time to lose!" called out a boyish voice and Herbert's tall shoulder shoved a path through the throng. "There's another empty over yonder, if the 'help' speak quick enough!" But Aunt Malinda standing bewildered and Dinah indignantly correcting somebody for jostling her, rather delayed this operation; so, at a nod from the Master, Jim Barlow made a bee line for the vehicle and stoutly held it as "engaged!" against all comers. "It's a case of every man for himself!" laughed Monty, squeezing his fat body toward the group of girls which was standing apart, amazed and somewhat dismayed by the press of people. "Oh! Don't get worried, Molly, by a little jam like this. Wait till you see the grounds. I declare it seems as if everybody between New York and Albany had come to the 'Show.' It is a big one, I guess, and the Parade was fine. Sorry we didn't bring all of you, pillion, old-style, so you could have seen it, too." "Monty, stop! It's cruelty to girls to harrow up their feelings that way! As if we didn't all _think_ 'pillion' and long to suggest it, only our diffidence prevailed. But come! Mr. Seth has piloted the servants to their stage and is waiting for us!" answered Molly Breckenridge and was the first to spring up the narrow steps at the rear of the rickety omnibus and run to its innermost corner, where she extended her arms to receive her "son" whom she had kept in charge during the ride in the car. The other Molly had passed him on to her, he submitting in wide-eyed astonishment at all the novelty of this trip. Helena held Sapphira as closely, and Dorothy's arm was tightly clasped about Luna's waist, who, oddly enough, was the least affrighted of them all. "Won't the horses be afraid? Supposin' they should run away!" cried Molly Martin, who had seldom been in the town and never on such an occasion as this. "Pooh! Them horses won't run 'less they're prodded into it. They look as if they'd been draggin' stages up and down these hills all their lives and never expected to do anything else," answered Alfaretta, quickly. "Don't you get scared, Molly, I ain't." Indeed, of all that happy party Alfaretta was, maybe, the happiest. Her face was one continual smile and her chatter touched upon everything they passed with such original remarks that she kept them all laughing. Seth beamed upon her from his place beside Luna, and was himself delighted to see that Dorothy was now as gay as any of the others. For the time being any worries she had had were forgotten; and it was she who exclaimed in astonishment, as they came to the grounds and climbed out of the stage: "'Do I wake or am I dreaming'! If there isn't Miss Penelope Rhinelander! and Miss Greatorex is with her! True, true! Who'd ever believe _they'd_ come to a circus!" "Reckon they'd say they did it to study natural history--elephants and things!" laughed Molly, waving her hand vigorously to attract the attention of her old teachers. But they did not see her, so occupied were they in endeavoring to be of a crowd and yet not in it. "Shucks! There's Dr. Sterling! That I worked for last year and went trampin' with last summer! Who'd ha' believed a _minister_ would go to a circus!" now almost shouted Jim Barlow. "Why, I would, laddie. I'll warrant you that every grown-up in the town who has a child friend he can make an excuse of to bring here has done it! Funny they should offer excuses, when there isn't a man or woman but, at sound of a circus band, remembers their childhood and longs to attend one once more. For myself, I prefer a good, old-fashioned 'show' to the finest opera going. The one touches my heart, the other my head. But here we are, and Miss Helena, I see you're beginning to perk up, now you find yourself in such good company." For he had overheard that young lady, despite her morning's resolution to "do just as the rest did and forget it was silly," remark to Mabel Bruce in confidence that: "If I'd known, even dreamed, that we should have to mix with such a rabble, I should have stayed at Deerhurst!" This was when they had had to scramble for their stage; and Mabel had affectedly replied: "Me too. My folks never do like to have me make myself common; and this organdie dress will be torn to ribbons." Seth had smiled then, overhearing, and bided his time. Well he understood how one emotion can sway an entire crowd, and he but waited till they should have arrived to see even these contemptuous lassies catch the "circus spirit." So he couldn't resist this little jest at Helena's expense, which she took now in great good nature; by then they had come to the entrance to the big tent where the chief performance would be given. This entrance was guarded by a wooden stile, from which a narrow canvas-covered passage led to the inner door. At the stile tickets were sold, and these were in turn taken up by the collector at the end of the passage which opened directly into the tent. "Speaking of crowds! Was ever such another one as this!" gasped Melvin Cook, as he found himself in the swirl of persons seeming to move in two directions, as, indeed, they were. Then he looked around for his friends and to his consternation saw Molly Breckenridge tossed to and fro in a hopeless effort to extricate herself, and that she held one of the twins by hand, till suddenly the child fell beneath the very feet of the crowding adults. "My baby! Oh! O-oh!" screamed Molly, and an instant's halt followed, but the jam was to be immediately resumed. Fortunately, however, that instant had been sufficient for tall Jim Barlow to stoop and lift the child on high. "Hang on to me, Molly! I'll kick and jam a way through. 'Twill be over in a minute, soon's we get to the inside and have--you--got--your ticket?" "Ye-e-es! But--but--I'll never come to a circus--again--never--never----" "You haven't got to this one yet," returned Jim, breathlessly. Then he discovered Mr. Winters standing inside the tent, and extending his arms to receive the uplifted little one which Jim at once tossed forward like a ball. At last they were all inside. The Master had been more fortunate in piloting his especial charges, Luna and Sapphira, through that struggling mob; but it was in a tone of deep disgust that he now exclaimed: "Oh! the selfishness of human nature! A moment's delay, a touch of courtesy, and such scenes would be avoided. The struggle for 'first place,' to better one's self at the expense of one's neighbor, is an ugly thing to witness." "But, Teacher, when you get in such a place you have to just do like the rest and act piggish, too," said Alfaretta. "I guess I know now how 't one them panics that you read about, sometimes, could happen. If one them jammers went crazy, or scared, all the rest would too, likely." "Exactly, Alfaretta. But, let's think of pleasanter things. Let's follow James." After all, though Mr. Winters had doubted there would be, the lad had secured reserved seats and on "the front row near the entrance," just as that gentleman had desired; so presently, they had arranged themselves upon the low-down bench where, at least, their feet could touch bottom; and where with a comical air the farrier immediately began to sniff the familiar odor of fresh turned sod covered with sawdust, and turning to his next neighbor remarked: "I think I'm nine years old, to-day, nine 'goin' on' ten." But his facetiousness was wasted upon sedate Jane Potter; who did not even smile but reflected: "If that old man's going to talk silly I'll change places with Alfaretta. And if the performance isn't to begin right away I'll just walk around and look at the animals' cages." She did this, laying her handkerchief and jacket on her vacated seat, though her host called after her: "You may not be able to get your place again, in such a crowd." However, if she heard she did not turn back and was presently out of sight in the line of promenaders continually passing. Also, his own face grew sober at the sound of thunder, and he clasped his arm more protectingly around Luna's waist, who sat on his other side, and counselled Dorothy, just beyond: "Do you and Molly keep close care of the twins. There's a storm brewing and timid people may stampede past us toward the door." "Why, would anybody be afraid in a big tent like this?" asked Dolly, surprised. "Some might. But--Hark! Hooray! Here we come!" The band which had been playing all the time now broke into a more blatant march, a gaily accoutred "herald" galloped forth from a wide opening at the rear of the tent, then turned his steed about to face that opening, waving his staff and curveting about in the most fantastic manner. Then the silence of expectation fell upon that mass of humanity, the promenaders settling into any seats available, warned by men in authority not to obstruct the view of those on the lower benches. As a cavalcade of horses appeared Mr. Winters looked anxiously down into Luna's face. To his surprise it showed no interest in the scene before her but was fast settling into its habitual drowsiness. "Well, after all, that's best. We could not leave her behind and I feared she would be frightened;" he observed to Dorothy. "Yes, I'm glad, too. Keep still, 'Phira! You must keep still, else you may be hurt. Wait. I'll take you on my lap, as Molly has 'Nias. Now--see the pretty horses?" answered Dorothy, and involuntarily shivered as a fresh thunderclap fell on her ears. Alfaretta leaned forward to remark: "It's begun to rain! But isn't it cute to be under a tent and just let it rain! Ah! My soul! Ain't they beautiful? Look, girls, look, them first ones is almost here! A-ah! them clowns! And monkeys--to the far end there's real monkeys ridin' on Shetland ponies! Oh! my heart and soul and body! I'm so glad I come!" She finished her comments, standing up and swaying wildly from side to side, till somebody from the rear jabbed her shoulders with an umbrella point, loudly commanding: "Down front! Down front!" She dropped into her seat with a shriek, which somebody somewhere promptly caught up and echoed, while at that same instant a flash of lightning illuminated even that interior which had grown so strangely dark, and on the instant came a terrific crash. Another woman screamed, and Seth Winters's face paled. He knew how very little it would now take to start a panic. But the band played the louder, the performers went round and round the great ring, the clowns frolicked and the monkeys pranked, and he inwardly blessed the discipline which kept every player to his post, as if such electric storms were every day incidents. "What are those men doing to the roof?" suddenly demanded Molly Martin of her neighbor, James, calling his attention to the sagging canvas and the employees hurrying hither and thither to lift it on the points of great poles. Then would follow a splash of water down the slope from the central supporting pole of that flimsy roof, dashing off at the scalloped edges upon the surrounding ground. "Water's heavy. I guess they're afraid it'll break and douse the people. Hi! But that was a teaser! It don't stop a minute and it's getting blacker'n ink. Never heard such a roar and it don't let up a second. They'll have to stop the performance till it slacks up, and--What fools these folks are that's hurrying out into that downpour!" "Maybe--maybe--they're safer outside. Rain won't hurt--much--but circus tents are sometimes blown down--I've read----" "Now come, Alfy Babcock, just hold your tongue! Rough way to speak but I mean it. Hear what the Master said? How it was mighty easy to start a panic but impossible to stop one, or nigh so? Everyone that keeps still and behaves helps to make somebody else do it. Here, boy, fetch them peanuts this way? Dip in, Alfy, I'll treat, and I see the lemonade feller's headed this way, too. Whilst we're waitin' we might as well----" Even Jim's philosophy was put to the test just then, for with a peanut half-way to his lips his hand was arrested by another terrific crash and the swishing tear of wet canvas. CHAPTER XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN Still the band played on. The cavalcade paced round and round the ring, while a hundred workmen--it seemed--swarmed to the repair of the torn tent. Fortunately, the injured portion was that occupied as dressing rooms and stables for the performers, so that few of the audience suffered more than fright. Indeed, most of the spectators realized as Mr. Winters had done, the danger of panic and the wisdom of composure, so remained in their places. Also, with the same suddenness that had marked its rising the storm ended and the sun shone out. One mighty sigh of relief swept over those crowded tiers of humanity, and the indefatigable band struck up a new and livelier note. The tight-rope dancer sprang lightly into the ring and went through her hazardous feats with smiling face and airy self-confidence; the elephants ascended absurdly small stools, and stood upon them, "lookin' terribly silly, as if they knew they were makin' guys of themselves," so Mike Martin exclaimed, though he still kept his fascinated eyes upon their every movement. There was the usual bareback riding and jumping through rings: the trapeze, and the pony quadrille; in short, all that could be expected of any well conducted "Show," while above all and below all sounded the clown's voice in a ceaseless clatter and cackle of nonsense. Laughter and badinage, peanuts and pink lemonade; men and women turned back to childhood, smiling at the foolishness enacted before them but more at their own in thus enjoying it; and the "Learned Blacksmith" who had pondered many books finding this company around him the most interesting study of them all. It was this that he loved about a circus; and, to-day, at their first one, the faces of Ananias and Sapphira held his gaze enthralled. "Dolly, Dolly Doodles! Do watch them!" he cried for sympathy in his delight. "Did ever you see eyes so bright? Mouths so wide agape? and happiness so intense! Ah! if those to whom they belong could see them now, all hardness would vanish in a flash!" Dorothy looked as he desired, but her glance was less of admiration than of anxiety. She had seen what he did not see and was hearing what he did not; a face and figure somberly different from the tri-colored one of the clown, and a voice more raucously insistent than his. All at once the twins also saw and heard. Their attention was clutched, as it were, from those adorable monkeys a-horseback, which had come once more to the very spot before where they stood, and whom in their baby-souls they envied frantically. "HIM!" shrieked Ananias. "H-I-M!" echoed Sapphira, all her pretty pink-and-whiteness turned the pallor of fear. There was a flash of bare feet and blue-denimed legs and the terrified twins had leaped the velvet-topped barrier bordering the ring and were scurrying heedlessly away, how and where they cared not except to be safe from that "Him" whose memory was a pain. "My soul! They'll be killed--the little rascals!" cried Jim, and leaped the barrier, in pursuit. "He can't catch 'em! I'll help!" and fat Monty rolled himself over the fence. "What's up, boys?" demanded Frazer Moore; and, perceiving, added himself to the rescuing party. Ditto, Mike; then Littlejohn and Danny. This was the chance of a lifetime! to be themselves "performers." Only Melvin and Herbert rose, hesitating, amazed--and, seeing the little ones, whom everybody tried to catch and who eluded every grasp, in such imminent peril of trampling horse-hoofs, they also followed the leader. Even Mr. Winters rose to his feet and watched in deep anxiety the outcome of this escapade, and the darting nimbleness of two small figures which everybody, from the ring-master down, was chasing like mad. Only the trained horsemen and their following troupe of monkeys kept on unmindful; while from the seats on every side ran shouts of laughter. To most of those onlookers this seemed a part, a delightfully arranged part, of the entertainment. Only those nearest, and the farrier was one of them, realized that the strange old man with the croaking voice was an alien to that scene. A half-crazed old man who felt called upon to deliver his "message" of warning to a sinful world, at all times, seasons, and places. He had stumbled upon this as a fine field and, unbalanced though his mind was, it had yet been clear enough for him to purchase a ticket and enter in the customary way. "Oh! will he take the twins away?" asked Dorothy, clasping her hands in dismay. "And will they--be--killed!" "I think not, to both questions. Evidently he has not perceived the children though they were quick enough to discover him. The pity! that one should inspire such fear in his own household! But, see! See!" Mr. Winters forgot the old exhorter for the moment and laughed aloud. In the ring the clown had, at first, pretended to join in the pursuit of the nimble runaways, but only pretended. Then he suddenly perceived that they were growing breathless and had almost fallen beneath the feet of a mighty Norman horse. The man beneath his motley uniform rose to the emergency. Catching the bridle of a near-by pony, he flung the monkey from its back, scooped the babies up from the ground, set them in the monkey's place and, mounting behind them, triumphantly fell into line. It was all so quickly done that its bravery was but half appreciated; and the absurdly grinning mask which he now waggled from side to side, as if bowing to an outburst of applause, roused a roar of laughter. As for Ananias and Sapphira--their felicity was complete. The stern grandparent was forgotten and the only fact they knew was this marvelous ride on a marvelous steed, and most marvelous of all, in the friendly grasp of the tri-colored person behind them. Mr. Winters turned from them for a moment, at the sound of a scuffle near by. An instant's glance showed him that the poor fanatic was being roughly handled by some employees of the circus, and he stepped forward protesting: "Don't do that! He'll go quietly enough if you just ask him. He's a feeble old man--be gentle!" "But we want no 'cranks' in here creating a disturbance! Enough has happened this performance, already!" [Illustration: THE TWINS AND CLOWN ON THE SHETLAND PONY. _Dorothy's House Party._] "Jim! James Barlow! Herbert Montaigne!" These two were the only ones left still in the ring of the lot who had pursued the runaway twins, the others having shamefacedly retreated as soon as they saw the children were safe. They looked toward the Master yet lingered to receive the twins whom their captor was now willing to resign; they struggling to remain and a mixed array of flying legs and arms resulting. However, neither screams nor obstreperous kicks availed to prolong that delectable ride, and presently the little ones found themselves back in the grasp of a bevy of girls who made a human fence about them, and so hedged them in to safety. "Lads, I must leave you to see our girls safe home. Do so immediately the performance is over and it must be nearly now. This poor old chap is ill and bemused by his rough handling. I'm going to take him to a hospital I know and have him cared for. I'll go down to Deerhurst as soon as I can but don't wait for me. Come, friend. Let us go;" and linking his strong arm within the weak one of the man, scarce older yet so much frailer than he, he walked quietly away, the fanatic unresisting and obedient. With the Master's departure the glamour faded from the "Show"; and at Helena's suggestion the whole party promptly made their exit. "It's a wise move, too, Helena. We can catch the five o'clock train down and it won't be crowded, as the later one will be. I fancy we've all had about all the circus we want--this time. Anybody got a rope?" said Herbert. "What in the world do you want of a rope?" asked his sister. "I think if we could tie these irrepressibles together we could better keep track of them." There were some regretful looks backward to that fascinating tent, when the older lads had marshalled their party outwards, with no difficulty now in passing the obstructing stile; but there were no objections raised, and the homeward trip began. But they had scarcely cleared the grounds when Molly Martin paused to ask: "Where's Jane Potter?" "Oh! hang Jane Potter! Is she lost again?" asked Danny Smith. Then with a happy thought, adding: "I'll go back and look for her!" In this way hoping for a second glimpse of the fairy-land he had been forced to leave. Whereupon, his brother reminded him that he had no ticket, and no fellow gets in twice on one. Besides, that girl isn't--Hmm. "She's probably lingered to study biology or--or something about animals," observed Monty. "Any way, we can afford to risk Jane Potter. Like enough we shall find her sitting on the piazza writing her impressions of a circus when we get home." They did. She had early tired of the entertainment and had been one of the first to leave the tent after the accident to it. Once outside, she had met a mountain neighbor and had begged a ride home in his wagon. Jane was one to be careful of Jane and rather thoughtless of others, yet in the main a very good and proper maiden. But if they did not delay on account of Jane they were compelled to do so by the twins. "These children are as slippery as eels," said Molly, who had never touched an eel. "I'll lend my 'son' to anybody wants him, for awhile. I'd--I'd as lief as not!" she finished, quoting an expression familiar to Alfy. "And I'll lend 'Phira!" added Dorothy. She had tried to lead the little one and still keep her arm about Luna, who by general consent was always left to her charge. "All right. Give her here!" said Frazer; while Herbert whistled for a waiting stage to approach. But as it drew near and the girls began to clamber in, preparatory to their ride stationwards, Ananias jerked himself free and springing to one side the road began a series of would-be somersaults. It was an effort on his part to follow Herbert's instructions--with doubtful success. Of course, what brother did sister must do, and Sapphira promptly emulated her twin. "Oh! the mud! Just look at them! How can we ever take them in that stage with us?" asked Mabel Bruce, in disgust. But the happy youngsters paid no attention to her. Having completed what Herbert had taught them to call their "stunt" they now approached their instructor and demanded: "Candy, what you promised!" "All right. Driver, we'll stop at the first confectioner's we pass and I'll fill them up." "But, Herbert, you should not. Don't you remember how ill they were from Molly's supply? And I do say, if you led them into this scrape, getting themselves in such a mess, you'll have to ride in front and keep them with you." Herbert made a wry face. He was always extremely careful in his dress and his sister's just suggestion wasn't pleasant. However, he made the best of it and no further untoward incident marked that day's outing. Arrived at home they found Jane calmly reading, as has been told, and no other one about except old Ephraim, who had not unfastened the doors for "jes one l'il gal," but now threw them wide for the "House Party." Then he retreated to the kitchen, where Dorothy found him stirring about in a vain attempt to get supper--a function out of his line. "Now, Ephy, dear, you can't do that, you know! You're a blessed old blunderer, but one doesn't boil water for tea in a leaky coffee-pot! Wait! I'll tell you! I'll call the girls and we'll make a 'bee' of it and get the supper ourselves, before Aunt Malinda and Dinah and the rest get back. They'll be sure to stay till the last----" "Till the 'last man is hung'!" finished Alfaretta, with prompt inelegance. "Oh! I'm just starving!" wailed a boyish voice, and Monty rushed in. "So are we all, so are we all!" cried others and the kitchen rang with the youthful, merry voices. Ephraim scratched his gray wool and tried to look stern, but Dorothy's "Ephy, dear!" had gone straight to his simple heart, so lately wounded and sorrowful. After all, the world wasn't such a dark place, even if he had missed the circus, now that all these chatterers were treating him just as of old. They were so happy, themselves, that their happiness overflowed upon him. Cried Jim Barlow, laying a friendly hand on the black man's shoulder: "Come on, Ephy, boy! If the girls are going to make a 'bee,' and get supper for all hands--including the cook--let's match them by doing the chores for the men. The 'help' have done a lot for us, these days, and it's fair we do a hand's-turn for them now! Come on, all! Monty, you shall throw down fodder for the cattle--it's all you're equal to. Some of us will milk, some take care of the horses, everybody must do something, and I appoint Danny Smith to be story-teller-in-chief, and describe that circus so plain that Ephraim can see it without the worry of going!" "Hip, hip, hooray! Let's make a lark of it!" echoed Herbert, now forgetful of his good clothes and eager only to bear his part with the rest. "Well, before we begin, let's get the twins each a bowl of bread and milk and tie them in their chairs, just as Dinah does when they bother. They mustn't touch that candy till afterward, though I don't know how Herbert ever kept it from them so long," said Molly Breckenridge, adjusting a kitchen apron to her short figure by tucking it into her belt. "I know! I sat on it!" called back the lad and disappeared barnwards. Luna was placed in her corner and given a bowl like the twins, and the girls set to work, even Jane Potter asking to help. "What all shall we cook? I can make fudges," said Molly. "Fudges are all right--you may make some, but I want something better than sweets. Helena, you're the oldest, you begin. Suggest--then follow your suggestions. Fortunately we've a pretty big range to work on and Ephraim can make a fire if he can't make tea. It's burning fine. Hurry up, Helena, and speak, else Alfaretta will explode. She's impatient enough," urged Dorothy. "Once--I made angel food," said Helena, rather timidly. "It didn't turn out a real success, but I think that was because I didn't use eggs enough." "How many did you use?" "A dozen." "Try a dozen and a half. There's a basket of them yonder in the storeroom and everybody must wait on everybody's self. Else we'll never get through. I'll light up, it's getting dark already," answered Dorothy who, as hostess, was naturally considered director of affairs. "Well, Alfy! What will you do?" "I can fry chicken to beat the Dutch!" "Hope you can," laughed Helena. "I'm not fond of Dutch cookery, I've tried it abroad. They put vinegar in everything." "But where will you get chicken to fry?" "There's a whole slew of them in the ice-box, all ready fixed to cook. I suppose Aunt Malinda won't like it, to have me take them, if she's planned them for some other time, but there's plenty more chickens in the world. Come along, Jane Potter, and get a pan of potatoes to peel. That's the sitting-downest job there is. Molly Martin, you can make nice raised--I mean bakin'-powder biscuit--there's the flour barrel. Don't waste any time. Everybody fly around sharp and do her level best!" After all it was Alfaretta who took charge, and under her capable direction every girl was presently busy at work. "I'm going to make pies. Two lemons, two punkins, two apples. That ought to be enough to go around; only they'll all want the lemon ones. 'Christ Church,' Teacher told me when I made him one once. Said 'twas the pastry cook at Christ Church College, in England, 't first thought them out. I can make 'em good, too. What you goin' to make, yourself, Dorothy Calvert?" "I reckon--pop-overs. Mother Martha used to make them lovely. They're nothing but eggs and flour and--and--I'll have to think. Oh! I know. There's an old recipe book in the cupboard, though I don't believe Malinda can read a word in it. She just spreads it out on the table, important like, and pretends she follows its rules, but often I've seen it was upside down. Do you know how she makes jelly?" "No, nor don't want to. We ain't makin' jelly to-night, and do for goodness' sake get to work!" cried Alfaretta, imparting energy to all by her own activity. "Ma says I'm a born cook and I'm going to prove it, to-night, though I don't expect to cook for a living. Jane Potter, you ought to know better than peel them 'tatoes so thick. 'Many littles make a mickle,' I mean a lot of potato skins make a potato--Oh! bother, do right, that's all. Just because Mrs. Calvert she's a rich 'ristocratic, 'tain't no reason we should waste her substance on the pigs." Jane did not retort, but it was noticeable that thereafter she kept her eyes more closely on her work and not dreamily upon the floor. Presently, from out that roomy kitchen rose a medley of odors that floated even to the workers out of doors; each odor most appetizing and distinct to the particular taste of one or another of the lads. "That's fried chicken! Glad they had sense enough to give us something hearty," said Monty, smacking his lips. Herbert sniffed, then advised: "I'll warrant you that Helena will try angel cake. If she does, don't any of you touch it; or if you think that isn't polite and will hurt her feelings, why take a piece and leave it lie beside your plate. Wonder if they'll ever get the supper ready, anyhow." "Afraid it'll be just 'anyhow,'" wailed Monty. "Those girls can't cook worth a cent." "Don't you think that, sir. Our up-mountain girls are no fools. I hope Alfaretta Babcock will make pies, I've et 'em to picnics and they're prime," said Mike Martin, loyally. "Well, I only hope they don't keep us too long. I begin to feel as if I could eat hay with the cattle." After all, the young cooks were fairly successful, and the delay not very great. Most of them were well trained helpers at home, even Dorothy had been such; but this time she had failed. "Three times I've made those things just exactly like the rule--only four times as much--and those miserable pop-overs just will not pop! We might as well call the boys and give them what there is. And----" At this moment Dorothy withdrew her head from a careful scrutiny of the oven, and--screamed! The next instant she had darted forward to the imposing figure framed in the doorway and thrown her arms about it, crying: "O, Aunt Betty, Aunt Betty! I'm a bad, careless girl, but I love you and I'm so glad, so glad you've come!" CHAPTER XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND That picnic-supper! The fun of it must be imagined, not described. Sufficient to say that it was the merriest meal yet served in that great mansion; that all, including Mrs. Calvert, brought to it appetites which did not hesitate at "failures," and found even Helena's angel cake palatable, though Herbert did remark to his next neighbor: "If they'd had that kind of leathery stuff instead of canvas to cover that circus tent it would never have broken through, never in the world!" Not the least delighted of that company were the servants, who returned late from their outing, and had had to walk up the mountain from the Landing; they having lingered in the hill-city till the last possible train, which there were no local stages to meet. "And to think that our Miss Dorothy had the kindness to get supper for us, too! Sure, she's the bonniest, dearest lass ever lived out of old Ireland. Hungry, say you? Sure I could have et the two shoes off my feet, I was that starved! And to think of her and them others just waitin' on us same's if we was the family! Bless her! And now I'm that filled I feel at peace with all the world and patience enough to chase them naughty spalpeens to their bed! See at 'em! As wide awake now as the morn and it past nine of the night!" cried Norah, coming into the room where the twins were having a delightful battle with the best sofa cushions; Mrs. Calvert looking on with much amusement and as yet not informed who they were and why so at home at Deerhurst. The chatter of tongues halted a little when, as the clock struck the half-hour, Mr. Seth came in. He looked very weary, but infinitely relieved at the unexpected return of the mistress of the house, and his greeting was most cordial. Indeed, there was something about it which suggested to the young guests that their elders might wish to be alone; so, one after another, they bade Mrs. Betty good-night and disappeared. Dorothy, also, was for slipping quietly away, but Aunt Betty bade her remain; saying gently: "We won't sleep, my child, till we have cleared away all the clouds between us. As for you, Cousin Seth, what has so wearied you? Something more than chaperoning a lot of young folks to a circus, I fancy." "You're right. The afternoon performance was a pleasure; the ride home a trial." "With whom did you ride?" "Oliver Sands." "Indeed? How came----" "It's a long story, Cousin Betty. Wouldn't we better wait till morning?" "Don't you know how much curiosity I have? Do you want to keep me awake all night?" demanded the lady. But she believed that her old friend had some deep perplexity on his mind and that it would be a comfort to him to share it with her. "Is it something Dorothy may hear?" "Certainly, if you wish. Already she knows part. Has she told you how the twins came here?" "Somebody told, I forget who. All of the young folks talked at once, but I learned that they had been dropped on our premises, like a couple of kittens somebody wished to lose." "Exactly; and though he did not personally 'drop' them, the man who most heartily wishes to lose them is miller Oliver Sands. They are his most unwelcome grandchildren." "Why, Cousin Seth!" "Why, Master!" cried the hearers, amazed. "True. Their mother was Rose Sands, whom her father always believed--or said--was ruined by the foolish name her mother gave her. His sons were like himself and are, I believe, good men enough, though tainted with their father's hardness." "Hardness. That suave old Quaker! But you're right, and I never liked him." "Nor I, I'm sorry to say, but I don't wish to let that fact stand in the way of fair judgment. The man is in trouble, deep trouble. I'm not the only one who has noticed it. His behavior for awhile back has been most peculiar. He neglects his business, leaves the fruit in his vineyards and orchards to go to waste, and to his workmen's question: 'What shall we do next,' returns no answer. He has taken to roaming about the country, calling at every house and inspecting each one and its surroundings as if he were looking for something he can't find. His face has lost its perpetual smile--or smirk--and betrays the fact that he is an old man and a most unhappy one." "Huh! I've no great sympathy for Oliver Sands. He has wronged too many people," said Mrs. Calvert, coldly. "But if those children are his grandchildren, what are they doing here?" "I'm coming to that. His daughter, Rose, 'married out of meeting,' and against her father's will. He turned her out of doors, forbade her mother ever to see or speak to her again, and though--being a Friend--he took no oath, his resolution to cast her off was equivalent to one. That part of my tale is common neighborhood gossip." "I never heard it," said Mrs. Betty. "No; such would scarcely be retailed to you. Well, Rose took refuge with her husband's people, and all misfortune followed her flight from her father's house. Her mother-in-law, her consumptive husband, and herself are dead; she passing away as the twins came into the world. The father-in-law, who was only a country-cobbler, but a profoundly religious man, became half-crazed by his troubles, and though I believe he honestly did his best by the babies left on his hands, they must have suffered much. They have never been so happy as now and I hope----" "Please, Mr. Seth, let me tell! Aunt Betty, if you'll let me, I want to adopt Sapphira!" "Adopt--Sapphira! You? A child yourself?" "Yes, please. I'll go without everything myself and I'd work, if I could, to earn money to do it. Molly is going to adopt Ananias. It will be lovely to have some object in life, and some the Seniors at the Rhinelander adopted some Chinese babies. True. They pay money each month, part of their allowance, to do it; so we thought----" But Aunt Betty was leaning back in her chair and laughing in a most disconcerting manner. It's not easy to be enthusiastic on a subject that is ridiculed and Dorothy said no more. But if she were hurt by having her unselfish project thus lightly treated, she was made instantly glad by the tender way her guardian drew her close, and the gentle pat of the soft old hand on her own cheek. "Oh! you child, you children! And I made the mistake of thinking you were as wise as a grown-up! We'll attend to the 'adoption' case, by and by. Let Cousin Seth say his say now." "Well, finally, the old man, Hiram Bowen, forsook his old home, sold his few belongings and came here to our mountain. He must have had some sense left, and realized that he was not long for this world, because though until lately he has been unforgiving to Oliver Sands for the treatment of Rose, he now sought to interest her father on the little ones' behalf. I've learned he made frequent visits to Heartsease, the Sands' farm, but only once saw its owner. But he often saw Dorcas, the wife, and found her powerless to help him; besides, he did not mend matters, even with her, by explaining that he had named the twins as he had--'_after her husband, and herself!_' He told her that she and Oliver were living liars, because the Scripture commanded Christians to look after their own households and they did not do so." "But how could her heart, the heart of any woman, remain hard against the sight of her orphan grandchildren?" demanded Mrs. Calvert, impatiently. "I've met that Dorcas Sands on the road, going to meeting with the miller, and she looked the very soul of meekness and gentleness." "So, I believe she is; but she never saw the children. I told you he was crazed, partially; and despite the fact that he felt their mother's family should care for the orphans he did not want to give them up, permanently. He felt that in doing so he would be consigning them to a life of deceit and unscrupulousness." "How strange! And, Seth, how strange that you should know all this. It's not many days since that old man 'passed them on' to us. You must have been busy gathering news," commented Mrs. Betty. "I have; but the most of it I learned this afternoon, when I was taking the fanatic to the Hospital. Dolly, you tell her about his harangue in the tent and what the twins did there. It will give a diversion to my thoughts, for it _was_ funny!" So Dolly told and they all laughed over the recital, and in the laughter both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy lost the last bit of constraint that had remained in their manner whenever either chanced to remember the missing one hundred dollars and the sharpness of the telegram. Mrs. Calvert resumed: "You say, taking him to the Hospital. Have you done that, then? And how came you with Oliver Sands? The last man in the world to be drawn to Newburgh to see a circus." "Not the circus, of course, but the county fair. He got up enough interest in ordinary affairs to drive to the fair grounds to see his cattle safely housed. He will have, I presume, the finest exhibit of Holstein-Friesians on the grounds. He always has had, and has carried off many first premiums. He's on the board of managers, too, and they had a business meeting at the Chairman's, which is next door to St. Michael's--the semi-private establishment where I took Bowen. He was just unhitching George Fox, to come home, as I stepped out of the Hospital grounds and met him." "So you asked him for a lift down?" asked Aunt Betty, smiling. "No, I didn't ask. He was so preoccupied, and I so full of what poor old Hiram had told me, that I just 'natchally' stepped into the rear seat without the formality of a request. Truly, I don't think he even noticed me till we were well out of the city limits and on to the quiet back road. Then I asked: 'How much will you pay, Friend Oliver, toward the support of Hiram Bowen at St. Michael's Hospital?' "Then he heard and noticed. Also, he tried to get rid of his passenger; but I wouldn't be set down. He gave me a rather strong bit of his opinion on meddlers in general and myself in particular, and finding he had me on his hands for all the distance here he said not another word. It was 'Quaker Meeting' in good earnest; but I felt as if I were riding with a man of iron and--it tired me!" "Oh, you dear Master! Did you have any supper?" suddenly demanded Dorothy, with compunction that she hadn't thought of this earlier. "Oh! yes. Some little girls were holding a sidewalk 'fair' for the benefit of the children's ward and, while the authorities inside were arranging for Hiram's bestowal, I bought out their stock in trade and we ate it all together. I do love children!" Aunt Betty rose and turning to Dorothy, remarked: "That should be a much better use for your money when you find it than adopting the grandchildren of a rich old Hardheart! Come, child, we must to bed; and to-morrow, we'll take home the twins. 'Pass them on' to Heartsease." "Oh! must we? But, maybe, they won't keep them there. Then, course, you wouldn't leave them just anywhere, out of doors, would you? Besides, I don't know what Molly will say. She's perfectly devoted to her 'son,' 'Nias." "Do you not? Then I know very well what her Aunt Lucretia and his honor, the Judge, will say; I fancy that their remarks will have some weight! But I'm not hard-hearted, as you suggest, and we shall see what we shall see!" answered Aunt Betty, in her bright, whimsical way; adding as she bade Mr. Winters good-night and kissed Dorothy just as if no "cloud" had ever been between them: "I am glad to be at home. I am so glad to come, even thus late to the House Party." And though she had said the misunderstanding that had made both herself and Dolly so unhappy "should be set right that very night," maybe this was her way of "setting" it so. Thus ended another Day of that Wonderful Week, but the morning proved rainy and dark. "No day for going to the County Fair," remarked Mrs. Calvert as she appeared among the young folks, just as they came trooping in to breakfast. "We must think of something else. What shall it be? Since I've invited myself to your Party I want to get some fun out of it!" Helena thought she had never seen anything lovelier than this charming old lady, who moved as briskly as a girl and entered into their amusements like one; and when nobody answered her question she volunteered the suggestion: "Charades? Or a little play in the big barn?" "Just the thing; the charades, I mean. There would hardly be time for getting ready for a play, with parts to study and so on. We might plan that for Friday evening, our last one together. But do you, my dear, gather part of your friends about you and arrange the charades. Enough of us must be left for audience, you know. Well, Dorothy, what is it? You seem so anxious to speak?" "Why not 'character' studies and make everybody guess. There's that attic full of trunks I discovered one day. Surely they must be full of lovely things; and oh! it's so jolly to 'dress up'! Afterward, we might have a little dance in the barn--May we, may we?" "Surely, we may! Dinah has the keys to the trunks, only I warn you--no carelessness. It's one of my notions to preserve the costumes of the passing years and I wouldn't like them injured. You may use anything you find, on the condition of being careful." That rainy day promised to be the merriest of all; and Dorothy had quite forgotten some unpleasant things, till, breakfast being over and most of the company disappearing in pursuit of Dinah and her keys to the treasure-trunks, Aunt Betty laid a detaining touch upon her arm and said: "But you and I, my dear, will have a little talk in my room." Down went her happiness in a flash. The "misunderstanding" had not been passed by, then; and as yet there had been no "setting right." Mrs. Calvert's face was not stern, saying this, but the girl so thought. Indeed, had she known it, Aunt Betty shrank more from the interview and the reproof she must give than did the culprit herself. However, shrinking did no good, and immediately the Mistress had seated herself she began: "What grieved me most was your suspicion of Ephraim. Dorothy, that man's skin may be black but his soul is as white as a soul can be. He has served me ever since he was able to toddle and I have yet to find the first serious fault in him. The loss of the money was bad enough, and your scant value of it bad. Why, child, do you know whose money that was?" "I--I thought it was--mine." "It was--God's." "Aunt--Betty!" almost screamed Dorothy in the shock of this statement. "Yes, my dear, I mean it. He has given me a great deal of wealth but it was His gift, only. Or, His loan, I might better call it. I have to give an account of my stewardship, and as you will inherit after me, so have you." For a moment the girl could not reply, she was so amazed by what she heard. Then she ventured to urge: "You said you gave it to me for my House Party. How could it be like that, then?" "So I did. I 'passed it on,' as poor Hiram Bowen did the twins. Then it became your responsibility. It was a trust fund for the happiness of others, and for their benefit. Why, just think, if you hadn't been so careless of it, how much good it would have done even yesterday, for that very old man! Then dear Seth wouldn't have had to tax his small income to pay for a stranger's keep. Ah! believe me, my Cousin Seth spends money lavishly, but never unwisely, and always for others. When I said 'dangerously angry' I meant it. I am, in some respects, always in danger, physically. I shall pass out of your life quite suddenly, some day, my darling, but I do not wish to do so by your fault. "Now, enough of lectures. Kiss me and tell me that hereafter you will hold your inheritance as a 'trust,' and I shall trust you again to the uttermost. Next I want you to go over every incident of that night when you mislaid the money and maybe I can hit upon some clue to its recovery." It was a very sober Dorothy who complied. It didn't seem a very pleasant thing to be an heiress. She had found that out before, but this grave interview confirmed the knowledge; and though they discussed the subject long and critically, they were no nearer any solution of the mystery than when they began. "Well, it is a strange and most uncomfortable thing. However, we can do no more at present, and I'd like you to take a little drive with me." "This morning, Aunt Betty, in all this rain? Ought you? Won't you get that bronchitis again? Dinah----" "Dinah is an old fuss! She never has believed that I'm not soluble in water, like salt or sugar. Besides, I'm not going 'in the rain,' I'm going in the close carriage, along with you and the babies with the dreadful names. I'm going to have them renamed, if I can. Run along and put on your jacket. I think I've solved the riddle of my neighbor Oliver's unhappiness and I'll let no rain hinder me from making him glad again." "Dear Aunt Betty, will you do this for a man you do not like?" "Of course. I'd do it for my worst enemy, if I knew--and maybe this poor miller is that. What ails that man is--remorse. He hasn't done right but I'm going to give him the chance now, and see his round face fall into its old curves again." But good and unselfish as her mission was, for once the lady of Deerhurst's judgment was mistaken. CHAPTER XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING Oliver Sands was shut up in his private office. It opened from another larger room that had once been tenanted but was now empty. The emptiness of the great chamber, with its small bed and simple furnishings, both attracted and repelled him, as was witnessed by the fact that he frequently rose and closed the door, only to rise again directly and open it again. Each time he did this he peered all about the big room, whose windows were screened by wire netting as well as by a row of spruce trees. These trees were trimmed in a peculiar manner and were often commented upon by passers along the road beyond. All the lower branches, to the height of the window-tops, were left to grow, luxuriantly, as nature had designed. But above that the tall trees were shaven almost bare, only sufficient branches being left to keep them alive. Also, beyond the trees and bordering the road was a high brick wall, presumably for the training of peach and other fruit trees, for such were carefully trained to it. But the same wondering eyes which had noticed the trees had observed the wall, where indeed the fruit grew lusciously after a custom common enough in England but almost unknown in this region. "Looks like both trees and wall were planned to let light into that side the house and keep eyes out. But, has been so ever since Heartsease was, and nothing different now." No, everything was outwardly unchanged, but his home was not like his home, that morning, when Mrs. Betty Calvert came to call. The rain that had kept him within had sent him to pass the hours of his imprisonment in his "den," or office, and to the congenial occupation of looking over the cash in his strong box. He was too wise to keep much there, but there had been a time when the occupation had served to amuse the inmate of the big room, and he was thinking of her now. Indeed, when there came a knock on the outer door he started, and quickly demanded: "Well?" "Oliver, Betty Calvert, from Deerhurst, has called to see thee," said the trembling voice of Dorcas. "Why? What does she want?" "To bring thee news. To bring thee a blessing, she says." "I will come." He rose and locked the strong box, inwardly resolving that its contents must be placed in the bank when next he drove to town, and he again carefully closed the door of the further room. But if there had been any to observe they would have seen his face grow eager with hope while his strong frame visibly trembled. He was not a superstitious man but he had dreamed of Deerhurst more than once of late and news from Deerhurst? A blessing, Dorcas said? He entered the living-room, cast one eager glance around, and sat down. He had offered no salutation whatever to Mrs. Calvert and the gloom had returned to his face even more deeply. Dorcas was standing wringing her hands, smiling and weeping by turns, and gazing in a perfect ecstasy of eagerness upon Ananias and Sapphira, huddled against Dorothy's knees. She held them close, as if fearing that cross old man would do them harm, but they were not at all abashed, either by him or by the novelty of the place. "Well, Oliver Sands, you like plain speech and use it. So do I--on occasion. I have brought home your grandchildren, Rose's children. Their grandfather on the other side has been committed to an institution and will give you no trouble. He 'passed them on' to my household and I, in turn, 'pass them on,' to yours, their rightful home. You will feel happier now. Good-morning." "What makes thee think he is unhappy?" ventured Dorcas, at last turning her eager gaze away from the twins. "All the world sees that. He's a changed man since last we met, and I suppose his conscience is troubling him on account of the way he treated Rose and her children. Their demented grandfather, on the other side, gave them horrible names. I'd change them if I were you. Good-morning." But if the miller had not sought to detain her nor responded to her farewell, Dorcas caught at her cloak and begged: "Wait, wait! Oliver, does thee hear? Elisabeth Calvert is going. She is leaving Rose's babies! What--what--shall I do? May I keep them here? Say it--Oliver speak, speak, quick! If thee does right in this thing mayhap the Lord will bless thee in the other! Oliver, Oliver!" He shook her frail hand from his sleeve but he spoke the word she longed to hear, though the shadow on his face seemed rather to deepen than to lighten and astute Betty Calvert was non-plussed. She had so fully counted upon the fact that it was remorse concerning his treatment of his daughter which burdened him that she could not understand his increased somberness. But he did speak, as he left the room, and the words his wife desired: "Thee may do as thee likes." Then Mrs. Calvert, too, went out and Dorothy with her; strangely enough the twins making no effort to follow; in fact no effort toward anything except a pan of fresh cookies which stood upon the table! and with their fists full of these they submitted indifferently not only to the desertion of their friends but to the yearning embraces of their grandmother. "Oh! what perfectly disgusting little creatures! Didn't mind our leaving them with a stranger nor anything! Weren't they horrid? And it didn't make him look any happier, either, their coming." "No, they were not disgusting, simply natural. They've been half-starved most of their lives and food seems to them, just now, the highest good;" said Aunt Betty, as the carriage door was shut upon them and they set out for home. "I cannot call it a wasted morning, since that timid little woman was made glad and two homeless ones have come into their own. But--my guess was wide of the mark. It isn't remorse ails my miller neighbor but some mystery still unsolved. Ah! me! And I thought I was beautifully helping Providence!" "So you have, Aunt Betty. Course. Only how we shall miss those twins! Seems if I couldn't bear to quite give 'Phira up. Deerhurst will be so lonesome!" "Lonesome, child! with all you young folks in it? Then just imagine for an instant what Heartsease must have been to that poor wife. Shut up alone with such a glum, indifferent husband, in that big house. I saw no other person anywhere about, did you?" "No, and, since you put it that way, of course I'm glad they're to be hers not Molly's and mine." "The queer thing is that he was so indifferent. I thought, I was prepared to have him rage and act--ugly, at my interference in his affairs; but he paid no more attention than if I had dropped a couple of puppies at his fireside. Hmm. Queer, queer! But if I'm not mistaken his young relatives will wake him up a bit before he's done with them." After all, though Dorothy had hated to leave the other young folks on such an errand, through such weather, and in some fear of further "lectures," the ride to Heartsease had proved delightful. She wouldn't have missed the rapture on lonely Dorcas Sands's pale face for the wildest frolic going and, after all, it was a relief to know the "twinses" could do no more mischief for which she might be blamed; and it remained now only to appease the wrath of Molly Breckenridge when she was told that her adopted "son" had been removed from her authority without so much as "By your leave." Naturally, Molly said nothing in Mrs. Calvert's presence, but vented her displeasure on Dorothy in private; until the latter exclaimed: "You would have been glad, just glad, Molly dear, to hear the way the poor old lady said over and over again: 'Rose's children! Rose's children!' Just that way she said it and she was a picture. I wish I was a Quaker and wore gray gowns and little, teeny-tiny white caps and white something folded around my shoulders. Oh! she was just too sweet for words! Besides--to come right to the bottom of things--neither of us _could_ adopt a child, yet. We haven't any money." "Pshaw! We could get it!" "I couldn't. Maybe you could; but--I'm glad they're gone. It's better for them and we shouldn't have been let anyway, and--where's Helena?" "Up garret, yet. They're all up there. Let's hurry. They'll have all the nicest things picked out, if we don't." They "hurried" and before they knew it the summons came for luncheon. After that was over Danny Smith and Alfaretta Babcock mysteriously disappeared for a time; returning to their mates with an I-know-something-you-don't sort of an air, which was tantalizing yet somehow suggested delighted possibilities. The afternoon passed with equal swiftness, and then came the costume parade in the barn; the charades; and, at last, that merry Roger de Coverly, with Mrs. Betty, herself, and Cousin Seth leading off, and doing their utmost to teach the mountain lads and lassies the figures. All the servants came out to sit around and enjoy the merry spectacle while old Ephraim, perched upon a hay-cutter plied his violin--his fiddle he called it--and another workman plunked away on his banjo till the rafters rang. "Oh, such a tangle! And it seems so easy!" cried Jane Potter, for once aroused to enthusiasm for something beside study. "Come on, Martin! Come half-way down and go round behind me--Oh! Pshaw! You stupid!" Yet uttered in that tone the reproof meant no offense and Jane was as awkward as her partner, but the dance proved a jolly ending for a very jolly day. Only, the day was not ended yet; for with a crisp command: "Every one of you get your places an' set round in a circle. It's Danny's and my turn now, and--Come on, Daniel!" Alfaretta vanished in the harness room. Danny followed, rather sheepishly, for despite his love of fun he didn't enjoy being forced into prominence; and from this odd retreat the pair presently emerged with great pans of snowy popped-corn, balanced on their heads by the aid of one hand, while in the other they carried each a basket of the biggest apples even Melvin had ever seen; yet the wonder of the Nova Scotian apples had been one of his proudest boasts. "Jump up, Jim, in your 'Uncle Sam' clothes and fetch the jugs out. Fresh sweet cider, made to farmer Smith's this very day! There's nuts in there all cracked, for some of you other fellows to bring and tumblers and plates 't Aunt Malinda let us take. We've had ice-cream and plum-puddin' and every kind of a thing under the sun and now we're going to have just plain up-mounting stuff, and you'll say it's prime! Danny and me done this. We planned it that night Monty got stuck--Oh! my soul, I forgot!" "Never mind. I don't care," said Monty; and, maybe to prevent another doing so, promptly related for Mrs. Calvert's benefit the tale of his misadventure. Indeed, he told it in such a funny way that it was plain he was no longer sensitive about it; and he finished with the remark that: "If Deerhurst folks don't stop feeding me so much I may even get stuck in that big door!" The quiet sitting and talking after so much hilarity was pleasant to all and tended to a more thoughtful mood; and finally clapping her hands to insure attention Molly Breckenridge demanded: "A story, a story! A composite story! Please begin, Mrs. Calvert: 'Once upon a time----' Then let Helena, my Lady of the Crinoline take it up and add a little, then the next one to her, and the next--and so on all around the ring. The most fun is to each say something that will fit--yet won't make sense--with what went just before. Please!" "Very well: 'Once upon a time and very good times they was, there was a Mouse and a Grouse and a Little Red Hen and they all lived in the one house together. So wan day, as she was swapin' the floor, they met a grain o' cor-run.' 'Now, who'll take that to the mill?' 'I won't,' says the Mouse. 'Nayther will I!' say the Grouse. 'Then I'll aven have to do it mesel,' says the Little Red--Next!" Irish Norah was in ecstasies of laughter over her mistress's imitation of her own brogue, and all the company was smiling, as Helena's serious voice took up the tale: "'Twas in the dead of darksome, dreadful, dreary night, when the Little Red Hen set forth on her long, lonely, unfrequented road to the Mill. The Banshees howled, the weird Sisters of the Night made desperate attempts to seize the Grain of Corn--Next!" "Which, for safe keeping the fearless Little Red Hen had already clapped into her own bill--just like this! So let the Banshees howl, the Weird Sisters Dree their Weird--for Only Three Grains of Corn, Alfy! Only Three Grains of Corn!" cried Monty, passing his empty plate; "and I'll grind them in a mill that'll beat the Hen's all hollow! while Jane Potter--next!" "For the prisoner was terrified by the sounds upon the roof and after brief deliberation and close investigation he came to the conclusion, 'twas a snare and a delusion to toy with imagination and fear assassination till the hallucination became habituation and his mental aberration get the better of his determination toward analyzation of the sound upon the roof. Of the pat, pat, patter and the clat, clat, clatter of small claws upon the roof! Then with loud cachinnation--Next!" "To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and--Next!" cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked: "How could you think of them all, Jane?" "Oh! easily enough. I'd rather read the dictionary than any other book. I've only a school one yet but I've most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then----" "Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid's brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen--Next!" put in Herbert, as his contribution. "The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that's the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped--Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen--Next!" continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that: "The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and--and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah--in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn't boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and--what's happening? 'Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring--staring--staring--Oh! My! What's happening to our own Little Red Hen!" What, indeed! CHAPTER XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality. The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she always carried her point--as spoiled children usually do. Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn. Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile, as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna. So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt; or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle of long ago. The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one, and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor's tiny wrinkled hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back, something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse. This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her. But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze, which had now become breathlessly alert and strained. She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet, crying: "The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!" Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep. All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely puzzled. "Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?" "But she wasn't in the house the night it was lost. Don't you remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It couldn't have been she!" "Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?" "It couldn't. The window wasn't opened. It stormed, you know." Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed Dorothy's exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama far more absorbing than the composite tale had been. Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with tender anxiety to see Dorothy's next action. That it satisfied them was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn't disappointed them--she was their precious Dorothy still. She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she said: "Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see." "No, no, li'l Missy! No, no. An' fo' de lan', doan you-all kneel to a pore ole niggah lak me! Fo' de lan', Missy, whe'-all's yo' pride an' mannehs?" Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her friends that all might hear: "It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the maker's, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain. When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess, because I'm sure I didn't stop to think. Then when I went to bed I must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How long before she found the 'pocket' and what was in it, she can't tell us. We've heard the 'help' say how quickly she noticed when money was around and I suppose she's been afraid we'd take it from her; although she didn't resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of myself, so ashamed!" Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn't speaking, either, in a sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old man that the shadow on his character was banished forever. Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro's sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt Betty's lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady's shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said: "Now the lost is found, I'd like to inquire what shall be done with it? It'll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful darling here. Let's put it to vote. Here's my notebook, Dolly; tear out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars." So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great doors, having their share of the evening's sport, even among these those who could write put down their wish. Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth Winters's face shone with delight when it proved the majority had voted: "For the old man at St. Michael's." So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all glad to hear him say: "That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day," for he would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen's days could not be "many," though he meant that they should be the most comfortable of all that pain-tormented life. "Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for--the County Fair! All in favor of going say Aye!" cried the Master. The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of humanity. Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they had never tasted before. Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded: "Gimme a drink." "Gimme a drink!" echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their "plain speech" was not exactly that of the Friends. "Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink." "A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias." "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra," glibly repeated the girl, almost tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him. Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible! Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were dearer than all because they were "brands" to be saved from the burning. "Hear me, Rose's Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said. Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that is clean shall have the first drink--but no quarreling. Birthright Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not." The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their surroundings or their difficulty in mastering--without blows--the spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched Benjamin to Oliver's office to announce dinner, the miller fairly stared to hear the midget say: "Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That's who I am now and I'm to have anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I'm Rose's baby. The Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, _did thee know Rose?_" This was the "plain speech" with a vengeance! The miller could scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. "Did he know Rose?" For the first time in many a day he remembered that he _had_ known Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved. Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he took the boy's hand and said: "Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner." "But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around Sap--I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it's cold at night and Him's off messagin'." "Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee'll keep still while we ask blessing." The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming of "Rose's babies" had wrought such a happy effect on her husband's sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one righteous thing he had done--this allowing of the orphans to come home--would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for all. All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent comfort of her new-found "blessings." She hunted up in the attic the long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins' belongings therein, bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of Oliver's would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother's soul, there were ample pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well. "To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask: 'Whose children has thee found?' I shall just say 'Rosie's babies.' Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed. There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home--in the dear forms of her children." Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a time; but the "peace" upon which she counted seemed at that moment a doubtful thing. The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious of a strange sound--the prattle of childish voices and the gentle responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect, in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish. Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient, and he was glad he had let her have her wish. Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County Fair. That Fair! He would have hated it had he not been a Friend and known the sinfulness of hatred. But there were cattle lowing--it sounded as if something were wrong. Habit resumed its sway, and with anxiety over his cherished stock now re-awakened, he passed swiftly out. "Oliver, thee has forgotten thy goloshes!" called his thoughtful spouse, but he paid her no heed, though commonly most careful to guard against his rheumatism. "Who left that gate open? Who drove that cow--her calf--Child! is thee possessed?" Mrs. Betty Calvert was a true prophet--the twins had certainly waked their grandsire up a bit! The explanation was simple, the disaster great. They had tired of the quiet living-room and had also stolen out of doors. Animals never frightened them and they were immediately captivated by the goodly herd of cattle in the pasture. To open the gate was easy; easy, too, to let free from its small shed a crying calf. Between one cow and the calf there seemed a close interest. "We oughtn't ha' did that! That big cow'll eat that little cow up. See Sapphi--Ruth, see them stairs? Let's drive the little cow up the stair past the big wagons and keep it all safe and nice," suggested Benjamin. So they did; much to the surprise of the calf who bounded up the stairs readily enough, kicking its heels and cavorting in a most entrancing fashion; but when they tried to bar the big cow from following, she rushed past them and also ascended the stairs in a swift, lumbering manner. The relationship between the big and little cow now dawned even upon their limited intelligence, though there still remained the fear that the one would devour the other. Then the twins turned and gazed upon one another, anxiety upon their faces; till spying the master of the premises most rapidly approaching they rushed to meet him, exclaiming: "The little cow's all safe but how will we get the big cow down?" How, indeed! Oliver Sands was too angry to speak. For well he knew that it would require the efforts of all his force of helpers to drive that valuable Jersey down the stairs she had not hesitated to go up when driven by maternal love. With one majestic wave of his hand the miller dismissed his grandchildren to the house and Dorcas; but so long and so hard he labored to lure that imprisoned quadruped from his carriage-loft, that, weary, he went early to bed and slept as he had not for nights. So, in that it seemed his "waking up" had proved a blessing. CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED The morning proved fair and cool, ideal weather for their visit to the County Fair; but Mrs. Calvert decided that a whole day there would be both inconvenient and too fatiguing. Now that she was at home the management of the House Party had been turned over to her by tacit consent, and she had laughingly accepted the trust. "This was to be Dorothy's affair, but it's been more Mr. Winters's than hers and now more mine than his. Well, I like it. I like it so exceedingly that I propose to repeat the experiment some time. I love young people; and am I not quite a young person myself?" "Of course, you are, dear Aunt Betty! The youngest of us all in some things, Mr. Seth says!" "So the farrier has been talking, eh? Well, I want to talk a bit, too. In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom--as we have the highest authority to believe; and the case in question is: Shall we, or shall we not, take Luna to the Fair?" They were all grouped on the big piazza, after their early lunch, waiting for the wagons to come from the stables and carry them to the city beyond; and as Mrs. Betty asked this question a hush of surprise fell on them all. Finally, said Helena: "We have taken her, she has gone with us, on all our jaunts. Doesn't it seem too bad to leave her out of this?" One after another as the lady nodded to each to speak the answer was frankly given, and Dorothy remarked: "It's about half-and-half, I guess. Yes, I know she does go to sleep in all sorts of queer places and at the strangest times, but I hate to leave her." "Then if she goes she must wear her own clothes." "Why, Aunt Betty, please? Of course, I don't want to see her in that red frock again--I'd like to burn that up so nobody would ever see it and be reminded how careless and unjust I was. But there's a pretty blue one she could have." "That's not my reason, dearie. I think it has been a mistake, kindly meant, to dress her as you have; that is for longer than was necessary to freshen her own soiled things." She paused and Alfy remarked: "She's the proudest thing for them bright colors. Red, and green, and blue--ary one just sets her smilin'. Besides, once Dinah tried to put back her old brown dress and Luna wouldn't let her. Just folded her arms up tight and didn't--didn't look a mite pleasant." Those who had seen Luna on the rare occasions when she showed anger smiled at this mild description of her appearance then. "I don't know as Dinah would be bothered with her, Aunt Betty, and Norah has a sick headache. But--I'll stay and take care of her if you don't want her to go," said Dorothy. It was an effort to say this and dreading that her offer might be accepted the girl turned her face away to hide her disappointment; but whatever Mrs. Calvert's answer might have been she was not to hear it then. Because there was Jim Barlow beckoning to her in a mysterious manner from behind a great hydrangea bush and looking vastly excited over something. So it was a relief to murmur: "Excuse me a minute, Aunt Betty," and to respond to that summons. "Dolly, there's a man here wants to see you." "A man? To see me? and not Aunt Betty? Who is he?" Jim answered rather impatiently to this string of questions. "I said a man, didn't I. He said he'd rather see you because he knows you, that is you gave him a lift on the road once in your pony cart and talked real sensible----" "Couldn't have meant me, then, could he, Jim?" "Don't fool, Dorothy. He looks as if he was in some trouble. He's the head man from Oliver Sands's grist-mill. Some relation to the miller, I've heard, and lives with him. Hurry up and don't hender the raft of us any longer'n you can help. Tell him, whatever his business is, 'twill have to wait, 't we're going to the Fair and all the teams are ready----" "Yes, I'll hurry. Where is he?" "In that little summer-house beyond the lily pond. That's where he said he'd go. Get rid of him quick, for the horses don't like to stand after they're harnessed." "All right, I'll try!" Gayly waving her hand in the direction of the piazza, she sped across the lawn to a group of silver birches, and the spot in question. Solidly roofed, with vine covered sides, and good board floor, the out-of-door building was a pleasant place, and had been greatly enjoyed by all the House Party. It was well furnished with wicker tables, chairs, and lounges, and heavy matting covered the floor. It was empty now except for the old man awaiting Dorothy, and his first remark showed that he appreciated this bit of outdoor comfort. "It's real purty in here, ain't it? Anybody could spend a night here and take no hurt, couldn't she?" "Why, ye-es, I suppose so; if anybody wished. James told me you asked for me. What is it, please, for we're just on the point of starting for the County Fair, and I don't like to delay the others." "Hmm. Yes. I suppose so. Hmm. Yes. Thee is the little girl that's had such a story-paper kind of life, isn't thee? Don't remember me, but I do thee. Gave me a ride once after that little piebald nag thee swopped Oliver's calf for. Thee sees I know thee, if thee has forgot me and how my floury clothes hit the black jacket thee wore, that day, and dusted it well, 'Dusty miller' thee laughed and called me, sayin' that was some sort of plant grows in gardens. But I knew that. Dorcas has a whole bed of it under her kitchen window. Hmm. Yes." Dorothy tapped her foot impatiently, but did not sit down. Would the man never tell his errand? Finally, as he lapsed into a reverie she roused him, saying: "What is your errand, please?" "It's to help an old man in trouble. It--the--I don't find it so easy to begin. But--is there a little old woman here, no bigger than a child? Is she here? Is she safe?" This was a question so unexpected that Dorothy sat down the better to consider it; then greatly wondering, answered: "Yes, there is an afflicted little creature here. Why? What do you know about her?" "All there is to know, child! All there is to know. Thee sees a most unhappy man before thee, lass." "Who is Luna? How came she here? Tell me, quick, quick; and if you know her home?" "Verily, I know it, since it's my own, too. It's a long story, a long lane, but the worm turned. Ah! yes. It turned." Dolly began to think her visitor was crazy and springing up ran toward the house, saying: "I'm going for Aunt Betty. I'd rather you told your errand to her." The man did not object, and, greatly surprised by the imperative summons though smiling at her darling's excitement, Mrs. Calvert left her guests and followed the girl through the shrubbery to the arbor where the vines hid her from the curious glances of those she had left. "Something's up! I wonder what?" exclaimed Monty Stark. "Whatever it is, if it concerns us we shall be told in due time; and if it doesn't--Hmm," answered Helena. "Stand corrected, Miss Montaigne; but bet a cookie you're as curious as all the rest of us." "Well, yes, I am; though I never bet--even cookies. Now let's talk of something else till they come back. I know they'll not be long." Nor were they; for down in the summer-house, with Elisabeth Calvert's compelling gaze upon him, the visitor told his tale. "Thee can look upon me, lady, as the worm that turned. I am a poor relation of Oliver Sands and he felt he owned me." "That man? Are we never to hear the end of Oliver Sands? He's the 'Old Man of the Mountain', in truth, for his name is on everyone's lips," cried Mistress Betty, crisply, yet resigning herself to the chair Dorothy pushed her way. "Thee never said truer. He is the biggest man up-mounting in more ways'n one. I've not wasted more love on him than many another but I hadn't no call to break his heart. Hark, thee. I'll be as short as I can. "When Oliver's mother died he was a boy and I was. She----" "Beg pardon, please; but this afternoon I really have no time to learn the family history of my neighbor." "But I have to tell thee part, to make thee understand. When his mother died, a widow, she left them two children, Oliver and Leah. He was a big boy, smart and trustable, and Leah was almost a baby. Her mother knew then that the child wasn't like others, she'd talked it with me, I bein' older'n him; but he didn't know it and from the time she was born he'd just about worshiped that baby. When she was dying Mehitabel made him promise, and a Friend's promise is as good as another man's oath, 't he'd always take care of little Leah and love her better'n anybody in the world. That nobody, even if he should grow up and marry and have children of his own, should ever come betwixt her and him. Well, 'twas a good spell before he found out 't he was brother to a fool. That's plain speech but I'm a Quaker. When he did find out, 'twas a'most more'n he could bear. He give out to anybody that asked, how 't she was sickly and had to be kept private. "Elisabeth Calvert, she _has_ been kept private, all her life long, till I let out the secret. He and Dorcas and me, and the children while they lived at the farm, we was the only ones ever had to do with care of her or saw her even. I worked on for him, he makin' the money, I gettin' shorter wages each year, besides him investin' 'em for me as he pleased. "But I'm old. I want a home of my own; and lately I've been pestering him to let me go. He'd always make excuse and talk plausible how 't he couldn't spare me nohow. I knew he told the truth, since if I left he'd have to get in strange help and it might get out 't his sister's sickness was plain want of brains. That'd have nigh killed him, he's so proud; to be pointed at as 'Oliver Sands, that's brother to a fool'." "Well, well. This is exceedingly painful to hear, but to what does it tend?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "Just this, Elisabeth. One day I got nursin' my wrongs and forgettin' my blessings, and the devil was on hand to give me the chance. Dorcas was off nursing a sick neighbor, Oliver was to Newburgh on some Fair business, and there wasn't nobody in the house but me and Leah. I took an old horse and wagon, 't he'd been meaning to sell, to the sales-stable at the Landing; and I coaxed Leah to come take a ride. She come ready enough. She didn't have much fun, anyway, except sitting with him in the office such times as he was lookin' over his accounts and reckonin' his money. She liked that. She always liked to handle money. That proved her a Sands, even if she was imbecile! "Thinks I, I'll break his pride. I'll make him know 't he ain't no better than other folks, even if he does speak in meeting. I meant to carry her clear to the Landing and let things take their chance while I cleared out for good. But when I'd got as far as here I begun to get scared on her account. I'd set out to humble Oliver but I liked Leah, poor creatur'! and I'd forgot I might be hurtin' her the worst. She'd never been 'mongst folks and they might treat her rough. So then I remembered this little girl, and how there was talk 'round about her having a passel of young folks to visit her. So I thought Leah would have a chance amongst 'em and I fetched her in and laid her right in this summer-house, on that bench yonder and covered her with a shawl I saw. She was asleep as she is a lot of the time, and didn't notice. "Then I went on to the Landing, left the rig to the stable, and took the cars for York. I've been there ever since. I never meant to come back; but there's something about this mountain 't pulls wanderers' feet back to it, whether or no. And--is Leah here?" "Rather it was your own guilty conscience that brought you back. Yes, I suppose it is 'Leah'--the witless waif my Dorothy found. And now I understand my poor neighbor's trouble. I am proud myself. Ah! yes I can understand! After the silence of a lifetime, how he shrank from publishing what he seems to have considered a disgrace to a gossiping world. But he was wrong. Such pride is always wrong; and he has spent a most unhappy time, searching with his own eyes everywhere but never asking for his lost Leah! but he was cruel in that, as cruel as misguided; and as for you, sir, the sooner you get upon your wicked feet and travel to Heartsease and tell its master where the poor thing may be found--the better for yourself. I think such an act as you committed is punishable by the strictest rigor of the law; but whether it is or not your own conscience will punish you forever. Now----" Mrs. Calvert stopped speaking and rose. She had never been so stately nor so severe and Dorothy pitied the poor old man who cowered before her, even while she was herself fiercely indignant against him. By a clasp of Mrs. Betty's arm she stayed her leaving: "Wait a moment, Aunt Betty, please. It's just as bad as you say, he's just as bad; but--he's terrible tired and old. He looks sick, almost, and I've been thinking while he talked: You let me stay at home, take Portia and the pony cart and carry Luna--Leah--and him back to Heartsease right away. May I, please?" "But to miss the Fair? He should have the unpleasant task of confessing himself, and nobody else to shield him." "Please, Aunt Betty, please! I found her. Oh! let me be the one to give her back!" Mrs. Calvert looked keenly into her darling's eyes, and after a moment, answered: "I might be willing; but should you desert your guests? And if you do, what shall I say to them for you?" "Just this: that a messenger has come who knows where Luna belongs and that I'm going with him to take her home. That'll make it all right. You might tell Dinah to keep Luna--Leah--I came pretty near her name, didn't I?--to keep her contented somewhere till I come for her and to put on her own old clothes. I have a feeling that that proud old miller would like it better that way." There was a mist in Aunt Betty's eyes as she stooped and kissed the eager face of her unselfish child; but she went quietly away and did as she was asked. Left in the summer-house alone with Dorothy Eli Wroth relapsed into silence. He had had hard work to make himself unburden his guilt and having done so he felt exhausted; remarking once only: "Thee may be sure that the worm hurts itself too when it turns. Thee must never turn but kiss the cheek which smites thee." After which rather mixed advice he said no more; not even when all the other carriages having rolled out of the great gateway, Dorothy disappeared in search of Portia and the cart; nor did he cast more than one inquiring glance upon Leah, sitting on the front seat beside the girlish driver. As for the other, she paid him no more heed than she did to anything else. She might have been seeing him every day, for all surprise she evinced; and as for resentment against him she was too innocent to feel that. The ride was not a long one, but it seemed such to Dorothy. At times her thoughts would stray after her departed friends and a wish that she were with them, enjoying the novelties of the County Fair, disturb her. But she had only to glance at the little creature beside her to forget regret and be glad. Also, if her tongue was perforce silent, her brain was busy, and with something of her Aunt Betty's decision, she intended to have her say before that coming interview was finished. All was very quiet at Heartsease when she reached it. Even the twins were abnormally serious, sitting on the wide, flat doorstep of the kitchen entrance, and looking so comical that Dolly laughed. For the Fifth Day meeting Dorcas had clothed them properly. Her ransacking of old closets had resulted in her finding a small lad's suit, after the fashion of a generation before. A tight little waist with large sleeves, which hung over the child's hands, and a full skirt completed the main part of his costume; while his nimble feet were imprisoned in stout "copper-toes," and a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat covered his already shorn head. Such was Benjamin, in the attire of his uncle at his own age. As for Sapphira-Ruth,--a more bewitching small maiden could not be imagined. She wore her mother's own frock, when that mother was five. Its cut was that of Dorcas's own, even to the small cap and kerchief, while a stiff little bonnet of gray lay on the step beside her. Ruth's toes also shone coppery from under her long skirt; and the restraint of such foot gear upon usually bare feet may have been the reason why the little ones sat sedately where they had been placed without offering to run and meet their old friend. Eli Wroth started to get out of the cart, but Dorothy had a word to say about that. "No, sir, please! You sit still with Leah and hold the horse. I'm going in first to speak to Mr. Sands, but I'll come back." Tapping at the kitchen door, she stooped to kiss the twins, receiving no further response than to see Benjamin wipe her kiss away; Ruth, as a matter of course, immediately doing the same. Nor was there any answer to her knock, and since the door was ajar she pushed it wide and entered. Dorcas sat there asleep; her work-worn hands folded on her lap, her tired body enjoying its Fifth Day rest. Oliver was invisible but Dorothy softly crossed to a passage she saw and down that, stepping quietly, she came upon him alone in his office. The door to that inner, secluded room--Leah's room, she understood at a glance--this door was open, and the miller sat as if staring straight into it. So gently Dolly moved that he did not hear her, and she had gone around him to stand before his face ere he looked up and said: "Thee? thee?" "Yes, I. Mr. Sands, I know the whole story, and I'm sorry for you. I'm more sorry though for the little old woman who belongs in that room. It's pleasant enough but it has been her prison. It has deprived her of lots of fun. If I should bring her back to it, would you let her go out of it sometimes, into the world where she belongs? Would you let her come to visit me? Would you take her to meeting with you as is her birthright? Would you put your pride aside and--do right? If I would bring her back?" For a moment he stared at her as if he did not understand; then all that gloom which had so changed him vanished from his face and he answered with that promise which to a Quaker is better than an oath: "I would. I will! If thee can bring her!" A moment later Leah's hand was in her brother's and Dorothy had left them alone, and thus the House Party neared its end, to become but a happy memory to its soon to be homeward speeding guests. The thoughts of the young hostess were even now turning wholly to the future, her brain teeming with marvelous plans. What these were and how fulfilled in "Dorothy in California," to those interested, the story will be told. CHAPTER XVIII CONCLUSION "Friday! And to-morrow we part!" said Molly Breckenridge, with more of sadness on her sunny face than was often seen there. "It's been such a perfectly enchanting Week of Days, and this is the last one left! Oh! dear! Oh! I do hate good-bys. Saying that and packing one's trunk are two just unbearable things and make one wish, almost, that the nice times had never begun." "Yes, beginnings are grand; but endings--Hmm. I agree with you, Miss Molly," echoed a boyish voice so close to her elbow that the girl wheeled briskly about to see who spoke. "Why, Melvin Cook! Are you down in the dumps, too? I didn't know boys had--had feelings, don't you know." He ignored her mockery and answered gravely: "They do feel a deal more than they get credit for. A boy daren't cry and be silly like a girl----" "Thanks, awfully!" "He just has to keep everything bottled up. That's why he acts rude sometimes. I fancy that's what's amiss with the two Smiths yonder. They've been literally punching each other's heads because Danny happened to remark that Littlejohn would have to work the harder when he got home, to make up for this week's idleness. And----" "Here comes the Master and he doesn't look at all like crying! Why he's holding his hands above his head and--yes, he's clapping them! Call all the others with that new bugle of yours, and let's go meet him! Toot-te-toot-te-toot!" Melvin obediently raised the handsome instrument which Dorothy had given him the night before, and which Mrs. Calvert had bought for him in the hill-city. It had not come from the County Fair but from the best establishment for such ware and Melvin was delighted with it. There had been a "keepsake" for each and all. For Jane Potter her "unabridged"; for Alfaretta, who had never minded rain nor snow, a long desired umbrella; for Jim a Greek lexicon; for Mabel Bruce an exquisite fan; and after the tastes of all something they would always prize. In fact, Mrs. Calvert had early left the Fair and spent her time in shopping; and Seth knew, if the younger ones did not, that far more than the equivalent of the famous one hundred dollars had been expended to give these young folks pleasure. "Oh! what is it, Master! What is it? Have you settled on the play? Will you assign the characters and let us get to studying, so we can make a success of it to-night?" cried Helena, rather anxiously. "I have settled on the play. Rather it has been settled for me. As for characters they will need no study, since each and all are to appear in this most marvelous drama in their own original selves." "Why, Mr. Seth, what do you mean? You look so happy and yet as if something had made you feel bad, too;" said Dorothy, slipping her hand into his as he dropped it to his side. "Oh! I tell you I am happy! So will many another be, 'up-mounting' on this auspicious day. Talk about partings--there are going to be meetings, meetings galore. In short, I won't mystify you any longer though I am half-mystified myself. Attention! Leah Sands will give a House Party this afternoon at Heartsease Farm and we and all who'll accept are bidden to attend at three o'clock sharp." "Leah--that's Luna? How can she do a thing like that?" "Well, it can be done in her name, I reckon. Just as this was Dorothy's and somebody else managed it; eh, lassie? The Friends speak when the Spirit moves. At last, by the power of grief and remorse, by the power of Love, the Spirit of unselfishness and humility has moved upon the heart of Oliver Sands. One is never too old to learn; and, thank God, some are never too old to acknowledge their ignorance! He isn't, and to prove it he is doing this thing. His messengers are speeding everywhere. Caterers from Newburgh have had hurry-up orders to provide a bountiful feast and old Heartsease Farm is to be the scene of an 'Infair' that will beat Dorothy's to--smithereens! I mean, begging her ladyship's pardon, in point of size. Leah is to be the guest of honor, since she cannot preside; but be sure she'll not disgrace her proud brother since at Dorothy's Party she has learned how harmless are even strangers. Yes, I can safely say that Leah made her debut with us. Now, who'll accept? Don't all speak at once!" But they did. So joyfully, so earnestly, that the Master clapped hands over ears and, laughing, hurried away, while Mrs. Calvert beamed upon them all, the dearest hostess who had ever lived--so one and all declared. The scene at Heartsease? It is useless even to try to depict that. Sufficient to say it was a marvelous Party; and he who marveled most was the giver of the Party himself. Because where he might easily have expected absences and "regrets" came hastening guests to shake him by the hand, to forgive hard dealings, to rejoice with him that she who had been lost, in every sense, had been found. And when, at last, the young folks from Deerhurst tore themselves away and walked homeward over the moonlit road, it was with the feeling that this last outing of their Week of Days had been the dearest and the best. Partings? They had to come; but when on the Saturday morning the last guest had disappeared and Dorothy stood alone beside Aunt Betty on the broad piazza, there might be tears in her brown eyes, but there was no real heaviness in her heart. God had given her a home. He had given her this dear old lady to love and serve, and the girl had already learned that there is joy only in Loving Service. THE END [Illustration: DOROTHY AND AUNT BETTY, ALONE AT HOME. _Dorothy's House Party._] IDEAL BOOKS FOR GIRLS The latest and best works of Mrs. L. T. Meade. Very few authors have achieved a popularity equal to that of Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for girls. Her characters are living beings of flesh and blood. Into the trials and crosses of these the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. Turquoise and Ruby. Ten full-page illustrations. The Girls of Mrs. Pritchard's School. Ten full-page illustrations by Lewis Baumer. A Madcap. Eight full-page illustrations by Harold Copping. The Manor School. Ten full-page illustrations. A Bevy of Girls. Ten full-page illustrations. Cloth, 12mo. Special decorated cover. Price, $1.00. CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK THE COMRADES SERIES By Ralph Victor. This writer of boys' books has shown by his magazine work and experience that this series will be without question the greatest seller of any books for boys yet published; full of action from start to finish. Cloth, 12mo. Finely illustrated; special cover design. Price, 60c. per volume. Comrades on the Farm, or the Mystery of Deep Gulch. Comrades in New York, or Snaring the Smugglers. Comrades on the Ranch, or Secret of the Lost River. Comrades in New Mexico, or the Round-up. Comrades on the Great Divide (in preparation). _Ralph Victor is probably the best equipped writer of up-to-date boy's stories of the present day. He has traveled or lived in every land, has shot big game with Sears in India, has voyaged with Jack London, and was a war correspondent in Natal and Japan. The lure of life in the open has always been his, and his experiences have been thrilling and many._ --_"Progress."_ CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK _Specimen Chapter from_ COMRADES IN NEW MEXICO BY RALPH VICTOR. _Published by Chatterton Peck Co._ "We will ride part of the way with you," suggested Fleet, "and see you safe on the road." "If you are going," advised the major, "the sooner you get away the better." "Then I am going to get off at once," announced Chot. It was but a few moments before the horses were saddled and the little cavalcade started. After accompanying him for some half dozen miles the others bade Chot "adios" and returned to the ranch. It was still early evening for the days were now very long, when Chot arrived at El Perro Negro, but unlike the other to be remembered evening there were but few persons about and these few paid no attention to him. He attended to his horse and as the supper hour was already over he asked the landlord to get him something to eat. The inner man satisfied he was off early to bed. The night passed without any disturbance although he slept as Fleet would express it "with one eye awake" and with the coming of daylight he was astir. He fed his horse and gave him a rub down preparatory to an early start. On his way to the shed that morning, he noticed several men whom he had not before seen. Among them he observed the outlaws Jose and Miguel. He paid no attention to them however until they came up beside him. He was engaged in currying his horse. "That is a good beast you have there," said Miguel. "Cuanto? How much for him?" "Good morning," responded Chot, and continued, "He isn't for sale." "Your horse?" went on the man. "No," said Chot, shortly. "He isn't mine." "Where do you come from?" asked Miguel. "I came from Captain Benson's," said Chot, guardedly, thinking it wise not to speak of Rosado. "Isn't that Mr. Shelton's horse?" asked Jose. "Yes," said Chot. "Do you know the owner?" The man muttered something which Chot could not understand. "Then you come from Rosado?" questioned Jose. This after a pause during which he eyed Chot narrowly. "I have been stopping there," answered Chot. "Are you going back there?" asked Miguel. "I am going to meet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton," replied Chot, getting somewhat uneasy under the insistent questioning. "That is what I told you," remarked Jose to Miguel, as the men started back to the Inn. "I wonder what it was he told him?" mused Chot. "The best thing I can do is to get away from here as quickly as possible." As soon as Chot could get his breakfast he was off on his way, having seen nothing more of the bandits. From Estrada a good part of the journey was along the course of a stream that came down from the mountains and as the road was good Chot urged his horse on, but in spite of all his efforts the animal lagged; so that when at noon he stopped to rest in a small grove, he was much less than half way to Rosado. The presence of the bandits at the Inn had disquieted him and as soon as the worst of the heat was over he re-saddled his horse to resume his journey. As he was starting off, as a matter of precaution he glanced back over the road and was disturbed to see two horsemen rapidly approaching. "The quicker I can get away from here the better," he thought, and he urged his horse on as fast as he could. "They may be all right," he reflected, "but I don't like the looks of it and it will be just as well to keep out of their way." "I wonder what is the matter with Brownie," he cogitated after a bit, for in spite of all his efforts the horse's pace became more labored and slower. His pursuers, if such they were, were rapidly gaining on him. "They may be after me and they may be only traveling in this direction," he reasoned, "but I am going to find out. I will ride over to the woods, it is out of my way and off the trail, if they follow I'll know they are after me." Turning his horse's head in the direction of the forest he proceeded as fast as he could. Looking back after a few moments he saw that the men had changed their course and were plainly headed toward and rapidly gaining on him. His position was decidedly unpleasant. The outlaws he was sure, had recognized him as one of the comrades who were visiting at the hacienda, and of whom they had heard enough, through Took, to regard as dangerous enemies and to be gotten out of the way. Whether they knew that the comrades had discovered the secret of the lost river or not, they were evidently anxious to be rid of them. "I can't successfully resist them if they attack me," reasoned Chot, "I wish I had brought a gun of some kind. As it is the only thing I can do is to try and elude them." Chot thought quickly. "If I can jump from the saddle into one of the trees I won't leave any trail and they won't know where I have gone. I'll try it anyhow," he said to himself, "even if I fail I won't be any worse off, for my mount is laboring painfully." The wood which he was now approaching was of very heavy timber and little underbrush had grown up between the trees. The trees themselves were well scattered yet were so large, their wide spreading branches interlaced. Even the lower branches were so high that Chot could not reach them with his extended hand. Climbing now on to the saddle he got first on his knees, as he and his chums had practiced in their efforts to imitate the tricks of the cowboys at the hacienda, then on to his feet; here he balanced himself for an instant. While the horse was loping along under his persistent urging he came to a slightly sagging branch, grasping it he sprang into the tree. Quickly he drew himself up out of sight of any one below. He had scarcely succeeded in doing this when the bandits, who were only a short distance behind him when he entered the woods, were heard galloping below him. "We have got him now," he overheard Jose saying to his companion. "Don't be too sure of that," objected Miguel. "They are devils those Americans." "A fig for your devils," returned Jose. "If I can get my hands on him I will take care of him all right." "You want to pray the saints they don't get their claws on you," retorted Miguel. Further words he could not catch as they rode along. "I wonder what will be the next move," thought Chot as he made his way to better security farther up in the tree. "I think I will study up flying machines when I get out of this. A pair of wings would come in handy just now." Chot was not long left in doubt for in ten minutes the men came back through the woods, evidently in search of him. "What did I tell you," expostulated Miguel. "I knew he would get away somehow." "He hasn't got away yet," growled the other, stopping beneath the tree in which Chot had taken refuge. "He disappeared in the woods somewhere and I am going to find him. He is somewhere between this locality and the edge of the wood where we found his horse. Say but you did not give him a big enough dose. The animal ought to have played out hours ago." "So they tried to poison my horse," was Chot's thought. "I am going to find him," repeated Jose. "Quiza!" said Miguel, looking about him, "Maybe you will and maybe you won't. If he were human where could he go? There is no place here where he could hide." "He is here somewhere," retorted Jose, "and I am going to search him out. He knows too much and I am going to get rid of him. He must be up a tree and so he must come down." "Carambo! no," said Miguel. "Nothing but a cat could go up a tree so quick. We were just behind him. See there are the marks of his horse's hoofs, the animal never stopped in his stride. The boy went off just like that," and Miguel blew across his hand with an expressive little puff. "Same as they did in the cave. Better leave him alone. No good will come of it." Chot, who had climbed up into the tree as high as he dared, now drew himself close to the trunk and waited for the next move on the part of his pursuers which was not long in coming. He could not see the speakers below, but of a sudden his attention was attracted to an adjoining tree. Chot had noted that the branch upon which he was resting his hands for partial support, was of a remarkable length and stretched out till it met and overlapped a branch of the next nearest tree. Some motion upon the branch of the farther tree caught his eye. To his horror he made out some sort of a wild beast stealthily approaching. Its yellow eyes were on a level with his own. He gazed in fascinated terror. Truly his predicament was hopeless. There seemed no way for him to cope with one enemy or the other. To remain where he was, would be to become the sure prey of the wild beast. To make any move for defense would call to the attention of the outlaws his hiding place. * * * * * * WORLD-WIDE ADVENTURE SERIES _By Edward S. Ellis_ Cloth, 12mo., stamped in colors and gold. Handsomely illustrated. Price per volume, postpaid, 60 cents. The books written by Mr. Ellis are too well known to need a special introduction here. All are bright, breezy, and full of life, character, and adventure. They cover a wide field, and consequently appeal to all classes of young folks. The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success In this tale life in a country town is well described. There is a mysterious bank robbery, which fills the community with excitement. There is likewise a flood on the river; and through all this whirl of events the young telegraph messenger exhibits a pluck and sagacity sure to win the admiration and approval of all wide-awake boys. Other Volumes in this Series: From the Throttle to the President's Chair Tad; or "Getting Even" with Him Through Jungle and Wilderness A Waif of the Mountains Down the Mississippi Life of Kit Carson Land of Wonders Lost in the Wilds Up the Tapajos Lost in Samoa Red Plume CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY New York THE FRONTIER BOYS BY CAPT. WYN. ROOSEVELT. This noted scout and author, known to every plainsman, has lived a life of stirring adventure. In boyhood, in the early days, he traveled with comrades the overland route to the West,--a trip of thrilling experiences, unceasing hardships and trials that would have daunted a heart less brave. His life has been spent in the companionship of the typically brave adventurers, gold seekers, cowboys and ranchmen of our great West. He has lived with more than one Indian tribe, took part in a revolution at Hawaii and was captured in turn by pirates and cannibals. He writes in a way sure to win the heart of every boy. Frontier boys on the overland trail. Frontier boys in Colorado, or captured by Indians. Frontier boys in the Grand Canyon, or a search for treasure. Frontier boys in Mexico, or Mystery Mountain. Finely illustrated. Cloth, 12mo. Attractive cover design. Price 60c. per volume. CHATTERTON-PECK. CO. NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber�s Note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters� errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author�s words and intent. 
5893	----	TWO LITTLE WOMEN ON A HOLIDAY BY CAROLYN WELLS Author Of The Patty Books, The Marjorie Books, Two Little Women Series, Etc. FRONTISPIECE BY E. C. CASWELL Made in the United States of America 1917 TO MY VERY DEAR CHILD FRIEND FRANCES ALTHEA SPRAGUE CONTENTS CHAPTER I A WONDERFUL PLAN II A FAVOURABLE DECISION III THE ARRIVAL IV A MERRY QUARTETTE V GOING ABOUT VI A MATINEE IDOL VII GREAT PREPARATIONS VIII THE CALLER IX FINE FEATHERS X A SKATING PARTY XI THE COLLECTIONS XII THE LOST JEWEL XIII SUSPICIONS XIV AT THE TEA ROOM XV DOLLY'S RIDE XVI WAS IT ALICIA? XVII A CLEVER IDEA XVIII FOUR CELEBRATIONS XIX ALICIA'S SECRET XX UNCLE JEFF'S FOUR FRIENDS CHAPTER I A WONDERFUL PLAN "Hello, Dolly," said Dotty Rose, over the telephone. "Hello, Dot," responded Dolly Fayre. "What you want?" "Oh! I can't tell you this way. Come on over, just as quick as you can." "But I haven't finished my Algebra, and it's nearly dinner time, anyway." "No it isn't,--and no matter if it is. Come on, I tell you! You'd come fast enough if you knew what it's about!" "Tell me, then." "I say I can't,--over the telephone. Oh, Dolly, come on, and stop fussing!" The telephone receiver at Dotty's end of the wire was hung up with a click, and Dolly began to waggle her receiver hook in hope of getting Dotty back. But there was no response, so Dolly rose and went for her coat. Flinging it round her, and not stopping to get a hat, she ran next door to Dotty Rose's house. It was mid January, and the six o'clock darkness was lighted only by the street lights. Flying across the two lawns that divided the houses, Dolly found Dotty awaiting her at the side door. "Hurry up in, Doll," she cried, eagerly, "the greatest thing you ever heard! Oh, the very greatest! If you only CAN! Oh, if you ONLY can!" "Can what? Do tell me what you're talking about." Dolly tossed her coat on the hall rack, and followed Dotty into the Roses' living-room. There she found Dotty's parents and also Bernice Forbes and her father. What could such a gathering mean? Dolly began to think of school happenings; had she cut up any mischievous pranks or inadvertently done anything wrong? What else could bring Mr. Forbes to the Roses' on what was very evidently an important errand? For all present were eagerly interested,--that much was clear. Mr. and Mrs. Rose were smiling, yet shaking their heads in uncertainty; Bernice was flushed and excited; and Mr. Forbes himself was apparently trying to persuade them to something he was proposing. This much Dolly gathered before she heard a word of the discussion. Then Mrs. Rose said, "Here's Dolly Fayre. You tell her about it, Mr. Forbes." "Oh, let me tell her," cried Bernice. "No," said Mr. Rose, "let her hear it first from your father. You girls can chatter afterward." So Mr. Forbes spoke. "My dear child," he said to Dolly, "my Bernice is invited to spend a week with her uncle, in New York City. She is privileged to ask you two girls to accompany her if you care to." Dolly listened, without quite grasping the idea. She was slow of thought, though far from stupid. And this was such a sudden and startling suggestion that she couldn't quite take it in. "Go to New York, for a week. Oh, I couldn't. I have to go to school." Mrs. Rose smiled. "That's just the trouble, Dolly. Dot has to go to school, too,--at least, she ought to. Bernice, likewise. But this invitation is so delightful and so unusual, that I'm thinking you three girls ought to take advantage of it. The question is, what will your parents say?" "Oh, they'll never let me go!" exclaimed Dolly, decidedly. "They don't want anything to interfere with my lessons." "No, and we feel the same way about Dotty. But an exceptional case must be considered in an exceptional manner. I think your people might be persuaded if we go about it in the right way." "I don't believe so," and Dolly looked very dubious. "Tell me more about it." "Oh, Doll, it's just gorgeous!" broke in Bernice. "Uncle Jeff,--he's father's brother,--wants me to spend a week with him. And he's going to have my cousin, Alicia, there at the same time. And he wants us to bring two other girls, and Alicia can't bring one, 'cause she's at boarding school, and none of the girls can get leave,--that is, none that she wants. So Uncle said for me to get two, if I could,--and I want you and Dot." "A whole week in New York! Visiting!" Dolly's eyes sparkled as the truth began to dawn on her. "Oh, I WISH I could coax Mother into it. I've never been to New York to stay any time. Only just for the day. How lovely of you, Bernie, to ask us!" "There's no one else I'd rather have, but if you can't go, I'll have to ask Maisie May. I must get two." "Are you going anyway, Dots?" "I don't know. I want to go terribly, but I don't want to go without you, Dolly. Oh, WON'T your mother let you?" "The only way to find out is to ask her," said Mr. Forbes, smiling. "Suppose I go over there now and ask. Shall I go alone, or take you three chatterboxes along?" "Oh, let us go," and Dotty sprang up; "we can coax and you can tell about the arrangements." "Very well," agreed Mr. Forbes, "come along, then." So the four went across to the Fayre house, and found the rest of Dolly's family gathered in the library. "Here is Mr. Forbes, Daddy," said Dolly, as they entered. Mr. and Mrs. Fayre and Trudy, Dolly's older sister, greeted the visitor cordially, and looked with smiling inquiry at the eager faces of the three girls. Dolly went and sat on the arm of her mother's chair, and, putting an arm around her, whispered, "Oh, Mumsie, please, PLEASE do say yes! Oh, please do!" "Yes to what?" returned Mrs. Fayre, patting her daughter's shoulder. "Mr. Forbes will tell you. Listen." "It's this way, my dear people," began Mr. Forbes. He was a man with an impressive manner, and it seemed as if he were about to make a speech of grave importance, as, indeed, from the girls' point of view, he was. "My brother Jefferson, who lives in New York, has invited my daughter to spend a week in his home there. He has asked also another niece, Miss Alicia Steele. He wants these girl visitors to bring with them two friends, and as Alicia does not wish to avail herself of that privilege, Bernice may take two with her. She wants to take Dotty and Dolly. There, that's the whole story in a nutshell. The question is, may Dolly go?" "When is this visit to be made?" asked Mrs. Fayre. "As soon as convenient for all concerned. My brother would like the girls to come some day next week, and remain one week." "What about school?" and Mrs. Fayre looked decidedly disapproving of the plan. "That's just it!" exclaimed Dotty. "We knew you'd say that! But, Mrs. Fayre, my mother says this is the chance of a lifetime,--almost,--and we ought, we really OUGHT to take advantage of it." "But to be out of school for a whole week,--and what with getting ready and getting home and settled again, it would mean more than a week--" "But, mother, we could make up our lessons," pleaded Dolly, "and I DO want to go! oh, I do want to go, just AWFULLY!" "I should think you would," put in Trudy. "Let her go, mother, it'll be an education in itself,--the visit will. Why, the girls can go to the museums and art galleries and see all sorts of things." "Of course we can," said Bernice, "and my uncle has a beautiful house and motor cars and everything!" "That's another point," said Mr. Fayre, gravely. "You must realise, Mr. Forbes, that my little girl is not accustomed to grandeur and wealth. I don't want her to enjoy it so much that she will come back discontented with her own plain home." "Oh, nonsense, my dear sir! A glimpse of city life and a taste of frivolity will do your girl good. Dolly is too sensible a sort to be a prey to envy or discontent. I know Dolly fairly well, and I can vouch for her common sense!" "So can I," said Bernice. "Doll will enjoy everything to the limit, but it won't hurt her disposition or upset her happiness to see the sights of the city for a short time. Oh, please, Mr. Fayre, do let her go." "Just as her mother thinks," and Mr. Fayre smiled at the insistent Bernice. "Tell me of the household," said Mrs. Fayre. "Is your brother's wife living?" "Jeff has never been married," replied Mr. Forbes. "He is an elderly bachelor, and, I think is a bit lonely, now and then. But he is also a little eccentric. He desires no company, usually. It is most extraordinary that he should ask these girls. But I think he wants to see his two nieces, and he fears he cannot entertain them pleasantly unless they have other companions of their own age." "And who would look after the girls?" "Mrs. Berry, my brother's housekeeper. She is a fine noble-hearted and competent woman, who has kept his house for years. I know her, and I am perfectly willing to trust Bernice to her care. She will chaperon the young people, for I doubt if my brother will go to many places with them. But he will want them to have the best possible time, and will give them all the pleasure possible." "That part of it is all right, then," smiled Mrs. Fayre; "it is, to my mind, only the loss of more than a week of the school work that presents the insuperable objection." "Oh, don't say insuperable," urged Mr. Forbes. "Can't you bring yourself to permit that loss? As Dolly says, the girls can make up their lessons." "They can--but will they?" "I will, mother," cried Dolly; "I promise you I will study each day while I'm in New York. Then I can recite out of school hours after I get back, and I'll get my marks all the same." "But, Dolly dear, you can't study while you are in New York. There would be too much to distract you and occupy your time." "Oh, no, Mrs. Fayre," observed Bernice, "we couldn't be all the time sightseeing. I think it would be fine for all us girls to study every day, and keep up our lessons that way." "It sounds well, my dear child," and Mrs. Fayre looked doubtfully at Bernice, "and I daresay you mean to do it, but I can't think you could keep it up. The very spirit of your life there would be all against study." "I agree with that," said Mr. Forbes, decidedly. "I vote for the girls having an entire holiday. Lessons each day would spoil all their fun." "They couldn't do it," Trudy said. "I know, however much they tried, they just COULDN'T study in that atmosphere." "Why not?" asked Bernice. "We're not young ladies, like you, Trudy. We won't be going to parties, and such things. We can only go to the shops and the exhibitions and for motor rides in the park and such things. We could study evenings, I'm sure." "It isn't only the lessons," Mrs. Fayre said; "but I can't feel quite willing to let my little girl go away for a week without me." Her pleasant smile at Mr. Forbes robbed the words of any reflection they might seem to cast on his brother's invitation. "I'm sure Mrs. Berry would do all that is necessary in the way of a chaperon's duties, but these girls are pretty young even for that. They need a parent's oversight." Mrs. Fayre was about to say a mother's oversight, when she remembered that Bernice had no mother, and changed the words accordingly. There was some further discussion, and then Mrs. Fayre said she must have a little time alone to make up her mind. She knew that if Dolly did not go, Maisie May would be asked in her place, but she still felt undecided. She asked for only an hour or two to think it over, and promised to telephone directly after dinner, and tell Mr. Forbes her final decision. This was the only concession she would make. If not acceptable then her answer must be no. "Please do not judge my wife too harshly," said Mr. Fayre as he accompanied Mr. Forbes and Bernice to the door. "She still looks upon Dolly as her baby, and scarcely lets her out of her sight." "That's all right," returned Mr. Forbes. "She's the right sort of a mother for the girl. I hope she will decide to let Dolly go, but if not, I quite understand her hesitancy, and I respect and admire her for it. Bernice can take somebody else, and I trust you will not try over hard to influence Mrs. Fayre in Dolly's favour. If anything untoward should happen, I should never forgive myself. I would far rather the children were disappointed than to have Mrs. Fayre persuaded against her better judgment." The Forbeses departed, and then Dotty Rose went home, too. "Oh, Dollyrinda," she whispered as they stood in the hall, "do you s'pose your mother'll EVER say yes?" "I don't believe so," replied Dolly mournfully. "But, oh, Dot, how I do want to go! Seems 'sif I never wanted anything so much in all my life!" "You don't want to go a bit more than I want to have you. Why, Dollops, I shan't go, if you don't." "Oh, yes, you will, Dotty. You must. It would be silly not to." "But I couldn't! I just COULDN'T. Do you s'pose I could have one single bit of fun going to places without you? And knowing you were here at home, longing to be with us! No-sir-ee! I just couldn't pos-SIB-ly! So just you remember that, old girl; no Dolly,--no Dotty! And that's SURE!" There was a ring in Dotty's voice that proclaimed an unshakable determination, and Dolly knew it. She knew that no coaxing of Bernice or even of Dolly herself, could make Dotty go without her chum. For chums these two were, in the deepest sense of the word. They were together all that was possible during their waking hours. They studied together, worked and played together, and occupied together their little house, built for them, and called Treasure House. Dolly knew she couldn't enjoy going anywhere without Dotty, and she knew Dot felt the same way about her. But this was such a big, splendid opportunity, that she hated to have Dotty miss it, even if she couldn't go herself. The two girls said good-night, and Dolly went back to her family in the library. "I hate terribly to disappoint you, Dolly darling," began her mother, and the tears welled up in Dolly's blue eyes. This beginning meant a negative decision, that was self evident, but Dolly Fayre was plucky by nature and she was not the sort that whines at disappointment. "All right," she said, striving to be cheerful, and blinking her eyes quickly to keep those tears back. "Now, look here, Edith," said Mr. Fayre, "I don't believe I can stand this. I don't differ with you regarding the children, but I do think you might let Dolly go on this party. Even if it does take a week out of school, she'll get enough general information and experience from a week in the city to make up." "That's just it, Will. But the experiences she gets there may not be the best possible for a little girl of fifteen." "Oh, fifteen isn't an absolute baby. Remember, dear, Dolly is going to grow up some day, and she's getting started." "And another thing. I asked Mr. Forbes a few questions while you were talking to Bernice, and it seems this other girl, the niece, Alicia, is attending a very fashionable girls' boarding school." "Well, what of that? You speak as if she were attending a lunatic asylum!" "No; but can't you see if Dolly goes to stay a week with wealthy Bernice Forbes and this fashionable Alicia, she'll get her head full of all sorts of notions that don't belong there?" "No, I won't, mother," murmured Dolly, who, again on her mother's arm chair, was looking earnestly into the maternal blue eyes, so like her own. And very lovingly Mrs. Fayre returned the gaze, for she adored her little daughter and was actuated only by the best motives in making her decisions. "And, here's another thing," said Dolly, "Dot won't go, if I don't. It seems too bad to spoil HER fun." "Oh, yes, she will," said Mrs. Fayre, smiling. "She would be foolish to give up her pleasure just because you can't share it." "Foolish or not, she won't go," repeated Dolly. "I know my Dot, and when she says she won't do a thing, she just simply doesn't do it!" "I'd be sorry to be the means of keeping Dotty at home," and Mrs. Fayre sighed deeply. CHAPTER II A FAVOURABLE DECISION All through dinner time, Mrs. Fayre was somewhat silent, her eyes resting on Dolly with a wistful, uncertain expression. She wanted to give the child the pleasure she craved, but she had hard work to bring herself to the point of overcoming her own objections. At last, however, when the meal was nearly over, she smiled at her little daughter, and said, "All right, Dolly, you may go." "Oh, mother!" Dolly cried, overwhelmed with sudden delight. "Really? Oh, I am so glad! Are you sure you're willing?" "I've persuaded myself to be willing, against my will," returned Mrs. Fayre, whimsically. "I confess I just hate to have you go, but I can't bear to deprive you of the pleasure trip. And, as you say, it would also keep Dotty at home, and so, altogether, I think I shall have to give in." "Oh, you angel mother! You blessed lady! How good you are!" And Dolly flew around the table and gave her mother a hug that nearly suffocated her. "There, there, Dollygirl," said her father, "go back and finish your pudding while we talk this over a bit. Are you sure, Edith, you are willing? I don't want you to feel miserable and anxious all the week Dolly is cut loose from your apron string." "No, Will; it's all right. If you and the Roses and Trudy, here, all agree it's best for Dolly to go, it seems foolish for me to object. And it may be for her good, after all." "That's what I say, mother," put in Trudy. "Doll isn't a child, exactly. She's fifteen and a half, and it will be a fine experience for her to see a little bit of the great world. And she couldn't do it under better conditions than at Mr. Forbes' brother's. The Forbes' are a fine family, and you know, perfectly well, there'll be nothing there that isn't just exactly right." "It isn't that, Trudy. But,--oh, I don't know; I daresay I'm a foolish mother bird, afraid of her littlest fledgling." "You're a lovely mother-bird!" cried Dolly, "and not foolish a bit! but, oh, do decide positively, for I can't wait another minute to tell Dot, if I'm going." "Very well," said Mrs. Fayre, "run along and tell Dotty, and Bernice, too." Dolly made a jump and two hops for the telephone, and soon the wires must have bent under the weight of joyous exclamations. "Oh, Dolly, isn't it fine!" "Oh, Dotty, it's splendid! I can hardly believe it!" "Have you told Bernice?" "Not yet. Had to tell you first. When do we go?" "Next Tuesday, I think. Now, you tell Bernie, so she can write to her uncle that we accept." And then there was another jubilation over the telephone. "Fine!" cried Bernice, as she heard the news. "Lovely! I'd so much rather have you two girls than any others. I'll write Uncle Jeff to-night that I'll bring you. And I'll come over to-morrow, and we'll decide what clothes to take, and all that." Mrs. Fayre sighed, as Dolly reported this conversation. "You girls can't do a bit of serious study all the rest of the time before you go," she said. "Now, Dolly, I'll have to ask you to do your lessons every day, before you plan or talk over the trip at all." "Yes, mother, I will," and Dolly started at once for her schoolbooks. It was hard work to put her mind on her studies, with the wonderful possibilities that lay ahead of her. But she was exceedingly conscientious, was Dolly Fayre, and she resolutely put the subject of the New York visit out of her mind, and did her algebra examples with diligence. Not so, Dotty Rose. After Dolly's telephone message, she flung her schoolbooks aside, with a shout of joy, and declared she couldn't study that night. "I don't wonder," laughed her father. "Why, Dot, you're going on a veritable Fairy-tale visit. You are quite justified in being excited over it." "I thought you and Dolly didn't like Bernice Forbes very much," said Mrs. Rose. "We didn't use to, mother. But lately, she's been a whole lot nicer. You know Doll made her sort of popular, and after that, she helped along, herself, by being ever so much more pleasant and chummy with us all. She used to be stuck up and disagreeable; ostentatious about being rich, and all that. But nowadays, she's more simple, and more agreeable every way." "That's nice," observed Mr. Rose. "Forbes is not a popular man, nor a very good citizen; I mean he isn't public-spirited or generous. But he's a fine business man and a man of sound judgment and integrity. I'm glad you're chums with his daughter, Dotty. And you ought to have a perfectly gorgeous time on the New York visit." "Oh, we will, Daddy; I'm sure of that. What about clothes, Mumsie?" "I'll have to see about that. You'll need a few new frocks, I suppose, but we can get them ready made, or get Miss Felton to come for a few days. There's nearly a week before you start." "I want some nice things," declared Dotty. "You know Bernice has wonderful clothes, and I suppose her cousin has, too." "Maybe your wardrobe can't be as fine as a rich man's daughter," said her father smiling at her, "but I hope mother will fix you up so you won't feel ashamed of your clothes." "I think they'll be all right," and Mrs. Rose nodded her head. "I'll see Mrs. Fayre to-morrow, and we'll find out what Bernice is going to take with her. You children can't need elaborate things, but they must be right." The Rose family spent the entire evening talking over the coming trip, and when Dotty went to bed she set an alarm clock, that she might rise early in the morning to do her lessons for the day before breakfast. She did them, too, and came to the table, smiling in triumph. "Did all my examples and learned my history perfectly," she exulted. "So you see, mother, my trip won't interfere with my education!" "Oh, you can make up your lessons," said her father, carelessly. "I wouldn't give much for a girl who couldn't do a few extra tasks to make up for a grand outing such as you're to have." "I either!" agreed Dotty. "But the Fayres are worried to death for fear Doll will miss a lesson somewhere." "Dolly learns more slowly than you," remarked her mother. "You have a gift for grasping facts quickly, and a good memory to retain them." "You ought to be grateful for that," said Mr. Rose. "I am," returned Dotty. "When I see Dolly grubbing over her history, I can't understand how she can be so long over it." "But she's better in mathematics than you are." "Yes, she is. She helps me a lot with the old puzzlers. She thinks we'll study in New York. But somehow, I don't believe we will." "Of course, you won't," laughed Mr. Rose. "Why, you'd be foolish to do that. A fine opportunity has come to you girls, and I advise you to make the most of it. See all the sights you can; go to all the pleasant places you can; and have all the fun you can cram into your days. Then go to sleep and rest up for the next day." "Good, sound advice, Dads," said Dotty; "you're a gentleman and a scholar to look at it like that! But I don't know as we can go about much; I believe Mr. Forbes is quite an old man, and who will take us about?" "I thought the housekeeper would," said Mrs. Rose. "I don't know at all, mother. It seems Bernie has never visited there before, though she has been to the house. Her uncle is queer, and why he wants his two nieces all of a sudden, and his two nieces' friends, nobody knows. It's sort of mysterious, I think." "Well, it's all right, as long as you're properly invited. It seems strange Bernie's cousin didn't care to take a friend." "Yes; I wonder what she's like. Bernice hasn't seen her since they were little girls. She lives out in Iowa, I think. She's at school in Connecticut somewhere. It's all sort of unknown. But I like that part of it. I love new experiences." "I always do too, Dot," said her father. "I reckon when you come home, you'll have lots to tell us." "New York isn't so strange to me," said Dotty. "I've been there a lot of times, you know. But to go and stay in a house there,--that's the fun. It's so different from going in for a day's shopping with mother. Or the day we all went to the Hippodrome." "You'll probably go to the Hippodrome again, or some such entertainment," suggested Mrs. Rose. "I dunno. I imagine the old gentleman doesn't favour such gaiety. And the housekeeper lady will likely be too busy to do much for us. We can't go anywhere alone, can we?" "I don't know," replied Mrs. Rose. "You must be guided by circumstances, Dotty. Whatever Mr. Forbes and Mrs. Berry say for you to do, will be all right. Make as little trouble as you can, and do as you're told. You'll have fun enough, just being with the girls." "Indeed I will! Oh, I'm so glad Dolly can go. I wouldn't have stirred a step without her!" "No, I know you wouldn't," agreed her mother. Next day at school recess, Bernice showed the girls a letter she had received from Alicia. "You know I haven't seen her in years," Bernice said; "I think she must be more grown up than we are, though she's only just sixteen." "Dearest Bernice:" the letter ran. "Isn't it simply screaming that we're to camp out at Uncle Jeff's! I'm wildly excited over it! Do you know why he has asked us? I'm not sure, myself, but I know there's a reason, and it's a secret. I heard aunt and father talking about it when I was home at Christmas time, but when I drifted into the room, they shut up like clams. However, we'll have one gay old time! Think of being in New York a whole week! I don't want to take any of the girls from here, for fear they'd bring back tales. Don't you bring anybody you can't trust. Oh, I've laid lots of plans, but I won't tell you about them till I see you. Bring all your best clothes, and ask your father for quite a lot of money, though I suppose Uncle Jeff will give us some. I can scarcely wait for the time to come! "Devotedly yours, "ALICIA." "What does she mean by a secret reason for your going?" asked Dolly. "I haven't an idea," replied Bernice. "My father knows, though, I'm quite sure, 'cause he smiled at that part of Alicia's letter. But he wouldn't tell me. He only said, 'Oh, pshaw, nothing of any consequence. It's very natural that a lonely old bachelor uncle should want to see his little girl nieces, and it's very kind and thoughtful of him to ask you to bring friends.' He says Uncle Jeff is not fond of company, and spends all his time by himself. He's a scientist or naturalist or something, and works in his study all day. So, dad says, it'll be fine for us girls to have four of us to be company for each other." "It's gorgeous!" sighed Dotty, in an ecstasy of anticipation. "But what does your cousin mean by bringing a lot of money? We can't do that,--and our parents don't let us spend much money ourselves, anyway." "Oh, that'll be all right," said Bernice, carelessly. "We won't need much money. And if we go to matinees, or anything like that, of course, I'll pay, if Uncle Jeff doesn't. You two girls are my guests, you know. You needn't take any money at all." "All right," said Dolly, and dismissed the subject. Money did not figure very largely in her affairs, as, except for a small allowance for trifles, she never handled any. Nor did Dotty, as these two were still looked upon as children by their parents. But motherless Bernice bought her own clothes and paid her own bills; and so generous was her father, that there was no stint, and as a consequence, she too, cared and thought little about money as a consideration. "I'm a little scared of that Alicia person," said Dolly to Dotty as they walked home from school. "Pooh! I'm not. She's no richer than Bernie." "It isn't that. I'm not afraid of rich people. But she seems so grown up and--well, experienced." "Well, sixteen is grown up. And we're getting there, Dolly. I shall put up my hair while I'm in New York." "Why, Dot Rose! Really?" "Yes, that is if Alicia does. Bernice often does, you know." "I know it. I'll ask mother if I may." "Goodness, Dolly, can't you decide a thing like that for yourself? What would your mother care?" "I'd rather ask her," returned the conscientious Dolly. Mrs. Fayre smiled when Dolly put the question. "I've been expecting that," she said. "You'd better do as the others do, dear. If they twist up their pigtails, you do the same." "I'll show you how," offered Trudy. "If you're going to do it, you may as well learn a becoming fashion." So Trudy taught her little sister how to coil up her yellow, curly mop in a correct fashion, and very becoming it was to Dolly. But it made her look a year or two older than she was. "Oh!" exclaimed her mother, when she saw her, "Where's my baby? I've lost my little girl!" "Just as well," said Dolly, delighted at her achievement and pirouetting before a mirror. "It's time I began to be a little grown up, mother." "Yes, I suppose it is. I felt just the same when Trudy put up her curls for the first time. I am a foolish old thing!" "Now, don't you talk like that," cried Dolly, "or I'll pull down my hair and wear it in tails till I'm fifty!" "No, dear; do as you like about it. And, if you want to wear it that way while you're in New York, do. It's all right." More discussions came with the new dresses. Mrs. Fayre was for keeping to the more youthful models, but Mrs. Hose felt that the girls should have slightly older styles. Bernice's frocks were almost young ladyish, but those were not copied. Dotty and Dolly always had their things similar, different in colouring but alike in style. So their respective mothers had many confabs before the grave questions were settled. And the result was two very attractive wardrobes that were really right for fifteen-year-old girls. Afternoon dresses of voile or thin silk, and one pretty party dress for each of dainty chiffon and lace. Morning frocks of linen and a tailored street suit seemed to be ample in amount and variety. Bernice had more and grander ones, but the two D's were entirely satisfied, and watched the packing of their small trunks with joyful contentment. Dolly put in her diary, declaring she should write a full account of each day's happenings. "Then that'll do for me," said Dotty. "I hate to keep a diary, and what would be the use? It would be exactly like yours, Doll, and I can borrow yours to read to my people after you've read it to your family." "All right," agreed Dolly, good-naturedly, for what pleased one girl usually suited the other. They didn't take their schoolbooks, for it made a heavy load, and too, all agreed that it would spoil the pleasant vacation. The girls promised to make up the lessons on their return, and so it seemed as if nothing marred the anticipation of their splendid holiday. CHAPTER III THE ARRIVAL The girls were put on the train at Berwick and as Mrs. Berry was to meet them at the station in New York, they were allowed to make the trip alone. "I think this train ride the best part of the whole thing," said Dolly, as she took off her coat and hung it up beside her chair. "I do love to ride in a parlour car; I wish we were to travel in it for a week." "I like it, too," agreed Bernice. "Oh, girls, what fun we're going to have! You won't like Uncle Jeff at first, he's awful queer; but there's one thing sure, he'll let us do just as we like. He's very good-natured." "What's Mrs. Berry like?" asked Dotty. "I suppose we'll obey her?" "Yes, but she's good-natured, too. I can twist her round my finger. Oh, we'll have a high old time." "S'pose Mrs. Berry shouldn't be there to meet us when we get in," suggested Dolly. "What then?" "She will, of course," said Bernice. "But if she shouldn't, if the car broke down or anything like that, we'd take a taxicab right to the house." This sounded very grown-up and grand to the two D's, who had had little experience with taxicabs, and Dotty exclaimed with glee, "I'd rather do that than go in Mr. Forbes' car! What a lark it would be! Oh, Bernice, can we go somewhere in a taxicab while we're there?" "I don't know, Dotty,--I s'pose so. But why should we? Uncle Jeff has two cars, and the chauffeur will take us wherever we want to go." "But I've never been in a taxicab,--without older people, I mean, and I'd love to try it." "Well, I expect you can," returned Bernice, carelessly. "I dare say you can do pretty much anything you want to." "But do behave yourself, Dot," cautioned Dolly; "you're so daring and venturesome, I don't know what mischief you'll get into!" "Oh, we won't get into mischief," laughed Bernice. "There'll be enough fun, without doing anything we oughtn't to." "Of course, I won't do anything wrong," declared Dotty, indignantly. "But there are so many things to do, it sets me crazy to think of it!" "I'm going to buy things," announced Bernice. "There aren't any decent shops in Berwick, and I'm going to get lots of things in the city stores." "We can't do that," said Dolly, decidedly. "We haven't lots of money like you have, Bernie; I'm going to see things. I want to see all the pictures I possibly can. I love to look at pictures." "I want to go to the theatre," and Dotty looked at Bernice inquiringly. "Will we, do you s'pose?" "Oh, yes, Mrs. Berry will take us. Perhaps we can go to matinees, alone." "I don't think we ought to do that," and Dolly looked distinctly disapproving. "Oh, come now, old priggy-wig," said Dotty, "don't be too awfully 'fraidcat!" "It will be just as Mrs. Berry says," Bernice informed them. "Father said I must obey her in everything. Uncle Jeff won't pay much attention to what we do, but Mrs. Berry will. I wonder if Alicia will be there when we get there." But Alicia wasn't. As the girls came up the stairs into the great station, they saw a smiling, motherly-looking lady waiting to welcome them. "Here you are!" she cried, and it wasn't necessary for Bernice to introduce her friends, except to tell which was which. "I feel as if I knew you," Mrs. Berry said, and her kindly grey eyes beamed at them both. "Now I must learn to tell you apart. Dolly with golden hair,--Dotty with black. Is that it?" "Is Alicia here?" asked Bernice, eagerly. "No; she's coming in at the other station. She won't arrive for an hour or more. Where are your checks? Let George take them." The footman took the checks and looked after them, while Mrs. Berry piloted the girls to the waiting motor-car. It was a large and very beautiful limousine, and they all got in, and were soon rolling up Fifth Avenue. "How splendid it all is!" exclaimed Dolly, looking out at the crowds. "It seems as if we must get all snarled up in the traffic, but we don't." "Kirke is a very careful driver," said Mrs. Berry, "and he understands just where to go. How you've grown, Bernice. I haven't seen you for two years, you know." "Yes, I have. We're all getting to be grown-ups, Mrs. Berry. Isn't Alicia?" "I don't know. I haven't seen her for a long time. But she's at a very fashionable school, so I suppose she is full of notions." "What are notions?" asked Dolly, smiling up into the speaker's eyes. "Oh, notions," and Mrs. Berry laughed, "well, it's thinking you know it all yourself, and not being willing to listen to advice. I don't believe you have notions, Dolly." "No, she hasn't," said Bernice. "But Dotty and I have! However, I promised Dad I'd obey you, Mrs. Berry, in everything you say, so I don't believe you'll have any trouble with us." "Land, no! I don't expect any. Now, let me see; I've two big rooms for you all, with two beds in each. I suppose you'll room with your cousin, Bernice, and these other two girls together?" "Yes, indeed," said Dolly, quickly, for she had no idea of rooming with any one but Dotty. "That settles itself, then." "But suppose I don't like Alicia," said Bernice, doubtfully. "Suppose we quarrel." "All right," and Mrs. Berry nodded her head, "there are other rooms. I don't want you to be uncomfortable in any particular. I thought you'd like it better that way. The two rooms I've fixed for you, are two big ones on the second floor. Mine is on the same floor, in the rear. Your uncle's rooms are upon the third floor." "I think it sounds fine," declared Bernice, "and I'm sure I'll get on with Alicia, if she does have 'notions.'" And then they reached the big house on upper Fifth Avenue, and as they entered, Dolly felt a little appalled at the grandeur everywhere about her. Not so Dotty. She loved elegance, and as her feet sank into the deep soft rugs, she laughed out in sheer delight of being in such beautiful surroundings. Mrs. Berry took the girls at once to their rooms, and sent the car for Alicia. "I'll give the front room to Dotty and Dolly," she said to Bernice; "and you can have the other. It's quite as nice, only it looks out on the side street, not on the Avenue." "That's right, Mrs. Berry. Dot and Dolly are more company than Alicia and I are. We're really members of the family. I was so surprised at Uncle Jeff's inviting us. Why did he do it, anyway?" "Why, indeed!" said Mrs. Berry, but her expression was quizzical. "No one can tell why Mr. Forbes does things! He is a law unto himself. Now, girls, your trunks are coming up. And here are two maids to unpack for you and put your things away. You can direct them." Mrs. Berry bustled away, and two neat-looking maids appeared, one of whom entered Bernice's room and the other attended on Dot and Dolly. "Which frocks shall I leave out for dinner?" the maid asked, as she shook out and hung up the dresses in the wardrobe. "The blue voile for me," replied Dolly, "and--er--what is your name?" "Foster, miss," and she smiled at Dolly's gentle face. "And the rose-coloured voile for me," directed Dotty. "You'll find, Foster, that our frocks are pretty much alike except as to colour." "Yes, ma'am. And these patent leather pumps, I daresay?" "Yes, that's right," and Dotty flung herself into a big easy-chair and sighed in an ecstasy of delight that she really had a ladies' maid to wait on her. Dolly didn't take it so easily. She wanted to look after her own things, as she did at home. But Dotty motioned to her not to do so, lest Foster should think them inexperienced or countrified. Their simple belongings were soon in place, and the two D's wandered into Bernice's room. Here everything was helter-skelter. Finery was piled on beds and chairs, and hats were flung on top of one another, while shoes and veils, gloves and hair-brushes were scattered on the floor. "It's my fault," laughed Bernice, "don't blame Perkins for it! I'm hunting for a bracelet, that has slipped out of my jewel case, somehow. It must be in this lot of stockings!" It wasn't, but it turned up at last, inside of a hat, and Bernice gave a little squeal of relief. "That's all right, then!" she cried; "I wouldn't lose that for worlds! It's a bangle father gave me for Christmas, and it has a diamond in the pendant. All right, Perkins, put the things away any place you like. But save hooks and shelves enough for my cousin Alicia. She'll be in this room with me." Each large room had what seemed to the two little women ample room for clothes. But Bernice had brought so much more than they did, that her things overflowed the space provided. "I'll wear this to-night, for dinner," she said, pulling out a light green silk from a pile of frocks. "Oh, Bernie!" exclaimed Dotty; "not that! That's a party dress, isn't it?" "Not exactly. I've more dressy ones. But it is a little fussy for a quiet evening at home, I suppose. Well, what shall I wear?" "This?" and Dotty picked out a simple challie. "Oh, gracious, no! That's a morning frock. I guess I'll stick to the green. Don't you think so, Perkins?" "Yes, miss. It's a lovely gown." The maid was interested in the girls, her life in the quiet house being usually most uneventful. This sudden invasion of young people was welcomed by all the servants, and there were many in Jefferson Forbes' palatial home. Mrs. Berry had engaged several extra ones to help with the increased work, but the two maids assigned to the girls were trusted and tried retainers. And then, there was a bustle heard downstairs, a peal of laughter and a perfect flood of chatter in a high, shrill voice, and with a bounding run up the staircase, Alicia burst into the room where the three girls were. "Hello, Bernice, old girl!" she shouted, and flung her arms around her cousin's neck, giving her resounding smacks on her cheek. "Golly! Molly! Polly! but I'm glad to see you again! Forgotten me, have you? Take a good look! Your long lost Alicia! 'Tis really she! And look who's here! I'll bet a pig these two stammering, blushing young misses are the far-famed Dolly and Dotty, but which is which?" "Guess!" said Dotty, laughing, as Dolly stood dismayed, and half frightened at this whirlwind of a girl. "All right, I'll guess. Lemmesee! Dolly Fayre and Dotty Rose;--you see I know your names. Why, the fair one is Dolly of course, and that leaves Dotty to be you!" "Right!" cried Dotty, and Alicia flew to her and grabbed her as enthusiastically as she had Bernice. "Oh, you chickabiddy!" she cried. "I foresee we shall be chums! I love Towhead, too, but I'm a little afraid of her. See her steely blue eyes, even now, fixed on me in utter disapprobation!" "Not at all," said Dolly, politely, "I think you're very nice." The calm demureness of this speech was too much for Alicia, and she went off in peals of laughter. "Oh, you're rich!" she cried; "simpully rich! WON'T we have fun! I'm 'most afraid I'll love you more'n the other one--the black haired witch." And then Dolly was treated to an embrace that ruffled her hair and collar and came near ruffling her temper. For Dolly didn't like such sudden familiarity, but her good manners kept her from showing her annoyance. "Oh, you don't fool me!" cried Alicia; "I know you think I'm awful! Too rambunctious and all that! But I'm used to it! At school they call me That Awful Alicia! How's that?" "Fine, if you like it--and I believe you do!" laughed Dolly. "Mind reader! I say, Bernice, where am I to put my togs! You've squatted on every available foot of property in this room! I thought it was to be ours together! But every single bed in the room is covered with your rags. I've two trunks of duds, myself." "Two trunks! Why did you bring so much?" "Had to have it. There's lots of things I carry around with me beside clothes. Why, I've brought a whole chafing-dish outfit." "Goodness, Alicia," exclaimed Bernice, "do you think Uncle Jeff won't give us enough to eat?" "I take no chances. But it isn't that. It's thusly. Say we're out of an evening, and on returning, are sent straight to beddy-by. How comforting to have the necessary for a little spread of our own! Oh, I've tried it out at school, and I can tell you there's something in it. But, where, ladies and gentlemen, WHERE I ask you, can I put it? Bernice has all the places full." "Leave it in your trunk," suggested Dolly, "until you want to use it." "Angel child!" cried Alicia. "I knew you had some brain concealed among that mop of yellow silk floss! I'll do that same, and be thankful if my voracious cousin leaves me enough room for a few scant and skimpy clodings!" And then, as Perkins unpacked Alicia's trunks and Foster came in to help, the room really seemed incapable of holding all. "We'd better get out, Doll," said Dotty, laughing, as Alicia deposited an armful of petticoats and dressing jackets in her lap. "Oh, don't go! I want you to hold things till I find a place for them. And, say, are your own wardrobes full?" "No!" cried Dolly. "Just the thing! Put your overflow in our room, we've less than a dozen dresses between us." "Goodness gracious me! Oh, you're going to buy a lot in the city,--I see!" "No, we're not," said Dolly, who never sailed under false colours; "we brought all we had, all our best ones. I mean. But we don't have things like you and Bernice." "You frank little bunch of honesty! Isn't she the darling! All right, neighbours, since you insist, I'll put some seventeen or twenty-four of my Paris confections in your empty cupboards." Of course, Alicia was exaggerating, but she really did take half a dozen frocks into the two D's room, and hung them in outspread fashion right over their best costumes. "And, now, since one good turn deserves another," she rattled on, "I'll just toss my extra shoes and slippers into your lowest bureau drawer, and my stockings into the next one. There's plenty of room." So there was, by crowding the contents already there. But Alicia was so quick of motion, and so gay of speech that they couldn't refuse to let her have her way. And, too, it seemed inevitable, for there wasn't room for Alicia's things and Bernie's in the same room, and the D's shelves and bureau drawers showed much vacancy. "Now, what do we wear this evening?" Alicia asked, tossing over her dresses. "This, let us say?" She held up a low--necked evening gown of silk tissue. "No, you goose," said Bernice, decidedly. "Your respected uncle would think you were crazy! Here, wear this." Bernice picked out one of the least ornate, a pretty Dresden silk, and then the girls all began to dress for dinner. CHAPTER IV A MERRY QUARTETTE "Ready for dinner, girls?" sounded a cheery voice, and Mrs. Berry came bustling in. "Almost, aren't you? Try to remember that Mr. Forbes doesn't like to be kept waiting." "I'm scared to death," said Bernice, frankly. "I never know what to say to Uncle Jeff, anyway, and being a guest makes it all the harder." "Pooh! I'm not afraid," exclaimed Alicia. "Leave it to me. I'll engineer the conversation and all you girls need to do is to chip in now and then." Alicia was a tall, fair girl, larger than any of the others. She was plump and jolly-looking, and had a breezy manner that was attractive because of her smiling good-natured face. She laughed a great deal, and seemed to have no lack of self-confidence and self-assurance. Her dress had many fluttering ribbons of vivid pink, and frills of lace of an inexpensive variety. She led the way downstairs, calling out, "March on, march on to victory!" and the others followed. The four entered the drawing-room, and found there a tall, dignified gentleman, in full evening dress. He had a handsome face, though a trifle stern and forbidding of expression, and his closely trimmed white beard was short and pointed. He had large, dark eyes, which darted from one girl to the other as the quartette appeared. "H'm," he said, "this is Bernice; how do you do, my dear? How do you do?" "I'm Alicia," announced that spry damsel, gaily, and she caught him by the hand. "Yes, and very like your mother, my dear sister. Well, Alicia, if you possess half her fine traits, you'll make a splendid woman. But I doubt if you are very much like her except in appearance. You look to me like a flibbertigibbet,--if you know what that is." "Yes, and I am one, thank you, Uncle Jeff," and Alicia laughed gaily, not at all abashed at her uncle's remark. "These are my two friends from Berwick, uncle," said Bernice, introducing them. "Dolly Fayre and Dotty Rose." "You are welcome, my dears," and the courteous old gentleman bowed to them with great dignity. "I trust you can find amusement and enjoy your visit here. Now, let us dine." Dolly looked curiously at her host, as he stood back, and bowed the girls out of the room, before he followed them, but Dotty was so interested in the surroundings that she gave no second thought to Mr. Forbes, as she passed him. The dining-room was a marvel of old time grandeur. Nothing was modern, but the heavy black walnut sideboard and chairs spoke of long usage and old time ways. Mrs. Berry did not appear at the table, and evidently was not expected, as no place was set for her. Mr. Forbes sat at the head, and two girls at either side. A grave-faced, important looking butler directed the service, and two footmen assisted. Everything was of the best, and wonderfully cooked and served, but Dolly and Dotty could scarcely eat for the novelty and interest of the scene. "Come, come, Miss Fayre, eat your terrapin," counselled Mr. Forbes, "it is not so good cold." "Oh, gracious, Uncle Jeff," exclaimed the volatile Alicia, "don't call those kids Miss! Call 'em Dotty and Dolly, do." "Can't remember which is which," declared her uncle, looking at the two D's. "I can remember the last names, because the Fayre girl is fair, and the Rose girl is rosy. I shall call them Rosy and Fairy, I think." "All right, Mr. Forbes," and Dolly smiled and dimpled at the pretty conceit. "And you two must call me something less formal," he said. "Suppose you call me Uncle Forbes, as you are not really my nieces." This seemed a fine plan and was readily adopted. "And now," Mr. Forbes went on, "I don't mind confessing that I've no idea what to do with you girls. By way of entertainment, I mean." "Oh, Uncle Jeff," said Bernice, "it's enough entertainment just to be here in New York for a week. Why, we will have all we can do to see the shops and the sights--I suppose we can go around sight-seeing?" "Bless my soul, yes. Of course you can. Go where you like. Order the motors whenever you choose. Mrs. Berry will do all you want her to; just tell her your plans. All I ask is that I shan't be troubled with you during the day." "Why, uncle," cried Alicia, "won't we see you at all in the daytime?" "No. I am a very busy man. I cannot have my work interrupted by a pack of foolish chatterers." "Whatever did you ask us for?" Alicia's round face wore a look of surprised inquiry. "Never you mind, miss. I had a very good reason for asking you, but one doesn't always tell his reasons. However, I expect to see you every night at the dinner table, and for an hour or so afterward in the drawing room. The rest of the time you must amuse yourselves. Have you any friends in New York, any of you?" "I have a few," said Dotty, as the inquiring glance turned in her direction. "Invite them to the house when you choose," said Mr. Forbes, hospitably, if curtly. "Oh, no, sir," said Dotty, quickly. "They wouldn't fit in." Mr. Forbes chuckled. "You have a sense of the fitness of things, Miss Rosy. Why wouldn't they fit in?" "Why, they're plain people. Not grand and elegant like you." "Oho! So I'm grand and elegant, am I? And are you grand and elegant, too?" Dotty considered. "Yes," she said, finally, "I am, while I'm here. I'm very adaptable, and while I'm in New York, I mean to be just as grand and elegant as the house itself." Mr. Forbes burst into hearty laughter. "Good for you!" he cried. "When you're in Rome do as the Romans do. And you, Fairy of the golden curls. Are you going to be grand, also?" "I can't," returned Dolly, simply. "I can only be myself, wherever I am. But I shall enjoy all the beautiful things as much as Dotty." Again Mr. Forbes laughed. "You're a great pair," he said. "I'm glad I discovered you. And now, Bernice and Alicia, haven't you any young friends in town you'd like to invite to see you here? Remember the house is yours." "Oh, Uncle Jeff," cried Alicia, "you are too good! Do you mean it? Can we do just as we like? Invite parties, and all that?" "Yes, indeed. Why not? Have the best time possible, and see to it that those two little friends of yours have a good time, too." "But won't you go with us anywhere?" asked Bernice; "I thought you'd take us to see places where we can't go alone." "Bless my soul! Take a lot of chattering magpies sightseeing! No, not if I know it! Mrs. Berry will take you; and on a pinch, I might let my secretary accompany you, say to see the downtown big buildings or the bright lights at night." "Oh, do you have a secretary?" asked Alicia. "What's he like?" "Fenn? Oh, he's a good sort. Very dependable and really accommodating. He'll be of great help to you, I'm sure." "What is your business, Mr. Forbes?" asked Dolly, who was much interested in this strange type of man. She had never seen any one like him, and he seemed to her a sort of fairy godfather, who waved his wand and gave them all sorts of wonderful gifts. "I haven't any business, my dear. My occupation and amusement is collecting specimens for my collection. I am an entomologist and ornithologist, if you know what those big words mean." "Yes, sir, I do." And Dolly smiled back at him. "Mayn't we see your collection?" "I'm not sure about that, I don't show it to everybody. It is up on the fourth floor of this house, and no one is allowed up there unless accompanied by myself or Mr. Fenn. By the way, remember that, all of you. On no account go up to the fourth floor. Not that you'd be likely to, for you have no call above the second floor, where your rooms are. But this is a special command. The house is yours, as I said, but that means only this first floor and the one above it." "Goodness me, Uncle Jeff!" said Alicia, "you needn't lay down the law so hard! We're not absolute babes, to be so strictly cautioned and forbidden! If you desire us not to go up the second flight of stairs, of course we won't." "That's right, my dear, don't. But I do lay it down as a law, and it is the only law I shall impose on you. Except for that you can follow out your own sweet wills." "But," said Dotty, her dark eyes brilliant with the excitement of the occasion, "I'm not always sure as to what is proper. I want to do just what is right. Is it correct for us to go about alone, in your big motor, with your chauffeur? Can we go to the art galleries and the shops alone?" "Bless my soul! I don't know." The big man looked absolutely helpless. "Surely you must know such things yourselves. What do your mothers let you do at home? Oh, well, if you're uncertain, ask Mrs. Berry, she'll know. She's an all-round capable person, and she'll know all the unwritten laws about chaperonage and such things. Do as she bids you." This was satisfactory, and Dotty began at once to make plans for the next day. "Let's go to the Metropolitan Museum first," she said. "All right," chimed in Alicia, "we'll go there in the morning, then. But to-morrow is Wednesday, and I want to go to a matinee in the afternoon. Can't we, Uncle Jeff?" "Of course you can. Tell Fenn, he'll see about tickets for you. Just tell Mrs. Berry to see Fenn about it." "Oh," sighed the outspoken Dotty, "it is just like Fairyland! Tell Fenn! Just as if Fenn were a magician!" "He is," said Mr. Forbes, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I couldn't keep house without Fenn. He's my right hand man for everything. You girls mustn't claim too much of his time and attention, for I keep him on the jump most of the time myself." "Does your collection keep you so busy?" asked Dolly, whose secret longing was to see that same collection, which greatly interested her. "Yes, indeed. There's always work to be done in connection with it. I've a lot of new specimens just arrived to-day, awaiting classification and tabulation." After dinner they all returned to the drawing-room. Mr. Forbes seemed desirous of keeping up a general conversation, but it was hard to find a subject to interest him. He would talk a few moments, and then lapse into absent-mindedness and almost forget the girls' presence. At times, he would get up from his chair, and stalk up and down the room, perhaps suddenly pausing in front of one of them, and asking a direct question. "How old are you?" he asked abruptly of Alicia. "Sixteen," she replied. "I was sixteen last October." "You look like your mother at that age. She was my only sister. She has now been dead--" "Ten years," prompted Alicia. "I was a little child when she died." "And who looks after you now? Your father's sister, isn't it?" "Yes, Uncle Jeff. My Aunt Nellie. But I'm at school, you know. I shall be there the next four years, I suppose." "Yes, yes, to be sure. Yes, yes, of course. And you, Bernice? You have no mother, either. But who looks after you?" "I look after myself, Uncle. Father thinks there's no necessity for me to have a chaperon in our little home town." "Not a chaperon, child, but you ought to have some one to guide and teach you." "Dad doesn't think so. He says an American girl can take care of herself." "Maybe so, maybe so. It might be a good thing for you to go to school with Alicia." "It might be. But I like our High School at home, and we learn a lot there." "But not the same kind of learning. Do they teach you manners and general society instruction?" "No," said Bernice, smiling at thought of such things in connection with the Berwick school. "But my father thinks those things come naturally to girls of good families." "Maybe so, maybe so." And then Mr. Forbes again walked up and down the long room, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Dolly and Dotty felt a little uncomfortable. They wanted to make themselves agreeable and entertaining, but their host seemed interested exclusively in his young relatives, and they hesitated lest they intrude. As it neared ten o'clock, Mr. Forbes paused in his pacing of the room, bowed to each of the four in turn, and then saying, courteously, "I bid you goodnight," he vanished into the hall. Immediately Mrs. Berry entered. It seemed a relief to see her kind, smiling face after the uncertain phases of their eccentric host. "Now you young people must go to bed," the housekeeper said; "you're tired,--or ought to be. Come along." Not at all unwillingly they followed her upstairs, and she looked after their comfort in most solicitous fashion. After she had shown them how to ring the various bells to call the maids or to call her, in emergency, and had drawn their attention to the ice water in thermos bottles, and told them how to adjust the ventilators, she bade them good-night and went away. The rooms had a communicating door, and this Alicia promptly threw open and came through into the two D's room. "Oh, isn't it all the greatest fun! And did you EVER see anything so crazy as Uncle Jeff? What he wants us here for, _I_ don't know! But it's something,--and something especial. He never asked us here to amuse him! Of that I'm certain." "Not much he didn't!" and Bernice followed Alicia, and perched on the edge of Dolly's bed. "Isn't he queer? I didn't know he was so funny as he is. Did you, Alicia?" "No; I haven't seen him since I was a tiny mite. But he's all right. He knows what he's about and I don't wonder he doesn't want us bothering around if he's busy." "I'd love to see his collection," said Dolly. "I'm awfully interested in such things." "Oh, well, you'll probably have a chance to see it while we're here," and Alicia began taking down her hair. "Now, girls, let's get to bed, for I'm jolly well tired out. But I foresee these poky evenings right along, don't you? We'll have to cram a lot of fun into our days, if the evenings are to be spent watching an elderly gentleman stalking around thus." And then Alicia gave a very good imitation of the way Mr. Forbes walked around. She didn't ridicule him; she merely burlesqued his manner as he paused to speak to them in his funny, abrupt way. "What are you, my dear?" she said, looking at Dolly. "Are you a specimen I can use in my collection? No? Are you a fashionable butterfly? I say, Bernice," she suddenly broke off, "why was he so curious about the way we live at home, and who brings us up?" "I don't know; and anyway, he knew how long our mothers have been dead and who takes care of us. Why did he ask those things over and over?" "I think he's a bit absent-minded. Half the time he was thinking of matters far removed from this charming quartette of bewitching beauties. Well, it's up to us to make our own good time. I move we corral the big limousine for to-morrow morning and go in search of adventure." "To the Metropolitan?" suggested Dolly. "Yes, if you like, though I'd rather go to the shops," and Alicia gathered up her hairpins to depart. Her long light hair hung round her shoulders, and she pushed it back as she affectionately kissed Dolly and Dotty good-night. "You are sure two darlings!" she said emphatically. CHAPTER V GOING ABOUT Four smiling, eager girls trooped down to breakfast the next morning, and found Mrs. Berry awaiting them. She presided at the table, and they learned that she would always do so at breakfast and luncheon, though she did not dine with them. "Uncle Jeff says we may go to a matinee to-day," said Alicia, delightedly. "Will you see about the tickets, Mrs. Berry? Uncle said Mr. Fenn would get them if you asked him to." "Yes, my dear. And what are your plans for the morning? Do you want the car?" "Yes, indeed," said Bernice. "We're going to the Museum and I don't know where else." "To the Library, if we have time," suggested Dolly. "I want to see all the places of interest." "Places of interest never interest me," declared Alicia. "I think they're poky." "All right," returned Dolly, good-naturedly, "I'll go wherever you like." "Now, don't be so ready to give in, Doll," cautioned Bernice. "You have as much right to your way as Alicia has to hers." "No, I haven't," and Dolly smiled brightly; "this is the house of Alicia's uncle, and not mine." "Well, he's my uncle, too, and what I say goes, as much as Alicia's commands." "There, there, girls, don't quarrel," said Mrs. Berry, in her amiable way. "Surely you can all be suited. There are two cars, you know, and if you each want to go in a different direction, I'll call taxi-cabs for you." Dolly and Dotty stared at this new lavishness, and Dotty said, quickly, "Oh, no, don't do that! We all want to be together, wherever we go. And I think, as Dolly does, that Bernice and Alicia must choose, for they belong here and we're guests." "You're two mighty well-behaved little guests," and Mrs. Berry beamed at them. "Well, settle it among yourselves. Now, what matinee do you want to go to? I'll order tickets for you." "Will you go with us, Mrs. Berry?" asked Dolly. "No, child. I hope you'll let me off. You girls are old enough to go alone in the daytime, and Kirke will take you and come to fetch you home. Now, what play?" "I want to see 'The Lass and the Lascar'; that's a jolly thing, I hear," said Alicia, as no one else suggested anything. "Musical?" asked Bernice. "Yes," said Mrs. Berry, "it's a comic opera, and a very good one. I've seen it, and I'm sure you girls will enjoy it. I'll order seats for that. Be sure to be home for luncheon promptly at one, so you can get ready for the theatre." "I can't believe it all," whispered Dotty, pinching Dolly's arm, as they ran upstairs to prepare for their morning's trip. "Think of our going to all these places in one day!" "And six days more to come!" added Dolly. "Oh, it is too gorgeous!" Arrayed in warm coats and furs, the laughing quartette got into the big car, and George, the polite footman, adjusted the robes, and asked their destination. "To the Metropolitan Museum, first," said Alicia, unselfishly. "Oh," cried Dolly, with sparkling eyes, "are we really going there first! How good of you, Alicia!" And from the moment they entered the vestibule of the great museum, Dolly was enthralled with what she saw. Like one in a trance, she walked from room to room, drinking in the beauty or strangeness of the exhibits. She ignored the catalogues, merely gazing at the pictures or curios with an absorbed attention that made her oblivious to all else. "Watch her," said Alicia, nudging Dotty. "She doesn't even know where she is! Just now, she's back in Assyria with the people that wore that old jewellery!" Sure enough Dolly was staring into a case of antique bracelets and earrings of gold and jewels. She moved along the length of the case, noting each piece, and fairly sighing with admiration and wonder. "My gracious! isn't she the antiquarian!" exclaimed Alicia. "Look here, old Professor Wiseacre, what dynasty does this junk belong to?" Dolly looked up with a vacant stare. "Come back to earth!" cried Alicia, shaking with laughter. "Come back to the twentieth century! We mourn our loss!" "Yes, come back, Dollums," said Dotty. "There are other rooms full of stuff awaiting your approval." Dolly laughed. "Oh, you girls don't appreciate What you're seeing. Just think! Women wore these very things! Real, live women!" "Well, they're not alive now," said Bernice, "and we are. So give us the pleasure of your company. Say, Dolly, some day you come up here all alone by yourself, and prowl around--" "Oh, I'd love to! I'll do just that. And then I won't feel that I'm delaying you girls. Where do you want to go now?" "Anywhere out of this old museum," said Alicia, a little pettishly. "You've had your way, Dotty, now it's only fair I should have mine. We've about an hour left; let's go to the shops." "Yes, indeed," and Dolly spoke emphatically. "I didn't realise that I was being a selfish old piggy-wig!" "And you're not," defended Bernice. "We all wanted to come here, but, well, you see, Dolly, you do dawdle." "But it's such a wonder-place!" and Dolly gazed longingly backward as they left the antiquities. "And there are rooms we haven't even looked into yet." "Dozens of 'em," assented Alicia. "But not this morning, my chickabiddy! I must flee to the busy marts and see what's doing in the way of tempting bargains." "All right," and Dolly put her arm through Alicia's. "What are you going to buy?" "Dunno, till I see something that strikes my fancy. But in the paper this morning, I noticed a special sale of 'Pastime Toggery' at Follansbee's. Let's go there." "Never heard of the place," said Dolly. "But let's go." "Never heard of Follansbee's! Why, it's the smartest shop in New York for sport clothes." "Is it? We never get sport clothes. Unless you mean middies and sweaters. My mother buys those at the department stores." "Oh, you can't get exclusive models there!" and Alicia's face wore a reproving expression. "No," said outspoken Dolly, "but we don't wear exclusive models. We're rather inclusive, I expect." "You're a duck!" cried Alicia, who, though ultra-fashionable herself, liked the honesty and frankness of the two D's. They reached the shop in question, and the four girls went in. The Berwick girls were a little awed at the atmosphere of the place, but Alicia was entirely mistress of the situation. She had many costumes and accessories shown to her, and soon became as deeply absorbed in their contemplation as Dolly had been in the Museum exhibits. "Why, for goodness' sake!" cried Bernice, at last. "Are you going to buy out the whole shop, Alicia?" "Why, I'm not going to buy any," returned Alicia, looking surprised; "I'm just shopping, you know." "Oh, is that it? Well, let me tell you it isn't any particular fun for us to look on while you 'shop'! And, anyway, it's time to be going home, or we'll be late for the luncheon and for the matinee." "All right, I'll go now. But wait. I want to buy some little thing for you girls,--sort of a souvenir, you know." "Good for you!" said Bernice, but Dolly demurred. "I don't think you ought to, Alicia," she said. "I don't believe my mother would like me to take it." "Nonsense, Towhead! I'm just going to get trifles. Nobody could object to my giving you a tiny token of my regard and esteem. Let me see,--how about silk sweaters? They're always handy to have in the house." Unheeding the girls' protestations, Alicia selected four lovely colours, and asked the saleswoman to get the right sizes. Dolly's was robin's egg blue; Dotty's salmon pink; Bernice's, a deep orange, and Alicia's own was white, as she declared she already had every colour of the rainbow. Then she selected an old rose one for Mrs. Berry, getting permission to exchange it if it should be a misfit. Alicia ordered the sweaters sent to her uncle's house, and the bill sent to her father. This arrangement seemed perfectly satisfactory to the shop people, and the girls set off for home. "I feel uncomfortable about that sweater," announced Dolly, as they were on their way. "That doesn't matter," laughed Alicia, "so long as you don't feel uncomfortable in it! Remove that anxious scowl, my little Towhead; I love to give things to my friends, and you must learn to accept trifles gracefully." "But it isn't a trifle, Alicia. I know mother won't like it." "Won't like that blue sweater! Why, it's a beauty!" "I don't mean that. I mean she won't like for me to take it,--to accept it from you." "All right; tell her you bought it yourself." "Tell a story about it! No, thank you." Dolly's blue eyes fairly flashed at the thought. "Well, my stars! Dolly, don't make such a fuss about it! Throw it away, or give it to the scullery maid! You don't have to keep it!" Clearly, Alicia was annoyed. Dolly was far from ungrateful, and she didn't know quite what to do. "Of course, she'll keep it," Dotty broke in, anxious to straighten matters out. "She adores it, Alicia; but we girls aren't accustomed to making each other gifts,--at least, not expensive ones." "Well, you needn't make a habit of it. One sweater doesn't make a summer! I hope Mrs. Berry won't be so squeamish! If I thought she would, I'd throw hers in the ash barrel before I'd give it to her!" "I s'pose I was horrid about it, Alicia," said Dolly, contritely; "I do love it, really, you know I do; but, as Dotty says, we never give such gifts. Why, I can't give you anything to make up for it--" "And I don't want you to! You little goose! But like as not, you can sometime do something for me worth more than a dozen sweaters." "I hope so, I'm sure. Will you tell me if I can?" "Yes, baby-face! I declare, Dolly, it's hard to realise you're fifteen years old! You act about twelve,--and look ten!" "Oh, not so bad as that!" and Dolly laughed gaily. "I s'pose I do seem younger than I am, because I've always lived in a small town. We don't do things like city girls." "'Deed we don't!" exclaimed Dotty. "I used to live in the city, and when I went to Berwick it was like a different world. But I've come to like it now." "I like it," said Bernice, decidedly. "I think we have a lot more fun in Berwick than we could in New York. To live, I mean. Of course, this visit here is lovely, but it's the novelty and the strange sights that make it so. I wouldn't want to live in New York." "Neither would I," and Dolly shook her head very positively. "I would," said Alicia. "I'd just love to live here, in a house like Uncle Jeff's, and have all these cars and servants and everything fine." "No, thank you," Dolly rejoined. "It's beautiful for a week, but it makes my head go round to think of living like this always." "Your head is not very securely fastened on, anyway," and Alicia grinned at her. "You'll lose it some day!" "Maybe so," smiled Dolly, affably, and then they suddenly found they were back home. "Good time, girlies?" called out Mrs. Berry, as they entered. "Lunch is all ready; sit down and eat it, and get dressed for the matinee afterward, Mr. Fenn got fine seats for you,--near the front. You'll like the play, I know." And like the play they did. It was a light opera, of the prettiest type, full of lovely scenery, gay costumes and bright, catchy music. "The Lass and the Lascar" was its name, and the lass in question was a charming little girl who seemed no older than the quartette themselves. The Lascar was a tall, handsome man, whose swarthy East Indian effects were picturesque and attractive. He had a magnificent baritone voice, and the girls sat breathless when he sang his splendid numbers. All four were fond of music and even more than the gay splendour of the show they enjoyed the voices and orchestra. "Isn't he wonderful!" exclaimed Alicia, as the curtain fell on the first act. "Oh, girls, isn't he SUPERB! I'm MADLY in love with him!" "He has a beautiful voice," agreed Dolly, "but I couldn't be in love with him! He's too,--too ferocious!" "But that's his charm," declared Alicia, rolling her eyes in ecstasy. "Oh, he is ideal! He's fascinating!" The curtain rose again, and the Lascar proved even more fascinating. He was a daredevil type, as Lascars have the reputation of being, but he was gentle and affectionate toward the Lass, who, for some inexplicable reason, scorned his advances. "What a FOOL she is! WHAT a fool!" Alicia whispered, as the coquettish heroine laughed at the impassioned love songs of her suitor. "I should fall into his arms at once!" "Then there wouldn't be any more opera," laughed Bernice. "That fall into his arms is always the last episode on the stage." "That's so," agreed Alicia, "but how can she flout him so? Oh, girls, isn't he the grandest man? I never saw such a handsome chap! What a lovely name he has, too: Bayne Coriell! A beautiful name." "Good gracious, Alicia! don't rave over him like that! Somebody will hear you!" "I don't care. I never saw any one so wonderful! I'm going to get his picture when we go out. I suppose it's for sale in the lobby. They usually are." "Are they?" asked Dolly. "Then I want to get one of the Lass. Marie Desmond, her name is. Can I, do you think?" "Yes, of course, Dollykins. You get that and I'll get my hero, my idol, Bayne Coriell!" As it chanced the photographs were not on sale at the theatre, but an usher told Alicia where they could be bought, and she directed Kirke to stop there on the way home. She bought several different portraits of the man who had so infatuated her and Dolly bought two photographs of Miss Desmond. The other girls said they didn't care for any pictures, and laughed at the enthusiasm of Alicia and Dolly. "I want this," Dolly defended herself, "because sometime I'm going to be an opera singer. I did mean to sing in Grand Opera, and maybe I will, but if I can't do that, I'll sing in light opera, and I like to have this picture to remind me how sweet Miss Desmond looks in this play." "Pooh," said Alicia, "that's all very well. But I want these pictures of Bayne Coriell because he's such a glorious man! Why, he's as handsome as Apollo. And, girls, I don't believe he's hardly any older than we are." "Oh, he must be," returned Dotty. "Why, he's twenty-two or more, I'm sure." "Maybe he is twenty, but not more than that. Oh, how I wish I could meet him! Think of the joy of talking to a man like that!" "Well, it's not likely you'll ever meet Bayne Coriell," said Bernice, laughing at the idea; "so you needn't hope for that!" CHAPTER VI A MATINEE IDOL "Oh, Uncle Jeff," Alicia cried, as they gathered round the dinner-table that same night, "we went to the splendidest play! It was a light opera, 'The Lass and the Lascar.' Have you seen it?" "No, my dear, I rarely go to the theatre; never to foolish pieces like that! But it's all right for you young people. So you enjoyed it, did you? How did you like--" But Alicia's babble interrupted him. "Oh, Uncle, it was simply out of sight! And the hero! Ah-h-h!" Alicia leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes as if the memory of the hero was overwhelming. "Took your fancy, did he?" asked her uncle, with a twinkle in his eye. "Good-looking chap?" "Good-looking faintly expresses it!" and Alicia returned to consciousness. "He was like a Greek god! And his CHARM! Oh, Uncle Jeff, he is just indescribable! I wish you could SEE him." "Must be a paragon! What did the rest of you girls think! Were you hit so hard?" Dotty laughed. "He was splendid, Uncle Forbes," she said, "but we didn't fall so head over heels in love with him as Alicia did. He has a stunning voice and he's a fine actor." "Oh, more than that!" raved Alicia. "He's a DARLING! a man of a THOUSAND!" "A young man?" asked Mr. Forbes. "Yes," replied Bernice. "Alicia thinks he isn't twenty, but he can't be much more. He looked a mere boy." "Wasn't that because he was made up as a young character in the play?" "Partly," admitted Alicia. "But he's a very young man, anyway. Oh, Uncle Jeff, I'm just CRAZY over him! I think I shall go to see that play every chance I can possibly get. Could we go to an evening performance?" "Speak for yourself, John!" cried Bernice. "I don't want to see that play again! I enjoyed it heaps, and I think Mr. Coriell was fine, but next time we go I'd rather see something else." "So would I," said the two D's together. "How can you say so!" and Alicia looked at the others in scorn. "You'll never find any actor who can hold a candle to Coriell! I have his picture, Uncle," and, excusing herself, she left the table to get them. "H'm, yes, a good-looking man," agreed Mr. Forbes, as he scrutinised the photographs. "But, Alicia, you mustn't fall in love with every operatic tenor you see. I believe this Coriell is a 'matinee idol,' but don't allow him to engage your young affections." "Too late with your advice, Uncle Jeff!" and Alicia gazed raptly at the pictures. "I ADORE him! and the fact that my adoration is hopeless makes it all the more interesting. Oh, isn't he a WONDER!" Gaily she set the pictures up in front of her, propping them on glasses or salt cellars, and continued to make mock worship at his shrine. "Don't be silly, Alicia," commented her uncle, but she only shook her head at him, and gave a mournful sigh. The girls spent the evening much the same as they had done the night before. They all sat in the stately drawing-room, and endeavoured to make conversation. But Uncle Jeff was hard to talk to, for he rarely stuck to one subject for more than five minutes at a time, and abruptly interrupted the girls when they were trying their best to be entertaining. Alicia continued to chatter about her new-found enthusiasm, until her uncle commanded her to desist. "May I beg of you, Alicia," he said, sternly, "to cease raving over that man? He's doubtless old enough to be your father, and would be bored to death could he hear your nonsense about him!" Alicia looked put out, but a glance at her uncle's face proved his seriousness, and she said no more about the actor. The evening wore away, but it seemed to the girls as if it never would be ten o'clock. And it was greatly to their relief, when, at about half-past nine, Mr. Forbes bade them good-night and went off upstairs. "It is all the queerest performance," said Bernice. "What in the world does Uncle Jeff want of us,--I can't make out. The outlook seems to be that we can have all the fun we want daytimes, and pay for it by these ghastly evening sessions." "There's something back of it all," said Alicia, astutely. "This revered uncle of ours, Bernie, has something up his sleeve." "I think so, too," said Dotty. "He scrutinises us all so closely, when he thinks we're not looking. But I, for one, am quite willing to put up with these evenings for the sake of the fun we have in the daytime." "I should say so!" agreed Dolly. "We never can thank you enough, Bern, for bringing us." "And I'm glad to have you here," said Mrs. Berry, entering the room. "You're like a ray of sunshine in this dull house,--like four rays of sunshine." "But WHY are we here?" insisted Alicia. "You must know why, Mrs. Berry. Do tell us." "You're here, my dears, because Mr. Forbes invited you. There is no other reason,--no other explanation. And now, tell me, did you like the play?" "Did we LIKE it!" exclaimed the volatile Alicia, "we're just crazy over it. Why, the chief actor--" "Now, 'Licia," protested Dolly, "if you're going to begin raving over that man again!" "Well, I am!" declared Alicia. "I just can't help it!" Nor did she seem able to curb her enthusiasm, for after the girls went to their rooms, she kept on extolling Mr. Coriell until the others were tired of the subject. And even when the D's were nearly ready for bed, and, in kimonos, were brushing their hair, Alicia burst into their room, exclaiming, "I've the grandest plan! I'm going to invite Mr. Coriell to come here and call on me!" "Alicia Steele!" Dotty cried, "you're not going to do any such thing!" "Yes, I am. Uncle Jeff said we could invite anybody we wanted to,--that's permission enough for me." "But he didn't mean some one you don't know at all,--and an actor at that!" "I don't care. He didn't make any exceptions, and I'm going to do it. I'm going to write the note." She went back to her own room, and sat down at the pretty little escritoire that was there. "How shall I address him?" she asked, but more of herself than the others. "Not at all!" said Dolly, and she took the pen from Alicia's fingers. "You must be crazy to think of such a thing!" "Don't do it, Alicia," begged Dotty; "tell her not to, Bernice." "I don't care what she does," and Bernice laughed. "It's none of my affair. I think it would be rather good fun, only I know he wouldn't come." "I think he would," said Alicia. "Anyway, I'm going to tell him how I adored his acting and his singing, and I guess he'll be glad to come to call at Jefferson Forbes' house! I think I'll ask him to afternoon tea. Why, it isn't such a terrible thing, as you seem to think, Dolly. Anybody has a right to write to an actor,--they expect it. He probably gets hundreds of notes every day." "Then he won't notice yours. He can't possibly accept a hundred invitations." "Oh, they don't all invite him. Any way, I'm going to write." Alicia found another pen, and soon produced this effusion: "My dear Mr. Coriell. "I'm just simply crazy over your performance in 'The Lass and the Lascar' and I feel that I MUST meet you. I shall DIE if I don't! Please, oh, PLEASE give me an opportunity. Will you come to see me at my uncle's house, Mr. Jefferson Forbes? Can you come to-morrow or Friday? I can't EXIST if you say No! So grant the plea of "Your devoted admirer, "ALICIA STEELE." "It's perfectly horrid!" and Dolly's fair face grew flushed with anger. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alicia." "Now, look here, Dolly Fayre," and Alicia's eyes flashed, "I won't be dictated to by a little country ignoramus! I've had experience in the ways of the world, and you haven't. Now suppose you let me alone. It's none of your business, as you very well know." "Dolly was only advising you for your own good!" Dotty flashed out, indignant at the rebuff to her chum; "but, truly, Doll, it isn't up to you to tell Alicia what to do. This is her uncle's house, not yours, and you're in no way responsible for her doings." "I know it," and Dolly looked serious, "but I know, too, Alicia will be sorry and ashamed if she sends that silly letter!" "Let her be, then," counselled Bernice. "If Uncle Jeff doesn't like it, that's Alicia's affair, not ours. Leave her alone, Dolly." But Dolly made one more effort. "Listen, Alicia," she said, pleadingly; "at least, ask Mrs. Berry's advice. She's awfully indulgent, you know, and if she says all right,--then go ahead." Alicia looked at Dolly. To tell the truth, she had misgivings herself about the plan, but she was too proud to be advised. "I'll tell you what," she decided, at last; "you said, only to-day, Dolly, that you'd be glad to do something for me. Now, prove that you meant it. You go and ask Mrs. Berry if we can do this. She's awfully fond of you, and she'd say yes to you quicker'n she would to me. So, if you're so anxious for her consent, go and ask her. She's in her room,--I just heard her go in." "But, Alicia," and Dolly looked dismayed, "_I_ don't want to do this thing! Why should I ask Mrs. Berry for what YOU want?" "Because you said you'd be glad to do me a favour. I knew you didn't mean it! I knew you'd fizzle out when the time came!" "She hasn't fizzled out!" exclaimed Dotty. "Doll never breaks a promise. But, say, Alicia, I'll go and ask Mrs. Berry. How's that?" "No, Dolly's got to go, if any one does. She said she'd love to do me a favour, now let her do it." It was evidently a test case with Alicia, and one glance at her determined face convinced Dolly, that she would never be forgiven if she failed to do this thing. "All right," she said, slowly, "I'll go and ask Mrs. Berry. But I shall tell her it's for you, Alicia. I shan't let her think I want to ask that man here!" "Hold on, Dolly. Don't you think it would be nice if he should come, with Mrs. Berry's permission?" "Yes, I think that would be lots of fun; but she won't give permission, Alicia. I know that as well as I know my own name!" "Of course, she won't, if you go about it that way! I depend on you to coax her or get around her some way to MAKE her say yes. See? Don't think that you can go in there and say 'May we?' and have her say 'No,' and let that end it! I tell you you've got to get her consent. You've got to do this for me, because you said you'd do whatever I asked you." "Oh, Alicia!" and Dotty shook her head vigorously, "Doll never said THAT!" "Well, she meant that. And what's the use of her doing anything I can do for myself? But you all know she's Mrs. Berry's pet of the four of us--" "No, I'm not," and Dolly looked deeply troubled. "Yes, you are, and it's just because you're so mild and meek. Now, will you go and ask her? You'll have to be quick or she'll have gone to bed." "Yes, I'll go," and Dolly showed sudden determination. "And will you promise to do all you can to make her say yes--" "I'll do that, Alicia, but I can't promise to make her say yes." "You can if you coax her. And don't let her think it's all for my benefit. Because it isn't. You girls will have just as much fun as I will, if he comes." Dolly twisted up her golden curls in a loose knot, and still in her trailing dressing-gown, she went down the hall to Mrs. Berry's room and tapped gently at the door. It was opened at once, and Dolly was glad to see Mrs. Berry had not yet begun her preparations for the night, so she was not disturbing her. "What is it, dearie?" asked the kind-hearted lady; "come in. Sit down." Dolly sat down in a little rocker, and was suddenly seized with a fit of shyness. The request she had come to make seemed so impossible, that she couldn't put it into words. Mrs. Berry saw her embarrassment, and kindly strove to put her at ease. "How do you like my room?" she said, cordially; "you've never been in here before." "It's lovely," said Dolly, looking about at the pretty furnishings; "it's in a sort of back extension, isn't it?" "Yes, this a narrower part of the house, and gives me an outlook on our tiny yard as well as on the side street. It's a very satisfactory room, except for my neighbour," and she laughed. "Who is the unsatisfactory neighbour?" asked Dolly, smiling in response. "Not the people next door, they're quiet enough; but they have a parrot, and he's in the room just across from this, and he chatters so often that it is sometimes very annoying. Look over, you can see him now." Sure enough, as Dolly looked from the window, she saw a big Polly in a cage at the opposite casement. Only thin lace curtains were between, and Dolly could clearly see the beautiful bird. "It's a lovely parrot," she said, "but I suppose his chatter is just as bothersome as if he were a homelier bird. Well, Mrs. Berry," and she turned from the window, "I've come to ask you something." "And something that you hesitate to ask,--I can see that. But don't be afraid, dear. Tell me what it is, and if I have to refuse you, at least I won't do it harshly." "I know you won't!" and Dolly felt ashamed of her fears. "Well, it's just this. Alicia,--that is, we're all of us just crazy over the hero in the play we saw this afternoon, and we--that is, we think it would be nice if we could--if we could ask him to--to call here, on us." The dreaded speech was made, and though Mrs. Berry looked surprised, she didn't exclaim in horror at the idea. "Whose plan is this?" she asked, quietly. "Why,--well,--we all want it." "Yes, but who first thought of it?" "Alicia spoke of it, and--the others agreed,--we all agreed,--that it would be lots of fun,--if you approved of it." Now Mrs. Berry could see a hole through a millstone, and she knew as well as if she had been told, that the others had planned this thing,--probably Alicia or Bernice,--and had made Dolly their spokesman, because of her good-natured acquiescence. "What do YOU think of the idea?" she said smiling. "At first it seemed to me a very forward thing to do," Dolly replied, looking very sober; "but if you think it's all right, I'd like to meet Mr. Coriell. You see, I'm going to be an opera singer myself, some day, and there are a few questions I'd like to ask him." Mrs. Berry gasped. "You do beat the dickens!" she exclaimed. "So you're going on the stage, are you?" "Yes, I think so." "Then of course you ought to meet an actor. Tell Alicia to go ahead and ask this man. Tell her to invite him to tea on Friday. I'll arrange a pretty tea-party for you." "Oh, I'll tell her! She'll be SO glad!" and Dolly departed, quite unconscious that she had unwittingly betrayed Alicia's principal part in the scheme. CHAPTER VII GREAT PREPARATIONS Demurely Dolly went back to her room. The other girls were breathlessly awaiting her return, and pounced on her for the news. "At least you got back alive!" cried Dotty as she grabbed Dolly by the arms and danced her up and down the room. "But what did she say?" demanded Alicia, in fiery impatience. "Don't you wish you knew!" and Dolly fell into a teasing mood, and when Dolly Fayre felt like teasing, she was adept at it! "Tell us! Tell us!" cried Bernice. "Oh, Dolly, tell us!" "Tell you what?" asked Dolly, with an innocent stare. "Tell us what Mrs. Berry said." "Oh, she asked me how I liked her room, and she showed me the parrot next door. It's a beautiful bird--" "Never mind a bird! What did she say about Mr. Coriell?" "Why, we talked about the parrot first. You see, his cage hangs in a window right across from hers, not ten feet away--" "Nonsense!" cried Alicia, "who cares about the parrot! Tell us about my hero!" "She says he has a dreadful voice, and squawks like fury--" "Oh, he HASN'T! He's a wonderful singer!" "I mean the parrot," said Dolly, mischievously enjoying Alicia's disgusted look. "And she says we can ask him to tea." "Who? the parrot?" This from Dotty. "No, you silly! Mr. Coriell. But, of course, if you'd rather have the parrot--" "Oh, Dolly, do be sensible!" and Bernice looked exasperated; "are you going to tell us all about it or not?" "Not if you're so rude to me! Certainly not! You are dismissed, you two. Dot and I are going to bed." "Not much you're not!" declared Alicia. "Not till you tell us what Mrs. Berry said." "Then you must ask me with due politeness and proper courtesy. I can't report to a lot of cackling geese! You're worse than parrots!" "Please, dear, sweet Dollyrinda, what DID the lady say?" begged Dotty, in wheedling tones. "Ah, yes, tell us," and Alicia took the cue. "Angel child! Beautiful blonde Towhead! what,--oh, vouchsafe to deign to tell us, WHAT did she say?" "Whoop it up, Dollums," said Bernice, laughing, "out with it, you little rascal. Did she hold up her hands in horror?" "She did NOT," said Dolly, with dignity. "She said, that if Alicia chose, she might invite the gentleman to tea on Friday, and that she would see to it that there was a nice tea-party prepared for his benefit. There, WHO'S a good ambassador?" "You are! you blessed angel!" cried Alicia, warmly; "you're a wonder! a marvel! a peach! a pippin! Oh, you're just all there is of it! Did she REALLY say that?" "Oh, you want to know what she REALLY said," and Dolly's head went on one side, as she began to tease again. "Of course, that's what she really said," interposed Dotty, who didn't want any more high words. "'Licia, be satisfied with that, and scoot to bed." "Nothing of the sort. We're going to make fudge to celebrate! I told you I had my chafing-dish; don't you girls feel fudgy?" "I could nibble a morsel," Bernice said, "and not half try. How about you, Dot?" "I'm right there--with bells on!" "Isn't it too late?" objected Dolly. "Now, look here, priggy-wig," and Alicia shook a finger at her, "if you don't quit that spoilsporting of yours, there'll be trouble in camp! The truth is, there's not much fun in making fudge, just 'cause there's nobody to forbid it! At school, we have to do it on the sly. Here, if Mrs. Berry or Uncle Jeff knew we thought of it, they'd send forty 'leven footmen and maids to help us!" "That's so," laughed Dolly; "I wasn't thinking of them. But isn't it time we all went to bed?" "Of course it is, young hayseed. That's why we're staying up. Also, it makes you so delightfully sleepy next morning! Now, do you come to this fudge party or do you go to bed?" "Do I come to it!" cried Dolly, in disdain. "Well, I like that! Why, your old fudge party is FOR me! I'm the heroine of the hour! Who went on your desperate and dangerous errand, I'd like to know! Who got permission to invite your old Coriell man to tea? Come, now, declare the fudge party a feast in my honour, or call it off!" "It is! it is!" laughed Alicia. "To the victor belong the spoils. The party is ALL for you, and if you will accept our humble invitation come right into our room and make yourself at home." So the two D's went into the other girls' room, and Alicia got out her chafing-dish set and prepared for the feast. "How are you going to make fudge with nothing but chocolate?" laughed Dotty. "That's so," said Alicia, looking blank. "I forgot I had to have milk and butter and sugar and a lot of things. Guess we can't do it." "Guess we can!" retorted Bernice, and she pushed a bell button. "Oh, Bernie!" exclaimed Dotty, "you oughtn't to call the maid so late! She'll be in bed." "Then she won't answer," said Bernice, calmly. But in a moment a maid did come, and smilingly listened to their requests. "Some milk, please," said Alicia, "and sugar, and butter,--" "All the things for fudge, miss?" asked the girl, her eyes taking in the chafing-dish. "Certainly. In a moment." She disappeared and the girls burst into peals of laughter. "It's impossible to do anything frisky here," said Alicia, "because everything we want to do, is looked on as all right!" "Well, it isn't a dreadful thing to make fudge of an evening," put in Bernice. "No," agreed Dolly, "but I wouldn't think of doing it at my house. After I'd gone to my room for the night, I mean." "It's a funny thing," said Alicia, "but all the fun of it's gone now. I don't care two cents for the fudge, it's the excitement of doing it secretly, that appeals to me. We do it at school, and we have to be so fearfully careful lest the teachers hear us." "I know what you mean," said Dolly, "but I don't believe I feel that way. I love fudge, but I'd a whole lot rather have people know we're making it than to do it on the sly." "You're a little puritan," and Alicia flew over and kissed her. "No wonder Mrs. Berry said yes to you, you probably made her think it was a duty to humanity!" When the maid returned with the trayful of things they had asked for, there was also a goodly plate of frosted cakes and a dish of fruit. "In case you might feel hungry," she explained. "Mrs. Berry was saying the other day, how hungry young folks do be gettin'. Shall I return for the tray, miss?" "No," said Dolly, kindly. "You go to bed. We'll set the things out in the hall, when we're finished, and you can take them away in the morning." "Thank you, miss," and the maid went away, leaving the girls to their spread. "I'm not going to make fudge," said Alicia, "there's enough here to eat, without it." "I'll do it, then," said Dolly. "I'm not going to make all this trouble and then not seem to appreciate it." She began to cut the chocolate, and Dotty helped her. Alicia made the chafing-dish ready, and Bernice set out a table for them. "This is splendid fudge," Alicia remarked, as at last they sat enjoying the feast. "You must give me your recipe." "Probably just like yours," smiled Dolly; "but it always tastes better if somebody else makes it." "Not always! It depends on WHO makes it. This is fine!" "Even if we are not doing it on the sly? I declare, Alicia, I can't understand that feeling of yours. I s'pose you don't care so much about Mr. Coriell, since Mrs. Berry is willing." "It does take the snap out of it," Alicia admitted. "But I couldn't do that on the sly, anyway. I mean if I had him HERE. I wish I could meet him somewhere else,--at some tearoom, or somewhere." "Oh, Alicia, I think you're horrid! Nice girls don't do things like that!" Dolly's big blue eyes expressed such amazement that Alicia laughed outright. "You little innocent!" she cried. "I'd rather be innocent than ill-bred," Dolly flashed back. "Well, wait till you go to boarding-school and you'll get some of those strait-laced notions knocked out of you." "I don't ever expect to go. I wouldn't like to leave home. And that reminds me, girls, I must skip. I've got to write up my diary before I go to bed. You do my share of the clearing up, won't you, Dot?" "'Course I will," and Dolly ran off to the other room while the three cleared away the party and set the tray out in the hall. "Is Dolly always so goody-goody?" asked Alicia. Dotty took the question seriously. "I shouldn't call her that," she said; "but she isn't very mischievous, and she's as honest as the day is long. She positively abhors deceit. And, somehow, Alicia, all the things that you think are fun, are the sort of things she doesn't stand for. That's all. Doll isn't a prig,--is she, Bernice?" "No; she's as fond of fun as anybody. But Alicia rubs her the wrong way." "I don't mean to. Only I don't see any harm in pranks that SHE thinks are fearful." "Well, you ought to bless her for getting the Coriell matter fixed up. I don't believe Mrs. Berry would have done it for any of us. But when Dolly asked her, I s'pose she made it seem all right." "It IS all right," defended Alicia. "Oh, I don't know," and Bernice looked doubtful, "I don't think the Fayres or Roses would like it much; I doubt if my dad would approve. But what Mrs. Berry says, goes." "It does SO!" assented Alicia, and then they all said good-night. Alicia's letter was mailed next morning and to her surprise a reply arrived about noon, brought by a messenger. It said: My dear Miss Steele: Your welcome invitation is here. I cannot accept for to-morrow as I have an important engagement then, but I will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you TO-DAY at four o'clock, and trust I may find you at home. Sincerely yours, BAYNE CORIELL. "Oh, isn't it wonderful!" sighed Alicia. "A letter from HIM! Oh, girls, I'm so happy! How CAN I wait for four o'clock!" She ran away to tell Mrs. Berry of the letter. "Very well," said the kind-hearted woman, "it's just as well to have him come to-day. Suppose we have tea in the small reception room, it's cosier than the drawing-room." "All right," said Alicia. "Will Uncle Jeff come down, do you think?" "I doubt it. However, I'll tell him you expect Mr. Coriell, and he can do as he likes." Mrs. Berry had a peculiar twinkle in her eye, and Alicia noted it, and wondered what it meant. The whole affair seemed mysterious, for she had not supposed Mrs. Berry would be so ready to receive this strange young man. "You think it's all right for us to receive him, don't you, Mrs. Berry?" she asked, for she began to fear lest she had been too unconventional. "I daresay it's all right, my dear. Of course, such things weren't done in my day, but young folks are different now. And Mr. Forbes said you girls were to do pretty much as you like." "Were you surprised at our asking for this?" Alicia persisted. "Well, yes, since you ask me, I must say I was surprised. Especially when I found Dolly Fayre was the ringleader." "Oh,--well,--she DID ask you, didn't she? Maybe Dolly isn't such a quiet little mouse as she seems." "Dolly's all right," and Mrs. Berry spoke with some asperity. "Now, I'll send tea in at quarter past four, is that your idea?" "Oh, Mrs. Berry, won't you be present?" "No; I have my duties, and I observe them properly, but to preside at tea is not one of them. Your uncle expressly ordered that." "Do you mean Uncle Jeff ordered that we should receive Mr. Coriell alone?" "Well, he didn't direct that _I_ should be there. If he wants to come down, he will." "Very well," and Alicia suddenly became dignified, "we can manage. I suppose it will be proper to dress up a good deal?" Again that amused smile flitted over Mrs. Berry's face. "As you like," she said, indifferently. "All your frocks are pretty." Alicia returned to the others, and told them all the conversation. "I hope Uncle Forbes does come down," said Dolly, "I think it would be nicer to have him there." "Come, now, old mother Prim, don't throw cold water on our little party," said Alicia. "You know how the conversation would run, with uncle at the helm!" "It wouldn't run at all," laughed Bernice, "it would stagnate!" When the girls began to dress for the tea, there was a wide diversity of opinion as to appropriate costumes. "Our very best," said Alicia decidedly. "Nothing's too good for Bayne!" "You'd better be careful," warned Dotty, "you'll call him Bayne to his face! You use it so much!" "Don't care if I do!" returned Alicia, pertly. "I say, Doll, is THAT your best frock?" "Yes, except an evening one." "Let's see your evening one. I'll bet it's just about right for this afternoon." Dolly produced a pretty light blue affair of chiffon, and Alicia exclaimed, "Wear that, of course. It's really no evening dress at all, but it's a very nice afternoon thing." Dolly looked dubious. "What are you going to wear, Dots?" she said. "Oh, I s'pose we might as well wear our best ones. As Alicia says, they're all right for afternoon here, though they wouldn't be in Berwick." "All right," and Dolly put on her pretty fluffy dress. Very lovely she looked, her golden curls twisted up high on her head, and held by a bandeau of blue ribbon. Dotty's dress was yellow, and very becoming. She wore a black velvet headband, and Alicia cried out in approval when she saw the two D's ready for inspection. "My!" she said, "you look better than I do! Now, I am mad!" But her rage was only simulated, and she didn't really think what she said. She herself wore a most elaborate embroidered dress of rich pink silk. It was trimmed, too, with pearl bead fringe, and to Dolly's simple taste it was too fussy. But Dotty admired it, and Bernice thought it wonderful. "It IS a good thing," said Alicia, carelessly. "It's imported. I've never had it on before." Bernice had a lovely dress of white tulle, with white satin ribbons;--lovely, that is, for evening, but too dressy for daytime. However, as the winter dusk fell early, the lights were on, and it seemed almost like evening. CHAPTER VIII THE CALLER The four girls, in the reception room, waited the coming of their guest. To their surprise, Mr. Forbes came in, and looked them over with a chuckle. "Well, you ARE ready for the fray, aren't you?" he said, taking in their dressy finery and their important, self-conscious airs. "Yes, Uncle Jeff," responded Alicia; "will you stay and see our young man?" For some unexplained reason, Uncle Jeff laughed heartily. But he checked his merriment, and said, "No, Alicia, I fear I might intrude; I know you want to flirt with this young actor, and I'd be a spoilsport. But let me warn you to be very gentle with him. You see, he may be so overcome by this galaxy of youth and beauty that he'll be embarrassed and run away!" "Nonsense, uncle," said Bernice, "actors are not easily embarrassed. More likely we girls will be struck dumb at his splendour and importance." "Well, tell me all about it afterward," and still chuckling, Mr. Forbes went off. "What ails Uncle?" said Alicia, pettishly. "Anybody'd think he had a joke on us." "No," Dotty rejoined, "only he's sort of old, you know, and he doesn't see the fun in this, as we do." "Well, I wish the fun would hurry up! It's after four now." "Such people are never on time," said Alicia, with a great air of experience. "He's sure to be late. Oh, there's the bell now!" The girls, with hearts beating high, grouped themselves in a picturesque pose, which they had practised beforehand, and breathlessly watched the doorway. Through it came, in a moment, a jolly-faced man, with an informal manner and pleasant smile. "Hullo, girlies," he said, "what's up? Expecting a party? Well, I won't keep you a minute. Where's Mr. Forbes?" "Why, you're the party, Mr. Coriell," said Alicia, stepping forward to greet him, and looking very coquettish as she smiled up into his face. "Oh, am I! all right, have it your own way, kiddies. But I can't give you more than ten minutes of my valuable time. What do you want? Autographs? Or tickets for a box? Speak up, now." "Oh, no!" exclaimed Bernice, for Alicia was speechless with disappointment at this prosaic attitude on the part of the visitor. "We just want to--to talk to you." "You see," said Dolly, frankly, "we thought you'd be--different." "Oh, of course you did! They always do! You wanted to see the Lascar, not plain James Brown!" "What!" cried Alicia, hope rising in her breast that this was not the great actor after all, "aren't you Bayne Coriell?" "Sure! That's my stage name, but in private life I'm James Brown, at your service." "You don't even look like the Lascar!" wailed Dotty, dismayed at the turn things had taken. "Of course, I don't, little one. Actors on and off, are two different persons. Oh, I begin to see through this performance. Your uncle didn't tell you anything about me! Eh?" "No, sir," said Dolly, as the others were silent. "We saw you in your play, and we admired your work so much, that we--we--" "Oh, the matinee idol business! Well, well! I didn't expect that. Why, kiddies, outside the theatre, I'm just a plain United States citizen. I have a daughter about the age of you girls. My Muriel is fourteen, nearly fifteen, but she's taller than any of you. Your uncle is a great friend of mine. He was my father's chum, and he has been more than kind to me all my life. I supposed he knew all about the letter from Miss Alicia, and ran around here expecting to see you and him both." "That's why he chuckled at us!" and Dolly's eyes twinkled at the joke. Somehow, she seemed more at ease with the actor than the other girls. "You see, Mr. Brown, we thought you'd be more like you are on the stage. Of course we didn't expect you'd be dressed like the Lascar, or--or--made up,--isn't that what you call it? but we thought you'd be stagy and actory--" James Brown laughed. "Everybody thinks that, or something like it," he said. "Few people realise that an actor's profession is MERELY a profession,--a business; and that we discard it out of business hours." "But don't you get lots of notes from--from your audiences?" asked Dotty. "Indeed I do. My wife looks after 'em, and most of 'em go into the trash basket. But of course a note from Jefferson Forbes' home was welcome, and I was glad to call on his nieces. Are you all his nieces?" "No," said Alicia, who had recovered her poise, and she introduced the other girls by name. "I wrote the note, because I thought you were--" "Because you thought I was a gay young sport," laughed James Brown; "well, I'm sorry, for your sake, that I'm merely an uninteresting, middle-aged man, but, I doubt if your uncle would have let you send that note, if I had been a stranger to him. Take my advice, girls, for I know what I'm talking about, never write to an actor with whom you are not acquainted. It can never lead to any good result and might lead to great harm." "Are they all bad?" asked Dolly, innocently. "No, indeed, far from it. But many of them are thoughtless; and, too, if a girl so far forgets the conventions as to write to a stranger, an actor often thinks he is justified in meeting her half way. And nice girls don't write to men they don't know. The fact that a man is an actor, is no more reason to treat him informally than if he were a broker or a merchant. It is the glamour of the stage that blinds you to the proprieties. That's only natural, I know, and that's why I'm presuming to give you this little talk for your own good. If ever you feel moved to make advances to a matinee idol,--don't do it!" Alicia looked decidedly chagrined and a little angry, but Mr. Brown proceeded to talk of other matters, and though it was plain to be seen he meant the advice he had given them, all unpleasant effect was forgotten as he began to tell them some funny anecdotes. And then tea was brought in, and they all grouped round the teatable, still listening to his entertaining chat. The actor was a good-looking man, but far from being as handsome as he appeared on the stage. His fascination and charm were evidently as much put on as his swarthy complexion and long black hair, which so became him as an East Indian. Really, his hair was ash-coloured, and he was rather bald. "I expect to go on the stage," observed Dolly, as they ate the cakes and bon-bons that accompanied the elaborate tea service. "You do!" exclaimed the guest. "Why?" "Because I feel I have talent for it. Not so much as an actress, perhaps, but as a singer. What shall I do first, Mr. Brown, to prepare for the light opera stage?" James Brown looked at her kindly. "I see you are in earnest," he said, in a serious tone, "and so, I will treat your question practically. The first thing to do, is to finish your education, and then start on a course of voice training. By the time you have done these things, come to me again, and I will advise you further. Do you think me flippant?" he continued, as Dolly looked decidedly disappointed. "I am telling you just the line to follow that I expect my own daughter to pursue. Muriel has promise of a good singing voice. I assume you have that hope also, otherwise you wouldn't think of a stage career. Tell your parents what I have told you, and if they care to consult me on the subject I shall be more than glad to meet them." "Good gracious! What a come down!" cried Dotty. "We thought of course Doll could start in in the chorus at most any time, and work up." "That has been done successfully," and Mr. Brown smiled, "about one time in ten thousand. My plan is surer and better in every way." "Is that the way Miss Marie Desmond learned?" asked Dolly, wistfully. "Yes, my child. Miss Desmond worked long and faithfully before she attained her present position. If you'd care to meet her and have a little talk with her, I can arrange it. Suppose you all come to my house some afternoon, and Muriel will make a little party for you, and I'm sure I can persuade Miss Desmond to meet you for a few minutes at least. She is not a lady easy of access, I can tell you, but she will meet friends of mine." "Well, well, Jim, hobnobbing with young people, are you?" sang out a hearty voice from the hall, and Uncle Jeff came stalking into the room. "Glad to see you, my boy. You seem to be getting on famously." "Yes, indeed. Your nieces and their friends are the most charming bunch of young people I've seen in a long time. We're discussing all sorts of matters of interest. Join us in a cup of tea, won't you?" "That's what I'm here for," and Uncle Jeff took a seat among the group. "Yes, thank you, Alicia, fix me up a cup. Sugar, please, but no lemon. How's your wife, Jim? Muriel all right?" "Yes, thank you. I'm just asking these girls to come round, say to-morrow, for a little party. Or would you rather have a box party at the theatre?" The girls decided in favour of the afternoon party at Mr. Brown's home, and the matter was settled. And then, somehow, the two men fell into conversation, which in no way interested the girls, being about political matters and business affairs. Indeed, their very presence seemed to be forgotten by the gentlemen. Absent-mindedly Uncle Jeff accepted a second cup of tea, and then a third, still arguing a point of finance with his guest. Alicia, in high dudgeon, made a motion to the others that they leave the room, and Dolly nodded assent. So, noiselessly, the four rose from their seats, and stole out into the hall. Mr. Brown looked up, saw them go, and waved his hand with a smile of farewell, but Uncle Jeff paid no attention, if indeed, he noticed their departure. "Well! of all things!" exclaimed Alicia, as they sought refuge in the library, which was in the rear of the house. "I call that positively insulting!" "Now, 'Licia," and Dotty laughed, "you know the man said he could only give us ten minutes of his time, and he gave us more than a half hour. I don't think we've any reason to complain." "Well, I do! It was a perfect fizzle, the whole thing! I'm utterly disgusted! Matinee idol! Pooh, he's just an every-day man!" "Well, that's just what he said he was," rejoined Bernice, who was almost as much disappointed as Alicia. "But he was very kind and pleasant, I think." "Oh, kind enough," and Alicia still pouted; "but I thought he would be young and--and sporty, you know." "He certainly isn't sporty! whatever he is," said Dolly. "I think he's awfully nice. I'm glad we're going to his daughter's party. It's fine to go to a place like that." "She's just a little girl," complained Alicia. "Fourteen years old! I don't want to go to an infant class!" "All right," put in Bernice, "you can stay home, then. I'm delighted to go. To think of telling the girls at home that we went to Bayne Coriell's daughter's party! My, won't they think we're grand!" "That's so," agreed Alicia. "Not everybody could get such an invitation. We couldn't, only that he's Uncle Jeff's friend. But I can tell you, girls, if I hadn't got up this whole scheme we wouldn't have been asked there. You can thank me for it." "Dolly, too," said Dotty. "If she hadn't asked Mrs. Berry, he wouldn't have come at all." "Yes, he would; why wouldn't he?" "Oh, pshaw! It was all made up by Uncle Jeff. You could see that. Mrs. Berry told him, and he let us go ahead, just to have a joke on us. Mr. Brown came mostly to see Mr. Forbes,--not us." "You're right, you little smarty-cat," and Alicia smiled at the astute Dotty. "And I do believe Uncle Jeff meant to give us a lesson about writing to actors. I thought it was queer he took it so easily,--and Mrs. Berry too. They played right into our hands. They wouldn't have done that if the actor person had been a stranger." "Of course they wouldn't," and Dotty wagged her head. "I felt sure there was some reason why Mrs. Berry said yes to Doll so easily. But I didn't think Coriell Bayne, or whatever his name is, was old enough to be Uncle Forbes' chum." "He isn't exactly," said Dolly; "that is, he said his father and Mr. Forbes were friends. I suppose the son carried on the friendship." "He looks as old as my father,--off the stage," said Bernice; "but on it, he might be my father's son!" "You can't tell a thing about actors!" declared Alicia. "If ever I think another one is handsome and fascinating, I'll remember James Bayne, and know he's nothing but an old fogy!" "Oh, I don't call Mr. Brown an old fogy," defended Dotty. "I think he's interesting and pleasant; just about like my father, or yours, Doll." "He's not a bit like our fathers, though he doesn't look much younger. Anyway, I'm glad I've met him, but he did give me a setback about my career." "Is that a real stunt, Dolly?" and Alicia looked at her curiously. "Do you really want to go on the stage? It doesn't seem like you." "Yes, I do, or at least, I did, until Mr. Brown said what he did. I don't know as I want to devote my whole life to getting ready for a stage career. I'm going to think it over and see about it." "You funny little thing! I hope you'll decide to do it, and in about ten or twenty years, when I'm an old married woman, I'll come to your first performance." "Whose performance? Who's stage struck?" asked Uncle Jeff, walking in at the door. He had a way of appearing unexpectedly. "Dolly," answered Alicia. "She wants to be a prima donna." "Bless my soul!" exclaimed the old man, "why, one reason I had Jim Brown here to-day, was to knock such foolishness out of your heads." "And he did his part all right, Uncle Forbes," said Dolly, looking serious, "but I don't quite take the knocking. At least, I haven't decided what I'll do about it." "Oho, you haven't, haven't you?" and the old man raised his shaggy eyebrows. "Well, Alicia, how did you like your handsome, fascinating, young man?" Alicia had quite recovered her good humour, and she replied, laughingly, "Oh, except that he isn't very young or handsome or fascinating, I liked him pretty well." "You're a good girl," pronounced her uncle. "I thought maybe you'd resent the little trick I played on you. But when you raved over the handsome hero, and the Greek god effects of him, I couldn't refrain from showing you how deceitful appearances may be. Jim's a fine chap, not at all a silly flirt, and his daughter is a lovely young girl, a little older than you girls--" "Why, Uncle Jeff, Mr. Brown says she's younger, he said Muriel is not yet fifteen." "Bless me! is that so? Well, he must know. But I can tell you, she seems as old or older than any of you. I suppose because she's been brought up among stage people. But a mighty nice girl, all the same. And Mrs. Brown is a delightful woman. All nice people. I'm glad he asked you to his home. It'll be a rare treat for you." "When is it to be, to-morrow?" asked Dotty. "We don't know yet. When Brown went away he said he'd consult his wife and daughter and telephone us about it. I fancy they'll make quite an affair of it. See here, have you all proper frocks to wear? I don't want my girls less well dressed than the others there. And I have a sneaking notion these are your best clothes." Uncle Jeff's eyes twinkled as he glanced at their dresses. "Anyway, I'd like to give each of you a new frock. Go to-morrow morning and get them." And having given the order, Uncle Jeff stalked away. CHAPTER IX FINE FEATHERS "Isn't he the funniest and the very dearest old thing in the world!" said Alicia, in a whisper, as Mr. Forbes disappeared. "I've got loads of clothes, but I'm glad to have him give me a dress, for I'll warrant it'll be about the best money can buy." "Let's get the best New York can show us," chimed in Bernice. "I can't do it," said Dolly, decidedly. "My mother wouldn't like me to accept a dress from Mr. Forbes." "Oh, fiddlesticks, Dollyrinda!" said Dotty, "it's not charity. My mother wouldn't let me either, ordinarily speaking, but this is different." "How is it different?" "Why, Mr. Forbes doesn't look on it as giving as clothes because we're poor--" "He does so, Dot! You can't fool me! He knows that Alicia and Bernie can afford grand clothes and we can't, and so he gives us each a dress to make it easy for us to take them." Now, Alicia privately thought this was just about the truth, but Bernice thought differently; "Rubbish!" she cried. "Uncle Jeff doesn't think anything of the sort! He's so kind-hearted, he wants us all to have things nice, and he doesn't even think about whether it would hurt our feelings or not. Why, Dolly, the price of a dress is no more to him, than a glass of soda water would be to us." "I know that's so," and Dolly's blue eyes looked very troubled, "but it isn't nice to take clothing from anybody but your own people." "But Dolly," argued Alicia, "if you kick up a bobbery, and refuse to take this kind offer, then we'll all have to do the same, and you deprive us all of the pretty presents." "Oh, Alicia, I'd be sorry to do that!" "Well, that's what it would amount to. Now, be sensible, and go with us to-morrow, and we'll all get lovely dresses, and it will please Uncle Jeff. I know he'd be hurt and offended, if you refused, Dolly." "I'll see about it; I'll think it over," and that was all Dolly would say about it then. But next morning, Mrs. Berry informed them that they were asked to an At Home at Mrs. Brown's that afternoon, from four till seven, and she further said that of her knowledge, it would be an occasion where the nicest possible apparel would be required. "Gorgeous!" cried Alicia; "Uncle Jeff told us yesterday, we could get new frocks as presents from him. We can get them at Follansbee's, and if they need alteration, they'll do it for us at once, as the case is so especial." Dolly's objections were overruled, even Mrs. Berry siding with the other girls. "Yes, indeed, Dolly," she said; "you will spoil the pleasure of the others if you refuse to do as they do. And it would grieve Mr. Forbes if he thought you didn't appreciate or accept his kind offer. Run along, girls, all of you, and get your hats and coats, the car will be here in a few minutes." "Won't you go with us, Mrs. Berry," asked Dolly, "to help pick them out? We don't know about these things as well as some one who lives in the city." "No, dearies. But you won't have any trouble Just ask for Mrs. Baxter at Follansbee's and her judgment will be the right thing. Be sure to take what she advises. She'll know." In gay spirits the quartette started off, Dolly joining in the general enthusiasm, for having decided to do as the others did, she had no wish to hesitate further. Mrs. Baxter was more than pleased to advise and suggest to Jefferson Forbes' relatives, and she had her assistants bring out dozens of frocks for inspection. At last, after much discussion and trying on, the four were selected and were promised for two o'clock that afternoon. What slight alterations were necessary could be done in that time, and there would be no doubt of prompt delivery. The dresses were absolutely unlike any the girls had ever owned before. They were all imported models, and though of finest materials, were simple in fabric and design. Yet they had an air and an effect never achieved by a village dressmaker or a department store. Dolly's was of fine white net, frilled with delicate lace, and adorned with tiny rosebud garlands, and knots of pale blue velvet. Dotty's, of apricot pink crepe, with hints of silver lace peeping through its chiffon draperies. Alicia's was corn-coloured crepe de chine with cherry velvet decorations, and Bernice rejoiced in a white embroidered net, made up over green silk. All had that indefinable charm which betokens the genius of a great modiste, and the girls were enchanted with the wonderful robes. "But what awful prices!" said Dolly, as they drove away from the shop. "I'm sure mother will be displeased. I feel awfully about it." "Now, Doll," said Dotty, sensibly, "you can't help it now. So don't let it spoil your pleasure and ours too. When we get home you can tell your mother just how it was. I'll tell her too, and I'm sure she'll see that you couldn't do anything else than get the frock, or kick up a terrible bobbery!" This was common sense, as Dotty's remarks often were, so Dolly accepted the situation, and made the best of it. And that afternoon, when they were all arrayed in the new frocks, and presented themselves to Uncle Jeff for inspection, his approval was so hearty, that Dolly was very glad she hadn't put a damper on the whole thing by remaining obstinate. "You are visions of beauty," he declared, as he looked at each in turn. "Madame Who-ever-it-was, turned you out remarkably well. I don't know much about feminine millinery, but I've a general idea of the fitness of things. And I'll bet a thousand dollars that these affairs are in better taste than the rigs you had on yesterday, though those were far gayer." "You do know a lot about it, Uncle," said Bernice. "These are way ahead of our best dresses, but it's because they came from a high class shop. And when you get the bill you'll open your eyes!" "That's all right, Bernie. I'm an old bachelor, you know, and never before have I had the privilege of buying dresses for anybody. I'm downright glad if you girls are pleased with these, and I'm downright proud of the little cavalcade setting forth from my house." The courteous old gentleman made a profound bow and the girls curtseyed in response. Then off they went to the party. As Mrs. Berry had foretold, fine clothes were the order of the day at the Brown house. Everything was as formal as a grown-up affair. The girls were ushered to a dressing-room to take off their wraps, and then at the drawing-room door, their names were announced by an imposing-looking personage in livery, and they were swept along into the room, by the crush of others behind them. Mrs. Brown and her daughter were receiving, and they greeted each arrival with gay banter and smiles. "Ah, my dears, how do you do?" said Mrs. Brown to our girls. "I am so glad to welcome Mr. Forbes' young people. Muriel, dear, these are the girls daddy told you about last night. 'Member?" "'Course I do. Aw'fly jolly to have you here. Sweet of you to come. Wish I could chin-chin more, but I'll see you after the rush is over." They passed in line, saying scarce a word beyond a mere greeting, and following the example of their predecessors they took seats in what seemed to be a large auditorium. A curtained stage faced them, and they looked about at the fast gathering audience. It was a merry crowd of young people all laughing and chattering, and all arrayed in beautiful clothes after the order of those the girls wore themselves. There were many boys present, too, and they moved easily about, joking with their friends here and there. Presently two boys drifted toward our quartette, and one of them said, "What'll be the show, do you know?" "No," said Dotty, her black eyes dancing with the excitement of the scene; "what do you guess?" "Dunno. Last time they had minstrels, and the time before, a magicker." "Legerdemain?" "Yes; rabbits out of hats, and that sort. Can't we sit here? Engaged?" "No," and Dotty smiled as she looked toward the other girls for their consent. "Oh, let us stay," said the other boy, in a wheedling voice. "We'll be awfully good,--so good you won't know us." "We don't know you, anyway," laughed Alicia, and the first boy responded, "Sure enough. Roof's the introduction, you know, but I'll add that this marvellously handsome companion of mine is one Geordie Knapp, and I'm Ted Hosmer, very much at your service." "Well," said Alicia, "we're Miss Forbes, Miss Fayre, Miss Rose and Miss Steele. Shall I tell you which is which, or let you guess?" "Let us Sherlock it out!" exclaimed Geordie Knapp. "I know you're Miss Steele because you mentioned yourself last.'" "Right!" and Dotty clapped her hands in admiration of his quickness. "Now, which am I?" "Rosy Posy!" declared Ted Hosmer, little thinking he had guessed correctly, but saying so because of Dotty's pink cheeks. "Yes, sir! you ARE a Sherlock Holmes. Now which is Miss Forbes?" "I'm not going to guess any more, I'll spoil my record," and Ted looked uncertainly from Dolly to Bernice. "But as you two are named Forbes and Fayre, I'll call you both Miss F., and so be sure of you." And then the curtain began to rise, and the young people became silent. The entertainment was very amusing, being entirely in pantomime, and performed by exceedingly clever actors. The story depicted was funny, and the antics of the performers were novel and humorous, and the room resounded with laughter from the appreciative audience. There were about a hundred young people present yet the large room was only partly filled. Dolly concluded, as she looked about, that it was a sort of small theatre where Mr. Brown rehearsed his own plays. In this she was partly right, although it had been built more for entertainment of the actor's guests. James Brown, or Bayne Coriell, as he was more often called, stood very high in his profession, and had hosts of friends and acquaintances. His wife was popular, too, and Muriel was just beginning to take her place in society. After the pantomime was over, two celebrated dancers gave an exhibition of their skill, and then Miss Marie Desmond appeared and sang two of her songs from "The Lass and the Lascar." Dolly was enthralled. She sat, listening to every note, and admiring the graceful manner and deportment of Miss Desmond as well as enjoying her music. "Well, you seemed to care for that, Miss F.," said Ted Hosmer. "You didn't move an eyelash while Marie was on!" "Oh, I did enjoy it!" and Dolly's eyes shone with delight. "Isn't she a splendid singer!" "Top notch! I like her lots. Hello, here's our charming hostess." The programme was over now, and Muriel Brown sought out the Forbes party to invite them to the refreshment room. "I feel that I know you," she laughed, "from Dad's description. He says the fair girl is Miss Fayre, and the rosy girl, Miss Rose." "Oh, that's it, is it?" cried Ted; "then this is Miss Forbes, and now all the problems are solved!" He looked at Bernice, who acknowledged the fact, and then Muriel was pounced upon by a rush of young people, and literally carried away. "Great girl, Muriel," said young Hosmer. "Never saw such a favourite. I say, mayn't we take you girls to the supper room? Or don't you eat?" "Indeed we do," said Alicia, laughing, "but I may as well own up I'm so interested in looking about me, I'm not conscious of hunger." "Well, come ahead to the dining-room, and you can eat and look about at the same time. I'll corral a couple more henchmen to help in your services and we'll flock by ourselves." Geordie whistled to a couple of his chums, whom he presented as Marly Turner and Sam Graves. "Now," went on Geordie, who was a born manager, "we're eight of us,--that's enough for a table to our own selves. Nail one, Samivel." The way to the dining-room lay through a crush of guests, every one, it seemed, headed in a different direction. "Why don't they all go one way?" asked Dotty, "Few of 'em eat," replied Ted. "Most of 'em going on. But the food's always fine here, and anyway you girls want to see the dining-room if you've never been here before. It's a whole show." It was. The splendid great room, with vaulted ceiling, represented an old English hall. There was a raised platform across the end and a gallery on either side. Fine paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, and a multitude of small tables offered places for all who chose to sit at them. "Here we are," and the boys decided on a table in a desirable position, from which the girls could see the gay scene. "Now for some supper." Obsequious waiters appeared and soon the party was served with viands fit for a king. "Told you so," said Ted. "Trust the Coriell bunch to give you eats worth-while. Oh, I guess yes!" "But it's getting so late," sighed Dolly, as she caught sight of an old English clock that hung near by. "And Mr. Brown promised me I could speak to Miss Desmond. I'm afraid she'll be gone." "'Fraid she's gone now," said Ted. "But I'll flee and discover." He left them and threaded his way among the crowd. "Here we are!" he cried gaily, as he returned, bringing the lady in question. "Just caught her on the fly. Trust little Teddums to get you what you want, Miss Fair Dolly." Marie Desmond greeted the girls as Ted named them. "You lovely kiddies!" she cried. "What a delectable bunch! I could eat you all up. And your frocks! Paris! I know; you needn't tell ME! Are you all sisters? Oh, no, I remember now; you have variegated names. Which one of you wanted to talk to me? I've a whole minute to spare! Never say I'M not a lady of leisure!" "I'm the one," said Dolly, her eyes fixed on the lovely, laughing face of the actress. "But a minute is no good, thank you. I want to talk to you about a whole day!" "Oh, I DO wish we could manage it," and Miss Desmond appeared to think that was the one thing on earth she desired. But Dolly noted her wandering attention, and was not surprised when she left them as suddenly as she had come, and with a fleeting, smiling good-bye. "Oh, isn't she exquisite!" breathed Dolly, her eyes on the disappearing figure. "You bet she is!" assented Marly Turner. "And it's a wonder she took a step out of her way to speak to us kids. But friends of Coriell,--of course." "Is she so very busy?" asked Dolly her eyes wide with interest. "Well, she's a society belle as well as a popular actress. So, I s'pose, she has more or less on all the time. There's no time for much of anything in New York. I say, can't us fellows come to see you girls? When? Where?" "I don't know," said Dolly, mindful of the Coriell episode. "I'm not going to say yes till I know what's right. I'll ask Uncle Forbes." "Do. Here's a telephone call that'll reach us. Let us come soon." And then Mrs. Brown appeared, spoke a few words to the girls, and the hoys with them, and in a moment everybody was going home. Our girls followed the example set them, said their good-byes, went to the cloak-room for their wraps, and bade the footman at the door call the Forbes car. CHAPTER X A SKATING PARTY That evening, in the drawing-room, Mr. Forbes questioned the girls rather closely as to their enjoyment of the party at the Browns'. "I liked it," said Dolly, "but it was queer,--that's what it was,--queer. The idea of just seeing a performance on the stage, and then rushing through a very fancy supper, and then scooting for home as if the house was on fire!--that's not my idea of a party!" Uncle Jeff laughed. "And you, Dotty," he said, "how did it strike you?" "I adored it! Everybody was so gay and smartly dressed and quick-spoken,--I do like to hear people say things fast." "How queer you are!" exclaimed Bernice; "why do you like to hear people talk fast?" "Not talk fast exactly, but say things suddenly, funny things, I mean." "I understand," said Mr. Forbes; "you mean bright at repartee and quick-witted." "Yes, sir, that's just what I do mean. And everything was so well planned and well arranged,--oh, I enjoyed every minute of it." "Well, I didn't," said Bernice. "I'd rather go to a regular party, where they play games and dance and act sociable." "Why, the people were sociable enough," put in Alicia. "I'm like Dot, I thought it was lovely! Muriel is as pretty as a picture--" "She scarcely said three words to us!" complained Bernice. "She couldn't help that. There were so many guests, that she hadn't time to more than speak a minute or two with each one of them." "I like Berwick parties better," persisted Bernice. "There we all know each other--" "But, Bernie," said Dolly, laughing, "all the people at this party knew each other,--nearly. We were strangers, of course, but the rest seemed to be well acquainted with Muriel." "And I thought the party was to be for us," went on Bernice, "and I thought we'd be introduced to everybody, and be--well, be SOMEBODY, you know." "Oho! you wanted to be honoured and lionised!" and Uncle Jeff's eyes twinkled. "Not exactly. But I understood from Mr. Brown that the whole affair was gotten up for us, and so I think we ought to have been noticed more. Why, the boys just scraped acquaintance with us, and even had to ask our names!" "That's the way they do at large parties, Bernie," said her uncle. "You are supposed to talk to any of the other guests without introduction." "Well, it's no sort of a way! They were awfully nice boys, but I don't suppose we'll ever see them again." "Oh, yes, we will," said Dolly. "They asked to call on us, and I said I'd ask you, Uncle Forbes. Would it be all right?" "Bless my soul, Dolly! I don't know. I've so little knowledge of etiquette for young people. Ask Mrs. Berry, whatever she says, you may do. Who are the boys? Hosmer? Knapp? Oh, they're all right. I know the families. But as to their calling, put it up to Mrs. Berry. And, by the way, how'd you girls like to have a party, a real one?" "Like the one we went to to-day?" asked Bernice, doubtfully. "I don't care much about it." "Well, have some other kind. There must be other ways of entertaining. What would you like, Bernice?" "I'd like a little party,--but I suppose that would have to be formal, too." "Oh, gracious, you old hayseed!" exclaimed Alicia. "You go back to the country! I'd love to have a party, Uncle, the biggest and grandest there is! Muriel Brown would invite the people for us, I'm sure. Oh, it would be just heavenly! We'd have an orchestra, and a midnight supper, and--oh, and everything!" "Hold on, my child, don't go too fast! We'll only have what you all agree on. Come, two D's, what do you say?" "We oughtn't to say," laughed Dolly. "It's for your nieces to choose. And anyway, Dot and I like everything, and we'd enjoy any kind of a party--or no party at all." "You've a nice disposition," said Mr. Forbes, looking at her. "Don't you ever lose your temper?" "She hasn't any to lose!" Dotty answered for her. "In fact, she's too awfully good-natured for any use! But she has other faults. She's as stubborn as a perfectly good mule! Aren't you, Dollums?" "I s'pect I am," and the golden head nodded. "But only when I care enough to be stubborn. As to this party, I don't care what sort it is, 'cause I know it will be lovely, anyway. That is, if we have it. But seems to me invitations for a big affair ought to be sent out several days in advance, and we'll be going home the middle of next week." "Why, you've only just got here!" said Mr. Forbes. "Well, it's Friday night now, and we came last Wednesday for a week. So, if we go home next Wednesday, that party would have to be in three or four days, and that's a short time." "Of course," agreed Alicia. "We couldn't give a big party on such short notice." "That's easily arranged," and Mr. Forbes laughed; "stay another week." "Oh, I couldn't," cried Dolly. "My mother wouldn't hear of such a thing. The other girls can, though." "I wouldn't if Doll didn't," declared Dotty. "But Bernie and Alicia could stay." "So we could," said Bernice. "My father will let me stay as long as Uncle Jeff wants me." "I can stay, too," said Alicia, "But it's lots more fun to have you other girls with us." "We'll see about all that," and Mr. Forbes dismissed the subject. A footman came in to say that Miss Fayre was wanted on the telephone. "Oh!" cried Dolly, her face turning white, "do you suppose any thing's wrong at home? Mother had a cold; maybe it's developed into pneumonia!" "Nonsense, child; don't borrow trouble. Probably it's nothing of the sort." "Isn't that Dolly all over?" said Alicia, after Dolly had left the room. "She always thinks the worst there is to think!" "Maybe she's right," said Dotty. "Mrs. Fayre does have awful colds,--hark, I hear Dolly laughing! It's all right!" They all listened, and they heard Dolly say, "Oh, perfectly splendid! I'd just love it!--Thank you!--Yes, indeed!--I'm 'most sure--oh, delightful!--Well, I'll ask her--Fine!--Yes, yes,--just wait a minute,--I'll ask her now--hold the wire." Followed a whispered conversation, and the girls caught the sound of Mrs. Berry's voice. Unable to restrain their curiosity longer, the three rushed out to the hall and saw Dolly, her hand over the transmitter, talking to Mrs. Berry. "What is it? Tell us all!" cried Bernice, and Alicia crowded close to listen. "Oh, girls," and Dolly beamed at them, "it's the loveliest invitation! Marly Turner wants us to go, to a skating party to-morrow afternoon at St. Valentine's rink! And Mrs. Berry says it will be all right for us to go. Yes," she continued, speaking into the telephone. "Yes, we can go. And we're all most happy to accept. What time?" "Four o'clock," came the answer. "Meet our crowd at the rink. So glad you can come." "So are we," returned Dolly, "and thank you, ever so much. Good-bye." "Good-bye," said Turner, and Dolly hung up the receiver. "Tell us more," cried Alicia. "What did you hang up so soon for? Why didn't you let US talk to him? What an old selfish you are!" "I couldn't, Alicia," and Dolly looked hurt. "I knew from his manner and speech that he only; wanted a reply to his invitation, and I wasn't expected to say more." "But why did he ask for you?" grumbled Alicia; "why not for me?" "I don't know, I'm sure," and Dolly laughed; "he did, that's all. Let's go and tell Uncle Forbes about it." "All right, girls; all right. Glad you're going. Have a good time. Marly Turner? Yes, yes, son of the Bayard Turners. Nice boy. His crowd will be all right. Can you all skate? Did you bring your skates? If not, get some. Get whatever you want. Look as good as the rest. Good-night now. Good-night, all." Abruptly, as usual, Mr. Forbes left the room, and as the girls were getting accustomed to his eccentricities they nodded their good-nights, and then began to plan for the skating party. Mrs. Berry appeared and helped them decide on certain details of costume and accessories. The two D's had brought the pretty skating costumes they had worn at the Berwick carnival, but as Bernice had been the queen that night, her white velvet gown was out of the question. Alicia, too, had no appropriate garb, so these two bought new dresses. The final result was four very becomingly attired girls who started merrily off on Saturday afternoon for the party at the rink. Four bunches of violets, with Marly Turner's card, had come to the house, and each fair damsel wore one at her corsage. Dolly's suit was of light blue cloth trimmed with silver fox, and Dotty's was red cloth with dark fur. Bernice looked very handsome in white cloth, and Alicia had chosen emerald green. They were met at the rink by Marly and his chums, and at once introduced to the chaperon of the affair, who was Marly's married sister. She didn't look much older than the boy himself, but she greeted the girls with a charming hospitality and declared herself delighted to take them in charge. The other boys whom they had met at Muriel's party were there, and Muriel was, too. She welcomed the four warmly, but as she was constantly in demand by other gay young friends, they had no chance for connected conversation with her. Indeed, connected conversation was not thought of, unless with one's skating partner. "You're all right on runners," commented Geordie Knapp, as he skated with Dotty. "You must be fond of it." "Oh, I am. I skate a lot at home; that is, when there's ice. We're dependent on that, you see, as we haven't an ice rink in Berwick." "Berwick? Small town?" "Yes. 'Bout as big as a minute," and Dotty laughed good-naturedly. "That's why you're so up to the minute, then," Geordie laughed back. "Want to sit down and rest a bit?" "All right. Let's," and they sat down for a few moments. "There goes your chum,--with Ted Hosmer. She is your chum, isn't she? The Fair Dolly?" "Dolly Fayre? Yes, indeed; we're super-inseparable." "That's the way with Ted and me. We're always together. Funny, isn't it, how you like one person better'n anybody else?" "Yes; I couldn't keep house without Dolly. And we do keep house!" and Dotty told her companion all about Treasure House and its delights. "Wow! That's some stunt! A house like that I I'd like to see it." "Do. Some day next summer come out to Berwick and I'll show it to you. We've great little old brothers, too. One apiece." "Have you? I s'pose you can cut up larks in the country that you couldn't here?" "It's awfully different." Dotty sighed. "I like the city better in lots of ways, but, altogether, I guess I'd rather live in Berwick." "What are you two confabbing about?" sang out a voice, and Dolly, with Ted Hosmer, came gliding up and stopped in front of Dot and young Knapp. "Settling the affairs of the nation," said Geordie; "also, it's a case of 'change partners.'" He jumped up, took Dolly's hands in his, and they swayed off across the ice, leaving Dotty and Ted together. "Don't mind him; he's crazy," said Ted, as he dropped onto the seat beside Dotty. "And anyway, we're such chums we share our best friends with each other!" "Glad you do! I like to talk to different people--" "I'm a different people; oh, I assure you I am. Please like to talk to me!" "I do. Or, at least, I'm sure I shall. What shall we talk about?" "Sports in general. What do you like best, next to skating?" "Tennis, don't you?" "Sure, if you do. But that's mostly for summer. Come on, let's skate round a couple of times, and then go for the tea place." It was good fun skating with Ted, and, as Dolly told him, he reminded her a little of her friend, Tad Brown. "Any kin of Muriel's?" "No, a boy in Berwick. He has a twin brother, Tod." "Great names! Tadpole and Toddlekins, in full, I suppose." "They are called those sometimes. Oh, Mrs. Graham is beckoning to us. We must go." They joined Mrs. Graham, who was their chaperon, and she marshalled her crowd of young people to the tea room. At last Muriel Brown found a chance to talk to our girls. "We seem like old friends," she said, gaily. "Isn't the ice fine to-day? Are you going to the dance to-night? What? Not invited? That can easily be remedied. I say, Sam, don't you want these four angel children at your party?" "'Deed I do!" and Sam Graves beamed broadly, "I didn't dare ask them myself,--meant to get you to do it. Coax 'em, Muriel. Make 'em say yes." Alicia took it upon herself to accept this invitation, though Dolly insisted it would depend on Mrs. Berry's sanction. "Who's Mrs. Berry?" asked Muriel. "Is she a dragon?" "No, indeed," smiled Dotty; "she's the dearest old yes-sayer in the world!" "Oh, she'll let you come then. Tell the girls all about it, Sam," and Muriel moved away. "She went off and left her ice cream untouched!" exclaimed Dotty. "She's always on the hop,--Muriel is," said Sam. "Now you girls come to-night, won't you? It's a small and early at my house. Mr. Forbes knows me, and I know your Mrs. Berry, too. Just tell her it's little Sammy's party, and she'll send you flying over." "Tell us something about it," said Dolly. "Is it to be very grand? We're hazy on the subject of New York dances." "Can you dance?" "Yes, though maybe not the very latest steps." "That's all right, then. Put on a clean sash and come along. You won't be wall flowers!" "What time shall we come?" asked Bernice. "Tell me about the details; I'm Mr. Forbe's niece." Bernice was always a little jealous if the D's seemed to be consulted rather than herself or Alicia. "Oh, no details specially. All informal, you know. Come when you like,--nine, maybe, or half past. If you're feeling conventional about it, my mother will call on you--by telephone--and ask you proper." "Oh, no, she needn't do that," and Bernice laughed at the idea. "We're only little girls. If Mrs. Berry says we can go, your invitation is enough." "Good work! Be sure to come. Crazy to have you. 'Scuse me a minute,--there's a girl I want to speak to." Sam darted off, and another boy dropped into his vacated seat. It was this touch and go effect that Dotty liked, but to Dolly it seemed a whirling maze. And, indeed, almost before they knew it they were all whirled off home. CHAPTER XI THE COLLECTIONS On Sunday, dinner was in the middle of the day, and directly after it was over Mr. Forbes led the four to the drawing-room, as was usual in the evening, and asked an account of the dance. "It was lovely!" vouchsafed Dotty. "Gorgeous!" agreed Bernice. "Perfectly all right," Alicia averred. "Nice enough, but very grown uppish," was Dolly's verdict. "You stick to your taste for simpler parties?" said Mr. Forbes, looking kindly at Dolly. "Yes, sir; I guess I'm a country girl." "Well, I'm not," and Dotty's black eyes flashed. "I'd just as lief live in Berwick, to be sure; but I do love to visit in New York and see all the grand doings." "And was the party grand?" "Oh, it was, uncle," said Alicia. "It was small and it was early." "Pooh!" cried Dolly. "We came home at half past eleven. I don't call that early!" "Early for a city party," insisted Alicia, "but it was an elaborate affair, after all, and what do you s'pose, Uncle Jeff? We had invitations to a lot of things, next week and the week after, too." "Well, you girls are real belles!" "They do seem to like us," and Alicia looked very well self-satisfied. "Which one of you do they like the best?" teased Uncle Jeff. "Dotty," said Alicia and Bernice together. "Nothing of the sort!" declared Dotty, blushing rosy red. "Who, then?" and Mr. Forbes turned to her. "Why, I don't know," said Dotty, still embarrassed. "Dolly, I guess." "You know better, Dot," and Dolly laughed at her. "I think, Uncle Forbes, the most citified boys and girls like Bernie and Alicia best, and some of the others take to Dot and me." Her honest blue eyes proved this was her true opinion, whatever the facts might be. "Well, look here," and Mr. Forbes' eyes twinkled "I ask you two, Dotty and Dolly, which of my two nieces is a greater favourite?" "Why, how can we tell that, right before them both?" cried Dolly, taking it as a joke. "Yes, I want you to tell me,--right before them." "I don't think there's a bit of difference," Dotty said, speaking seriously, and looking at the two girls. "You see, everybody likes Bernie--and--they all like Alicia." "You're a diplomat!" laughed the old man, "Now, Dolly, see if you can beat that?" Dolly liked being put on her mettle, and after a moment's thought, when she pretended to study the girls, she said, "They are both liked tremendously for themselves,--but more, because they are your nieces." "Capital!" and Mr. Forbes rubbed his hands in glee. "You're a tactful young person, I do avow. Now, just for that you may ask anything of me you like, to the half of my kingdom." "I'll ask," said Dolly, quickly, "before you have a chance to repent of that offer. This is what I want: Let us go up and see your collections. May we?" "I s'pose so. Will you be good little girls, and not finger the exhibits, except such as I say you may?" "Of course we will. We're not mischievous little kiddies! Oh, are you really going to let us see it! When?" "Now. May as well get it over, I suppose. March!" He led the way, and the girls trooped after him, up to the fourth floor of the house. The rooms corresponded to those below stairs, but all were arranged as a museum. There were enormous cases filled with specimens of every sort of bird, butterfly or insect. Or, if not every kind was represented, surely they were nearly all there, so multitudinous were the exhibits. "What a lot!" exclaimed Dolly, "I had no idea it was such an enormous collection." "Yes," said Mr. Forbes, with justifiable pride, "it Is the largest private collection that I know of. Come, let me show you the birds first." Obediently the girls followed his directions, and with ever growing interest they saw the rows and rows of stuffed birds, of all sizes and of all varieties of plumage. Then came great cabinets filled with shallow drawers, each of which, when opened, displayed tiny moths, queer flies, and microscopic insects, each daintily mounted on its own pin and all standing in trim rows. The butterflies were the prettiest exhibit of all. These showed rare varieties and well-known ones; specimens from far distant countries and from their own state. All the girls were interested, but Dolly was absorbed. She walked from case to case, asking intelligent questions, that Mr. Forbes was glad to answer. "You ought to make natural history a special study," he said to her. "You seem so fond of it." "Oh, I am!" responded Dolly. "I shall try to get mother to let me take it up specially next year. And here are the beetles! How wonderfully they are arranged, and what beautiful colours!" "Yes, see the iridescent wings of this chap," and Uncle Jeff pointed to a fine specimen. "I don't wonder the old Egyptians loved this creature and carved their scarabs in its likeness, do you?" "No indeed," responded Dolly. "And do you like old Egyptian things, too? So do I. I saw wonders in the Museum." "I have quite an antique collection, if you're interested." "If I'm interested! Well, I just guess I AM!" The other girls enjoyed the exhibition, too, but not so much as Dolly, who was enthusiastic over it all. They had so far seen only the front rooms, but now Uncle Jeff conducted them to the room in the rear extension of the house, and as he unlocked the door he said, "Here are my greatest treasures of all." The girls went in, and Mr. Forbes rolled up the shades and let in the sunlight. "My, but it's close and stuffy!" exclaimed Bernice; "mayn't we have a window open, uncle?" "Yes, indeed; I believe in fresh air, but I keep this room closed so much of the time it does get stale." Mr. Forbes threw open a window that faced the south, and as there was no wind blowing, the fresh winter air was balmy and pleasant. "That's better," said Bernice, and she began to look at the treasures all about her. There were many tall cases, like book-cases, and on their shelves were ranged curios and valuables of all sorts. These proved more interesting to Dotty than the birds and butterflies. "Oh, look at the old jewellery!" she cried. "Just like what we saw in the museum, Doll." "Yes, here are old Egyptian trinkets,--aren't they, Uncle Forbes?" "Yes, those are Egyptian and Abyssinian. This nose ring was worn by a lady in India some centuries before you girls were born." "What is the oldest thing you have, Uncle?" asked Alicia. "This jewellery?" "No; this is my oldest piece," and Mr. Forbes took from a shelf an image of a cat. It was of dark brown material, and was dingy and roughened, as if by fire. "This came from an old Egyptian tomb," he said. "You know they put all sorts of idols and charms in the tombs of their dead. Then once in a while these things are exhumed, and in some instances sold by the Egyptian Museum authorities. I buy only what is guaranteed by them to be genuine. I have an agent, who has travelled in many countries to collect authentic antiquities for me. This cat dates from about 2000 B. C." "Gracious!" cried Dotty, "and there's been nearly two thousand years since B. C. That makes Mr. Cat about four thousand years old! Some cat!" "Well, a cat has nine lives anyway," laughed Alicia, "so it ought to be a long time dead." "That never was a live cat, was it?" asked Dolly. "Oh, no. This was a bronze image, but fire and age have turned it to a mere brittle shell. If it were dropped to the floor it would break into a thousand pieces." "Oh, my! take it!" exclaimed Dolly, who was holding the precious relic. "I didn't know it was so fragile." Mr. Forbes took it carefully. "That's why I don't often bring young people up here. They're too heedless to appreciate the value of these old things. Yes, two centuries before the Christian Era, this piece of bric-a-brac, as we would call it, adorned the tomb of some Egyptian citizen. I have the guarantee, signed by the Egyptian Museum. And here is a fine specimen. This is in a better state of preservation. See, you can read the date on it clearly, 537 B. C." Mr. Forbes took from a cabinet a small image of a mummy. It was of blue stone, somewhat chipped and worn, but preserving its shape and colour. On the back, in rude figures, but clearly discernible was the date to which he called their attention. "Wonderful!" said Alicia. "Their figures are much like ours, aren't they?" "Yes, my child, the Arabic numerals are of ancient usage. Think of the old hand that carved that date! Long since mouldered to dust!" "It gives me the creeps!" declared Bernice, "and yet it fascinates me, too. Was this found in a tomb?" "Yes, or in a temple. Excavations in Egypt, latterly, produce so many of these things that it is not difficult to get them. But that's pretty old, you see,--half a century before Christ." "I wonder who was King of Egypt then," said Dotty. "I wish I could remember my history better. I learned about the Ptolemies and the other dynasties, but I get 'em all mixed up." Although the others were eagerly examining the old mummy relic, Dolly stood looking at it thoughtfully. "May I take it?" she said, after the others had scrutinised it. Dolly handled it carefully, as she minutely observed it on every side. It was about six inches long and was a perfect little model of an Egyptian mummy. She gazed at the date deeply graven on the back, and then with a slight smile she handed it back to Mr. Forbes, saying, "Very good, Eddie!" "What! What do you mean?" cried the old gentleman, glaring at her, and Alicia exclaimed, "Why, Dolly Fayre! You rude little thing!" "But what do you mean?" persisted Mr. Forbes. "Why do you call me Eddie?" "Oh," and Dolly laughed, "that's a slang phrase that people say when they see through a joke." "Joke, miss! Are you making fun of my antiques? Explain yourself!" "Yes, what DO you mean, Dolly?" said Dotty, anxiously; "you can't mean to insult Mr. Forbes." "You goosies!" cried Dolly, "he's fooling you. It's a joke on us." "What is? What's a joke?" "This mummy," and now Mr. Forbes had joined in Dolly's laughter. "You're a cute one!" he said. "Not one person in a dozen catches on to that. Tell 'em, my dear. Oh, you are a smart one!" Mr. Forbes shook with glee, and Dolly held up the image to the mystified girls. "Don't you see, you blindies, the date 537 B. C. couldn't have been put on in the year 537 B. C.?" "Why not?" asked Alicia, looking blank. "Why, at that time they didn't know how many years it would be before Christ's birth. Nobody dated anything B. C. until after the Christian Era had begun." "But why didn't they?" and Bernice also looked bewildered. "Think a minute, you sillies. Nobody knew the exact date of the year one until after the year one was here. In fact, I don't think they began to count right away, anyhow. But certainly they didn't know five hundred and thirty-seven years before!" "Oh, I see!" cried Bernice. "All the B. C. years have been computed or dated since the A. D. years began." "Of course they have, and Mr. Forbes had the date carved on this mummy on purpose to fool people. Didn't you?" "Yes," chuckled Mr. Forbes, "and it has fooled lots of people older and wiser than you, little Dolly Fayre! I think you're pretty smart to notice the fraud!" "Oh, no. But it just happened to occur to me that I'd never seen a B. C. date marked before, and then I thought at once that it couldn't be." "Pretty cute, all the same. You other girls didn't see it." "No, we didn't," admitted Dotty. "I own up I was fooled. I never thought of the absurdity of the thing. Did you make up the joke?" "No, I bought the mummy from a dealer who sold a few of them for the purpose of fun-making. It's a pretty good joke." It was, and though the girls felt a little chagrined at being taken in, they were generous enough to appreciate Dolly's cleverness and be glad of it. A case of antique jewellery proved interesting to all. The queer ornaments worn by the ancients were admired and studied by the girls, and Mr. Forbes enjoyed telling of their histories. "This earring," he said, "is perhaps the gem of the whole collection. It is Byzantine, and is of wonderfully delicate workmanship." The filigree gold ornament, was a long and slender pendant, of intricate gold work and studded with tiny jewels. It was one of a pair of earrings, and they wondered where its mate might be, if indeed, it was yet in existence. "It would make a fine lavalliere," said Dolly, holding it up against her chest, and glancing in a nearby mirror. "See!" and she hooked the trinket into the lace at her throat, "isn't it becoming?" "Very," laughed Bernice, and turned to see what Dotty was now exclaiming over. It proved to be a bracelet, that legend said had been worn by Cleopatra, though Mr. Forbes frankly acknowledged he didn't believe this. "Let me take it by the light," said Alicia, "it's getting dusk in here." She took the bracelet to the open window, and admired the beauty of its wrought gold. "Here, take it, Uncle Jeff," she said; "I declare I'm almost afraid to handle these valuable things for fear I should suddenly become a klep-what-do-you-call-it?" "Kleptomaniac?" said her uncle, laughing, "I'm not afraid, or I shouldn't have brought you girls up here. I don't mind admitting I have one friend, a wise old octogenarian, rich as Croesus, whom I wouldn't trust up here alone! He'd steal a gem as quickly as a highway robber would!" "How awful!" said Bernice. "Just because of his craze for antiques?" "Yes. You know some people are carried quite out of themselves by a pet hobby. Well, girls, it is getting dusk. Let's go downstairs, and have a little chat over what you've seen. I'd like to see how much you remember of what I've told you." "Shall I shut the window, Uncle Jeff?" asked Bernice. "No, leave it open. A little air will do the room good. I'll see to it later." The girls left the room, Mr. Forbes followed, and locking the door, pocketed the key, and they all went downstairs. CHAPTER XII THE LOST JEWEL A pleasant hour was spent in the library as Mr. Forbes told the girls anecdotes connected with his treasures, and also catechised them on what they had learned from their afternoon in his museum. Dolly had taken the greatest interest in it, though Bernice soon proved that she had the best memory of them all, for she could tell dates and data that her uncle had informed them, and which the others more often forgot. "I haven't any memory," sighed Dolly. "But I do love to see these things and hear about them. It's lots of work, isn't it, to get them all properly catalogued and labelled?" "Yes, it keeps Fenn pretty busy, and often I bring in an assistant for him. But Fenn is a clever chap, and a quick worker." Their chat was interrupted by Geordie Knapp and Ted Hosmer, who came over to call on the girls. "Come right in, boys, glad to see you," was Mr. Forbes' hearty greeting. "I shouldn't wonder if our young friends here would be glad too. They've spent the whole afternoon with my old fogy talk and I'll warrant they'll be glad of a change." "You, stay with us, Uncle, and enjoy the change, too," laughed Alicia, as Mr. Forbes was leaving the room. "No, no; it doesn't seem to occur to you that I'd like a rest from a crowd of chatter-boxes!" His merry smile belied his words, and he went off leaving the young people together. Mrs. Berry looked in, and hospitably invited the boys to stay to supper, which they willingly agreed to do. Also, they stayed an hour or more after supper, and when at last they departed, the four girls remained in the library talking things over. To their surprise, Mr. Forbes came to the room, and without a word sat down facing the group. Something in his expression caused the girls to stop their laughter and chatter, for the old gentleman looked decidedly serious. "Well, my dears," and he looked from one to another, "have you had a pleasant day?" "Yes, indeed," spoke up Alicia, and they all added words of assent. "Well, I haven't," said Mr. Forbes, and they looked up at him with a startled air. "That is, I have just made a discovery that makes to-day one of the most unfortunate of my life." "What is it, Uncle? What is the matter?" Alicia spoke solicitously, as if she feared her uncle had become suddenly ill. "I have met with a loss." "A loss?" queried Bernice. "What have you lost?" "One of my dearest possessions. I went to my museum just now, to that rear room which we were in last, and I discovered that one of my valuable pieces of jewellery is gone." The girls stared at him blankly, and at last, Bernice said, "Which one?" "The Byzantine earring, the gold filigree piece." "Oh," cried Alicia, "that lovely piece! Why, where can it be?" "I don't know," replied her uncle, slowly. "I searched everywhere, and as I couldn't find it, I came down here to ask if you girls had taken it as--as a joke on me." "No, indeed!" exclaimed Alicia. "I'd scorn to do such a mean trick! None of us would think of such a thing, would we, girls?" "No, indeed," said they all, and then a silence fell. Where could the jewel be? As always, in moments of excitement, Dolly turned very pale while Dotty flushed furiously red. Alicia, sat, her big eyes staring with dismay and Bernice nervously picked at her handkerchief. "Come now," said Mr. Forbes, "if any of you girls did take it, in jest, give it up, for it isn't a funny joke at all." "Oh, we didn't! I'm sure none of us did!" and Dolly almost wailed in her earnest denial. "Of course, we didn't!" declared Dotty, angrily. "You ought to know we're not that sort of girls! It must have been mislaid, or pushed behind something that conceals it from view." "Probably you're right," and Mr. Forbes looked at her intently. "That's probably the solution of its disappearance. I'll have Fenn make search to-morrow. I'm sorry I bothered you about it. Good-night." With his funny abruptness he left the room, and the girls sat looking at each other in amazement. "Did you ever hear anything like that!" demanded Dotty, furiously. "The idea of thinking we would do such a thing! I hate practical jokes, unless among a lot of school chums. I wouldn't think of playing a joke on a grown-up!" "Uncle Jeff hasn't had much experience with young folks," put in Alicia, by way of excuse for their host. "You know he always lives alone, and he doesn't know what girls would or wouldn't do." "But how awful for that thing to be lost," mused Bernice. "Suppose it fell down behind a case, or somewhere, and he NEVER finds it!" "Oh, his secretary will find it," said Dolly, hopefully. "It MUST be somewhere around. Don't let's talk about it. If we do, I shan't sleep a wink all night! I never do, if I worry." "I think it's something to worry about," said Alicia. "It's the worst blow Uncle Jeff could have. You know how he adores his treasures. Why, he'd rather lose everything from these downstairs than one specimen out of those fourth story rooms. And that gold earring, of all things!" "I tell you stop talking about it!" and Dolly clapped her hands over her ears. "Please, humour me in this," she added, smiling a little, "truly, it will keep me awake, if I get to worrying over it." "All right, girls, let's drop the subject. Also, let's go to bed." It was Alicia who spoke, and she seemed under great excitement. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her cheeks were pink, and she moved jerkily, as if nervous. So the four went up to their rooms, and saying good-night, they closed the door of communication between. "What's the matter, Dollums?" asked Dotty, as she saw tears in the blue eyes. "Nothing, Dot, only don't talk about that gold thing, will you? I just simply can't stand it if you do!" "'Course I won't if you don't want me to, only what DO you s'pose DID become of it?" "There you go! I think you're too mean for anything!" "Oh, pshaw, I didn't mean to. I forgot. All right, no more talk 'bout that old rubbish. What shall us talk about?" "Don't talk at all. I'd rather go to sleep." "Go, then, old crossy! But I s'pose you don't mean to sleep in your clothes!" "No," and Dolly laughed a little. "I know I'm an old bear, and a crosspatch, and everything horrid,--but I'm nervous, Dotty, I AM." "I know it, old girl, but you'll get over it. I believe this city life is wearing you out! I believe it's time you went home." "Oh, I think so, too. I wish we could go tomorrow!" "Well, we can't. What has got into you, Dollyrinda? I believe you're homesick!" "I am, Dotty! I'd give anything to see mother now.--I wish I was home in my own room." "You'll be there soon enough. I s'pose we'll go Wednesday." "Wednesday! that seems ages off!" "Why, Dollums, to-morrow, you can say Wednesday is day after to-morrow! That's what I always do if I want to hurry up the days. But I don't want to hurry up our days in New York! No sir-ee! I love every one of 'em! _I_ wish we could stay a month!" "I don't!" and then there were few more words said between the two that night. Soon they were in bed, and if Dolly lay awake, Dotty didn't know it, for she fell asleep almost as soon as her dark curly head touched its pillow. Meantime in the next room, the other two were talking. "I do hope Uncle Jeff will find his old jewel," Bernice said, pettishly. "We won't have a bit more fun, if he doesn't." "That's so," agreed Alicia, "but he won't find it." "How do you know?" "Oh, 'cause. It's very likely fallen down some crack or somewhere that nobody'd think of looking. Why, once, a photograph was on our mantel, and it disappeared most mysteriously. And we never could find it. And after years, there was a new mantelpiece put in, and there was the picture! It had slipped down a narrow mite of a crack between the mantel-shelf and the wall back of it." "Tell Uncle Jeff that to-morrow. Maybe it will help him to find the thing." "All right, I will. But of course, Mr. Fenn will look everywhere possible. I don't believe anybody'll ever find it." "Then Uncle will be cast down and upset all the rest of the time we're here." "Well, I can't help that. What do you suppose, Bernice, he asked us here for, anyway?" "You ask me that a hundred dozen times a day, 'Licia! I tell you I don't know, but I think it was only a whim. You know how queer he is. He forgets we're in this house from one evening to the next. If to-day hadn't been Sunday, we wouldn't have seen him this afternoon. I wish we were going to stay another week." "So do I. But I don't like to ask him outright, and he hasn't said anything about it lately. The others couldn't stay, anyway." "Oh, I don't know. I think if they were invited their mothers would let them. And anyway, I'd rather stay without them, than to go home." "Yes, I would, too. Dot likes it better than Dolly." "Yes, Dolly's homesick. Anybody can see that. But they like it when we go to places, and see sights." "Who wouldn't? We're really having fairy-tale times, you know." "I know it. I shall hate to go back to school." "Well, I don't hate to go home. I have good enough times in Berwick; but I'd like to stay here one week more. I think I'll ask Uncle Jeff to let us, if he doesn't ask us himself." "Wait till he finds his lost treasure. He'll be pretty blue if he doesn't get that back." "Yes, indeed he will. Let's hope the Fenn man will spy it out. It must be in that room somewhere, you know." "Of course it must. The secretary will find it. That's what secretaries are for." And then silence and sleep descended on that room also. Next morning, Mr. Forbes appeared at the breakfast table. This was the first time they had ever seen him in the morning and the girls greeted him cheerily. "Very nice," he said, affably, "to come down and breakfast with a flock of fresh young rosebuds like you," and he seemed so good-natured, that Alicia decided he had taken his loss more easily than she had feared. But toward the end of the meal, Mr. Forbes made known the reason of his early appearance. "We can't find that earring," he said, suddenly. "Mr. Fenn and I have been looking since six o'clock this morning. Now I'm going to ask you girls to help me. Will you all come up to the museum and hunt? Your young eyes may discern it, where we older seekers have failed. At any rate, I'd like you to try." The four expressed ready willingness, and they rose from the table and followed Uncle Jeff up the stairs to the rear room where the loss had occurred. The sun shone in at the southern windows, and flooded the room with brightness. It seemed impossible to overlook the treasure, and surely it must be found at once. A youngish man was there before them, and he was introduced as the secretary. Lewis Fenn was a grave looking, solemn-faced chap, who, it was evident took seriously the responsibility of his position as tabulator and in part, custodian of valuable treasures. He bowed to the girls, but said nothing beyond a word of greeting to each. "You see," said Mr. Forbes, "I locked this room myself, after you girls last evening, and nobody could get in to take the earring. Consequently, it would seem that a close search MUST be efficacious. So, let us all set to, and see what we can do in the way of discovery." "Let's divide the room in four," suggested Mr. Fenn, "and one of you young ladies take each quarter." "Good idea!" commented Uncle Jeff, "and we'll do just that. Alicia, you take this west end, next the door; Bernice, the east end, opposite; Dotty, the north side, and Dolly, the south side. There, that fixes it. Now, to work, all of you. I've exhausted my powers of search, and so has Fenn." The two men sat down in the middle of the room, while the girls eagerly began to search. They were told not to look in the cases, but merely on tables or any place around the room where the jewel might have fallen or been laid. "Who had it last?" asked Mr. Fenn, as the girls searched here and there. Nobody seemed to know, exactly, and then Alicia said, suddenly, "Why, don't you know, Dolly hooked it onto the front of her dress, and said it would make a lovely pendant." "But I took it off," said Dolly, turning white. "Where did you put it then?" asked Mr. Fenn, not unkindly, but curiously. "Let me see," faltered Dolly, "I don't quite remember. I guess I laid it on this table." "If so, it must be there now, my dear," said Mr. Forbes, suavely. "Look thoroughly." Dolly did look thoroughly, and Dotty came over to help her, but the earring was not on the table. Nor was it on other tables that were about the room; nor on any chair or shelf or settee or window-sill. "Where CAN it be?" said Dotty, greatly alarmed, lest Dolly's having fastened it to her dress should have been the means of losing it. "Are you sure you removed it from your frock, Miss Fayre?" asked Fenn, and at that moment Dolly took a dislike to the man. His voice was low and pleasant, but the inflection was meaning, and he seemed to imply that Dolly might have worn it from the room. "Of course, I am," Dolly replied, in a scared, low voice, which trembled as she spoke. "There's an idea," said Mr. Forbes. "Mightn't you have left it hooked into your lace, Dolly, and it's there still? Run and look, my dear." "I'll go with you," said Dotty, but Fenn said, "No, Miss Rose, you'd better stay here." Dotty was so astonished at his dictum that she stood still and stared at him. Dolly ran off to her room on the second floor and carefully examined the dress she had worn the day before. "No," she said, on her return, "it isn't on my dress. I knew it couldn't be,--I should have seen it when I undressed. Besides, I know I took it off here, only a moment after I tried it on. I merely looked at it an instant, and then I unhooked it and laid it on this table." "But at first, you weren't sure that you did place it on that table, Miss Fayre," came the insinuating voice of Fenn once more. "Yes, I did, I'm sure of it now," and Dolly's white face was drawn with anxiety. "Think again." counselled the secretary. "Maybe you took it off, and absent-mindedly slipped it in your pocket." CHAPTER XIII SUSPICIONS Dotty turned on Fenn like a little fury. "What do you mean?" she cried. "Are you accusing Dolly of stealing that thing?" "There, there," said Mr. Forbes, placatingly, "Of course, Fenn didn't mean that. Not intentionally, that is. But without thinking, couldn't--" "No, she couldn't!" stormed Dotty. "Dolly Fayre doesn't go around pocketing people's jewels unconsciously! She isn't a kleptomaniac, or whatever you call it! She did exactly as she says she did. She laid that earring on that table." "Then why isn't it there now?" asked Fenn. "Because somebody else moved it. Oh, don't ask me who. I don't KNOW who! And I don't CARE who! But Dolly put it there, and whoever took it away from there can find it! Perhaps YOU, can, Mr. Fenn!" The secretary looked at the angry girl with an irritating smile. "I wish I might, Miss Rose. But I've searched the room thoroughly, as you all have, too. It can't be HERE, you know." "I'll tell you," said Alicia, eagerly, and then she described how in her home a photograph had slipped down behind the mantel and had been lost for years. "Let us see," and Mr. Forbes went to the mantel in the room. But there was not the least mite of a crack between the shelf and the wall. Alicia's suggestion was useless. "But," she said, "there might be that sort of a hiding-place somewhere else. Let's look all over." The girls tried hard to find some crack or crevice in any piece of furniture, into which the trinket might have slipped, but there was none. They felt down between backs and seats of chairs, looked behind cases of treasures, moved every book and paper that lay on the tables, even turned up the edges of rugs, and peeped under. "It doesn't make any difference how much we look," Dotty declared, "we've just got to look more,--that's all. Why, that earring is in this room, and that's all there is about that! Now, it's up to us to find it. You know, after you search all the possible places, you have to search the impossible ones." "I admire your perseverance," said Mr. Forbes, "but I can't hope it will be rewarded. It isn't as if we were hunting for a thing that somebody had purposely concealed, that would mean an exhaustive search. But we're looking for something merely mislaid or tossed aside, and if we find it, it will be in some exposed place, not cleverly hidden." "Oh, I don't know, Uncle Jeff," said Bernice, "you know when Alicia's photograph slipped behind the mantel, that was deeply hidden, although not purposely." "Yes, that's so," and Uncle Jeff looked questioningly from one girl to another. It was impossible to ignore the fact that he deemed one of them responsible for the disappearance of the jewel, and until the matter was cleared up, all felt under suspicion. Fenn, too, was studying the four young faces, as if to detect signs of guilt in one of them. At last he said, "Let us get at this systematically. Who took the earring first, when Mr. Forbes handed it out from the case?" "I did," said Dotty, promptly. "I stood nearest to Mr. Forbes and he handed it to me. After I looked at it, I passed it to Alicia." "No, you didn't," contradicted Alicia. "I didn't touch it." "Why, yes, 'Licia," Dotty persisted, "you took it and said--" "I tell you I didn't! I never handled the things at all! It was Bernice." "I did have it in my hands," said Bernice, reflectively, "but I can't remember whether I took it from Dot or Alicia." "I didn't touch it, I tell you!" and Alicia frowned angrily. "Oh, yes, you did," said Dolly, "it was you, Alicia, who passed it on to me. And I took it--" "You didn't take it from me, Dolly," and Alicia grew red with passion. "I vow I never touched it! You took it from Bernice." "No," said Dolly, trying to think. "I took it from you, and I held it up and asked you how it looked." "No, Doll, you asked me that," said Bernice, "and I said it was very becoming." "You girls seem decidedly mixed as to what you did," said Mr. Fenn, with a slight laugh. "I think you're not trying to remember very clearly." "Hold on, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes, reprovingly. "It's in the girls' favour that they don't remember clearly. If they tossed the thing aside carelessly, they naturally wouldn't remember." "But, Mr. Forbes," and the secretary spoke earnestly, "would these young ladies toss a valuable gem away carelessly? They are not ignorant children. They all knew that the earring is a choice possession. I'm sure not one of them would toss it aside, unheeding where it might fall!" This was perfectly true. None of the four girls could have been so heedless as that! They had carefully handled every gem or curio shown them, and then returned it to Mr. Forbes as a matter of course. Fenn's speech was rather a facer. All had to admit its truth, and the four girls looked from one to another and then at Mr. Forbes. He was studying them intently. Bernice and Dolly were crying. Alicia and Dotty were dry-eyed and angry-faced. If one of the four had a secret sense of guilt, it was difficult to guess which one it might be, for all were in a state of excitement and were well-nigh hysterical. "Much as I regret it," Mr. Forbes began, "I am forced to the conclusion that one or more of you girls knows something of the present whereabouts of my lost jewel. I do not say I suspect any of you of wilful wrong-doing, it might be you had accidentally carried it off, and now feel embarrassed about returning it. I can't--I won't believe, that any of you deliberately took it with intent to keep it." "We thank you for that, Mr. Forbes," and Dotty's tone and the expression of her face denoted deepest sarcasm. "It is a comfort to know that you do not call us thieves! But, for my part, I think it is about as bad to accuse us of concealing knowledge of the matter. I think you'd better search our trunks and suitcases! And then, if you please, I should like to go home--" "No doubt you would, Miss Rose!" broke in Fenn's cold voice. "A search of your belongings would be useless. If one of you is concealing the jewel, it would not be found in any available place of search. You would have put it some place in the house, not easy of discovery. That would not be difficult." "Be quiet, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes. "Girls, I'm not prepared to say I think one of you has hidden the jewel, but I do think that some of you must know something about it. How can I think otherwise? Now, tell me if it is so. I will not scold,--I will not even blame you, if you have been tempted, or if having accidentally carried it off, you are ashamed to own up. I'm not a harsh man. I only want the truth. You can't be surprised at my conviction that you DO know something of it. Why, here's the case in a nutshell. I handed that earring to you, and I never received it back. What can I think but that you have it yet? It is valuable, to be sure, but the money worth of it is as nothing to the awfulness of the feeling that we have an untrustworthy person among us. Can it be either of my two nieces who has done this wrong? Can it be either of their two young friends? I don't want to think so, but what alternative have I? And I MUST know! For reasons which I do not care to tell you, it is imperative that I shall discover who is at fault. I could let the whole matter drop, but there is a very strong cause why I should not do so. I beg of you, my dear nieces,--my dear young friends,--I beseech you, tell me the truth, won't you?" Mr. Forbes spoke persuasively, and kindly. Alicia burst into a storm of tears and sobbed wildly. Bernice, her face hidden in her handkerchief, was crying too. Dotty sat stiffly erect in her chair, her little hands clenched, her big, black eyes staring at Mr. Forbes in a very concentration of wrath. Dolly was limp and exhausted from weeping. With quivering lips and in a shaking voice, she said: "Maybe one of us is a kleptomaniac, then, after all." "Ah, a confession!" said Mr. Fenn, with his cynical little smile. "Go on, Miss Fayre. Which one has the accumulating tendency?" "You do make me so mad!" exclaimed Dotty, glaring at him. "Uncle Forbes, can't we talk with you alone?" "Oh, no, little miss," said Fenn, "Mr. Forbes is far too easy-going to look after this affair by himself! He'd swallow all the stories you girls would tell him! I'll remain, if you please. Unless you have something to conceal, you can't object to my presence at this interesting confab." Dolly came to Dotty's aid. She looked at the secretary with a glance of supreme contempt. "It is of no consequence, Mr. Fenn," she said, haughtily, "whether you are present or not. Uncle Forbes, I agree with Dotty. You said yourself, you have an acquaintance who can't help taking treasures that are not his own. It may be that one of us has done this. But, even so, the jewel must be in the house. None of us has been out of the house since we were in this room yesterday afternoon. So, if it is in the house, it must be found." "Ha! You HAVE hidden it securely, to be willing to have a thorough search of the house made!" and Fenn looked unpleasantly at her. "Own up, Miss Fayre; it will save a lot of trouble for the rest of us." Dolly tried to look at the man with scorn, but her nerves gave way, and again she broke down and cried softly, but with great, convulsive sobs. Dotty was furious but she said nothing to Fenn for she knew she would only get the worst of it. "Come now, Dolly," said Mr. Forbes, in a gentle way, "stop crying, my dear, and let's talk this over. Where did you lay the earring when you took it from your dress?" "On--on--the t-table," stammered Dolly, trying to stop crying. But, as every one knows, it is not an easy thing to stem a flood of tears, and Dolly couldn't speak clearly. "Yes; what table?" "This one," and Dotty spoke for her, and indicated the table by the south window. "Where,--on the table?" persisted Uncle Jeff. Dolly got up and walked over to the light stand in question. "About here, I think," and she indicated a spot on the surface of the dull finished wood. "Why didn't you hand it back to me?" queried Mr. Forbes, in a kind tone. "I d-don't know, sir," Dolly sobbed again. "I'm sure I don't know why I didn't." "I know," put in Dotty. "Because just then, Mr. Forbes showed us a bracelet that had belonged to Cleopatra, and we all crowded round to look at that, and Doll laid down the earring to take up the bracelet. We didn't suppose we were going to be accused of stealing!" "Tut, tut," said Mr. Forbes. "Nobody has used that word! I don't accuse you of anything,--except carelessness." "But when it comes to valuable antiques," interrupted Fenn, "it is what is called criminal carelessness." "It WAS careless of Dolly to lay the earring down," said Mr. Forbes, "but that is not the real point. After she laid it down, just where she showed us, on that small table, somebody must have picked it up. Her carelessness in laying it there might have resulted in its being brushed off on the floor, but not in its utter disappearance." "Maybe it fell out of the window," suggested Bernice, suddenly, "that window was open then, you know." Mr. Forbes waited over to the table. "No," he said, "this stand is fully a foot from the window sill. It couldn't have been unknowingly brushed as far as that." "Of course, it couldn't," said Fenn, impatiently. "You're making no progress at all, Mr. Forbes." "Propose some plan, yourself, then," said Dotty, shortly; "you're so smart, suppose you point your finger to the thief!" "I hope to do so, Miss Rose," and Fenn smirked in a most aggravating way. "But I hesitate to accuse anyone before I am quite sure." "A wise hesitation!" retorted Dotty. "Stick to that, Mr. Fenn!" She turned her back on him, and putting her arm round Dolly, sat in silent sympathy. Suddenly Bernice spoke. She was not crying now, on the contrary, she was composed and quiet. "Uncle Jeff," she said, "this is a horrid thing that has happened. I feel awfully sorry about it all, but especially because it is making so much trouble for Dolly and Dotty, the two friends that I brought here. Alicia and I belong here, in a way, but the others are our guests, as well as your guests. It is up to us, to free them from all suspicion in this thing and that can only be done by finding the earring. I don't believe for one minute that any one of us four girls had a hand, knowingly, in its disappearance, but if one of us did, she must be shown up. I believe in fairness all round, and while I'm sure the jewel slipped into some place, or under or behind something, yet if it DIDN'T,--if somebody did,--well,--steal it! we must find out who. I wouldn't be willing, even if you were, Uncle, to let the matter drop. I want to know the solution of the mystery, and I'm going to find it!" "Bravo! Bernie, girl," cried her uncle, "that's the talk! As I told you I must know the truth of this thing,--never mind why, I MUST find it out. But how?" "First," said Bernice, speaking very decidedly, but not looking toward the other girls, "I think all our things ought to be searched." "Oh, pshaw, Bernie," said Alicia, "that would be silly! You know if any of us wanted to hide that earring we wouldn't put it in among our clothes." "Why not?" demanded Bernice. "I can't imagine any of us having it, but if we have, it's by accident. Why, it might have caught in any of our dresses or sashes, and be tucked away there yet." "That's so," and Dotty looked hopeful. "It could be, that as one of us passed by the table, it got caught in our clothing. Anyway, we'll all look." "But don't look in your own boxes," objected Fenn. "Every girl must search another's belongings." "I wonder you'd trust us to do THAT!" snapped Dotty, and Fenn immediately replied: "You're right! It wouldn't be safe! I propose that Mrs. Berry search all your rooms." "Look here, Fenn, you are unduly suspicious," Mr. Forbes remonstrated, mildly. "But, sir, do you want to get back your gem, or not? You asked for my advice and help in this matter, now I must beg to be allowed to carry out my plans of procedure." It was plain to be seen that Mr. Forbes was under the thumb of his secretary. And this was true. Lewis Fenn had held his position for a long time, and his services were invaluable to Jefferson Forbes. It was necessary that the collector should have a reliable, responsible and capable man to attend to the duties he required of a secretary, and these attributes Fenn fully possessed. But he was of a small, suspicious nature, and having decided on what course to pursue regarding the lost curio, he was not to be swerved from his path. "Well, well, we will see," Mr. Forbes said, an anxious look wrinkling his forehead as he looked at the girls. "Run away now, it's nearly luncheon time. Don't worry over the thing. Each one of you knows her own heart. If you are innocent, you've no call to worry. If you are implicated, even in a small degree in the loss of my property, come to me and tell me so. See me alone, if you like. I will hear your confession, and if it seems wise, I will keep it confidential. I can't promise this, for as I hinted, I have a very strong reason for probing this affair to the very core. It is a mystery that MUST be cleared up!" CHAPTER XIV AT THE TEA ROOM The girls went to their rooms to tidy up for luncheon, though there was some time before the meal would be announced. By common consent the door was closed between the rooms, and on one side of it the two D's faced each other. "Did you ever see such a perfectly horrid, hateful, contemptible old thing as that Fenn person?" exclaimed Dotty, her voice fairly shaken with wrath. "I can't see how Mr. Forbes can bear to have him around! He ought to be excommunicated, or whatever they do to terrible people!" "He IS awful, Dotty, I don't wonder you gave it to him! But you mustn't do it. He's Mr. Forbes' right hand man, and whatever Uncle Jeff tells him to do, he'll do it. The idea of searching our trunks! I won't allow them to touch mine, I can tell you that!" "Oh, Dolly, now don't be stubborn. Why, for you to refuse to let them look over your things would be the same as saying you had the thing hidden." "Dorothy Rose! What a thing to say to me!" "I'm not saying it to you! I mean, I am saying it to you, just to show you what other people would say! You know it, Dolly. You know Fenn would say you had the earring." "But, Dotty, it must be somewhere." "Of course, it must be somewhere,--look here, Dollyrinda, you don't know anything about it, do you? Honest Injun?" "How you talk, Dot. How should I know anything about it?" "But do you?" "Don't be silly." "But, DO you?" "Dotty, I'll get mad at you, if you just sit there saying, 'But do you?' like a talking machine! Are you going to change your dress for luncheon?" "No, I'm not. These frocks are good enough. But, Dolly, DO you? do you know anything, ANYTHING at all, about the earring?" Dolly was sitting on the edge of her little white bed. At Dotty's reiteration of her query, Dolly threw her head down on the pillow and hid her face. "Do you?" repeated Dotty, her voice now tinged with fear. Dolly sat upright and looked at her. "Don't ask me, Dotty," she said, "I can't tell you." "Can't tell me," cried Dotty, in bewilderment, "then who on earth COULD you tell, I'd like to know!" "I could tell mother! Oh, Dotty, I want to go home!" "Well, you can't go home, not till day after to-morrow, anyway. What's the matter with you, Dolly, why can't you tell me what you know? How can I find the thing, and clear you from suspicion if you have secrets from me?" "You can't, Dotty. Don't try." Dolly spoke in a tense, strained way, as if trying to preserve her calm. She sat down at their little dressing-table and began to brush her hair. A tap came at the door, and in a moment, Bernice came in. "Let me come in and talk to you girls," she begged. "Alicia is in a temper, and won't say anything except to snap out something quarrelsome. What are we going to do?" "I don't know, Bernie," and Dotty looked as if at her wits' end. "It's bad enough to put up with that old Fenn's hateful talk, but now Dolly's gone queer, and you say Alicia has,--what ARE we to do?" "Let's talk it all over with Mrs. Berry at lunch, she's real sensible and she's very kind-hearted." "Yes, she is. And there's the gong now. Come on, let's go down. Come on, Dollikins, brace up, and look pretty! Heigho! come on, Alicia!" Alicia appeared, looking sullen rather than sad, and the quartette went downstairs. Mrs. Berry listened with interest to their story. Interest that quickly turned to deep concern as the story went on. "I don't like it," she said, as the girls paused to hear her comments. "No carelessness or thoughtlessness could make that valuable earring disappear off the face of the earth! I mean, it couldn't get LOST, it must have been taken." "By us?" flared out Alicia. "Maybe not meaningly, maybe for a joke, maybe unconsciously; but it was carried out of that room by some one, of that I'm certain." "The idea of thinking we'd do it as a joke!" cried Bernice. "But you told me about the joke Mr. Forbes played on you about the B. C. image, why mightn't one of you have taken this to tease him? Oh, girls, if any of you did,--give it back, I beg of you! Mr. Forbes is a kind man, but a very just one. If you give it back at once, and explain, he will forgive you, fully and freely. But if you delay too long he will lose patience. And, too, you must know he wants to--" "Wants to what, Mrs. Berry?" asked Dotty, for the lady had stopped speaking very suddenly. "Never mind. I forgot myself. But Mr. Forbes has a very strong reason for wishing to sift this matter to the bottom. Don't, girls,--oh, DON'T deceive him!" "What makes you think we're deceiving him?" cried Dotty. "That's the way old Fenn talks! Isn't he a disagreeable man, Mrs. Berry?" "Mr. Fenn is peculiar," she admitted, "but it isn't nice for you to criticise Mr. Forbes' secretary. He is a trusted employee, and of great use in his various capacities." "But he was very rude to us," complained Alicia. "He was positively insulting to Dolly and me." "Don't remember it," counselled Mrs. Berry. "The least you have to do with him the better. Forget anything he may have said, and keep out of his way all you can." Mr. Forbes' housekeeper was a tactful and peaceable woman, and she well knew the temperament and disposition of the secretary. She herself disliked him exceedingly, but it was part of her diplomacy to avoid open encounter with him. And she deemed it best for the girls to follow her course. "I think," she said finally, "the best thing for you to do, is to go for a nice motor ride in the park. It is a lovely day, and the ride will do you good and make you feel a heap better. Then on your return, stop at a pretty tearoom, and have some cakes and chocolate, or ices; and while you're gone, I'll have a little talk with Mr. Forbes, and, who knows, maybe we might find the earring!" "You're going to search our boxes!" cried Alicia. "Well, I won't submit to such an insult! I shall lock mine before I go out." "So shall I," declared Dolly. "I think we all ought to. Really, Mrs. Berry, it's awful for you to do a thing like that!" "Mercy me! girls, how you do jump at conclusions! I never said a word about searching your rooms. I had no thought of such a thing! You mustn't condemn me unheard! You wouldn't like that, yourselves!" "Indeed, we wouldn't, Mrs. Berry," cried Dolly, smiling at her. "I apologise for my burst of temper, I'm sure. But I hate to be suspected." "Be careful, Dolly, not to be selfish. Others hate to be suspected too--" "Yes, but _I_'m innocent!" cried Dolly, and as soon as she had spoken she blushed fiery red, and her sweet face was covered with confusion. "Meaning somebody else ISN'T innocent!" spoke up Alicia; "who, please?" "Me, probably," said Dotty, striving to turn the matter off with a laugh. "Dolly and I always suspect each other on principle--" "Oh, pooh! This is no time to be funny!" and Alicia looked daggers at the smiling Dotty. "You're right, Alicia, it isn't!" she flashed back, and then Mrs. Berry's calm voice interrupted again. "Now, girlies, don't quarrel among yourselves. There's trouble enough afoot, without your adding to it. Take my advice. Go and put on some pretty dresses and then go for a ride, as I told you, and get your tea at the 'Queen Titania' tearoom. It's just lately been opened, and it's a most attractive place. But promise not to squabble. Indeed, I wish you'd promise not to discuss this matter of the earring. But I suppose that's too much to ask!" "Yes, indeed, Mrs. Berry," and Bernice smiled at her. "I'm sure we couldn't keep that promise if we made it!" "Well, don't quarrel. It can't do any good. Run along now, and dress." The cheery good-nature of the housekeeper helped to raise the girls' depressed spirits, and after they had changed into pretty afternoon costumes and donned their coats and furs, they had at least, partially forgotten their troubles of the morning. But not for long. As they sped along in the great, comfortable car, each found her thoughts reverting to the sad episode, and oh, with what varied feelings! Suddenly, Bernice broke out with a new theory. "I'll tell you what!" she exclaimed; "Uncle Jeff hid that thing himself, to see how we would act! Then he pretended to suspect us! That man is studying us! Oh, you needn't tell ME! I've noticed it ever since we came. He watches everything we do, and when he says anything especial, he looks closely, to see how we're going to take it." "I've noticed that, too," agreed Dolly. "But it's silly, Bernie, to think he took his own jewel." "Just to test us, you know. I can't make out WHY he wants to study us so, but maybe he's writing a book or something like that. Else why did he want not only Alicia and me but two of our friends to come for this visit? He studies us, not only as to our own characters, but the effect we have on each other." Dotty looked at Bernice with interest. "You clever thing!" she cried; "I do believe you're right! I've caught Uncle Forbes frequently looking at one or another of us with the most quizzical expression and listening intently for our answers to some question of right or wrong or our opinions about something." "I've noticed it," said Dolly, though in an indifferent tone, "but I don't think he's studying us. I think he's so unused to young people that everything we do seems strange to him. Why any of our fathers would know what we're going to say before we say it. Mine would anyhow and so would Dot's. But Mr. Forbes is surprised at anything we say or do because he never saw girls at close range before. I think we interest him just like his specimens do." "That's it," cried Dotty, "you've struck it, Doll. We're just specimens to him. He's studying a new kind of creature! And, maybe he did want to see what we'd do in given circumstances,--like an unjust accusation, and so he arranged this tragic situation." "No," said Dolly, still in that unnerved, listless way, "no, that won't do, Dotty. If it were true, he'd never let Mr. Fenn be so rude to us. Why, this morning, I'm sure,--I KNOW,--Mr. Forbes was just as uncertain of what had become of that earring as--as any of us were." "Well, have it your own way," and Dotty smiled good-naturedly at her chum, "but here's my decision. That thing is lost. Somehow or other, for some ridiculous reason, blame seems to be attached to my Dollyrinda. I won't stand it! I hereby announce that I'm going to find that missing gimcrack before I go back to my native heath,--if I have to take all summer!" "Aren't you going home on Wednesday?" cried Dolly, looking aghast at the idea. "Not unless that old thing is found! I'll telephone my dear parents not to look for me until they see me. I'll hunt every nook and cranny of Mr. Forbes' house, and when I get through, I'll hunt over again. But find the thing, I will! So there, now!" "Why do you say Dolly is suspected?" asked Alicia. "Oh, you all know she is, just because she hooked the foolish thing into her lace. She put it on the table after that, and every one of us probably handled it, but no, it is laid to Dolly! Just because she's the only one of us incapable of such a thing,--I guess!" "Why, Dot Rose, what a speech!" and Dolly almost laughed at the belligerent Dotty. "None of us would take it wrongly, I'm sure--but--" "Well, but what?" demanded Alicia, as Dolly paused. "Oh, nothing, Alicia, but the same old arguments. Mistake,--unintentional,--caught in our dresses,--and all that." Dolly spoke wearily, as if worn out with the subject. "Well, I've a new theory," said Dotty, "I believe that Fenn man stole it!" The other three laughed, but Dotty went on. "Yes, I do. You see, he's never had a chance to take any of the treasures before, 'cause Uncle Forbes would know he was the thief. But now he has all us four to lay it on, so he made the most of his chance." "Oh, Dotty, I can't believe it!" said Bernice. "He didn't act like a thief this morning. He was more like an avenging justice." "That's just his smartness! Make it seem as if we did it, you know." "Nothing in it," and Dolly smiled at Dotty's theory. "He wasn't here yesterday, at all. He didn't know that I hooked the old thing on my waist,--oh, I WISH I hadn't done that!" "Never you mind, Dollums," Dotty said, endearingly. "If he did do it, we'll track him down. Because, girls, I tell you I'm going to find that earring. And what Dorothy Rose says, goes! See?" Dotty's brightness cheered up the others, and as they drove through the park, there were many sights of interest, and after a time the talk drifted from the subject that had so engrossed them. And when at last they stopped at the new tea room and went in, the beauty and gaiety of the place made them almost forget their trouble. "I'll have cafe parfait," said Dotty, "with heaps of little fancy cakes. We can't get real FANCY cakes in Berwick, and I do love 'em!" The others were of a like mind, and soon they were feasting on the rich and delicate confections that the modern tea room delights to provide. While they sat there, Muriel Brown came in, accompanied by two of her girl friends. "Oh, mayn't we chum with you?" Muriel cried, and our four girls said yes, delightedly. "How strange we should meet," said Dolly, but Muriel laughed and responded, "Not so very, as I'm here about four or five days out of the seven. I just simply love the waffles here, don't you?" And then the girls all laughed and chattered and the New Yorkers invited the other four to several parties and small affairs. "New York is the most hospitable place I ever saw!" declared Dotty. "We seem to be asked somewhere every day for a week." "Everybody's that," laughed Muriel. "But you must come to these things we're asking you for, won't you?" "I don't believe we can promise," said Bernice, suddenly growing serious. "You see, we may go home on Wednesday." "Day after to-morrow? Oh, impossible! Don't say the word!" And with a laugh, Muriel dashed away the unwelcome thought. "I shall depend upon you," she went on, "especially for the Friday party. That's one of the best of all! You just MUST be at it!" "If we're here, we will," declared Alicia, carried away by the gay insistence. "And I'm 'most sure Bernice and I will be here, even if the others aren't." "I want you all," laughed Muriel, "but I'll take as many as I can get." Then into the limousine again, and off for home. "Oh," cried Dolly, "that horrid business! I had almost forgotten it!" "We can't forget it till it's settled," said Dotty, and her lips came tightly together with a grim expression that she showed only when desperately in earnest. CHAPTER XV DOLLY'S RIDE It was Tuesday morning that Lewis Fenn came to Dolly and asked her to give him a few moments' chat. A little bewildered, Dolly followed Fenn into the reception room, and they sat down, Fenn closing the door after them. "It's this way, Miss Fayre," he began. "I know you took the gold earring. It's useless for you to deny it. It speaks for itself. You are the only one of you girls especially interested in antiques, and moreover, you are the one who handled the jewel last. Now, I don't for a moment hold you guilty of stealing. I know that you thought the thing of no very great intrinsic value, and as Mr. Forbes has so many such things in his possession you thought one more or less couldn't matter to him. So, overcome by your desire to keep it as a souvenir, and because of its antique interest you involuntarily took it away with you. Of course, searching your boxes is useless, for you have concealed it some place in the house where no one would think of looking. Now, I come to you as a friend, and advise you to own up. I assure you, Mr. Forbes will forgive you and he will do so much more readily if you go to him at once and confess." Dolly sat rigidly, through this long citation, her face growing whiter, her eyes more and more frightened, as she listened. When Fenn paused, she struggled to speak but couldn't utter a sound. She was speechless with mingled emotions. She was angry, primarily, but other thoughts rushed through her brain and she hesitated what attitude to assume. The secretary looked at her curiously. "Well?" he said, and there was a threatening tone in his voice. Dolly looked at him, looked straight into his accusing eyes, began to speak, and then, in a burst of tears, she cried out, "Oh, how I HATE you!" Dotty flung open the door and walked in. "I've been listening," she announced, "listening at the keyhole, to hear what you said to my friend! I heard, and I will answer you. Dolly Fayre no more took that earring, than you did, Mr. Fenn, and I'm inclined to think from your manner, that you stole it yourself!" "What!" shouted Fenn, surprised out of his usual calm. "What do you mean, you little minx?" "Just what I say," repeated Dotty, but Dolly had already fled from the room. She went in search of Mrs. Berry, and found her in her own bedroom. "Please, Mrs. Berry," said Dolly, controlling her sob-shaken voice, "I want to go out, all by myself, a little while. May I?" "Goodness, child, what do you mean? Where? I'll go with you." "No; I want to go alone. I have to think something out all by myself. Nobody can help me, and if I'm here, all the girls will butt in and bother me." "Where are you going? For a walk?" "No, please. I want to ride on the top of a Fifth Avenue stage. I want to go alone, and then, sitting up there, with the fresh air blowing around me, I can think something out. I may go, mayn't I, Mrs. Berry? I know all about the stages." "Why, yes, child, of course, you can go, if you really want to. You can't come to any harm just riding on top of a bus. Run along. But I'd rather you'd let me help you. Or go with you." "No, please; I must be alone. I don't want even Dotty. I have something very serious to decide. No one can help me. My mother could, but she isn't here." "I wish you'd try me," and the kind lady smiled endearingly. "I would if I could, and you're a dear to ask me. But this is a special matter, and it troubles me awfully. So, I'll go off by myself for an hour or so, and when I come back, I'll be all decided about it." Dolly got her hat and coat, without seeing the other girls at all. She went out at the front door of the big Fifth Avenue house, and walked a few blocks before she stopped to wait for a stage. "I don't care which way I go," she thought to herself, "I'll take the first bus that comes along." The first one chanced to be going down-town, and signalling the conductor, Dolly climbed the little winding stairs to the top. There were only half a dozen passengers up there, and Dolly sat down near the front. It was a clear, crisp morning. The air was full of ozone, and no sooner had Dolly settled herself into her seat, than she began to feel better. Her mind cleared and she could combat the problems that were troubling her. But she was in a dilemma. Should she go to Mr. Forbes and tell him where the jewel was,--or, should she not? She wanted to be honest, she wanted to do right, but it would be a hard task. The more she thought it over, the more she was perplexed, and though her spirits were cheered by the pleasant ride, her troubles were as far as ever from a solution. Down she went, down the beautiful Avenue, past the Sherman statue and the Plaza fountain. On, past the Library, down through the shopping district, and then Dolly concluded she would go on down to the Washington Arch, and stay in the same bus for the return trip. But, before she realised it, she found the bus she was in had turned East on Thirty-second Street, and was headed for the Railroad Station. She started up, to get off the stage, but sat down again. "What's the use?" she thought. "I can just as well go on to the station, and come back again. I only want the ride." So she went on, and at the station, she was asked to take another stage. Down the stairs she climbed, and as she glanced at the great colonnade of the building she realised that from there trains went home! Home,--where mother was! Unable to resist, Dolly obeyed an impulse to enter the station. The warm, pleasant atmosphere of the arcade, soothed her nerves, and she walked along, thinking deeply. She came to the stairs that led down to the waiting rooms, and a great wave of homesickness came over her. She would go home! She had money with her, she would buy a ticket, and go straight to Berwick! She couldn't, she simply COULD NOT face Uncle Jeff and the girls, with her secret untold, and she would not tell it! Anyway, she couldn't go back to the house where that horrid Fenn was! That was certain. She looked in her pocket-book, and tucked away in its folds was the return half of her Berwick ticket! She had forgotten that she had it with her. It seemed a finger of Fate pointing the way. "I will," she decided. "I will go back to Berwick. I'll ask about the trains." Inquiry at the Information Department told her that there would be a train for Berwick in half an hour, and Dolly went in and sat down in the waiting room. Suddenly it struck her that the people at Mr. Forbes' would be alarmed at her non-appearance, and would be very anxious for her safety. That would never do. She had no wish to disturb kind Mrs. Berry or to scare Dotty half to death. She saw the telephone booths near by, and realised how easy it would be to communicate with the house. She asked the operator for the number of Jefferson Forbes' residence and in a moment was in the booth. The butler responded to her call, and Dolly did not ask for any one else. "That you, McPherson?" she said, speaking as casually as she could. "Yes, Miss Fayre. Will you speak with Mrs. Berry?" "No; I'll give you a message. Please say to Miss Rose that I have gone to Berwick." "To Berwick, miss?" "Yes; and tell Mrs. Berry the same. That's all, McPherson; no message for any one else." "Yes, Miss Fayre. When will you be back, Miss Fayre?" "Not at all. Or, that is,--never mind that. Just say I have gone to Berwick. I'll write to Miss Rose as soon as I get there." "Yes, Miss Fayre," and the butler hung up his receiver. It was not his business if the ladies came or went. In obedience to orders, McPherson went to Mrs. Berry and delivered the message. "The dear child," said the housekeeper, and the tears came to her eyes. Of course, she knew about the earring episode, and until now she hadn't suspected that Dolly really took it. But to run away practically proved her guilt. So she had meant to go when she asked permission to go on the bus! Mrs. Berry's heart was torn, for she loved Dolly best of the four, and it was a blow to be thus forced to believe her guilty. She quizzed the butler, but he had no further information to give. "She only said she was going, ma'am, and said for me to tell you and Miss Rose. That's all." "I will tell Miss Rose," said Mrs. Berry, and dismissed the man. She thought deeply before going to find Dotty. She wondered if she might yet stay Dolly's flight and persuade her to return. She looked up a timetable, and found that the train for Berwick would leave in ten minutes. Doubtless Dolly was already in the car. However, being a woman of energetic nature, Mrs. Berry telephoned to the Railroad Station. She asked for a porter, and begged him to try to find Dolly, whom she described, and ask her to come to the telephone. "I remember seeing that girl," said the negro porter. "She was walking around sort of sad-like, and sort of uncertain. But I don't see her now." "Look on the Berwick train," commanded Mrs. Berry, "and do it quickly. If she's on the train, ask her to get off and answer my call. I think she'll do it. Go quickly! I'll hold the wire." But it was within a few minutes of starting time; the train was crowded, and after a short search the porter came back with the word that he couldn't find her. "I could of," he said, "if I'd 'a' had a minute more. But the Train Despatcher put me off, and they started. Sorry, ma'am." "I'm sorry, too," and Mrs. Berry sighed as she realised how near she had come to success, only to fail. She thought a few moments longer, then she went to find Dotty. That young person, she discovered, to her astonishment, was up in Mr. Forbes' own study, on the fourth floor. Dotty had insisted on an interview with her host after the stormy time she had with his secretary. Mr. Forbes had received her, not at all unwillingly, for he wanted to get at the truth of the unpleasant matter. "Dolly never took it!" Mrs. Berry heard Dotty, declare, as she approached the door. "Either it's just lost, or else Mr. Fenn stole it,--or else--" "Or else what?" asked Mr. Forbes, as Dotty paused. "I don't like to say," and Dotty twisted her finger nervously; "I do suspect somebody,--at least, I fear maybe I do, a little bit, but I won't say anything about it, unless you keep on blaming Dolly. Then I will!" "I have something to tell you," said Mrs. Berry, entering. "Dolly has gone home." "What!" cried Mr. Forbes and Dotty simultaneously. Lewis Fenn smiled. "Yes," continued Mrs. Berry, "she has gone home to Berwick. She came to me and asked if she might go for a ride on top of a Fifth Avenue stage, to think things out by herself,--she said. Then, a little later, she telephoned from the Pennsylvania Station that she was just taking the train for Berwick." "I don't believe it!" cried Dotty. "Who told you?" "McPherson. He took the message. Dolly said to tell you, Dotty, and to tell me, but she sent no word to any one else." "Looks bad," said Mr. Forbes, shaking his head. "I told you so!" said Lewis Fenn, nodding his. "I knew when I flatly accused Miss Fayre this morning of taking the earring, that she was the guilty one. Understand me, she didn't mean to steal. She didn't look upon it as theft. She only took a fancy to the bauble, and appropriated it without really thinking it wrong. As a child would take a worthless little trinket, you know." Dotty looked stunned. She paid no attention to Fenn's talk; she stared at Mrs. Berry, saying, "Has she really gone?" "Yes, dear," answered the sympathetic lady, "she has. Perhaps it's the best thing. She'll tell her mother all about it, and then we'll know the truth." "Yes, she'll confess to her mother," said Fenn, and he grinned in satisfaction. "Shut up, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes. "I'm not at all sure Dolly is the culprit. If I know that girl, she wouldn't run away if she were guilty,--but she might if she were unjustly accused." "That's generous of you, sir," said the secretary, "but you know yourself that when I taxed Miss Fayre definitely with the deed, she immediately went off, pretending that she was just going for a ride, and would return. That piece of deception doesn't look like innocence, I think you must admit!" "No, no, it doesn't. Dotty, did you say you had some other suspicion? What is it?" "I can't tell it now. I can't understand Dolly. I know, oh, I KNOW she never took the earring, but I can't understand her going off like that. She never pretends. She's never deceitful--" "She surely was this time," and Fenn seemed to exult in the fact. "Maybe she changed her plan after she started," suggested Dotty delorously. "Not likely," mused Mr. Forbes. "It was unprecedented for her to go alone for a bus ride, but if it was because she wanted to get off home secretly, it is, of course, very plausible. She didn't want any of you girls to know she was going, lest you persuade her not to. She didn't want to go in my car alone, as that would seem strange. But to take a bus, that was really a clever way to escape unnoticed!" "I'm surprised that she telephoned back at all," said Mr. Fenn. "Of course, she would!" said Dotty, indignantly. "She didn't want us to think she was lost or worry about her safety." "She was most considerate," said Fenn, sarcastically. "Oh, stop!" cried Dotty, at the very end of her patience with the man. "You're enough to drive any one distracted!" "Let the child alone, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes; "your manner IS irritating." "The whole affair is irritating," returned the secretary, "but it is now in a way to be cleared up, I think. We shall hear from Miss Fayre's parents, I'm sure." "What IS going on?" spoke up Alicia from the doorway, and she and Bernice came into the room. "I know we're forbidden up here, but Dotty's here, so we came, too. What's the matter?" "Dolly's gone home," said Mr. Forbes, looking at his nieces. "Dolly has!" exclaimed Bernice. "What for?" "Because she was persecuted!" Dotty replied, "and unjustly accused, and suspected, and her life made generally miserable! I don't blame her for going home! I'm going, too." "When did she go? Who took her?" Alicia asked. "She went alone," said Mrs. Berry, and she gave them the details of Dolly's departure. "Well, I am surprised," said Bernice, but Alicia began to cry softly. "Yes, cry, Alicia!" said Dotty, turning on her. "I should think you WOULD! YOU made Dolly go! YOU know where that earring thing is!" "I do not!" and Alicia stared at Dotty. "Well, you know something more than you've told!" CHAPTER XVI WAS IT ALICIA? "What do you mean by that speech Dotty?" asked Bernice, as Alicia kept on crying. "I mean just what I say. Alicia knows where the earring is, or, if she doesn't know that, she knows something about it that she won't tell us." "What is it, Alicia?" said her uncle, kindly. "If you know anything at all, tell us, won't you?" "I don't, Uncle. I don't know ANYTHING about it!" and Alicia wept more than ever. "Well, the thing to do is to find it," said Fenn gazing closely at Alicia. "Where we find it will disclose who took it." "I agree with you, Mr. Fenn," said a voice from the doorway, and there stood Dolly Fayre! "Oh," cried Dotty, "I knew you wouldn't run away!" "I did," returned Dolly, looking very sober. "I couldn't stand things here, and I was tempted to go home." "Did you start out with that idea?" asked Dotty. "No; never thought of such a thing when I went out. But I took a bus that turned around and went to the station, so that made me think of Berwick and I got homesick for mother, and I just couldn't help wanting to go to her. And I telephoned back here that I was going. Then, I had no sooner done that, than it seemed to me a cowardly thing to do, after all, and I changed my mind quick and came right back here. I rode up on top of a stage, and the trip in this lovely bright air made me feel a heap better. Now then, I want to say, once for all, that I didn't take that earring, but I'm going to find out who DID, and also I'm going to find the jewel. I don't know which I'll find first, but one means the other." "Just what I said, Miss Fayre," exclaimed Fenn. "I'll join forces with you, and we'll see about this thing. We'll find the missing jewel and we'll find out who took it, but we'll have to put up a search." "All my things are at your disposal," said Dolly; "look through all my cupboards and bureau drawers as you like. I'm not afraid." "Of course not," said Fenn, "after your absence this morning! You had a fine opportunity to dispose of the jewel!" "How dare you!" cried Dolly, turning white with rage. "I have told you truthfully where I went and why." "Let her alone, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes, sharply. "You talk too much. Run along now, girls; we'll let the matter rest for to-day. I'll consult with Mr. Fenn, and I don't think we'll search your belongings. I can't think any one of you has intentionally concealed the jewel. It's lost but not stolen, that's what I think." "You dear old thing!" and Bernice impulsively threw her arms around her uncle's neck. "I think you're right. But it must be found!" "It must be found!" repeated Dolly. "Otherwise suspicion will always rest on me." "Not on you any more than the rest of us," declared Dotty, "but there's no use in hunting any more in this room. It simply isn't here." They had searched the room in which the jewel had been kept, thoroughly and repeatedly. So the girls went off to their own rooms to talk it all over again. "You're too hard on them, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes to his secretary, when they were alone. "But it's a clear case, sir. That Fayre girl took it. She got scared and tried to run home, then decided it would be better to face the music, so she returned. She's the one, of course. She adores those old trinkets; the others don't care two cents for them. She put it on her dress,--probably she took it off again, but after that the temptation to possess the thing was too strong for her. She thought you'd not miss it, and she carried it off. Then, when she was out this morning, she either threw it away, or secreted it somewhere. Perhaps she took it to some friend for safe keeping." "I don't believe it, Fenn. I've studied the four girls pretty closely and Dolly Fayre is, I think, the most frank and honest and conscientious of them all. Why, I'd suspect either of my own nieces before I Would Dolly." "You're generous, sir. But you're mistaken. Miss Fayre is the culprit, and we'll fasten the theft on her yet." "I hope not,--I sincerely hope not. But it's a queer business, Fenn, a very queer business." "It's all of that, Mr. Forbes, but we'll get at the truth of it yet." Meantime the four girls were talking over the matter. But not all together. The two D's, in their own room, and the other two girls in theirs were having separate confabs. "Now, Dolly Fayre," Dotty was saying, "you tell me EVERYTHING you know about this thing! I don't want any holding back or concealing of any suspicions or doubts you may have." "It isn't really a suspicion, Dotty, but I--will tell you. It's only that just as we left the room, the museum room I call it, yesterday afternoon, we were all out, and Alicia ran back. She said she had left her handkerchief on the table. And she went straight to that very table where I had laid the earring. Now, I can't suspect Alicia, but that's what she did." "Well, Dolly," and Dotty looked thoughtful, "that's enough to cast suspicion on her. She went to that very table?" "Yes. Of course, I didn't think anything about it at the time, but now I remember it distinctly. That's why I wanted to go home and tell Mother all about it, and ask her if I ought to tell Mr. Forbes about Alicia." "I see. I don't know myself what you ought to do. I've been thinking it might be Alicia all the time. I hate to suspect her, as much as you do. But if she ran back, and went to that table, and then the jewel that laid there was gone, it certainly looks queer. Decidedly queer." "Well, what shall I do?" "I suppose you'll have to keep still, unless you're actually accused of taking it. You can't very well tell on Alicia." "That's what I think." "But if they really accuse you,--and Mr. Fenn has already done so." "Oh, Fenn! I don't care what he says. If Mr. Forbes doesn't think I took it, I don't want to say anything about Alicia." "Well, let's wait and see. After what you've just told me, I think she did take it. But I don't WANT to think that." Now, in the next room, Alicia and Bernice were talking confidentially and in low tones. "Of course, Dolly must have taken it," Alicia said, slowly. "I can't believe that," said Bernice. "I know Dolly Fayre awfully well, and I just about 'most KNOW she couldn't do such a thing." "I daresay she never was tempted before. You can't tell what you may do until there's a sudden temptation. She might have thought it was no harm, when Uncle Jeff has so many of such trinkets. She might have thought he'd never miss it--" "No," dissented Bernice. "Dolly never thought out those things. If she did take it, it was just on the spur of the moment, and, as you say, because of a sudden irresistible temptation. And the minute after she was doubtless sorry, but then she was ashamed to confess or return it." It was luncheon time then, and the girls went downstairs together, with no disclosures of their suspicions of each other. At the luncheon table the subject was freely discussed. Dolly explained to Mrs. Berry that, after she had telephoned she was going home, she felt that it was a cowardly thing to do, and that she ought to remain and see the matter through. "You see," Dolly said, smiling, "it was a sudden temptation, when I got to the station, to go home. Just the sight of the ticket office, and the train gates, gave me a wave of homesickness and I wanted to see Mother so terribly, that I thought I'd just go. But as soon as I'd telephoned, I realised that I oughtn't to do it, so I came right back here. I didn't telephone I'd changed my mind, for I thought I'd be here so soon. Mrs. Berry, what do you think became of the earring?" "I don't know, I'm sure, my dear. I don't think I could ever believe that any one of you girls took it with any wrong intent. Did one of you just borrow it? To study it as a curio or anything like that?" "No!" cried Bernice. "That's absurd. If I'd wanted to do that I should have asked Uncle's permission." "Of course you would," and good Mrs. Berry sighed at the undoubted fallacy of her theory. It was during luncheon that the telephone bell rang, and Geordie Knapp invited the girls to a matinee at the Hippodrome. "They must come," he said to Mrs. Berry, who had answered his call. "Please let them. It's a big party. We've three boxes; my mother is going with us, and all the rest are young people. I know your girls will like it." "Of course they will," Mrs. Berry replied. "I'll be glad to have them go. Wait; I'll ask them." The invitation was heard with delight, and Bernice answered Geordie for the others that they'd all be glad to go. "Good!" cried Geordie. "We'll call for you in our big car. Be ready on time." They promised and hastened through luncheon to go to dress. "I'm glad you're going," kind Mrs. Berry said; "it'll take your minds off this old earring business. Have a real good time, and don't even think of anything unpleasant." So the girls started off in gay spirits, resolved not to worry over the lost jewel. During the intermission at the matinee Dotty chanced to be talking to Geordie alone, and she told him about the mystery, and asked him what he thought. The boy was greatly interested, and asked for all the details. So Dotty told him all, even of Dolly's seeing Alicia return to the room and go to the table by the window. "Jiminy crickets!" said Geordie, "that looks bad! But I can't believe Alicia would take it, nor any of you others. Let me talk to Alicia; I won't accuse her, you know, but maybe I can gather something from the way she talks." So by changing of seats Geordie found opportunity to talk to Alicia about the matter. To his surprise, she willingly discussed it, and, moreover, she made no secret of the fact that she suspected Dolly of taking it. She said she felt sure that Dolly did it, meaning no great harm, but probably being over-tempted. "Why," said Alicia, "she said only at luncheon that when she was at the Railroad Station she was so tempted to go home to her mother that she very nearly went. So, you see, she is given to sudden temptations and I suppose she can't always resist them." Geordie considered. "I don't believe she took it, Alicia," he said; "either it's slipped behind something, or else somebody else got in and took it. It never was one of you four girls! I'm SURE it wasn't If I could be over there for an hour or so, I'll bet I could find it. I'm pretty good at such things. S'pose I go home with you after the show; may I?" "Oh, I wish you would! If you could find that thing, you would be a joy and a blessing!" And so, after the performance was over, Geordie Knapp and Ted Hosmer both went to Mr. Forbes' house with the four girls. Alicia asked her uncle's permission for them all to go up to the museum rooms, and he gave it. He was not entirely willing, for he rarely allowed visitors to his collections, but Alicia coaxed until he gave in. "It can't be that Alicia took it," Dotty whispered to Dolly, "for she is so willing to have Geordie investigate." Ted Hosmer was as anxious as Geordie to hunt for the earring, but when he reached the rooms of the collections he was so interested in looking at the specimens that he nearly forgot what they came for. "Look at the birds!" he cried, as they passed through the Natural History room on the way to the antiques. "You like birds?" asked Dolly, as she saw his eyes brighten at the sights all round him. "Yes, indeed! I've a small collection myself, but nothing like this! I study about birds every chance I get. Oh, see the humming birds! Aren't they beautiful?" But Dolly persuaded him to leave the birds and butterflies and go on to the antique room. Here the girls told their two visitors all about the earring and its disappearance. Mr. Fenn was not present, for which Dolly was deeply grateful. Mr. Forbes watched the two boys quizzically. Then he said, "Go to it, Geordie. Do a little detective work. If any of my four visitors took it, make them own up. I won't scold them; I'm anxious only to know which one it was." "You don't really think it was any of them, I know, Mr. Forbes, or you wouldn't speak like that," said Ted. "I know you think as I do, that some queer mischance or accident is responsible for the disappearance. But WHAT was that accident, and WHERE is the jewel?" The two boys searched methodically. They did not look into cupboards or drawers; they asked questions and tried to think out some theory. "Could any one have come in at the window?" asked Ted. "No chance of that," said Mr. Forbes, "considering the window is in the fourth story, and no balcony, or any way of reaching it from the ground." Geordie stuck his head out of the window in question. "Who lives next door?" he said, looking across the narrow yard to the next house. "People named Mortimer," replied Mr. Forbes. "But they're all away from home. They're somewhere down South." "There's somebody over there. I see a light in one of the rooms." "A caretaker, maybe. But don't be absurd. It's all of ten or twelve feet across to that house from our back extension to theirs. Are you thinking somebody could spring across, take the jewel and spring back again?" "That ISN'T very likely, is it?" Ted laughed, "but there's some explanation, somewhere," and the boy shook his head. "You see, Mr. Forbes, somebody might have made entrance to this room after the girls left it Sunday afternoon, and before you discovered your loss." "Somebody might," agreed Mr. Forbes, "but I can't quite see how. Surely no intruder came up by way of the stairs; I can't believe any one came in by the window, and what other way is there?" "Suppose," said Geordie, earnestly, "suppose the caretaker, or whoever is next door, saw you people examining the earring by the light from the window,--you were by the window, weren't you?" "Yes," said Dolly, to whom he had put the question. "Yes, it was growing dusk, and I stepped to the window to look at the gold work." "Well, suppose this caretaker person saw you, and realised the jewel was valuable. Then suppose after you all went out and left the earring on this little table, which is only ten or twelve inches from the window, suppose the caretaker leaned out of his window, and, with a long pole, with a hook on the end, fished the thing over to himself." "Ridiculous!" cried Mr. Forbes. "Nobody could do such a thing as that! Absurd, my boy! Why, even a long fishpole would scarcely be long enough, and he couldn't get purchase enough on the end--" "I admit it sounds difficult, sir, but they do pretty clever things that way." "And, too, I can't suspect my neighbour's servants! Why, I've not the slightest cause for such suspicion!" "Oh, no, I can't think it's that way, either," said Dolly. "Why, that caretaker is a nice old man. I've heard Mrs. Berry tell about him. His room is just opposite hers, two floors beneath this very room we're in now. He has a parrot that chatters and annoys Mrs. Berry, but the old man is honest, I'm sure. And he's too old to be agile enough to do such an acrobatic thing as you suggest." CHAPTER XVII A CLEVER IDEA Ted Hosmer looked at Dolly as she spoke, and a sudden light came into his eyes. "By Jiminy!" he said, and he drew a sharp little whistle. "I say, Dolly, where is your Mrs. Berry?" "Oh, no, Ted," Dolly laughed, "you can't connect Mrs. Berry with this matter any more than you can the Mortimers' servants. Mrs. Berry didn't do it." "I didn't say she did," returned Ted, smiling at her. "But where is she, that's all." "I don't know. Probably in her room." "Take me there, will you? I must see her at once. Why, I've got an idea!" "Goodness, Ted!" exclaimed Geordie. "What a strange piece of news!" "Don't be funny!" said Ted; "I say, Dolly, take me to speak to Mrs. Berry, won't you?" "Why, of course, if you like,--come on." Dolly led the way and Ted followed. The others paid little attention, for Geordie was thinking out a new theory of how somebody could get across from the next house, by means of scuttles to the roofs on the front part of the houses. Of course, in front the houses were attached, but the back extensions were only one room wide, thus giving ground space for tiny back yards. A tap on Mrs. Berry's door was answered, and the two were admitted. "What is it?" and the housekeeper looked a little surprised at her visitors. "May we look out of your window?" asked Ted, politely. "Surely," was the reply. "But what for?" Ted, however, already had raised the window and was looking out. It was dark, or nearly, and the house next door showed a dim light in the room opposite the one they were in. The shade was down at the window, so they saw nothing of the room but a few indistinct shadows. "Tell us something about the old caretaker next door, won't you?" begged Ted, and Mrs. Berry responded: "Now, don't suspect him! Why, old Joe is the most honest man in the city! I've known him for years, and I'm sure he wouldn't steal a pin! Mr. Mortimer trusts him absolutely." "But tell us a little about him." "There's nothing to tell, only that he stays there alone when the family go away. He lives, practically, in the two rooms; that room opposite and the kitchen. He has no company but his parrot; he makes a great pet of that." "A nice Polly?" "A handsome bird, yes. But a nuisance with its continual squawking and chattering." "Thank you, Mrs. Berry; I believe that's all. Pardon our intrusion. We'll go now. Come along, Dolly." Dolly followed Ted from the room, and he said, "Don't go back upstairs yet. Come along with me." "Where?" "Never mind. Come on," and, making a gesture for her to be silent, Ted piloted her down the main staircase and out of the front door. "Gracious! I won't go another step till you tell me where we're going!" "Of course I'll tell you. We're going next door. Come on; you don't need wraps; it's just a step." Taking her hand, Ted led her down the Forbes' steps and up those of the house next door. He rang the bell and they waited. In a moment, shuffling steps were heard and an old man opened the door. "That you, Joe?" said Ted, pleasantly. "Let us come in for a moment, please." "I don't know you, young sir, but if I'm not mistaken, this is one of the little ladies from next door." "Quite right. We intend no harm, I assure you. Let us come in for a minute or two." The old man let them enter and closed the door behind them. "How's your parrot?" asked Ted, conversationally. Old Joe looked surprised, but he answered courteously, "Polly is well, as usual." "What kind of a bird is he?" "A parrot, sir." "I don't mean that. Is he honest or--or gives to thievery?" "Oh, sir, he's the thievingest beast in the world, that he is! I don't dare leave a thing around I'm not willing for him to take if he wants it." "Yes, just so. And does he ever go out of this house?" "No,--oh, no." Ted's face fell. Dolly's, too, for she began to see what Ted had in mind. But if Polly never left the Mortimer house, surely he didn't fly over and steal the earring. "Could I go up to the room where the bird is?" said Ted, trying to conceal his disappointment at the collapse of his theory. "Yes, sir, if you like, or I'll bring the bird down here." "We'll go up, please," and Dolly and Ted followed the old man to the room on the second floor, which was opposite Mrs. Berry's. They looked in and saw the bird in his cage, hanging from a bracket near the window. "Pretty Polly," said Ted, walking toward the cage. "Nice Polly. Polly want a cracker?" The bird cocked his head on one side, but said nothing. "And you're sure he never leaves his cage?" said Ted, examining the fastening on the cage door. "Well, sir, he does leave his cage. I said he doesn't leave this house. That is,--not often. So seldom as to call it never." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, a few days ago,--I'm thinking it was Sunday,--the bird let himself out of his cage. The latch broke, do you see, and he could push the door open with his claw. I came into the room, and there he was stalking up and down the floor with a knowing look. I soon found how he got out of the cage and I fixed the latch so he can't do it again. I let him out often, but I'm not going to have him letting himself out." "Sunday, was it?" and Dolly's eyes brightened as Ted went on with his questions. "And you weren't here when he got out of his cage?" "No, sir. But I came in soon and he was marching along the floor, winking at me." "And was the window open?" Old Joe stopped to think. "No," he said, finally, and Dolly gave a sigh of despair. If the window had been open, there was a possibility that Polly had been the thief. "Can he fly?" she put in. "Fly? Yes, that he can. That's why I'm careful to keep him shut up here. I wouldn't like him to fly over and annoy Mrs. Berry. He did that once a year ago, and the lady was right down mad about it." "Think again, Joe. Couldn't this window have been open Sunday, when Polly got out of his cage?" "Well, now, I do believe it was! Wasn't Sunday that warm, pleasant day? Yes? Well, then, come to think of it, this here window WAS open! My! it was a good thing Mr. Polly didn't walk out of it!" "But that's just what he did do,--I believe!" "What, sir? What do you mean?" "Well, I'll tell you. A small article has disappeared from the house next door, from a room on this side, just above Mrs. Berry's room. It's a hard matter to find out what became of the thing, a small trinket of jewellery, and I'm in hopes that your bird flew over and took it, because that will let out certain very much worried human beings!" "Oh, I can't think Polly did that!" "Can he fly as far as to go up to that window two stories higher than this? You say he can fly, but would he be likely to fly UP?" "If so be that window was open he might. He's a born thief, that bird is. But in that case, what did he do with it? A jewel, you say?" "Yes, an old, very old earring." "Ah!" and Joe started; "of fine work, but all broken and bent?" "I don't know. How about that, Dolly?" "It was old, and it was fine gold work. But it wasn't bent or broken." "Then it's not the same," said Joe. "Polly has a lot of playthings, and some old imitation jewellery that Mrs. Mortimer lets him have because he loves such things. And it was Monday, yes, yesterday, he had an old piece of stuff that I didn't remember seeing before, but I paid little attention to it. And it was that bent and twisted it can't have been the thing you're searching for. No, that it couldn't." "I suppose not," said Ted, but Dolly said, "Let us see it, anyway, can't you? Maybe Polly bent it up himself." Old Joe went and searched through a lot of broken bits of metal tilings in a box on the table. "Here it is," he said. "You see how it's worn out!" "That's it!" cried Dolly. "Oh, Ted, THAT'S the earring! Hooray!" "Is it? Hooray!" shouted Ted. "REALLY, oh, it's too good to be true! Polly MUST have taken it, Joe." "Yes, he must have done so, if Miss, here, says it's the one. But let me figger it out. I s'pose when Polly opened his cage door, the open window attracted him, and he flew out. Then as the other windows in the Forbes house were closed, he made for that one that was open. Was nobody in the room?" "No," said Dolly, "not when the jewel was taken. I left it on a table, near the window, and--" "Yes, Miss, I see! Polly was tempted by the glittering thing; he loves glitter, and he snatched it up and flew right back home with it. He hid it somewhere; that's his thievish nature, and when I came in here he was walking up and down the floor as innocent appearin' as a lamb! Oh, you wicked Polly!" "Wick-ed Polly!" screeched the bird. "Naughty Polly!" "Yes, very naughty Polly!" said Ted. "But a good Polly, after all, to get us out of our troubles!" "Then, you see," continued Old Joe, "that villainous bird, he hid his treasure, and when I let him out yesterday, just to fly around the room, he found it out again, and he hent and broke it all up." "Well, never mind!" Dolly cried, "as long as we have it! Oh, Ted, how clever of you to think of it! I'm so glad! Come, let's hurry home and tell about it! My, won't they all rejoice!" "Shall I go over and make my apologies to Mr. Forbes?" asked Joe, anxiously. "No; at least, not now. Mr. Forbes won't hold you at all to blame. It was merely coincidence that the bird happened to get out of his cage, just when the jewel lay there unprotected," said Ted. "And, he'd taken something else if he hadn't found that. Anything glittering or sparkling catches his eye, and he steals it. But 'tis seldom he gets a chance outside the house." "Why do you keep such a bird?" asked Dolly. "He isn't mine. I wouldn't care to have him. He belongs to Mrs. Mortimer, and she only laughs at his thievin' traits. She thinks they're cunning. So, I must needs take good care of him. 'Twas careless of me to leave the window open, and him here alone. But I didn't think he could break loose from his cage. I'm thinkin' the door was ajar." "Well, we're much obliged to you and to Polly. Oh, just think if you hadn't reasoned it out, Ted, we never would have known the truth! You see, Joe thought the earring was one of Polly's own belongings, so, of course, he never would have paid any attention to it." "That I wouldn't, Miss. I supposed it was some of the trinkets the missus gave him. She buys 'em for him at the five-and-ten. He breaks 'em as fast as he gets 'em!" "I hope this can be straightened out, and I think it can," said Dolly, as she looked at the bent gold work. "I'm sure it can," agreed Ted, "but anyway, it solves the mystery and clears you girls! Hooray! Hurroo!! Come on, let's go and tell them all." The two dashed into the Forbes house next door, and found the rest of them down in the drawing room, wondering what had become of Dolly and Ted. With a beaming face and dancing eyes, Dolly went straight to Mr. Forbes and dangled the bent and twisted earring before his surprised countenance. "Bless my soul!" he cried, as he saw it. "Did you--where did you find it?" Dolly realised that he had been about to say, "Did you decide to own up?" or something like that, and she was glad that he changed his sentence. "Next door!" she exclaimed, for Ted stood back and let her have the pleasure of telling. "That old parrot came and stole it!" "Oh! the parrot!" cried Mr. Forbes. "Why, of course! I see it all! Why didn't _I_ think of that? Once before, I saw that bird light on my window sill and I shooed him off. Strange I didn't think of that solution!" "Tell us more!" cried Dotty; "who thought of a parrot? Whose parrot is it? How did he get in? When?" "Wait a minute, Dot," said Dolly, laughing, "and I'll tell you all about it. You tell some, Ted, I'm all out of breath!" So Ted told the whole story of their visit to the next house. "And I thought it was n. g. when the old chap said the window in his room wasn't open. Also, when he said the bird never left that house, I thought again we were off the track. But when we went on to discuss the matter, and he said the bird was a born thief, and also he finally remembered that his window was open on Sunday afternoon, why I felt sure we had found the culprit. Then, the old fellow produced the earring, which he had seen, but had scarcely noticed, thinking it was some of the bird's own junk. It seems Polly also collects antiques!" "Well, well, Hosmer, my boy, you did well to think of such a solution to our mystery! What put you on the track in the first place?" "I think it was the birds of your collection, sir. I'm very fond of birds and bird study, and I know a lot about parrots, and their ways. Well, seeing all your stuffed birds, put birds in my head, I suppose; any way, when Dolly spoke of a parrot next door that annoyed Mrs. Berry, I thought right away of how that Polly bird would like to grab a gold trinket if he had a good chance. So I looked up his chances, and I began to realise that if your window was open, the one in the other house might have been too. Sunday was such a warm, pleasant day. So, I looked into matters a little, and concluded we'd better go over there. I didn't say what we were going for, because it might easily have turned out a wild goose chase--" "Instead of a wild parrot chase!" said Alicia. "Oh, isn't it just fine that it's found!" "I guess old Fenn will be surprised," said Dotty, with an angry shake of her dark head. "He tried his best to fasten it on Dolly--" "Fasten the earring on?" asked Geordie Knapp, laughing. "No; I did that myself," rejoined Dolly. "Oh, Uncle Forbes, you didn't think I took it, did you?" "I didn't know what to think. No thought of that bird came into my mind. And so I had to cudgel my brain to think how it did disappear. For I HAD to know! Yes, I positively HAD to know!" "Of course," agreed Bernice. "You didn't want to lose that jewel." "It wasn't only that, there was another reason, a reason that I'll tell you some day." CHAPTER XVIII FOUR CELEBRATIONS Next morning at breakfast, each of the four girls found a note at her plate. The notes were all alike, and they read: Mr. Jefferson Forbes, because of his great delight over the discovery of his lost piece of property, invites you to a celebration occasion, to-morrow, Thursday evening. Mr. Forbes would say, also, that he has obtained the consent of all interested parents, that you may stay till Saturday. Mr. Jefferson Forbes will be glad of suggestions as to what form said celebration shall assume. They all laughed at the formal style and stilted language of the notes, and were amazed at the information that they were to make a longer visit than they had thought. Mrs. Berry smiled at the shower of questions that followed the reading of the notes, but she only said, "Don't ask me, my dears. After breakfast, Mr. Forbes will meet you in the reception room and discuss it." So a merry group of four awaited the coming of their host in the pretty little reception room. "Good morning," he said, cheerily, as he entered, "What an attractive bunch of humanity! Four smiling faces and eight bright eyes! I greet you all." With an old-fashioned bow, he took a seat near them, and asked, "Did you receive certain important documents?" "We did," replied Bernice. "May we have further enlightenment?" "You may, and first I will remove that anxious look from Dolly's face, by saying that her mother is perfectly willing that she should stay here the rest of the week." "Oh, goody!" cried Dolly. "How did you ask her? By telephone?" "Yes. So pleased was I over the developments of last evening, that I telephoned all the powers that be, and arranged for an extension to our house party. Are you glad?" "Indeed we are," chorused the girls, and Uncle Jeff went on. "Now, our celebration is to be just whatever you want. And if you don't all want the same thing, you can all have different things. So just state your preferences." "I know mine," said Alicia, "it is to go to Muriel Brown's party on Friday night. She asked us, and I'd love to go." "That's one," said her uncle. "Of course you can all go to the party. Now, Bernice, what do you choose?" "I'd like to go to the opera," said Bernice. "Grand opera, I mean. I've never been but once, and I'd love to go." "Good! We'll go to-night. If you all agree?" They certainly did agree to that, and then Mr. Forbes asked the two D's to choose. "I want to go to the Metropolitan Museum,--with you!" said Dolly, half afraid to ask such a boon. But Mr. Forbes seemed pleased, and declared he would be delighted to go with her, and explain the exhibits and the others could go or not, as they liked. All decided in favour of going, and then Dotty was asked to choose. "Don't laugh at me," said Dotty, "but I'd like to have a party. Only, not a big one. Just us four girls, and the four boys, that we know the best; Geordie, Ted, Marly Turner and Sam Graves. I like that sort of a party better than the big, dressy ones." "Why, Dot Rose!" exclaimed Alicia, "I thought you liked the big dances." "So I do, if I knew the people. But I think it would be lots of fun to have a few, and have a less formal party. I'd like to ask Muriel Brown, and two or three of those girls we met with her, the other day, and then, have a few more boys; but not a hundred, like Muriel had." "A good plan," said Mr. Forbes, "because you couldn't invite a large party on such short notice. So, make out your list, Dotty, and invite them by telephone at once. Mrs. Berry will help you, and will arrange all details. Let me see, you can have that party to-morrow night; go to the opera to-night; go to Muriel's party on Friday night, and go home on Saturday. The museum we can visit any afternoon. I thank you for your kind attention." "Oh, Uncle Jeff, we thank YOU for your kindness, all of it," cried Alicia. "You have been so very good to us, and now you are doing a lot more for our pleasure." "Have you enjoyed it all, so far, Alicia?" and her uncle looked at her inquiringly. "Oh, yes, sir, indeed I have! I was troubled about the lost earring, but that was not your fault." "Nor the fault of any of you girls," said Mr. Forbes. "As I have hinted to you, I have a reason for this visit you are making me, beside a desire to give you pleasure. I am considering a serious matter and this stay of yours in my house is helping me to a decision." "What can it be, Uncle?" cried Bernice. "Tell us, so we can help you more, and more intelligently." "I will tell you Saturday morning," he returned with a smile. "Perhaps in that time other developments may occur that will alter my final decision in the matter." "It sounds most mysterious," laughed Dolly, "can't we guess what it's all about?" "You may guess, if you like, but I don't promise to tell you if you guess correctly. And I don't mind adding, that I feel pretty sure you couldn't guess correctly, if you tried!" "No use trying, then!" said Alicia, gaily. "Oh, I'm so glad we're going to stay longer. I want to do a lot of things beside the celebrations we've just planned. I do think you're the best and kindest uncle in the whole world! I've got a secret, too, and some day I'm going to tell it to you all." "Secrets seem to be the order of the day," laughed Dolly; "we'll have to scrape up one, Dot." "Well, it's no secret that we're having one grand, glorious, good time!" said Dotty. "What's on for this morning?" Mr. Forbes went off to his own room then, and the girls planned out all they should do for the rest of their stay in the city. There was some shopping, some sight-seeing and some errands yet undone but they at last agreed on a programme that would suit everybody. Dotty's party, as they called it, took place on Thursday night, and she had her way about having it a small gathering. There were about twenty in all, and according to Dotty's wishes it was not only a dancing party. There were games as well as dances, for Dotty loved games. Some of the city young people were at first inclined to laugh at the idea of games, but when they began to take part in these that Dotty had planned they became exceedingly interested. One was an "Observation Test," up in Mr. Forbes' museum. At Dotty's request, he had allowed the collection rooms to be opened to the guests, and this very special dispensation was so appreciated by all that they were most exceedingly careful not to handle the rare specimens or touch the exhibits. This state of things lent itself beautifully to the game. Each player was asked to walk about for half an hour and look at the curios and treasures, and at the expiration of the time, to return to the drawing room, and spend ten minutes writing down the names of such objects as could be remembered. This game, most of them had played before, with a table full of less interesting exhibits. But in the wonderful museum rooms of Mr. Forbes it was quite another story. So eagerly did the young people observe and examine the things, that the half hour allotted for that purpose slipped away all too soon. And then they sat down to write their lists, and that too proved an absorbing occupation. Our four girls wrote lists, just for fun, but did not compete for the prizes, as, knowing the exhibit so well, that would not have been fair. Muriel Brown took the first prize, and the hostesses were glad of it for it was pleasant to have Muriel so honoured. The prize was a gold penholder, and the boys' prize, which Marly Turner won, was a similar gift. After it was over, another game was played. This was ribbon cutting. Girls and boys, stood at either end of the long drawing-room. To each girl was given the end of a piece of long, narrow ribbon, and a pair of scissors. The other end of each ribbon was held by a boy, who likewise had a pair of scissors. At a signal, each player started cutting the ribbon straight through the middle. If the scissors slipped and cut through the selvage, the player was out of the game. It was not easy, for the ribbon was narrow, and there was a strong impulse to hurry, which made for crooked cutting. The middle of each piece of ribbon was marked by a knot, and whoever reached the knot first, was the winner of that pair. The one who finished first of all, received a special prize. The game caused great laughter and sport, and the city young people declared they enjoyed it quite as much as dancing. Then the feast was served, and very beautiful and elaborate it was. The celebration, Mr. Forbes had said, was to be especially for the two D's, as it was Dotty's choice, and Dolly's choice of a visit to the museum provided little opportunity for gaiety. The table showed two great floral D's, one at either end. Dotty's was made of red roses, and Dolly's of pink roses. Every guest had as a souvenir, some pretty and valuable little trinket, and at every place was a small D made of flowers. Cakes, ices, jellies, and all such things as could be so shaped, were cut in the form of D's, and our two girls felt greatly honoured to see their initial so prominently and beautifully displayed. In the centre of the table was a huge French Doll, of the finest type. It was dressed in silk covered with polka dots, and its hat and parasol were of silk to match. Everybody laughed when Mr. Forbes pointed out that it was Dotty Dolly! And all agreed it was a most clever and appropriate symbol. After supper there was dancing, and a fine orchestra furnished the music. Our girls liked dancing pretty well, but often they sat out a dance talking to one or another of their guests. Once, as Dolly passed along the hall, chatting with Geordie Knapp, they heard rather loud voices behind the closed door of the little reception room. Rather surprised that the door should be shut at all, that evening, Dolly paused involuntarily, and Geordie stood by her side. They had no intention of eavesdropping; indeed, Geordie thought perhaps some new game was about to be announced. But to Dolly's amazement, she heard Alicia's voice saying, "Oh, I cannot! I dare not!" The tones were quivering with emotion, and Dolly couldn't help listening for the next words. She feared Alicia was troubled about something; indeed, she didn't know what she feared. And, next came a voice that was unmistakably; Marly Turner's, saying, "Do, dear! Oh, TRUST me,--_I_ will take care of you!" "But it is a desperate step!" exclaimed Alicia, "if I should ever regret it!" "You will not regret it, dearest," Marly said, "I will never LET you regret it! Your own mother eloped; it is fitting you should do so, too." Dolly looked at Geordie, her face white with horror. Alicia, planning an elopement! And with Marly Turner! She laid her hand on the knob of the door. "Don't!" said Geordie, "don't you get mixed up in a thing like that! Is Alicia Steele that sort of a girl?" "I don't know," faltered Dolly. "I heard Bernice hint once that Alicia's mother did elope with her father,--but, Alicia! Why, she isn't seventeen, yet!" "Well, that's old enough to know what she's about. I advise you, Dolly, not to go in there. Tell Mr. Forbes, if you like." "Oh, I couldn't tell on Alicia!" And, then, as they still stood there, too fascinated to move away, Alicia said, "Yes, to-morrow night. I will steal out after the house is quiet,--oh, my hero! my idol!" "My angel!" exclaimed Marly, in a deep, thrilled voice, and Dolly turned away, sick at heart. "I don't know what to do!" she said to Geordie, as they went on to the drawing room, where the dancers were. "Don't do anything," he advised. "It's none of your business. That Steele girl isn't like you, she's a different type. If she wants to cut up such didoes, don't you mix in it. Let her alone. I knew Marly liked her,--he said so,--but I didn't suppose he'd do such a thing as that! But I shan't say a word to him. We're good friends, but not chums. Marly's a good chap, but he's awfully anxious to act grown up, and my stars! he's doing so! Elope with the Steele girl! Jiminy!" "I can't bear to tell on Alicia," said Dolly, "and yet, I can't think I ought to let her go ahead and do this thing. She's so fond of romance, and excitement, she doesn't realise what she's doing." Later on, Dolly saw Alicia and young Turner emerge from the reception room, and saunter toward the drawing room. They were talking earnestly, in whispers. Alicia's cheeks were pink, and her manner a little excited. Marly looked important, and bore himself with a more grown up air than usual. Dolly and Geordie looked at each other, and shook their heads. It was only too evident that the two were planning some secret doings. They went off by themselves and sat on a davenport in a corner of the room, and continued to converse in whispers, oblivious to all about them. Dolly and Geordie purposely walked past the other pair, and distinctly heard Marly say something about a rope ladder. "It's part of the performance," he urged, as Alicia seemed to demur. Then she smiled sweetly at him, and said, "All right, then, just as you say." "It's perfectly awful!" said Dolly, as they walked on. "I've simply got to tell Dotty, anyway." "Oh, I wouldn't," expostulated Geordie; "I don't believe they'll pull it off. Somebody will catch on and put a stop to it." "Maybe and maybe not," said Dolly, dubiously. "Alicia is awfully clever, and if she sets out to do a thing, she generally carries it through. And her head is full of crazy, romantic thoughts. She'd rather elope than to go back to school, I know she would. She told me she'd do anything to get out of going back to school." "That makes it look serious," agreed Geordie. "Still I don't think you ought to mix yourself up in it, unless you just tell the whole story to Mr. Forbes." "I hate to be a tattle-tale," and Dolly looked scornful. "But if it's for Alicia's good, maybe I ought to." "Look at them now! Their heads close together, and whispering like everything!" "Yes, they're planning for their getaway!" During the rest of the evening, Dolly watched Alicia, feeling mean to do it, and yet unable to keep herself from it. At last the guests went home, one and all exclaiming at the good time they had had. Marly Turner bade Dolly good night, with a smiling face. "I've had the time of my life!" he declared. "I've not seen much of you," said Dolly, pointedly. "I know it. Too bad! I wanted to dance with you oftener, but the time was so short." "And you found another charmer?" "Well, Alicia sure is a wonder, isn't she? You know she is!" "Yes, she is," said Dolly, and for the life of her, she couldn't frown on the happy-hearted youth. Marly went off, and the others followed. "I'm not going to talk things over to-night," said Dolly, when the four were alone. "I'm tired, and I'm going straight to bed." CHAPTER XIX ALICIA'S SECRET The time seemed fairly to fly. Each of the four girls had some last few errands to do, each wanted some little souvenirs for herself, or for her people at home, and so busy were they that there was not so much mutual conversation among them as usual. They were to go home on Saturday. And already it was Friday afternoon. They had finished luncheon, Alicia and Bernice had gone to their room, and Dolly was about to go upstairs, when she remembered that she had planned to run in and say good-bye to old Joe and his parrot. Dolly felt she owed a debt of gratitude to Polly, and she had bought a little toy for him. "I'm going to run in next door a minute," she said to Mrs. Berry. "Very well, my dear. Here's a cracker for Polly." Dolly took it laughingly, and went out to the hall. "Put your coat round you," called out Mrs. Berry. "It's only a step, I know, but it's a very cold day." "Oh, Dot just took my coat upstairs, with her own. Well, here's Alicia's hanging on the hall rack. I'll throw this round me." She did so, and ran out of the front door and up the steps of the next house. Old Joe answered her ring at the bell. "Just ran over to say good-bye," laughed Dolly, "and to bring a cracker and a toy for Polly." "Thank you, Miss," and Joe smiled at her. "I'll bring the bird down to you, Ma'am, to save your going upstairs." "All right," said Dolly, a little absent-mindedly, for she was thinking of a lot of things at once. Still absentmindedly, she put her hand in her coat pocket for a handkerchief. There was none there, and she drew out a letter instead. Then she suddenly remembered she had on Alicia's coat, and with a glance at the envelope, she thrust the letter back in the pocket. But that one glance sufficed to show her it was in Marly Turner's handwriting. She had had a note from him a day or two ago, inviting her to some party or other, and his striking, sprawling penmanship was unmistakable. The letter had been opened, and Dolly remembered that Alicia had had several letters in the mail that morning. It all recalled to her the talk she had overheard the night before. All that morning Alicia had seemed preoccupied, and twice she had gone off by herself to telephone in a booth, which the girls rarely used, for they had no secrets from one another. Dolly thought over the situation between Alicia and young Turner. She had not told Dotty yet. She had two minds about doing so. It seemed to her one minute that she had no right to interfere in Alicia's affairs and then again, it seemed as if she ought to tell Mr. Forbes what was going on. She had heard Alicia say to Marly that they would elope that very night, and she felt sure they meant to do so. They were all going to Muriel Brown's party, that being Alicia's own choice of the "celebrations." Would she elope from the party, or return home first? The latter, probably, for they had mentioned a rope ladder, and that seemed as if Alicia meant to go late at night when all the others were asleep. If she ran away from the party there would be no need of a rope ladder. Dolly had asked Bernice if Alicia's mother had eloped, and Bernice had said she thought she had, though she had never heard any of the particulars. And then Joe came down with the parrot, and Dolly forgot Alicia and her elopement for the moment. Polly showed great delight over his gifts, and after a few words of good-bye to the bird and to old Joe, Dolly ran back again. In the hall she took off Alicia's coat and hung it on the rack just as Alicia herself appeared on the stairs. "Where you been?" she called out gaily. "Next door," said Dolly, "to say a fond farewell to Polly Mortimer. And as my coat was upstairs, I took the liberty of wearing yours." "That's all right," laughed Alicia, "you're welcome to it, I'm sure. Oh, I say, Dolly, there's a letter in the pocket of it! I hope you didn't read it!" "Alicia Steele! You ought to be ashamed of yourself to hint at such a thing!" "There, there, don't flare up over nothing! I only said I hoped you didn't. Did you?" "I consider that question insulting!" "Yes, people often get out of answering, that way! Now, you haven't answered me yet. Did you or did you NOT read that letter that's in the pocket of my coat?" "I did NOT! But I've my opinion of a girl who could even think I'd do such a thing!" "Well, you had plenty of time, and when you were in next door, would have been a good opportunity. I'm not sure I believe you even yet. You're blushing like fury!" "Who wouldn't, at being insulted like that! I don't think you can have much sense of honour yourself, to think anybody decent would read another person's letter!" "Now, don't get huffy, little goldilocks!" and Alicia laughed at her. "I had to be sure, you see, because it's a most important matter, and I wouldn't have anybody know for the world,--until I get ready to tell, myself." "And when will you be ready to tell?" Dolly tried to speak lightly, but the words nearly choked her. "I dunno. Maybe you'll know about it to-morrow." "Oh, Alicia--" Dolly meant to speak a word of warning or of pleading, indeed she didn't quite know what she WAS going to say, but just then, Dotty and Bernice came down stairs, and proposed they all go for a motor ride, and a last visit to the pretty tearoom. Dolly agreed, but Alicia didn't seem quite willing. "I'm expecting a telephone message," she said, at last. "You girls go on, and leave me at home. I shan't mind." "Oh, no," said Dotty, "we four can't be together after to-day. We mustn't be separated this last day of all. Come on, 'Licia." "But it's an important message," and Alicia looked anxious. "Can I be of help?" said Mrs. Berry, coming toward them. "Yes," cried Dotty, "let Mrs. Berry take the message, and tell her what answer to make." "No answer," said Alicia, slowly, and a pink flush rose to her cheeks. "But just take the message, if you please, dear Mrs. Berry. It will be short, I know. Jot it down, lest you forget the exact wording." Mrs. Berry promised and the four ran away to get ready for their last afternoon together. "Dress up pretty, girls," Alicia called from her room. "No telling whom we might meet at the tearoom." "That's so," said Dotty; "put on your Dresden silk, Doll." Dolly laughingly agreed, and the four dressed-up young ladies started off. A few calls at various shops, a few stops to look once more at certain points of interest they admired, and then for a long drive through the parks, and finally to the tearoom. "How short the time has been," said Bernice, as they flew along. "Yes," assented Alicia, "it doesn't seem possible we've been here as long as we have. Oh, I don't want to go home. I wish I could live in New York, I just love it!" "I like it," said Dolly, "but I don't want to live here. I'd LIKE to come here oftener than I do, though." At the tearoom they found Janet Knapp and Corinne Bell, two girls whom they had come to know very pleasantly. "Sit here with us," called out Janet, as they entered. "We haven't ordered yet,--what do you girls want?" "Cafe frappe for me," said Dotty, "and waffles." "Thick chocolate and whipped cream for mine," said Alicia. "Oh, when shall I ever get these lovely things again? Think of going back to boarding-school diet!" "Don't you have good things to eat at that nice school?" asked Dolly. "Oh, good enough, but not lovely, fancy things like these." "I'd like to go to boarding-school," said Janet, "but mother doesn't want me away from home. She thinks girls get no home training at those fashionable schools." "We don't, and that's a fact," admitted Alicia. "We're taught manners and, oh, well, I s'pose it's up to the girl herself, as to what she learns. Maybe I won't go back to school, after all." "Oh, Alicia," cried Bernice, "what do you mean?" "Oh, nothing," and Alicia smiled as she tossed her head. "I've got a secret. I can't tell you now. Maybe you'll know soon." Dolly looked at Alicia, in bewilderment. Could she be referring to her intended elopement with Marly Turner? "Good gracious! What do you mean?" and Janet laughed. "Never mind," returned Alicia, airily, "don't ask me any questions. You know they call me 'that awful Alicia!' So be prepared for anything." Dolly grew thoughtful. Only she and Geordie Knapp held the secret of Alicia's strange remarks, and she couldn't decide whether it was her duty to tell anyone of her knowledge or not. She made up her mind to tell Mrs. Berry, as soon as she went home, and then she had compunctions about that, for Dolly was very conscientious and she really didn't know what was right to do. "I go to an awfully nice school," Corinne Bell said. "It's quite near my house and I can go alone every day. We have such interesting teachers, and such a jolly lot of girls. You'd love it, Alicia." "Yes, I'd love it, but how could I go there? It isn't a boarding school, is it?" "No; but couldn't you board somewhere in New York?" "Alone! No, I should say not! You know I live out in the western wilds, at least the middle western wilds, and I think they're wilder than the far west. This little New York visit is all poor Alicia will see of the glittering metropolis for,--oh, well, it may be for years and it may be forever!" "What do you do in vacation time?" asked Janet. "Oh, Dad and I go to summery places. Couldn't come to New York then, you know. But when I get married, I'm going to live in New York, you can bet on that!" "You're not thinking of marrying soon, I hope," and Janet laughed. "Never can tell!" said Alicia, smiling saucily. "I have all sorts of wonderful schemes in my noodle. Some of 'em materialise,--some don't. But trust little Alicia to do something big! Oh, girls, my secret is just TOO splendid!" "Is it--is it all right?" and Dolly stammered, as she looked at Alicia with a doubtful glance. "Is it all right! You little sanctimonious-eyed prude! You bet it's all right! Maybe we'll meet again, Janet. You can't 'most always sometimes tell." "I hope you'll come to Berwick to visit me, Alicia," said Bernice; "I think as we're cousins we ought to see more of each other." "I'd love to, Bernie. Maybe I'll come this summer." "We could have a sort of reunion at our house," went on Bernice; "Muriel and you girls could come for a few days, and the two D's and I would be there, and we'd scare up a lot of fun." "'Deed we would! I'll surely come if it can be arranged. But I never know Dad's plans from one day to the next," Alicia said. "Hello, girls," sang out a boyish voice, and in came Geordie Knapp with half a dozen comrades. "We just sorter, kinder thought we'd see a bunch of peaches here about this time o' day! Hello, everybody!" Marly Turner was not among the group, and Dolly looked anxiously at Geordie, as if to ask him what he knew concerning him. "What is it, Dolly?" asked Geordie, with a blank look. "Secret!" laughed Dolly, "come over here and whisper to me." "Oh, how rude!" cried Alicia; "even out West we don't whisper in polite society!" "But this is a special case," and Dolly smiled and dimpled, as if about to discuss the most trivial subject with Geordie. The boy looked surprised when Dolly spoke to him about what they had overheard the night before. "Why," he said, "I never gave it another thought! I don't believe they really meant what we thought they did." "Yes, they did," asserted Dolly. "All day, Alicia has been keyed up to some great excitement. She had a letter from Marly this morning, and she expects a telephone from him. Also, she said things that could only mean that they really are going to elope to-night." "Such as what?" "She said maybe she'd live in New York soon, and said she had a big, wonderful secret and we'd know it to-morrow,--why, she even said she expects to live in New York after she's married!" "Whew! that's going some! Still, Dolly, I don't just see what we can do." "I think I ought to tell Mr. Forbes, don't you?" "I don't know. I do hate tell other people's secrets." "Yes; so do I. Perhaps I'll just tell Mrs. Berry." "I say, I've an idea! Suppose I get hold of Turner, and get him to go home and spend the evening with me. I'll insist upon it, you know, and if he objects, I'll ask him what's up." "Oh, yes, Geordie, that will be fine! You do that, will you?" "Yes; suppose I telephone him now, and ask him." "Go ahead, and then tell me what he says." Geordie excused himself and went off to the telephone booth. "You seem to have a lot of secrets, too, Dolly," said Alicia. "Yes, I have," and Dolly looked demure. "Can't let you have all the fun, 'Licia." "Nothing doing," Geordie reported to Dolly, as he came back, and his face looked more serious. He made an opportunity to speak to her alone again, and he said, "I got him all right, and he said he couldn't see me this evening, for he's awful busy. Said he was busy with his father." "His father! Why, Mr. Turner is an actor, isn't he?" "Sure he is, one of the best." "Then how can Marly be with him? Isn't Mr. Turner acting?" "Not just now. He's rehearsing, I think." "Well, I believe Marly made that up. He's planning the elopement." "I'm afraid he is. He was sort of queer and didn't answer as straightforwardly as he usually does. Oh, what a silly performance to cut up! Why, they're just a couple of kids!" "I know it. I never was mixed up in a thing like this before." "You're not mixed up in this." "No; not unless I mix in purposely. And I believe I shall have to. You see, I'm only a country girl, and I don't know what's right to do in this case. But I'm going to follow my instinct, and tell either Mr. Forbes or Mrs. Berry. I don't think I'll tell Dot or Bernice, for they'd have no more knowledge of what's right to do, than I have myself." "You're a good deal of a trump, Dolly Fayre. But I think you're in a hard place. I wish I could help you, and I'll do anything you say." "Couldn't you go to Mr. Turner?" "I'd hate to. Yer see, us fellows don't tell on each other,--it isn't done--" "I know. Well, let's hope we're mistaken." "But I don't see how we can be,---after what we heard." "Neither do I. I've a mind to speak straight out to Alicia about it." "Do, if you think best." "Well, I'll see." CHAPTER XX UNCLE JEFF'S FOUR FRIENDS Still uncertain what she'd do, Dolly went home with the rest of the quartette. Alicia was in high spirits, constantly exclaiming, "Oh, if you only knew what I know!" or "I'm terribly excited over my secret! Just you wait till to-morrow!" or some such speech. And as they entered the Forbes house she flew to Mrs. Berry demanding to know if a telephone message had arrived for her. "Yes," replied the good-natured housekeeper. "Marly Turner called up, and he asked me to tell you that everything was all right, and he'd pull it off to-night, sure." "Oh, goody!" cried Alicia, "are you sure that's just what he said?" "Yes," asseverated Mrs. Berry, "see, I wrote it down, so I shouldn't forget." Dolly had to eavesdrop a little to overhear this conversation, as Alicia had drawn Mrs. Berry aside, to make her inquiries. And it was with a heavy heart that Dolly went upstairs to lay off her wraps. "Oh, girls, I'm so happy!" cried Alicia, as she flung herself into a chair. "But don't ask me why, for I refuse to tell you. Now, do we dress for to-night's party before dinner or after?" "Before, please," said Mrs. Berry, who had followed the girls to their rooms. "Mr. Forbes asked me to tell you that he wants an interview in the drawing-room before you go to Muriel's, and so you'd better be dressed." "Ah, those drawing-room interviews!" exclaimed Bernice. "How they frightened me at first; then they rather bored me; but in the last few days I've come to like them!" "So have I," said Dotty. "I like Mr. Forbes himself a whole lot better than I did at first. He's so much more get-at-able." "He ought to be," laughed Alicia, "with four girls to train him up in the way he should go! What frocks, ladies? Our very bestest?" "Yes, indeed," said Bernice. "This is our last night, and we must 'go out in a blaze of glory'! And scoot, you two D's. We've none too much time to dress." Dolly and Dotty went to their room, and it was rather a silent Dolly who sat down to the dressing-table to brush her golden locks. "Whatamatter, Dollums?" said her chum. "Sad at thoughts of going home?" "Oh, no; really, Dot, I'm glad to go home. We've had a magnificent time here, but I'm--well, I s'pect I'm homesick." "So'm I, a little, now that you mention it. But we've enough to remember and think over for a long time, haven't we?" "Of course. My but I'm glad that earring was found! Oh, Dot, wouldn't it have been awful if we had gone home with that doubt hanging over us?" "It would, indeed, old girl. And, now if you'll proceed to do up that taffy-coloured mass on top of your head, I'll accept the dressing mirror for a while." Dolly twisted up her golden mop, and decorated it with a ribbon band, and then gave over her place to Dotty. And, shortly, four very much dressed-up girls went down to the extra elaborate dinner that was served in honour of the last night of their visit. The chat at table was far more gay and spontaneous than it had been on the night of their arrival, for all had become used to each other's ways, and had grown to like each other very much. Mr. Forbes, too, had changed from a stiff, somewhat embarrassed host to a genial, even gay comrade. He asked all about their doings of the day, and they told him, with gay stories of funny episodes. Dolly watched Alicia, but except that her eyes were unusually bright and her laughter very frequent, the Western girl showed no especial excitement. After dinner they all went to the drawing-room, and it was with a feeling of real sadness that Dolly realised it was for the last time. Mr. Forbes walked up and down the room as he often did, and then paused in front of the group of girls who were standing by the piano. "Sit down, girlies," he said; "Alicia and Bernice, sit on that sofa, please,--you two D's on that one." Uncle Jeff was smiling, but still, there seemed to be an undercurrent of seriousness in his tone, that implied a special talk. "Did it ever occur to any of you," he began, "that I invited you here for something beside a mere desire to give you young people some pleasure?" "Why, you've practically said so to us, Uncle Jeff," laughed Alicia; "are you going to tell us your reason?" "Yes, I am. And I'm going to tell you now." Mr. Forbes sat down in an easy chair, in such a position that he could look straight at all the girls, but his gaze rested on his two nieces. "My reason," he said, slowly, "is, I admit, a selfish one. If you girls have enjoyed your visit, I'm very glad, but what I wanted, was to study you." "I knew it!" exclaimed Bernice. "I thought you were studying us--our characters." "Yes, just that. And I wanted to study the characters of my two nieces. Now you know you can't judge much of girls, unless you see them with their comrades, their chums; or at least with other girls of their own age. So I asked you each to bring a girl friend with you. As it happened, Bernie brought two, and Alicia none, but that didn't matter. And I'm exceedingly glad to have met and known the two D's." The courteous old gentleman bowed to Dotty and Dolly who smiled and bowed in return. "Well," Uncle Jeff went on, "here's the reason I wanted to study my two nieces. Because I want to take one of them to live with me, and to inherit, eventually, my house and the greater part of my fortune." There was a silence, as each of his hearers thought over what this would mean. Either Bernice or Alicia was to be chosen to live in that big city house, practically to be mistress of it, to have a life of wealth and luxury and at last to inherit Mr. Forbes' great fortune, and all his valuable collections and belongings. Dotty broke the silence. "It's great!" she exclaimed, "just great! And which one are you going to choose?" "I have chosen," said Mr. Forbes, slowly, "it remains to be seen whether the one I have selected will accept. But now, you all can see why I was so alarmed and anxious over the episode of the lost earring. I HAD to find out if any of you girls had yielded to temptation. And if so, if it was one of my nieces, or one of their friends." "And if it had been one of your nieces, you would have chosen the other!" cried Bernice. "No, my child," returned her uncle. "Quite the contrary. If either you or Alicia had taken that gem, with a wrong intent, I should have asked the wrong-doer to come and live with me, hoping I could teach her the error of her ways. But that's neither here nor there. For none of you DID take the jewel, nor indeed, ever thought of such a thing. But my decision, which I have made, is not entirely based on worthiness, or even on desirability. And I'll tell you frankly, had I tried to choose my favourite between Bernie and 'Licia, I should have had a hard time! For I have come to love both girls very dearly, and would have not the slightest objection to adopting them both." "And us two also?" asked Dotty, mischievously. "Yes, and you two also! Bless my soul! From a lonely, somewhat misanthropic old man, you young people have turned me into a real human being! I like young voices round me, and young folks's pleasures going on in my house. Well, my dears, are you interested to know my choice?" "ARE we?" cried Dotty, while Dolly fairly held her breath. "I have chosen Alicia," Mr. Forbes announced, and there was a deep silence. Bernice looked a little bewildered, but not at all disappointed. Alicia looked simply stunned, and the two D's just listened for further developments. "But don't you for one minute think," said Mr. Forbes, "that I consider Alicia in any way superior to Bernice; nor, on the other hand, do I think Bernie better than Alicia. I love my nieces equally, and the thing that settled the question in my mind was a letter I received to-day from Alicia's father." "I know!" cried Alicia, "I had one, too. I didn't say anything about it, because Dad asked me not to. You tell, Uncle Jeff." "It's this," said Mr. Forbes. "Alicia's father is to be married soon. As you know, Alicia's mother, my dear sister died many years ago, and I know Mr. Steele but slightly. However, now that he is about to remarry, I hope that it will please both him and his new wife if Alicia comes to live with me. Also, I hope it will please Alicia." "Oh, Uncle Jeff!" and Alicia flew over to him, and flung her arms round his neck, "indeed it does please me! Why, only to-day I was saying how I'd LOVE to live in New York, and how I HATED to go back to that old school! But I never dreamed of such a thing as this!" "Oh, it's just fine!" exclaimed Bernice. "I couldn't think of leaving father, and I'd rather live in the country anyhow--" "I discovered that, Bernie, girl," said her uncle, seriously. "That's why I had you girls here, so I could see for myself what your tastes and traits really are. I've learned that Bernice prefers her own home and too that she doesn't want to leave her father alone though my plan would have been if I asked Bernice to come here to have her father live here, too. However, I also discovered that Alicia is unhappy in her school life, that she does not care much about returning to her Western home to live with a stepmother, and that she adores New York City! So, I wrote to her father asking his opinion, and he leaves the settlement of the question to Alicia, herself." "And I settle it! Yes! oh, I certainly DO!" and the girl gave her kind uncle another big embrace. "Isn't it funny you should have been saying to-day that perhaps you might live in New York?" said Bernice. "Yes," replied Alicia, and her face changed, "but I didn't mean THIS!" Dolly spoke impulsively. In fact, it seemed as if she couldn't keep still. "Suppose you tell your uncle just what you DID mean," she said, looking straight at Alicia with an unmistakably meaning gaze. Alicia turned on her with a sudden expression of anger. "You DID read that note in my coat pocket!" she cried, "you DID read it, Dolly Fayre! and you pretended you were too honourable to do such a thing!" "Why, Alicia, I did not! You take that back!" "Bless my soul! Are you two quarrelling? What IS the matter?" "Dolly read my note!" cried Alicia, "she--" "I did not!" interrupted Dolly, her blue eyes blazing. "Alicia has a secret, and I think she ought to tell it!" "I've got a right to have a secret if I like,--Dolly Fayre!" "But it isn't a nice secret! You wouldn't want Uncle Forbes to know it! It's--it's shocking!" "How do YOU know?" "I know all about it,--at least I know something about it. I heard you and Marly Turner--" "Oh, pshaw! you little blue-eyed goose! You only think it's shocking, because you're so prim and straight-laced! I'll tell Uncle Jeff, myself, and I'll tell him right now!" "All right, Alicia," and Dolly drew a big sigh of relief. If Alicia would tell her own secret, it would take all responsibility from her shoulders. But Alicia hesitated. She began to speak once or twice, and stammered and paused. At last she said, "I hate to tell, it sounds so--so grown-up and ambitious." "I should think it DID!" cried Dolly, who began to wonder if Alicia were crazy. "You tell him, Dolly," and Alicia suddenly looked very shy and embarrassed. "Do you MEAN it? Do you want ME to tell him?" "Yes, I honestly wish you would. Though how you found out about it, I don't see!" "We weren't intending to listen, Alicia, but Geordie Knapp and I heard you and Marly Turner, in the little reception-room last night." "Oh, that explains it! Yes, we did talk pretty loud. Well, what did you think of it, Dolly?" "If you say so, I'll tell the rest, and see what they think of it." "All right, go ahead! Spare my blushes, good people, but I am fearfully embarrassed!" Everybody looked uncomprehending, and Dolly began. She couldn't see how Alicia could treat the matter so lightly, but was fervently thankful that she did so. "It's this," said Dolly, solemnly, "Alicia is planning to elope with Marly Turner." There were four astonished faces that greeted this announcement, but none showed such blank amazement as Alicia's own. "Oh, Dolly!" she cried. "Oh, Dolly Fayre! You will be the death of me yet! Go on, tell them more!" "That's about all I know. They planned it last night and it just happened that Geordie and I heard them. Marly coaxed her, and Alicia hesitated and then consented. She said her mother eloped, and she would do the same. They were going to have a rope ladder." "Oh, Dolly! Oh, Uncle Jeff! Oh, Dollyrinda!" "Well, Alicia, suppose you stop yelling, oh, and tell me about this interesting performance," Mr. Forbes spoke, severely. But Alicia had thrown herself into a big chair and was screaming with laughter. Every time she essayed to speak, she went off in uncontrollable spasms of mirth and when she wiped her eyes and endeavoured to speak, she giggled again. Dolly realised there was some misunderstanding somewhere and waited for the explanation. At last it came. "No, Uncle Jeff," and Alicia managed to speak intelligibly, "I'm not going to elope with Marly or anybody else. I'm going to live here with you." "But you were!" said Dolly. "You planned to!" "No, my child," and Alicia laughed again. "I'll have to tell my story myself. I've written a play, Uncle, and in it, the heroine elopes with the handsome hero. I was awfully shy about showing it to anybody, but Marly said he'd try to persuade his father to read it over and see if it showed any promise. You know it's a great thing to have Mr. Turner read your play, and I was delighted. Well, last night, Marly and I went over the elopement scene, that's the strong act of the play, and that's what Dolly heard, and she thought we were talking ourselves! Oh, Dolly, if people plan to elope they don't do it at the top of their lungs! Marly and I read the various character parts to see how it would sound in different voices. Well, then, he said he'd try to get his father to read it to-night, so I'd know before I went away to-morrow. And he telephoned that he'd pull it off,--he meant he'd get his father to read it. That's my secret. And, you know, Uncle Jeff, my mother DID elope, because her father didn't want her to marry Jim Steele. And I'd heard the story of her elopement so often, and it was so dramatic, that I put it in my play. Oh, Dolly, what a little innocent you are!" "I don't care if I am," returned Dolly, and her pretty face beamed with smiles. "I think your secret is lovely, Alicia, and I think Uncle Forbes' secret is too." "So do I," said Dotty, "and I'm glad and proud that Dollyrinda and I are chums of two such talented and distinguished girls." "And _I_'m glad, Alicia," said her uncle, "that you have a taste for writing. I shall be glad to help you cultivate it and I've no doubt that Mr. Turner can give you valuable advice. Of course your early efforts can't amount to much, but if you care to keep at it, you may yet do good work. Well, then, do I understand, that you accept my invitation to live with me?" "Yes, indeed, you dear, darling old uncle! I'll live with thee, and be thy love! as the poet sings." "Then run away to your party now, and we'll settle all further details to-morrow." "And you'll forgive me, Alicia, for misjudging you?" said Dolly, still smiling at her funny mistake. "Yes, indeed, you blue-eyed angel! And you'll forgive me for thinking you read my note. In it, Marly said he thought he could get his father to read my manuscript and I was SO excited over it. But of course I know you wouldn't touch my letter only I was so upset over it, I hardly knew what I said." "Oh, that's all right. And, girls, won't we have the great times having Alicia come to Berwick to see us all?" "Yes, and having you all come here to visit me!" returned Alicia. "We'll always be chums," said Dotty. "These days together have made us inseparable friends." "The Forbes quartette," said Dolly. "Only Bernice is named Forbes, but I mean Uncle Forbes' quartette." "Yes," said Jefferson Forbes, "my four friends, my Rosebud Garland of Girls." THE END 
43278	----	Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net CAKES AND ALE _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ THE FLOWING BOWL A TREATISE ON DRINKS OF ALL KINDS AND OF ALL PERIODS, INTERSPERSED WITH SUNDRY ANECDOTES AND REMINISCENCES BY EDWARD SPENCER ('NATHANIEL GUBBINS') Author of "Cakes and Ale," etc. _Crown 8vo., cloth gilt, 2/6 net._ SECOND EDITION. With cover design by the late PHIL MAY. "The Flowing Bowl" overflows with good cheer. In the happy style that enlivens its companion volume, "Cakes and Ale," the author gives a history of drinks and their use, interspersed with innumerable recipes for drinks new and old, dug out of records of ancient days, or set down anew. LONDON: STANLEY PAUL & CO. 31, Essex Street, Strand, W.C. CAKES & ALE A DISSERTATION ON BANQUETS INTERSPERSED WITH VARIOUS RECIPES, MORE OR LESS ORIGINAL, AND ANECDOTES, MAINLY VERACIOUS BY EDWARD SPENCER ('NATHANIEL GUBBINS') AUTHOR OF "THE FLOWING BOWL," ETC. _FOURTH EDITION_ STANLEY PAUL & CO. 31, ESSEX STREET, STRAND, W.C. _First printed April 1897 Reprinted May 1897 Cheap Edition February 1900 Reprinted 1913_ TO THE MODERN LUCULLUS JOHN CORLETT GRANDEST OF HOSTS, BEST OF TRENCHER-MEN I DEDICATE (WITHOUT ANY SORT OF PERMISSION) THIS BOOK PREFACE A long time ago, an estimable lady fell at the feet of an habitual publisher, and prayed unto him:-- "Give, oh! give me the subject of a book for which the world has a need, and I will write it for you." "Are you an author, madam?" asked the publisher, motioning his visitor to a seat. "No, sir," was the proud reply, "I am a poet." "Ah!" said the great man. "I am afraid there is no immediate worldly need of a poet. If you could only write a good cookery book, now!" The story goes on to relate how the poetess, not rebuffed in the least, started on the requisite culinary work, directly she got home; pawned her jewels to purchase postage stamps, and wrote far and wide for recipes, which in course of time she obtained, by the hundredweight. Other recipes she "conveyed" from ancient works of gastronomy, and in a year or two the _magnum opus_ was given to the world; the lady's share in the profits giving her "adequate provision for the remainder of her life." We are not told, but it is presumable, that the publisher received a little adequate provision too. History occasionally repeats itself; and the history of the present work begins in very much the same way. Whether it will finish in an equally satisfactory manner is problematical. I do not possess much of the divine _afflatus_ myself; but there has ever lurked within me some sort of ambition to write a book--something held together by "tree calf," "half morocco," or "boards"; something that might find its way into the hearts and homes of an enlightened public; something which will give some of my young friends ample opportunity for criticism. In the exercise of my profession I have written leagues of descriptive "copy"--mostly lies and racing selections,--but up to now there has been no urgent demand for a book of any sort from this pen. For years my ambition has remained ungratified. Publishers--as a rule, the most faint-hearted and least speculative of mankind--have held aloof. And whatever suggestions I might make were rejected, with determination, if not with contumely. At length came the hour, and the man; the introduction to a publisher with an eye for budding and hitherto misdirected talent. "Do you care, sir," I inquired at the outset, "to undertake the dissemination of a bulky work on Political Economy?" "Frankly, sir, I do not," was the reply. Then I tried him with various subjects--social reform, the drama, bimetallism, the ethics of starting prices, the advantages of motor cars in African warfare, natural history, the martyrdom of Ananias, practical horticulture, military law, and dogs; until he took down an old duck-gun from a peg over the mantelpiece, and assumed a threatening attitude. Peace having been restored, the self-repetition of history recommenced. "I can do with a good, bold, brilliant, lightly treated, exhaustive work on Gastronomy," said the publisher, "you are well acquainted with the subject, I believe?" "I'm a bit of a parlour cook, if that's what you mean," was my humble reply. "At a salad, a grill, an anchovy toast, or a cooling and cunningly compounded cup, I can be underwritten at ordinary rates. But I could no more cook a haunch of venison, or even boil a rabbit, or make an economical Christmas pudding, than I could sail a boat in a nor'-easter; and Madam Cook would certainly eject me from her kitchen, with a clout attached to the hem of my dinner jacket, inside five minutes." Eventually it was decided that I should commence this book. "What I want," said the publisher, "is a series of essays on food, a few anecdotes of stirring adventure--you have a fine flow of imagination, I understand--and a few useful, but uncommon recipes. But plenty of plums in the book, my dear sir, plenty of plums." "But, suppose my own supply of plums should not hold out, what am I to do?" "What do you do--what does the cook do, when the plums for her pudding run short? Get some more; the Museum, my dear sir, the great storehouse of national literature, is free to all whose character is above the normal standard. When your memory and imagination fail, try the British Museum. You know what is a mightier factor than both sword and pen? Precisely so. And remember that in replenishing your store from the works of those who have gone before, you are only following in their footsteps. I only bar Sydney Smith and Charles Lamb. Let me have the script by Christmas--d'you smoke?--mind the step--_good_ morning." In this way, gentle reader, were the trenches dug, the saps laid for the attack of the great work. The bulk of it is original, and the adventures in which the writer has taken part are absolutely true. About some of the others I would not be so positive. Some of the recipes have previously figured in the pages of the _Sporting Times_, the _Lady's Pictorial_, and the _Man of the World_, to the proprietors of which journals I hereby express my kindly thanks for permission to revive them. Many of the recipes are original; some are my own; others have been sent in by relatives, and friends of my youth; others have been adapted for modern requirements from works of great antiquity; whilst others again--I am nothing if not candid--have been "conveyed" from the works of more modern writers, who in their turn had borrowed them from the works of their ancestors. There is nothing new under the sun; and there are but few absolute novelties which are subjected to the heat of the kitchen fire. If the style of the work be faulty, the reason--not the excuse--is that the style is innate, and not modelled upon anybody else's style. The language I have endeavoured to make as plain, homely, and vigorous as is the food advocated. If the criticisms on foreign cookery should offend the talented _chef_, I have the satisfaction of knowing that, as I have forsworn his works, he will be unable to retaliate with poison. And if the criticisms on the modern English methods of preparing food should attract the attention of the home caterer, he may possibly be induced to give his steam-chest and his gas-range a rest, and put the roast beef of Old England on his table, occasionally; though I have only the very faintest hopes that he will do so. For the monster eating-houses and mammoth hotels of to-day are for the most part "run" by companies and syndicates; and the company within the dining-room suffer occasionally, in order that dividends may be possible after payment has been made for the elaborate, and wholly unnecessary, furniture, and decorations. Wholesome food is usually sufficient for the ordinary British appetite, without such surroundings as marble pillars, Etruscan vases, nude figures, gilding, and looking-glasses, which only serve to distract attention from the banquet. It is with many a sigh that I recall the good old-fashioned inn, where the guest really received a warm welcome. Nowadays, the warmest part of that welcome is usually the bill. It is related of the wittiest man of the nineteenth century, my late friend Mr. Henry J. Byron, that, upon one occasion, whilst walking home with a brother dramatist, after the first performance of his comedy, which had failed to please the audience, Byron shed tears. "How is this?" inquired his friend. "The failure of my play appears to affect you strangely." "I was only weeping," was the reply, "because I was afraid you'd set to work, and write another." But there need be no tears shed on any page of this food book. For I am not going to "write another." CONTENTS CHAPTER I BREAKFAST Formal or informal?--An eccentric old gentleman--The ancient Britons--Breakfast in the days of Good Queen Bess--A few tea statistics--Garraway's--Something about coffee--Brandy for breakfast--The evolution of the staff of life--Free Trade--The cheap loaf, and no cash to buy it Pages 1-9 CHAPTER II BREAKFAST (_continued_) Country-house life--An Englishwoman at her best--Guests' comforts--What to eat at the first meal--A few choice recipes--A noble grill-sauce--The poor outcast--Appetising dishes--Hotel "worries"--The old regime and the new--"No cheques"; no soles, and "whitings is hoff"--A halibut steak--Skilly and oakum--Breakfast out of the rates 10-21 CHAPTER III BREAKFAST (_continued_) Bonnie Scotland--Parritch an' cream--Fin'an haddies--A knife on the ocean wave--_À la Français_--In the gorgeous East--_Chota hazri_--English as she is spoke--Dâk bungalow fare--Some quaint dishes--Breakfast with "my tutor"--A Don's absence of mind 22-33 CHAPTER IV LUNCHEON Why lunch?--Sir Henry Thompson on overdoing it--The children's dinner--City lunches--"Ye Olde Cheshyre Cheese"--Doctor Johnson--Ye pudding--A great fall in food--A snipe pudding--Skirt, not rump steak--Lancashire hot-pot--A Cape "brady" 34-43 CHAPTER V LUNCHEON (_continued_) Shooting luncheons--Cold tea and a crust--Clear turtle--Such larks!--Jugged duck and oysters--Woodcock pie--Hunting luncheons--Pie crusts--The true Yorkshire pie--Race-course luncheons--Suggestions to caterers--The "Jolly Sandboys" stew--Various recipes--A race-course sandwich--Angels' pie--"Suffolk pride"--Devilled larks--A light lunch in the Himalayas 44-58 CHAPTER VI DINNER Origin--Early dinners--The noble Romans--"Vitellius the Glutton"--Origin of haggis--The Saxons--Highland hospitality--The French invasion--Waterloo avenged--The bad fairy "_Ala_"--Comparisons--The English cook or the foreign food torturer?--Plain or flowery--Fresh fish and the flavour wrapped up--George Augustus Sala--Doctor Johnson again 59-72 CHAPTER VII DINNER (_continued_) Imitation--Dear Lady Thistlebrain--Try it on the dog--Criminality of the English caterer--The stove, the stink, the steamer--Roasting v. baking--False economy--Dirty ovens--Frills and fingers--Time over dinner--A long-winded Bishop--Corned beef 73-81 CHAPTER VIII DINNER (_continued_) A merry Christmas--Bin F--A _Noel_ banquet--Water-cress--How Royalty fares--The Tsar--_Bouillabaisse_--_Tournedos_--_Bisque_-- _Vol-au-vent_--_Pré salé_--Chinese banquets--A fixed bayonet--_Bernardin Salmi_--The duck-squeezer--American cookery--"Borston" beans--He couldn't eat beef 82-96 CHAPTER IX DINNER (_continued_) French soup--A regimental dinner--A city banquet--_Baksheesh_--Aboard ship--An ideal dinner--Cod's liver--Sleeping in the kitchen--A _fricandeau_--Regimental messes--Peter the Great--Napoleon the Great--Victoria--The Iron Duke--Mushrooms--A medical opinion--A North Pole banquet--Dogs as food--Plain unvarnished fare--The Kent Road cookery--More beans than bacon 97-110 CHAPTER X VEGETABLES Use and abuse of the potato--Its eccentricities--Its origin--Hawkins, not Raleigh, introduced it into England--With or without the "jacket"?--Don't let it be _à-la_-ed--Benevolence and large-heartedness of the cabbage family--Pease on earth--Pythagoras on the bean--"Giving him beans"--"Haricot" a misnomer--"Borston" beans--Frijoles--The carrot--Crécy soup--The Prince of Wales--The Black Prince and the King of Bohemia 111-122 CHAPTER XI VEGETABLES (_continued_) The brief lives of the best--A vegetable with a pedigree-- Argenteuil--The Elysian Fields--The tomato the emblem of love--"Neeps"--Spinach--"Stomach-brush"--The savoury tear-provoker--Invaluable for wasp-stings--Celery merely cultivated "smallage"--The "_Apium_"--The parsnip--O Jerusalem!--The golden sunflower--How to get pheasants--A vegetarian banquet--"Swelling wisibly" 123-133 CHAPTER XII CURRIES Different modes of manufacture--The "native" fraud--"That man's family"--The French _kari_--A Parsee curry--"The oyster in the sauce"--Ingredients--Malay curry--Locusts--When to serve--What to curry--Prawn curry--Dry curry, champion recipe--Rice--The Bombay duck 134-146 CHAPTER XIII SALADS Nebuchadnezzar _v._ Sydney Smith--Salt?--No salad-bowl--French origin--Apocryphal story of Francatelli--Salads _and_ salads--Water-cress and dirty water--Salad-maker born not made--Lobster salad--Lettuce, Wipe or wash?--Mayonnaise--Potato salad--Tomato ditto--Celery ditto--A memorable ditto 147-157 CHAPTER XIV SALADS AND CONDIMENTS Roman salad--Italian ditto--Various other salads--Sauce for cold mutton--Chutnine--Raw chutnee--Horse-radish sauce--Christopher North's sauce--How to serve a mackerel--_Sauce Tartare_--Ditto for sucking pig--Delights of making _Sambal_--A new language 158-169 CHAPTER XV SUPPER Cleopatra's supper--Oysters--Danger in the Aden bivalve--Oyster stew--Ball suppers--Pretty dishes--The _Taj Mahal_--Aspic--Bloater paste and whipped cream--Ladies' recipes--Cookery colleges--Tripe--Smothered in onions--North Riding fashion--An hotel supper--Lord Tomnoddy at the "Magpie and Stump" 170-180 CHAPTER XVI SUPPER (_continued_) Old supper-houses--The Early Closing Act--Evans's--Cremorne Gardens--"The Albion"--Parlour cookery--Kidneys fried in the fire-shovel--The true way to grill a bone--"Cannie Carle"--My lady's bower--Kidney dumplings--A Middleham supper--Steaks cut from a colt by brother to "Strafford" out of sister to "Bird on the Wing" 181-191 CHAPTER XVII "CAMPING OUT" The ups and downs of life--Stirring adventures--Marching on to glory--Shooting in the tropics--Pepper-pot--With the _Rajah Sahib_--Goat-sacrifices at breakfast time--Simla to Cashmere--Manners and customs of Thibet--Burmah--No place to get fat in--Insects--Voracity of the natives--Snakes--Sport in the Jungle--Loaded for snipe, sure to meet tiger--With the gippos--No baked hedgehog--Cheap milk 192-205 CHAPTER XVIII COMPOUND DRINKS Derivation of punch--"Five"--The "milk" brand--The best materials--Various other punches--Bischoff or Bishop--"Halo" punch--Toddy--The toddy tree of India--Flip--A "peg"--John Collins--Out of the guard-room 206-218 CHAPTER XIX CUPS AND CORDIALS Five recipes for claret cup--Balaclava cup--Orgeat--Ascot cup--Stout and champagne--Shandy-gaff for millionaires--Ale cup--Cobblers which will stick to the last--Home Ruler--Cherry brandy--Sloe gin--Home-made, if possible--A new industry--Apricot brandy--Highland cordial--Bitters--Jumping-powder-- Orange brandy--"Mandragora"--"Sleep rock thy brain!" 219-231 CHAPTER XX THE DAYLIGHT DRINK Evil effects of dram-drinking--The "Gin-crawl"--Abstinence in H.M. service--City manners and customs--Useless to argue with the soaker--Cocktails--Pet names for drams--The free lunch system--Fancy mixtures--Why no cassis?--Good advice like water on a duck's back 232-245 CHAPTER XXI GASTRONOMY IN FICTION AND DRAMA Thomas Carlyle--Thackeray--Harrison Ainsworth--Sir Walter Scott--Miss Braddon--Marie Corelli--F. C. Philips--Blackmore--Charles Dickens--_Pickwick_ reeking with alcohol--Brandy and oysters--_Little Dorrit_--_Great Expectations_--Micawber as a punch-maker--_David Copperfield_--"Practicable" food on the stage--"Johnny" Toole's story of Tiny Tim and the goose 246-259 CHAPTER XXII RESTORATIVES William of Normandy--A "head" wind at sea--Beware the druggist--Pick-me-ups of all sorts and conditions--Anchovy toast for the invalid--A small bottle--Straight talks to fanatics--Total abstinence as bad as the other thing--Moderation in all matters--Wisely and slow--_Carpe diem_--But have a thought for the morrow 260-274 CHAPTER I BREAKFAST "The day breaks slow, but e'en must man break-fast." Formal or informal?--An eccentric old gentleman--The ancient Britons--Breakfast in the days of Good Queen Bess--A few tea statistics--"Garraway's"--Something about coffee--Brandy for breakfast--The evolution of the staff of life--Free Trade--The cheap loaf, and no cash to buy it. This is a very serious subject. The first meal of the day has exercised more influence over history than many people may be aware of. It is not easy to preserve an equal mind or keep a stiff upper lip upon an empty stomach; and indigestible food-stuffs have probably lost more battles than sore feet and bad ammunition. It is an incontestable fact that the great Napoleon lost the battles of Borodino and Leipsic through eating too fast. When good digestion waits on appetite, great men are less liable to commit mistakes--and a mistake in a great man is a crime--than when dyspepsia has marked them for her own; and this rule applies to all men. There should be no hurry or formality about breakfast. Your punctual host and hostess may be all very well from their own point of view; but black looks and sarcastic welcomings are an abomination to the guest who may have overslept himself or herself, and who fails to say, "Good-morning" just on the stroke of nine o'clock. Far be it from the author's wish to decry the system of family prayers, although the spectacle of the full strength of the domestic company, from the stern-featured housekeeper, or the chief lady's-maid (the housekeeper is frequently too grand, or too much cumbered with other duties to attend public worship), to the diminutive page-boy, standing all in a row, facing the cups and saucers, is occasionally more provocative of mirth than reverence. But too much law and order about fast-breaking is to be deplored. "I'm not very punctual, I'm afraid, Sir John," I once heard a very charming lady observe to her host, as she took her seat at the table, exactly ten minutes after the line of menials had filed out. "On the contrary, Lady V----" returned the master of the house, with a cast-iron smile, "you are punctual in your unpunctuality; for you have missed prayers by the sixth part of one hour, every morning since you came." Now what should be done to a host like that? In the long ago I was favoured with the acquaintance of an elderly gentleman of property, a most estimable, though eccentric, man. And he invariably breakfasted with his hat on. It did not matter if ladies were present or not. Down he would sit, opposite the ham and eggs--or whatever dish it might chance to be--with a white hat, with mourning band attached, surmounting his fine head. We used to think the presence of the hat was owing to partial baldness; but, as he never wore it at luncheon or dinner, that idea was abandoned. In fact, he pleaded that the hat kept his thoughts in; and as after breakfast he was closeted with his steward, or agent, or stud-groom, or keeper, for several hours, he doubtless let loose some of those thoughts to one or the other. At all events we never saw him again till luncheon, unless there was any hunting or shooting to be done. This same old gentleman once rehearsed his own funeral on the carriage drive outside, and stage-managed the solemn ceremony from his study window. An under-gardener pushed a wheelbarrow, containing a box of choice cuttings, to represent the body; and the butler posed as chief mourner. And when anybody went wrong, or the pall-bearers--six grooms--failed to keep in step, the master would throw up the window-sash, and roar-- "Begin again!" But this is wandering from the subject. Let us try back. Having made wide search amongst old and musty manuscripts, I can find no record of a bill-of-fare of the first meal of the ancient Britons. Our blue forefathers, in all probability, but seldom assisted at any such smart function as a wedding-breakfast, or even a hunting one; for the simple reason that it was a case with them of, "no hunt, no breakfast." Unless one or other had killed the deer, or the wild-boar, or some other living thing to furnish the refection the feast was a Barmecide one, and much as we have heard of the strength and hardiness of our blue forefathers, many of them must have died of sheer starvation. For they had no weapons but clubs, and rough cut flints, with which to kill the beasts of the country--who were, however, occasionally lured into pitfalls; and as to fish, unless they "tickled" them, the denizens of the streams must have had an easy time of it. They had sheep, but these were valuable chiefly on account of their wool; as used to be the case in Australia, ere the tinned meat trade was established. Most of the fruits and vegetables which we enjoy to-day were introduced into Britain by the Romans. Snipe and woodcock and (in the north) grouse may have been bagged, as well as hares. But these poor savages knew not rabbits by sight, nor indeed, much of the feathered fowl which their more favoured descendants are in the habit of shooting, or otherwise destroying, for food. The ancient Britons knew not bacon and eggs, nor the toothsome kipper, nor yet the marmalade of Dundee. As for bread, it was not invented in any shape or form until much later; and its primitive state was a tough paste of flour, water, and (occasionally) milk--something like the "damper" of the Australian bush, or the unleavened _chupati_ which the poorer classes in Hindustan put up with, after baking it, at the present day. The hardy, independent Saxon, had a much better time of it, in the way of meat and drink. But with supper forming the chief meal of the day, his breakfast was a simple, though plentiful one, and consisted chiefly of venison pasty and the flesh of goats, washed down with ale, or mead. "A free breakfast-table of Elizabeth's time," says an old authority, "or even during the more recent reign of Charles II., would contrast oddly with our modern morning meal. There were meats, hot and cold; beef and brawn, and boar's head, the venison pasty, and the _Wardon Pie_ of west country pears. There was hot bread, too, and sundry 'cates' which would now be strange to our eyes. But to wash down these substantial viands there was little save ale. The most delicate lady could procure no more suitable beverage than the blood of John Barleycorn. The most fretful invalid had to be content with a mug of small beer, stirred up with a sprig of rosemary. Wine, hippocras, and metheglin were potations for supper-time, not for breakfast, and beer reigned supreme. None but home productions figured on the board of our ancestors. Not for them were seas traversed, or tropical shores visited, as for us. Yemen and Ceylon, Assam and Cathay, Cuba and Peru, did not send daily tribute to their tables, and the very names of tea and coffee, of cocoa and chocolate, were to them unknown. The dethronement of ale, subsequent on the introduction of these eastern products, is one of the most marked events which have severed the social life of the present day from that of the past." With the exception of the Wardon pie and the "cates," the above bill-of-fare would probably satisfy the cravings of the ordinary "Johnny" of to-day, who has heard the chimes at midnight, and would sooner face a charging tiger than drink tea or coffee with his first meal, which, alas! but too often consists of a hot-pickle sandwich and a "brandy and soda," with not quite all the soda in. But just imagine the fine lady of to-day with a large tankard of Burton ale facing her at the breakfast-table. _Tea_, which is said to have been introduced into China by Djarma, a native of India, about A.D. 500, was not familiar in Europe until the end of the sixteenth century. And it was not until 1657, when Garraway opened a tea-house in Exchange Alley, that Londoners began tea-drinking as an experiment. In 1662 Pepys writes-- "Home, and there find my wife making of tea"--two years before, he called it "tee (a China drink)"--"a drink which Mr. Pelling the Pothicary tells her is good for her cold and defluxions." In 1740 the price of tea ranged from 7s. to 24s. per lb. In 1725, 370,323 lbs. were drunk in England, and in 1890, 194,008,000. In 1840 the duty was 2s. 2¼d. per lb.; in 1858 1s. 5d. per lb.; and in 1890 4d. per lb. The seed of _The Coffee-Tree_, which, when roasted, ground, and mixed with water, and unmixed with horse-beans, dandelion-root, or road-scrapings, forms a most agreeable beverage to those who can digest it, was not known to the Greeks or Romans, but has been used in Abyssinia and along the north-east coast of Africa almost as long as those parts have been populated. Here, in merry England, where coffee was not introduced until the eighteenth century, it was at first used but sparingly, until it almost entirely took the place of chocolate, which was the favoured beverage of the duchesses and fine madams who minced and flirted, and plotted, during the reign of the Merry Monarch, fifty years or so before. The march of knowledge has taught the thrifty housewife of to-day to roast her own coffee, instead of purchasing it in that form from the retail shopkeeper, who, as a rule, under-roasts the berry, in order to "keep the weight in." But do not blame him too freely, for he is occasionally a Poor Law Guardian, and has to "keep pace with the Stores." During the Georgian era, the hard-drinking epoch, breakfast far too often consisted chiefly of French brandy; and the first meal was, in consequence, not altogether a happy or wholesome one, nor conducive to the close study of serious subjects. The history of _The Staff of Life_[1] would require a much larger volume than this, all to itself. That the evolution of bread-making has been very gradual admits of no denial; and as late as the Tudor and Stuart periods the art was still in its infancy. The quality of the bread consumed was a test of social standing. Thus, whilst the _haut monde_, the height of society, lords and dukes, with countesses and dames of high degree, were in the habit of consuming delicate manchets, made of the finest wheaten flour, of snowy purity, the middle classes had to content themselves with white loaves of inferior quality. To the journeyman and the 'prentice (who had to endure, with patience, the buffets of master and mistress) was meted out coarse but wholesome brown bread, made from an admixture of wheat and barley flour; whilst the agricultural labourer staved off starvation with loaves made from rye, occasionally mixed with red wheat or barley. The introduction of _Free Trade_ --by no means an unmixed blessing--has changed all this; and the working-classes, with their wives and families, can, when out of the workhouse, in the intervals between "strikes," enjoy the same quality of bread, that "cheap loaf" which appears on the table of the wicked squire and the all-devouring parson. In Yorkshire, at the present day, almost the worst thing that can be urged against a woman is that she "canna mak' a bit o' bread." "Just look," wrote an enthusiastic Free Trader, a quarter of a century ago, "at the immense change that has latterly taken place in the food of the English peasantry. Rye bread and pease-pudding exchanged for wheaten loaves. A startling change, but not greatly different from what has occurred in France, where, with the abuses of the Bourbon rule, an end was put to the semi-starvation of French tillers of the soil. Black bread is now almost as much a rarity in France as on our side of the Channel; while barley in Wales, oats in Scotland, and the potato in Ireland, are no longer the food-staples that they were." I have no wish for anything of a contentious nature to appear in this volume; but may deliver, with regard to the above, the opinion that pease-pudding is by no means despicable fare, when associated with a boiled leg of pork; and I may add that too many of the English peasantry, nowadays, have been reduced, by this same Free Trade, to a diet of no bread at all, in place of wheaten, or any other loaves. Wedding breakfasts, with the formal speeches, and cutting of the cake, have gone out of fashion, and the subject of the British breakfast of to-day demands a new chapter. CHAPTER II BREAKFAST (_continued_) "Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table." Country-house life--An Englishwoman at her best--Guests' comforts--What to eat at the first meal--A few choice recipes--A noble grill-sauce--The poor outcast--Appetising dishes--Hotel "worries"--The old regime and the new--"No cheques"; no soles, and "whitings is hoff"--A halibut steak--Skilly and oakum--Breakfast out of the rates. By far the pleasantest meal of the day at a large country-house is breakfast. You will be staying there, most likely, an you be a man, for hunting or shooting--it being one of the eccentric dispensations of the great goddess Fashion that country-houses should be guestless, and often ownerless, during that season of the year when nature looks at her loveliest. An you be a woman, you will be staying there for the especial benefit of your daughter; for flirting--or for the more serious purpose of riveting the fetters of the fervid youth who may have been taken captive during the London season--for romping, and probably shooting and hunting, too; for lovely woman up-to-date takes but little account of such frivolities as Berlin wool-work, piano-practice, or drives, well wrapped-up, in a close carriage, to pay calls with her hostess. As for going out with the "guns," or meeting the sterner sex at luncheon in the keeper's cottage, or the specially-erected pavilion, the darlings are not content, nowadays, unless they can use dapper little breech-loaders, specially made for them, and some of them are far from bad shots. Yes, 'tis a pleasant function, breakfast at the Castle, the Park, or the Grange. But, as observed in the last chapter, there must be no undue punctuality, no black looks at late arrivals, no sarcastic allusions to late hours, nor inane chaff from the other guests about the wine cup or the whisky cup, which may have been drained in the smoking-room, during the small hours. Her ladyship looks divine, or at all events regal, as she presides at what our American cousins would call the "business end" of the long table, whilst our host, a healthy, jolly-looking, "hard-bitten" man of fifty, faces her. His bright keen eye denotes the sportsman, and he can shoot as straight as ever, whilst no fence is too high, too wide, nor too deep for him. Sprinkled about, at either side of the table, amongst the red and black coats, or shooting jackets of varied hues--with a vacancy here and there, for "Algie" and "Bill," and the "Angel," who have not yet put in appearance--are smart, fresh-looking women, young, and "well-preserved," and matronly, some in tailor-made frocks, and some in the silks and velvets suited for those of riper age, and some in exquisitely-fitting habits. It is at the breakfast-table that the Englishwoman can defy all foreign competition; and you are inclined to frown, or even say things under your breath, when that mincing, wicked-looking little _Marquise_, all frills, and ribbons, and lace, and smiles, and Ess Bouquet, in the latest creation of the first man-milliner of Paris, trips into the room in slippers two sizes too small for her, and salutes the company at large in broken English. For the contrast is somewhat trying, and you wonder why on earth some women _will_ smother themselves with scents and _cosmetiques_, and raddle their cheeks and wear diamonds so early in the morning; and you lose all sense of the undoubted fascination of the Marquise in speculating as to what manner of "strong woman" her _femme de chambre_ must be who can compress a 22-inch waist into an 18-inch corset. There should, of course, be separate tea and coffee equipments for most of the guests--at all events for the sluggards. The massive silver urn certainly lends a tone to the breakfast-table, and looks "comfortable-like." But it would be criminally cruel to satisfy the thirst of the multitude out of the same tea-pot or coffee-pot; and the sluggard will not love his hostess if she pours forth "husband's tea," merely because he _is_ a sluggard. And remember that the hand which has held two by honours, or a "straight flush" the night before, is occasionally too shaky to pass tea-cups. No. Do not spare your servants, my lord, or my lady. Your guests must be "well done," or they will miss your "rocketing" pheasants, or fail to go fast enough at that brook with the rotten banks. "The English," said an eminent alien, "have only one sauce." This is a scandalous libel; but as it was said a long time ago it doesn't matter. It would be much truer to say that the English have only one breakfast-dish, and its name is _Eggs and Bacon_. Pardon, I should have written two; and the second is ham and eggs. A new-laid egg--poached, _not_ fried, an ye love me, O Betsy, best of cooks--and a rasher of home-cured hog are both excellent things in their way; but, like a partridge, a mother-in-law, and a baby, it is quite possible to have too much of them. The English hostess--I do not refer to the typical "her ladyship," of whom I have written above, but to the average hostess--certainly launches out occasionally in the direction of assorted fish, kidneys, sausages, and chops, but the staple food upon which we are asked to break our fast is, undoubtedly, eggs and bacon. The great question of what to eat at the first meal depends greatly upon whether you sit down to it directly you emerge from your bedroom, or whether you have indulged in any sort of exercise in the interim. After two or three hours "amateur touting" on such a place as Newmarket Heath, the sportsman is ready for any sort of food, from a dish of liver and bacon to a good, thick fat chop, or an underdone steak. I have even attacked cold stewed eels (!) upon an occasion when the pangs of hunger would have justified my eating the tom-cat, and the landlady as well. But chops and steaks are not to be commended to furnish forth the ordinary breakfast-table. I am coming to the hotel breakfast presently, so will say nothing about fried fish just yet. But here follows a list of a few of what may be called _Allowable Breakfast Dishes_ Mushrooms (done plainly in front of the fire), sausages (toasted), scrambled eggs on toast, curried eggs, fish balls, kidneys, savoury omelette. Porridge may be useful for growing boys and briefless barristers, but this chapter is not written solely in their interests. Above all, do not, oh! do not, forget the grill, or broil. This should be the feature of the breakfast. Such simple recipes as those for the manufacture of fish balls or omelettes or curried eggs--though I shall have plenty to say about curries later on--need not be given here; but the following, for a grill-sauce, will be found invaluable, especially for the "sluggard." _Gubbins Sauce_ The legs and wings of fowl, turkey, pheasant, partridge, or moor-hen should only be used. Have these scored across with a sharp knife, and divided at the joints. And when your grill is taken, "hot as hot," but _not burnt_, from the fire, have poured over it the following sauce. Be very particular that your cook pours it over the grill just before it is served up. And it is of the most vital importance that the sauce should be made, and well mixed, on a plate _over hot water_--for instance, a slop-basin should be filled with boiling water and a plate placed atop. Melt on the plate a lump of butter the size of a large walnut. Stir into it, when melted, two teaspoonfuls of made mustard, then a dessert-spoonful of vinegar, half that quantity of tarragon vinegar, and a tablespoonful of cream--Devonshire or English. Season with salt, black pepper, and cayenne, according to the (presumed) tastes and requirements of the breakfasters. Let your sideboard--it is assumed that you have a sideboard--sigh and lament its hard lot, under its load of cold joints, game, and pies,--I am still harping on the country-house; and if you have a York ham in cut, it should be flanked by a Westphalian ditto. For the blend is a good one. And remember that no York ham under 20 lb. in weight is worth cutting. You need not put it all on the board at once. A capital adjunct to the breakfast-table, too, is a reindeer's tongue, which, as you see it hung up in the shops, looks more like a policeman's truncheon in active employment than anything else; but when well soaked and then properly treated in the boiling, is very tasty, and will melt like marrow in the mouth. A simple, excellent August breakfast can be made from a dish of freshly-caught trout, the legs and back of a cold grouse, which has been roasted, _not_ baked, and _A Large Peach_. But what of the wretched bachelor, as he enters his one sitting-room, in his humble lodging? He may have heard the chimes at midnight, in some gay and festive quarter, or, like some other wretched bachelors, he may have been engaged in the composition of romances for some exacting editor, until the smallish hours. Poor outcast! what sort of appetite will he have for the rusty rasher, or the shop egg, the smoked haddock, or the "Billingsgate pheasant," which his landlady will presently send up, together with her little account, for his refection? Well, here is a much more tasty dish than any of the above; and if he be "square" with Mrs. Bangham, that lady will possibly not object to her "gal" cooking the different ingredients before she starts at the wash-tub. But let not the wretched bachelor suffer the "gal" to mix them. I first met this dish in Calcutta during the two months of (alleged) cold weather which prevail during the year. _Calcutta Jumble._ A few fried fillets of white fish (sole, or plaice--sole for choice), placed on the top of some boiled rice, in a soup plate. Pour over them the yolks of two _boiled_ eggs, and mix in one green chili, chopped fine. Salt to taste. "Another way:" Mix with the rice the following ingredients:-- The yolks of two _raw_ eggs, one tablespoonful anchovy sauce, one _small_ teaspoonful curry powder (raw), a sprinkling of cayenne, a little salt, and one green chili chopped fine. Each ingredient to be added separately, and the eggs and curry powder to be stirred into the rice with a fork. Fillets of sole to be served atop. How many cooks in this England of ours can cook rice properly? Without pausing for a reply, I append the recipe, which should be pasted on the wall of every kitchen. The many cookery books which I have read give elaborate directions for the performance, of what is a very simple duty. Here it is, in a few lines-- _To cook Rice for Curry, etc._ Soak a sufficiency of rice in cold water for two hours. Strain through a sieve, and pop the rice into _boiling_ water. Let it boil--"gallop" is, I believe, the word used in most kitchens--for not quite ten minutes (or until the rice is tender), then strain off the water through a sieve, and dash a little _cold_ water over the rice, to separate the grains. Here is another most appetising breakfast dish for the springtime-- _Asparagus with Eggs_. Cut up two dozen (or so) heads of cooked asparagus into small pieces, and mix in a stewpan with the well-beaten yolks of two raw eggs. Flavour with pepper and salt, and stir freely. Add a piece of butter the size of a walnut (one of these should be kept in every kitchen as a pattern), and keep on stirring for a couple of minutes or so. Serve on delicately-toasted bread. _An Hotel Breakfast._ What memories do these words conjure up of a snug coffee-room, hung with hunting prints, and portraits of Derby winners, and churches, and well-hung game; with its oak panellings, easy arm-chairs, blazing fire, snowy naperies, and bright silver. The cheery host, with well-lined paunch, and fat, wheezy voice, which wishes you good-morning, and hopes you have passed a comfortable night between the lavender-scented sheets. The fatherly interest which "William," the grey-headed waiter, takes in you--stranger or _habitué_--and the more than fatherly interest which you take in the good cheer, from home-made "sassingers" to new-laid eggs, and heather honey, not forgetting a slice out of the mammoth York ham, beneath whose weight the old sideboard absolutely grunts. Heigho! we, or they, have changed all that. The poet who found his "warmest welcome in an inn" was, naturally enough, writing of his own time. I don't like fault-finding, but must needs declare that the "warmest" part of an inn welcome to be found nowadays is the bill. As long as you pay it (or have plenty of luggage to leave behind in default), and make yourself agreeable to the fair and haughty bookkeeper (if it's a "she") who allots you your bedroom, and bullies the page-boy, nobody in the modern inn cares particularly what becomes of you. You lose your individuality, and become "Number 325." Instead of welcome, distrust lurks, large, on the very threshold. "_No Cheques Accepted_" is frequently the first announcement to catch the eye of the incoming guest; and although you cannot help admiring the marble pillars, the oak carving, the gilding, the mirrors, and the electric light, an uncomfortable feeling comes over you at meal times, to the effect that the cost of the decorations, or much of it, is taken out of the food. "Waiter," you ask, as soon as your eyes and ears get accustomed to the incessant bustle of the coffee-room, and your nostrils to the savour of last night's soup, "what can I have for breakfast?" "What would you like, sir?" "I should like a grilled sole, to begin with." "Very sorry, sir, soles is hoff--get you a nice chop or steak." "Can't manage either so early in the day. Got any whitings?" "Afraid we're out of whitings, sir, but I'll see." Eventually, after suggesting sundry delicacies, all of which are either "hoff," or unknown to the waiter, you settle down to the consumption of two fried and shrivelled shop eggs, on an island of Chicago ham, floating in an Ægean Sea of grease and hot water; whilst a half quartern loaf, a cruet-stand the size of a cathedral, a rackful of toast of the "Zebra" brand, and about two gallons of (alleged) coffee, are dumped down in succession in front of you. There are, of course, some hostelries where they "do" you better than this, but my experience of hotel breakfasts at this end of the nineteenth century has not been encouraging, either to appetite or temper; and I do vow and protest that the above picture is not too highly coloured. The toothsome, necessary bloater is not often to be met with on the hotel's bill-of-fare; but, if soft roed--use no other--it will repay perusal. Toast it in a Dutch oven in front of a clear fire, and just before done split it up the back, and put a piece of butter on it. The roe should be well plumped, and of the consistency of Devonshire cream. A grilled sole for breakfast is preferable to a fried one, principally because it is by no means impossible that the fried sole be second-hand, or as the French call it _réchauffé_. And why, unless directions to the contrary be given, is the modest whiting invariably placed, tail in mouth, on the frying pan? A grilled whiting--assassinate your cook if she (or he) scorches it--is one of the noblest works of the kitchen, and its exterior should be of a golden brown colour. Do not forget to order sausages for breakfast if you are staying at Newmarket; there is less bread in them than in the Metropolitan brand. And when in Lincoln attempt a _Halibut Steak_, of which you may not have previously heard. The halibut should, previous to grilling or frying _in salad oil_, be placed on a shallow dish and sprinkled with salt. Then the dish should be half filled with water, which must not cover the salt. Leave the fish to soak for an hour, then cut into slices, nearly an inch thick, without removing the skin. Sprinkle some lemon juice and cayenne over the steaks before serving. If you wish to preserve an even mind, and be at peace with the world, a visit to _The Hotel Parish_ is not to be recommended. The Irish stew at dinner is not bad in its way, though coarse, and too liberally endowed with fat. But the breakfasts! Boiled oatmeal and water, with salt in the mess, and a chunk of stale brown bread to eat therewith, do not constitute an altogether satisfactory meal, the first thing in the morning; and it is hardly calculated to inspire him with much pride in his work, when the guest is placed subsequently before his "task" of unbroken flints or tarred rope. CHAPTER III BREAKFAST (_continued_) "There's nought in the Highlands but syboes and leeks, And lang-leggit callants gaun wanting the breeks." Bonnie Scotland--Parritch an' cream--Fin'an haddies--A knife on the ocean wave--_À la Français_--In the gorgeous East--_Chota hazri_--English as she is spoke--Dâk bungalow fare--Some quaint dishes--Breakfast with "my tutor"--A Don's absence of mind. For a "warm welcome" commend me to Bonnie Scotland. Though hard of head and "sae fu' o' learning" that they are "owre deeficult to conveence, ye ken," these rugged Caledonians be tender of heart, and philanthropic to a degree. Hech, sirs! but 'tis the braw time ye'll hae, gin ye trapese the Highlands, an' the Lowlands as well for the matter o' that--in search o' guid refreshment for body an' soul. Even that surly lexicographer, Doctor Samuel Johnson (who, by the way, claimed the same city for his birthplace as does the writer), who could not be induced to recognise the merits of Scotch scenery, and preferred Fleet Street to the Trossachs, extolled the luxury of a Scotch breakfast above that of all other countries. And Sir Walter Scott, who never enthused much about meat and drink, is responsible in _Waverley_ for a passage calculated to make the mouths of most people water: "He found Miss Bradwardine presiding over the tea and coffee, the table loaded with warm bread, both of flour, oatmeal, and barley meal, in the shape of loaves, cakes, biscuits, and other varieties, together with eggs, reindeer ham, mutton and beef ditto, smoked salmon, and many other delicacies. A mess of oatmeal porridge, flanked by a silver jug which held an equal mixture of cream and buttermilk, was placed for the Baron's share of the repast." "And," as Mr. Samuel Weller would have observed, "a wery good idea of a breakfast, too." A beef-ham sounds like a "large order" for breakfast, even when we come to consider that the Scotch "beastie," in Sir Walter Scott's time, was wanting in "beam" and stature. I have seen and partaken of a ham cut from a Yorkshire pig, and weighing 52 lbs.; but even a Scotch beef-ham must have topped that weight considerably. Fortunately the sideboards of those times were substantial of build. Missing from the above bill-of-fare is the haddock, _The Fin'an Haddie_, a bird which at that period had probably not been invented. But the modern Scottish breakfast-table is not properly furnished without it. The genuine "Fin'an" is known by its appetising savour and by its colour--a creamy yellow, which is totally distinct from the Vandyke browny hue of the haddock which is creosoted in the neighbourhood of the Blackfriars Road, London, S.E. "Strip off the skin," says the recipe in one cookery book, "and broil before the fire or over a quick clear one." Another way--_my_ way--is _not_ to strip off the skin and to _steam_ your haddies. Place them in a dish which has been previously heated. Throw boiling water on them, and cover closely with a plate; place on a hot stove, and in from 10 to 15 minutes the Fin'ans will be accomplished. Drain, and serve hot as hot, buttered, with a sprinkling of cayenne, and, maybe, a dash of Worcester sauce. Salmon is naturally a welcome guest at the table of the land of his birth, served fresh when in season, and smoked or kippered at all times. _A Salmon Steak_ with the "curd" between the flakes, placed within a coat of virgin-white paper (oiled) and grilled for 15 minutes or so, is an excellent breakfast dish. A fry of small troutlets, a ditto of the deer's interior economy--_Mem._ When up at the death of a hunted stag, always beg or annex a portion of his liver--are also common dishes at the first meal served by the "gudewife"; and I once met a cold haggis at 9.30 A.M. But this, I rather fancy, was "a wee bit joke" at my expense. Anyhow I shall have plenty to say about the "great chieftain o' the puddin' race" in a later chapter. _Off to Gold-land!_ Those that go down to the sea in ships, and can summon up sufficient presence of mind to go down to the saloon at meal times, have far from a bad time of it. Living was certainly better on the ocean wave in the days when livestock was kept on board, and slaughtered as required; for the effect of keeping beef, pork, and mutton in a refrigerating chamber for any length of time is to destroy the flavour, and to render beef indistinguishable from the flesh of the hog, and mutton as tasteless as infantine pap. But the ship's galley does its little utmost; and the saloon passenger, on his way to the other side of the equator, may regale himself with such a breakfast as the following, which is taken from the steward's book of a vessel belonging to the Union Line:-- Porridge, fillets of haddock with fine herbs, mutton chops and chip potatoes, savoury omelet, bacon on toast, minced collops, curry and rice, fruit, rolls, toast, etc., tea and coffee. Cannot my readers imagine a steward entering the state-room of the voyager who has succumbed to the wiles and eccentricities of the Bay of Biscay, with the observation: "Won't you get up to breakfast, sir?--I've reserved a _beautiful_ fat chop, with chips, o' purpose for you, sir." And the lot of the third-class passenger who is conveyed from his native land to the Cape of Good Hope, for what Mr. Montague Tigg would have called "the ridiculous sum of" £16: 16s., is no such hard one, seeing that he is allotted a "bunk" in a compact, though comfortable cabin, and may break his fast on the following substantial meal:-- Porridge, Yarmouth bloaters, potatoes, American hash, grilled mutton, bread and butter, tea or coffee. An American breakfast is as variegated (and I fear I must add, as indigestible) as a Scotch one; and included in the bill of fare are as many, or more, varieties of bread and cake as are to be found in the land o' shortbread. The writer has, in New York, started the morning meal with oysters, run the gamut of fish, flesh, and fowl, and wound up with buckwheat cakes, which are brought on in relays, buttered and smoking hot, and can be eaten with or without golden syrup. But, as business begins early in New York and other large cities, scant attention is paid to the first meal by the merchant and the speculator, who are wont to "gallop" through breakfast and luncheon, and to put in their "best work" at dinner. _A Mediterranean Breakfast_ is not lacking in poetry; and the jaded denizen of Malta can enjoy red mullet (the "woodcock of the sea") freshly taken from the tideless ocean, and strawberries in perfection, at his first meal, whilst seated, maybe, next to some dreamy-eyed _houri_, who coos soft nothings into his ear, at intervals. The wines of Italy go best with this sort of repast, which is generally eaten with "spoons." In fair France, breakfast, or the _déjeûner à la fourchette_, is not served until noon, or thereabouts. Coffee or chocolate, with fancy bread and butter, is on hand as soon as you wake; and I have heard that for the roisterer and the _p'tit crevé_ there be such liquors as _cognac_, _curaçoa_, and _chartreuse verte_ provided at the first meal, so that nerves can be strung together and headaches alleviated before the "associated" breakfast at midday. In the country, at the _château_ of _Monsieur et Madame_, the groom-of-the-chambers, or _maître d'hôtel_, as he is designated, knocks at your bedroom door at about 8.30. "Who's there?" "Good-morning, _M'sieu_. Will _M'sieu_ partake of the _chocolat_, or of the _café-au-lait_, or of the tea?" Upon ordinary occasions, _M'sieu_ will partake of the _chocolat_--if he be of French extraction; whilst the English visitor will partake of the _café-au-lait_--tea-making in France being still in its infancy. And if _M'sieu_ has gazed too long on the wine of the country, overnight, he will occasionally--reprobate that he is--partake instead of the _vieux cognac_, diluted from the syphon. And _M'sieu_ never sees his host or hostess till the "assembly" sounds for the midday meal. I have alluded, just above, to French tea-making. There was a time when tea, with our lively neighbours, was as scarce a commodity as snakes in Iceland or rum punch in Holloway Castle. Then the thin end of the wedge was introduced, and the English visitor was invited to partake of a cup of what was called (by courtesy) _thé_, which had been concocted expressly for her or him. And tea _à la Française_ used to be made somewhat after this fashion. The cup was half-filled with milk, sugar _à discrétion_ being added. A little silver sieve was next placed over the cup, and from a jug sufficient hot water, in which had been previously left to soak some half-dozen leaf-fragments of green tea, to fill the cup, was poured forth. In fact the visitor was invited to drink a very nasty compound indeed, something like the "wish" tea with which the school-mistress used to regale her victims--milk and water, and "wish-you-may-get" tea! But they have changed all that across the Channel, and five o'clock tea is one of the most fashionable functions of the day, with the _beau monde_; a favourite invitation of the society _belle_ of the _fin de siècle_ being: "_Voulex-vous fivoclocquer avec moi?_" The _déjeûner_ usually begins with a _consommé_, a thin, clear, soup, not quite adapted to stave off the pangs of hunger by itself, but grateful enough by way of a commencement. Then follows an array of dishes containing fish and fowl of sorts, with the inevitable _côtelettes à la_ somebody-or-other, not forgetting an _omelette_--a mess which the French cook alone knows how to concoct to perfection. The meal is usually washed down with some sort of claret; and a subsequent _café_, with the accustomed _chasse_; whilst the welcome _cigarette_ is not "defended," even in the mansions of the great. There is more than one way of making coffee, that of the lodging-house "general," and of the street-stall dispenser, during the small hours, being amongst the least commendable. Without posing as an infallible manufacturer of the refreshing (though indigestible, to many people) beverage, I would urge that it be made from freshly-roasted seed, ground just before wanted. Then heat the ground coffee in the oven, and place upon the perforated bottom of the upper compartment of a _cafetière_, put the strainer on it, and pour in boiling water, gradually. "The Duke" in _Geneviève de Brabant_ used to warble as part of a song in praise of tea-- And 'tis also most important That you should not spare the tea. So is it of equal importance that you should not spare the coffee. There are more elaborate ways of making coffee; but none that the writer has tried are in front of the old _cafetière_, if the simple directions given above be carried out in their entirety. As in France, sojourners (for their sins) in the burning plains of Ind have their first breakfast, or _chota hazri_, at an early hour, whilst the breakfast proper--usually described in Lower Bengal, Madras, and Bombay as "tiffin"--comes later on. For _Chota Hazri_ (literally "little breakfast")--which is served either at the Mess-house, the public Bath, or in one's own bungalow, beneath the verandah--poached eggs on toast are _de rigueur_, whilst I have met such additions as _unda ishcamble_ (scrambled eggs), potato cake, and (naughty, naughty!) anchovy toast. Tea or coffee are always drunk with this meal. "Always," have I written? Alas! In my mind's eye I can see the poor Indian vainly trying to stop the too-free flow of the _Belati pani_ (literally "Europe water") by thrusting a dusky thumb into the neck of the just-opened bottle, and in my mind's ear can I catch the blasphemous observation of the subaltern as he remarks to his slave that he does not require, in his morning's "livener," the additional flavour of Mahommedan flesh, and the "hubble-bubble" pipe, the tobacco in which may have been stirred by the same thumb that morning. "Coffee shop" is a favourite function, during the march of a regiment in India, at least it used to be in the olden time, before troops were conveyed by railway. _Dhoolies_ (roughly made palanquins) laden with meat and drink were sent on half way, overnight; and grateful indeed was the cup of tea, or coffee, or the "peg" which was poured forth for the weary warrior who had been "tramping it" or in the saddle since 2 A.M. or some such unearthly hour, in order that the column might reach the new camping-ground before the sun was high in the heavens. It was at "coffee-shop" that "chaff" reigned supreme, and speculations as to what the shooting would be like at the next place were indulged in. And when that shooting was likely to take the form of long men, armed with long guns, and long knives, the viands, which consisted for the most part of toast, biscuits, poached eggs, and _unda bakum_ (eggs and bacon), were devoured with appetites all the keener for the prospect in view. It is in troublous times, be it further observed, that the Hindustan _khit_ is seen at his best. On the field of battle itself I have known coffee and boiled eggs--or even a grilled fowl--produced by the fearless and devoted _nokhur_, from, apparently, nowhere at all. At the Indian breakfast proper, all sorts of viands are consumed; from the curried prawns and Europe provisions (which arrive in an hermetically sealed condition per s.s. _Nomattawot_), to the rooster who heralds your arrival at the _dak_ bungalow, with much crowing, and who within half an hour of your advent has been successively chased into a corner, beheaded, plucked, and served up for your refection in a scorched state. I have breakfasted off such assorted food as curried locusts, boiled leg of mutton, fried snipe, Europe sausages, _Iron ishtoo_ (Irish stew), _vilolif_ (veal olives, and more correctly a dinner dish), kidney toast--chopped sheep's kidneys, highly seasoned with pepper, lime-juice, and Worcester sauce, very appetising--parrot pie, eggs and bacon, omelette (which might also have been used to patch ammunition boots with), sardines, fried fish (mind the bones of the Asiatic fish), _bifishtake_ (beef steak), goat chops, curries of all sorts, hashed venison, and roast peafowl, ditto quail, ditto pretty nearly everything that flies, cold buffalo hump, grilled sheep's tail (a bit bilious), hermetically-sealed herring, turtle fins, Guava jelly, preserved mango, home-made cake, and many other things which have escaped memory. I am coming to the "curry" part of the entertainment later on in the volume, but may remark that it is preferable when eaten in the middle of the day. My own experience was that few people touched curry when served in its normal place at dinner--as a course of itself--just before the sweets. "Breakfast with my tutor!" What happy memories of boyhood do not the words conjure up, of the usually stern, unbending preceptor pouring out the coffee, and helping the sausages and mashed potatoes--we always had what is now known as "saus and mash" at my tutor's--and the fatherly air with which he would remind the juvenile glutton, who had seated himself just opposite the apricot jam, and was improving the occasion, that eleven o'clock school would be in full swing in half an hour, and that the brain (and, by process of reasoning, the stomach) could not be in too good working-order for the fervid young student of Herodotus. The ordinary breakfast of the "lower boy" at Eton used to be of a very uncertain pattern. Indeed, what with "fagging," the preparation of his lord-and-master's breakfast, the preparation of "pupil-room" work, and agile and acute scouts ever on the alert to pilfer his roll and pat of butter, that boy was lucky if he got any breakfast at all. If he possessed capital, or credit, he might certainly stave off starvation at "Brown's," with buttered buns and pickled salmon; or at "Webber's," or "the Wall," with three-cornered jam tarts, or a "strawberry mess"; but Smith _minor_, and Jones _minimus_ as often as not, went breakfastless to second school. At the University, breakfast with "the Head" or any other "Don" was a rather solemn function. The table well and plentifully laid, and the host hospitality itself, but occasionally, nay, frequently, occupied with other thoughts. A departed friend used to tell a story of a breakfast of this description. He was shaken warmly by the hand by his host, who afterwards lapsed into silence. My friend, to "force the running," ventured on the observation-- "It's a remarkably fine morning, sir, is it not?" No reply came. In fact, the great man's thoughts were so preoccupied with Greek roots, and other defunct horrors, that he spoke not a word during breakfast. But when, an hour or so afterwards, the time came for his guest to take leave, the "Head" shook him by the hand warmly once more, and remarked abstractedly-- "D'you know, Mr. Johnson, I don't think that was a particularly original remark of yours?" CHAPTER IV LUNCHEON "'Tis a custom More honoured in the breach than the observance." Why lunch?--Sir Henry Thompson on overdoing it--The children's dinner--City lunches--Ye Olde Cheshyre Cheese--Doctor Johnson--Ye pudding--A great fall in food--A snipe pudding--Skirt, not rump steak--Lancashire hot pot--A Cape "brady." "'More honoured in the breach,' do you say, Mr. Author?" I fancy I hear some reader inquire. "Are these your sentiments? Do you really mean them?" Well, perhaps, they ought to be qualified. Unless a man breakfast very early, and dine very late, he cannot do himself much good by eating a square meal at 1.30 or 2.0 P.M. There can be no question but that whilst thousands of the lieges--despite soup-kitchens, workhouses, and gaols--perish of absolute starvation, as many of their more fortunate brethren perish, in the course of time, from gluttony, from falling down (sometimes literally) and worshipping the Belly-god. Years ago Sir Henry Thompson observed to a friend of the writer's: "Most men who seek my advice are suffering under one of two great evils--eating too much good food, or drinking too much bad liquor; and occasionally they suffer under both evils." "This luncheon," writes Oliver Wendell Holmes, "is a very convenient affair; it does not require any special dress; it is informal; and can be light or heavy as one chooses." The American--the male American at all events--takes far more count of luncheon than of breakfast. But in many cases luncheon and early dinner are synonymous terms. Take the family luncheon, for instance, of the middle classes, where mother, governess, and little ones all assemble in front of the roast and boiled, at the principal meal of the day, and the more or less snowy tablecloth is duly anointed with gravy by "poor baby," in her high chair, and the youngest but one is slapped at intervals by his instructress, for using his knife for the peas--at the risk of enlarging his mouth--or for swallowing the stones of the cherries which have been dealt him, or her, from the tart. This is not the sort of meal for the male friend of the family to "drop in" at, if he value the lapels of his new frock-coat, and be given to blushing. For children have not only an evil habit of "pawing" the visitor with jammy fingers, but occasionally narrate somewhat "risky" anecdotes. And a child's ideas of the Christian religion, nay, of the Creator himself, are occasionally more quaint than reverent. "Ma, dear," once lisped a sweet little thing of six, "what doth God have for hith dinner?" "S-sh-sh, my child!" replied the horrified mother, "you must not ask such dreadful questions. God doesn't want any dinner, remember that." "Oh-h-h!" continued the unabashed and dissatisfied _enfant terrible_. And, after a pause, "then I thuppose he hath an egg with hith tea." In a country-house, of course, but few of the male guests turn up at the domestic luncheon, being otherwise engaged in killing something, or in trying to kill something, or in that sport which is but partially understood out of Great Britain--the pursuit of an evil-savoured animal who is practically worthless to civilisation after his capture and death. It is in "the City" that vile man, perhaps, puts in his best work as an eater of luncheons. Some city men there be, of course--poor, wretched, half-starved clerks, whose state nobody ever seems to attempt to ameliorate--whose midday refections are not such as would have earned a meed of commendation from the late Vitellius, or from the late Colonel North. For said refections but seldom consist of more important items than a thick slice of bread and a stale bloater; or possibly a home-made sandwich of bread and Dutch cheese--the whole washed down with a tumbler of milk, or more often a tumbler of the fluid supplied by the New River Company. During the winter months a pennyworth of roasted chestnuts supplies a filling, though indigestible meal to many a man whose employer is swilling turtle at Birch's or at the big house in Leadenhall Street, and who is compelled, by the exigencies of custom, to wear a decent black coat and some sort of tall hat when on his way to and from "business." But the more fortunate citizens--how do they "do themselves" at luncheon? For some there is the cheap soup-house, or the chop-and-steak house reviled of Dickens, and but little changed since the time of the great novelist. Then, for the "gilt-edged" division there is _Birch's_, the little green house which, although now "run" by those eminent caterers, Messrs. Ring and Brymer, is still known by the name of the old Alderman who deserved so well of his fellow citizens, and who, whilst a _cordon bleu_ of some celebrity, had also a pretty taste as a playwright. The old house has not changed one jot, either in appearance, customs, or fare. At the little counter on the ground floor may be obtained the same cheesecakes, tartlets, baked custards, and calf's-foot jellies which delighted our grandfathers, and the same brand of Scottish whisky. Upstairs, in the soup-rooms, some of the tables are covered with damask tablecloths, whilst at others a small square of napery but partially obscures the view of the well-polished mahogany. _Turtle Soup_ is still served on silver plates, whilst the cheaper juices of the bullock, the calf, and the pea, "with the usual trimmings," repose temporarily on china or earthenware. _Pâtés_, whether of oyster, lobster, chicken, or veal-and-ham, are still in favour with _habitué_ and chance customer alike, and no wonder, for these are something like _pâtés_. The "filling" is kept hot like the soups, in huge stewpans, on the range, and when required is ladled out into a plate, and furnished with top and bottom crust--and such crust, flaky and light to a degree; and how different to the confectioner's or railway-refreshment _pâté_, which, when an orifice be made in the covering with a pickaxe, reveals nothing more appetising than what appear to be four small cubes of frost-bitten india-rubber, with a portion or two of candle end. A more advanced meal is served in Leadenhall Street, at "_The Ship and Turtle_," said to be the oldest tavern in London, and which has been more than once swept and garnished, and reformed altogether, since its establishment during the reign of King Richard II. But they could have known but little about the superior advantages offered by the turtle as a life-sustainer, in those days; whereas at the present day some hundreds of the succulent reptiles die the death on the premises, within a month, in order that city companies, and stockbrokers, and merchants of sorts, and mining millionaires, and bicycle makers, and other estimable people, may dine and lunch. Then there are the numerous clubs, not forgetting one almost at the very door of "The House," where the 2000 odd (some of them _very_ odd) members are regaled on the fat of the land in general, and of the turtle in particular, day by day; and that mammoth underground palace the "Palmerston," where any kind of banquet can be served up at a few minutes' notice, and where "special Greek dishes" are provided for the gamblers in wheat and other cereals, at the adjacent "Baltic." There be also other eating-houses, far too numerous to mention, but most of them worth a visit. A "filling" sort of luncheon is a portion of a _Cheshire Cheese Pudding_. A little way up a gloomy court on the north side of Fleet Street--a neighbourhood which reeks of printers' ink, bookmakers' "runners," tipsters, habitual borrowers of small pieces of silver, and that "warm" smell of burning paste and molten lead which indicates the "foundry" in a printing works--is situated this ancient hostelry. It is claimed for the "Cheese" that it was the tavern most frequented by Dr. Samuel Johnson. Mr. C. Redding, in his _Fifty Years' Recollections, Literary and Personal_, published in 1858, says: "I often dined at the "_Cheshire Cheese_." Johnson and his friends, I was informed, used to do the same, and I was told I should see individuals who had met them there. This I found to be correct. The company was more select than in later times, but there are Fleet Street tradesmen who well remembered both Johnson and Goldsmith in this place of entertainment." Few Americans who visit our metropolis go away without making a pilgrimage to this ancient hostelry, where, upstairs, "Doctor Johnson's Chair" is on view; and many visitors carry away mementoes of the house, in the shape of pewter measures, the oaken platters upon which these are placed, and even samples of the long "churchwarden" pipes, smoked by _habitués_ after their evening chops or steaks. _Ye Pudding_, which is served on Wednesdays and Saturdays, at 1.30 and 6.0, is a formidable-looking object, and its savour reaches even into the uttermost parts of Great Grub Street. As large, more or less, as the dome of St. Paul's, that pudding is stuffed with steak, kidney, oysters, mushrooms, and larks. The irreverent call these last named sparrows, but we know better. This pudding takes (_on dit_) 17½ hours in the boiling, and the "bottom crust" would have delighted the hearts of Johnson, Boswell, and Co., in whose days the savoury dish was not. The writer once witnessed a catastrophe at the "Cheshire Cheese," compared to which the burning of Moscow or the bombardment of Alexandria were mere trifles. 1.30 on Saturday afternoon had arrived, and the oaken benches in the refectory were filled to repletion with expectant pudding-eaters. Burgesses of the City of London were there--good, "warm," round-bellied men, with plough-boys' appetites--and journalists, and advertising agents, and "resting" actors, and magistrates' clerks, and barristers from the Temple, and well-to-do tradesmen. Sherry and gin and bitters and other adventitious aids (?) to appetite had been done justice to, and the arrival of the "procession"--it takes three men and a boy to carry the _pièce de résistance_ from the kitchen to the dining-room--was anxiously awaited. And then, of a sudden we heard a loud crash! followed by a feminine shriek, and an unwhispered Saxon oath. "Tom" the waiter had slipped, released his hold, and the pudding had fallen downstairs! It was a sight ever to be remembered--steak, larks, oysters, "delicious gravy," running in a torrent into Wine Office Court. The expectant diners (many of them lunchers) stood up and gazed upon the wreck of their hopes, and then filed, silently and sadly, outside. Such a catastrophe had not been known in Brainland since the Great Fire. Puddings of all sorts are, in fact, favourite autumn and winter luncheon dishes in London, and the man who can "come twice" at such a "dream" as the following, between the hours of one and three, can hardly be in devouring trim for his evening meal till very late. It is a _Snipe Pudding_. A _thin_ slice of beef-skirt,[2] seasoned with pepper and salt, at the bottom of the basin; then three snipes beheaded and befooted, and with gizzards extracted. Leave the liver and heart in, an you value your life. Cover up with paste, and boil (or steam) for two-and-a-half hours. For stockbrokers and bookmakers, mushrooms and truffles are sometimes placed within this pudding; but it is better without--according to the writer's notion. Most of the fowls of the air may be treated in the same way. And when eating cold grouse for luncheon try (if you can get it) a fruit salad therewith. You will find preserved peaches, apricots, and cherries in syrup, harmonise well with cold _brown_ game. _Lancashire Hot-Pot_ is a savoury dish indeed; but I know of but one eating-house in London where you can get anything like it. Here is the recipe-- Place a layer of mutton cutlets, with most of the fat and tails trimmed off, at the bottom of a deep earthenware stewpan. Then a layer of chopped sheep's kidneys, an onion cut into thin slices, half-a-dozen oysters, and some sliced potatoes. Sprinkle over these a little salt and pepper and a teaspoonful of curry powder. Then start again with cutlets, and keep on adding layers of the different ingredients until the dish be full. Whole potatoes atop of all, and pour in the oyster liquor and some good gravy. More gravy just before the dish is ready to serve. Not too fierce an oven, just fierce enough to brown the top potatoes. In making this succulent concoction you can add to, or substitute for, the mutton cutlets pretty nearly any sort of flesh or fowl. I have met rabbit, goose, larks, turkey, and (frequently) beef therein; but, believe me, the simple, harmless, necessary, toothsome cutlet makes the best lining. In the Cape Colony, and even as high up as Rhodesia, I have met with a dish called a _Brady_, which is worthy of mention here. It is made in the same way as the familiar Irish stew; but instead of potatoes tomatoes are used. CHAPTER V LUNCHEON (_continued_) "He couldn't hit a haystack!" Shooting luncheons--Cold tea and a crust--Clear turtle--Such larks!--Jugged duck and oysters--Woodcock pie--Hunting luncheons--Pie crusts--The true Yorkshire pie--Race-course luncheons--Suggestions to caterers--The "Jolly Sand boys" stew--Various recipes--A race-course sandwich--Angels' pie--"Suffolk pride"--Devilled larks--A light lunch in the Himalayas. There is no meal which has become more "expanded" than a shooting luncheon. A crust of bread with cheese, or a few biscuits, and a flask of sherry sufficed for our forebears, who, despite inferior weapons and ammunition, managed to "bring 'em down" quite as effectually as do the shootists of this period. Most certainly and decidedly, a heavy luncheon is a mistake if you want to "shoot clean" afterwards. And bear this in mind, all ye "Johnnies" who rail at your host's champagne and turtle, after luncheon, in a comfortable pavilion in the midst of a pheasant _battue_, and whose very beaters would turn up their noses at a pork pie and a glass of old ale, that there is nothing so good to shoot upon as cold tea, unless it be cold coffee. I have tried both, and for a shooting luncheon _par excellence_ commend me to a crust and a pint of cold tea, eaten whilst sitting beneath the shelter of an unpleached hedge, against the formal spread which commences with a _consommé_, and finishes with guinea peaches, and liqueurs of rare curaçoa. Of course, it is assumed that the shooter wishes to make a bag. But as, fortunately for trade, everybody does not share my views, it will be as well to append a few dishes suitable to a scratch meal of this sort. First of all let it be said that a _Roast Loin of Pork_, washed down with sweet champagne, is not altogether to be commended. I have nothing to urge against roast pork, on ordinary occasions, or champagne either; but a woodcock takes a lot of hitting. Such a pudding as was sketched in the preceding chapter is allowable, as is also the Lancashire Hot-Pot. _Shepherd's Pie_, _i.e._ minced meat beneath a mattress of mashed potatoes, with lots of gravy in the dish, baked, is an economical dish, but a tasty one; and I have never known much left for the beaters. RABBIT PIE, or Pudding, will stop a gap most effectually, and _Plover Pudding_ --the very name brings water to the lips--is entitled to the highest commendation. This is the favourite dish at the shooting luncheons of a well-known Royal Duke, and when upon one occasion the discovery was made that through some misunderstanding said pudding had been devoured to the very bones, by _the loaders_, the--well, "the band played," as they say out West. And a stirring tune did that band play too. _Such Larks!_ Stuff a dozen larks with a force-meat made from their own livers chopped, a little shallot, parsley, yolk of egg, salt, bread crumbs, and one green chili chopped and divided amongst the twelve. Brown in a stewpan, and then stew gently in a good gravy to which has been added a glass of burgundy. This is a _plât_ fit for an emperor, and there will be no subsequent danger of his hitting a beater or a dog. Another dainty of home invention is _Jugged Duck with Oysters_. Cut the fleshy parts of your waddler into neat joints, and having browned them place in a jar with nine oysters and some good gravy partly made from the giblets. Close the mouth of the jar, and stand it in boiling water for rather more than an hour. Add the strained liquor of the oysters and a little more gravy, and turn the concoction into a deep silver dish with a spirit lamp beneath. Wild duck can be jugged in the same way, but _without_ the addition of the bivalves; and a mixture of port wine and Worcester sauce should be poured in, with a squeeze of lemon juice and cayenne, just before serving. Another dish which will be found "grateful and comforting" is an _old_ grouse--the older the tastier. Stuff him with a Spanish onion, add a little gravy and seasoning, and stew him till the flesh leaves the bones. All these stews, or "jugs" should be served on dishes kept hot by lighted spirit beneath them. This is most important. _A Woodcock Pie_ will be found extremely palatable at any shooting luncheon, although more frequently to be met with on the sideboards of the great and wealthy. In fact, at Christmas time, 'tis a pie which is specially concocted in the royal kitchen at Windsor Castle, to adorn Her Most Gracious Majesty's board at Osborne, together with the time-honoured baron of specially fed beef. This last named joint hardly meets my views as part of a breakfast _menu_; but here is the recipe for the woodcock pie. Bone four woodcocks--I _don't_ mean take them off the hooks when the gentleman is not in his shop, but tell your cook to take the bones out of one you've shot yourself--put bones and trimmings into a saucepan with one shallot, one small onion, and a sprig of thyme, cover them with some good stock, and let this gravy simmer awhile. Take the gizzards away from the heart and liver, pound, and mix these with some good veal force-meat. Place the woodcocks, skin downwards, on a board; spread over each two layers of force-meat, with a layer of sliced truffles in between the two. Make your crust, either in a mould, or with the hands, put a layer of force-meat at the bottom, then two woodcocks, then a layer of truffles, then the other two woodcocks, another layer of truffles, and a top layer of force-meat, and some thin slices of fat bacon. Cover the pie, leaving a hole for the gravy, and bake in a moderate oven. After taking out pour in the gravy, then close the orifice and let the pie get cold before serving. _N.B._--It will stimulate the _digging_ industry if one or two _whole_ truffles have been hidden away in the recesses of the pie. Another good pie I have met with--in the north country--was lined with portions of grouse and black game (no bones), with here and there half a hard-boiled egg. Nothing else except the necessary seasoning. With regard to _Hunting Luncheons_ it cannot be said that your Nimrod is nearly as well catered for as is the "Gun." For, as a rule, the first-named, if he be really keen on the sport of kings has to content himself, during the interval of a "check," with the contents of a sandwich-case, and a flask, which may contain either brown sherry or brandy and water--or possibly something still more seductive. I have heard of flasks which held milk punch, but the experience is by no means a familiar one. If your Nimrod be given to "macadamising," instead of riding the line, or if he sicken of the business altogether before hounds throw off, he can usually "cadge" a lunch at some house in the neighbourhood, even though it may only "run to" bread and cheese--or, possibly, a wedge of a home-made pork-pie--with a glass, or mug, of nut brown ale. Not that all ale is "nut brown," but 'tis an epithet which likes me well. Would it were possible to give practical hints here as to the true way to manufacture a pork-pie! To make the attempt would, I fear, only serve to invite disaster; for the art of pork-pie making, like that of the poet, or the play-actor, should be born within us. In large households in the midland counties (wherein doth flourish the pig tart) there is, as a rule, but one qualified pie-maker--who is incapable of any other culinary feat whatever. I have even been told that it requires "special hands" to make the crust of the proper consistency; and having tasted crusts _and_ crusts, I can implicitly believe this statement. Here is a recipe for a veritable savoury _Yorkshire Pie_. Bone a goose and a large fowl. Fill the latter with the following stuffing:--minced ham, veal, suet, onion, sweet herbs, lemon peel, mixed spices, goose-liver, cayenne, and salt, worked into a paste with the yolks of two eggs. Sew up the fowl, truss it, and stew it with the goose for twenty minutes in some good beef and giblet stock, with a small glass of sherry, in a close stewpan. Then put the fowl inside the goose, and place the goose within a pie-mould which has been lined with good hot-water paste. Let the goose rest on a cushion of stuffing, and in the middle of the liquor in which he has been stewed. Surround him in the pie with slices of parboiled tongue and chunks of semi-cooked pheasant, partridge, and hare, filling in the vacancies with more stuffing, put a layer of butter atop, roof in the pie with paste, bake for three hours, and eat either hot or cold--the latter for choice. For a skating luncheon _Irish Stew_ is the recognised _entrée_, served in soup-plates, and washed down with hot spiced ale. In the way of _Race-course Luncheons_ our caterers have made giant strides in the last dozen years. A member of a large firm once told me that it was "out of the question" to supply joints, chops, and steaks in the dining-rooms of a grand stand, distant far from his base of operations, London. "Impossible, my dear sir! we couldn't do it without incurring a ruinous loss." But the whirligig of time has proved this feat to be not only possible, but one which has led to the best results for all concerned. In the matter of chops and steaks I hope to see further reforms introduced. These succulent dainties, it cannot be too widely known, are not at their best unless _cut fresh_ from loin or rump, just before being placed on the gridiron. The longer a cut chop (raw) is kept the more of its virtue is lost. It might, possibly, cause a little extra delay, and a little extra expense, to send off loins and rumps from the butcher's shop, instead of ready-cut portions, but the experiment would answer, in the long run. The same rule, of course, should apply to restaurants and grill-rooms all over the world. During the autumn and winter months, race-course caterers seem to have but one idea of warm comforting food for their customers, and the name of that idea is Irish stew. This is no doubt an appetising dish, but might be varied occasionally for the benefit of the habitual follower of the sport of kings. Why not pea-soup, jugged hare (hares are cheap enough), hot-pot, Scotch broth, mullagatawny, hotch-potch, stewed or curried rabbit, with rice, shepherd's pie, haricot ox-tails, sheep's head broth (Scotch fashion), and hare soup! What is the matter with the world-renowned stew of which we read in _The Old Curiosity Shop_--the supper provided by the landlord of the "Jolly Sandboys" for the itinerant showmen? Here it is again: "'It's a stew of tripe,' said the landlord, smacking his lips, 'and cowheel,' smacking them again, 'and bacon,' smacking them once more, 'and steak,' smacking them for the fourth time, 'and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrowgrass, all working up together in one delicious gravy.' Having come to the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were over. "'At what time will it be ready?' asked Mr. Codlin faintly. 'It'll be done to a turn,' said the landlord, looking up at the clock, 'at twenty-two minutes before eleven.' "'Then,' said Mr. Codlin, 'fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let nobody bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time arrives.'" And I do vow and protest that the above passage has caused much more smacking of lips than the most expensive, savoury _menu_ ever thought out. True, sparrowgrass and new potatoes, and any peas but dried or tinned ones are not as a rule at their best in the same season as tripe; but why not dried peas, and old potatoes, and rice, and curry powder, and onions--Charles Dickens forgot the onions--with, maybe, a modicum of old ale added, for "body"--in this stew, on a cold day at Sandown or Kempton? _Toujours_ Irish stew, like _toujours_ mother-in-law, is apt to pall upon the palate; especially if not fresh made. And frost occasionally interferes with the best-laid plans of a race-course caterer. "I don't mind a postponed meeting," once observed one of the "readiest" of bookmakers; "but what I cannot stand is postponed Irish stew." Than a good bowl of _Scotch Broth_, what could be more grateful, or less expensive? Shin of beef, pearl barley, cabbages, leeks, turnips, carrots, dried peas (of course soaked overnight), and water--"all working up together in one delicious gravy." Also _Hotch Potch_. With the addition of cutlets from the best end of a neck of mutton, the same recipe as the above will serve for this dish, which it must be remembered should be more of a "stodge" than a broth. There are more ways than one of making a "hot-pot." The recipe given above would hardly suit the views of any caterer who wishes to make a living for himself; but it can be done on the cheap. The old lady whose dying husband was ordered by the doctor oysters and champagne, procured whelks and ginger beer for the patient, instead, on the score of economy. Then why not make your hot-pot with mussels instead of oysters? Or why add any sort of mollusc? In the certain knowledge that these be invaluable hints to race-course caterers, I offer them with all consideration and respect. The writer well remembers the time when the refreshments on Newmarket Heath at race-time were dispensed from a booth, which stood almost adjoining the "Birdcage." Said refreshments were rough, but satisfying, and consisted of thick sandwiches, cheese, and bread, with "thumb-pieces" (or "thumbers") of beef, mutton, and pork, which the luncher was privileged to cut with his own clasp-knife. Said "thumbers" seem to have gone out of favour with the aristocracy of the Turf; but the true racing or coursing sandwich still forms part of the _impedimenta_ of many a cash-bookmaker, of his clerk, and of many a "little" backer. 'Tis a solid, satisfying sandwich, and is just the sort of nourishment for a hard worker on a bitter November day. Let your steak be grilling, whilst you are enjoying your breakfast--some prefer the ox-portion fried, for these simple speculators have strange tastes--then take the steak off the fire and place it, all hot, between two _thick_ slices of bread. The sandwich will require several paper wrappings, if you value the purity of your pocket-linings. And when eaten cold, the juices of the meat will be found to have irrigated the bread, with more or less "delicious gravy." And, as Sam Weller ought to have said, "it's the gravy as does it." "But what about the swells?" I fancy I hear somebody asking, "Is my Lord Tomnoddy, or the Duke of Earlswood to be compelled to satisfy his hunger, on a race-course, with tripe and fat bacon? Are you really advising those dapper-looking, tailor-made ladies on yonder drag to insert their delicate teeth in a sandwich which would have puzzled Gargantua to masticate?" Not at all, my good sir, or madam. The well-appointed coach should be well-appointed within and without. Of course the luncheon it contains will differ materially according to the season of the year. This is the sort of meal I will provide, an you will deign to visit the Arabian tent behind my coach, at Ascot: Lobster mayonnaise, salmon cutlets with Tartar sauce (_iced_), curried prawns (_iced_), lobster cutlets, _chaud-froid_ of quails, _foie gras_ in aspic, prawns in ditto, plovers' eggs in ditto, galantine of chicken, York ham, sweets various, including iced gooseberry fool; and, as the _pièce de résistance_, an _Angel's Pie_. Many people would call this a pigeon pie, for in good sooth there be pigeons in it; but 'tis a pie worthy of a brighter sphere than this. Six plump young pigeons, trimmed of all superfluous matter, including pinions and below the thighs. Season with pepper and salt, and stuff these pigeons with _foie gras_, and quartered truffles, and fill up the pie with plovers' eggs and some good force-meat. Make a good gravy from the superfluous parts of the birds, and some calf's head stock to which has been added about half a wine-glassful of old Madeira, with some lemon-juice and cayenne. See that your paste be light and flaky, and bake in a moderate oven for three hours. Pour in more gravy just before taking out, and let the pie get cold. This is a concoction which will make you back all the winners; whilst no heiress who nibbles at it would refuse you her hand and heart afterwards. This is another sort of _Pigeon Pie_ which is best served hot, and is more suited to the dining-room than the race-course. Line a pie dish with veal force-meat, very highly seasoned, about an inch thick. Place on it some thin slices of fat bacon, three Bordeaux pigeons (trimmed) in halves, a veal sweetbread in slices, an ox palate, boiled and cut up into dice, a dozen asparagus tops, a few button mushrooms (the large ones would give the interior of the pie a bad colour) and the yolks of four eggs. Cover with force-meat, and bake for three hours. Some good veal gravy should be served with this, which I have named _Suffolk Pride_. It is a remarkable fact in natural history that English pigeons are at their best just at the time when the young rooks leave the shelter of their nests. Therefore have I written, in the above recipe, "Bordeaux" pigeons. Here is a quaint old eighteenth-century recipe, which comes from Northumberland, and is given _verbatim_, for a _Goose Pie_. Bone a goose, a turkey, a hare, and a brace of grouse; skin it, and cut off all the outside pieces--I mean of the _tongue_, after boiling it--lay the goose, for the outside a few pieces of hare; then lay in the turkey, the grouse, and the remainder of the tongue and hare. Season highly between each layer with pepper and salt, mace and cayenne, and put it together, and draw it close with a needle and thread. Take 20 lbs. of flour, put 5 lbs. of butter into a pan with some water, let it boil, pour it among the flour, stir it with a knife, then work it with your hands till quite stiff. Let it stand before the fire for half an hour, then raise your pie and set it to cool; then finish it, put in the meat, close the pie, and set it in a cold place. Ornament according to your taste, bandage it with calico dipped in fat. Let it stand all night before baking. It will take a long time to bake. The oven must be pretty hot for the first four hours, and then allowed to slacken. To know when it is enough, raise one of the ornaments, and with a fork try if the meat is tender. If it is hard the pie must be put in again for two hours more. After it comes out of the oven fill up with strong stock, well seasoned, or with clarified butter. All standing pies made in this way. Verily, in the eighteenth century they must have had considerably more surplus cash and time, and rather more angelic cooks than their descendants! During cold weather the interior of the coach should be well filled with earthenware vessels containing such provender as hot-pot, hare soup, mullagatawny, lobster _à l'Américaine_, curried rabbit, devilled larks--with the _matériel_ for heating these. Such cold viands as game pie, pressed beef, boar's head, _foie gras_ (truffled), plain truffles (to be steamed and served with buttered toast) anchovies, etc. The larks should be smothered with a paste made from a mixture of mustard, Chili vinegar, and a little anchovy paste, and kept closely covered up. After heating, add cayenne to taste. Gourmets interested in _menus_ may like to know what were the first _déjeuners_ partaken of by the Tsar on his arrival in Paris in October 1869. On the first day he had huîtres, consommé, oeufs à la Parisienne, filet de boeuf, pommes de terre, Nesselrode sauce, chocolat. Next day he ate huîtres, consommé, oeufs Dauphine, rougets, noisettes d'agneau maréchal, pommes de terre, cailles à la Bohémienne, poires Bar-le-Duc. The writer can recall some colossal luncheons partaken of at dear, naughty Simla, in the long ago, when a hill station in India was, if anything, livelier than at the present day, and furnished plenty of food for both mind and body. Our host was the genial proprietor of a weekly journal, to which most of his guests contributed, after their lights; "sport and the drama" falling to the present writer's share. Most of the food at those luncheons had been specially imported from Europe; and although the whitebait tasted more of the hermetical sealing than of the Thames mud, most of the other items were succulent enough. There were turtle soup, and turtle fins; highly seasoned _pâtés_ of sorts; and the native _khansamah_ had added several dishes of his own providing and invention. A young florican (bustard) is by no means a bad bird, well roasted and basted; and though the eternal _vilolif_ (veal olives) were usually sent away untasted, his snipe puddings were excellent. What was called _picheese_ (twenty-five years old) brandy, from the _atelier_ of Messrs. Justerini and Brooks, was served after the coffee; and those luncheon parties seldom broke up until it was time to dress for dinner. In fact, our memories were not often keen as to anything which occurred after the coffee, and many "strange things happened" in consequence; although as they have no particular connection with high-class cookery, they need not be alluded to in this chapter. But, as observed before, I am of opinion that luncheon, except under certain circumstances, is a mistake. CHAPTER VI DINNER "Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we can eat and we hae meat, And sae the Lord be thankit." Origin--Early dinners--The noble Romans--"Vitellius the Glutton"--Origin of haggis--The Saxons--Highland hospitality--The French invasion--Waterloo avenged--The bad fairy "_Ala_"--Comparisons--The English cook or the foreign food torturer?--Plain or flowery--Fresh fish and the flavour wrapped up--George Augustus Sala--Doctor Johnson again. It is somewhat humiliating to reflect that we Britons owe the art of dining to our first conquerors the Romans--a smooth-faced race of voluptuaries whose idea of a _bonne bouche_ took the form of a dormouse stewed in honey and sprinkled with poppy-seed. But it was not until the Normans had fairly established themselves and their cookery, that the sturdy Saxon submitted himself to be educated by the foreign food-spoiler; and at a later period the frequent invasions of France by Britain--when money was "tight" in the little island--were undoubtedly responsible for the commencement of the system of "decorating" food which so largely obtains to-day. The name "dinner" is said--although it seems incredible that words should have become so corrupted--to be a corruption of _dix heures_, the time at which (A.M.), in the old Norman days, the meal was usually partaken of; and the time at which (P.M.), in later years, when none of the guests ever knew the hour, in that loose-and-careless period, the meal was occasionally partaken of at Limmer's and at Lane's, in London town. Froissart, in one of his works, mentions having waited upon the Duke of Lancaster at 5 P.M., "after his Grace had supped"; and it is certain that during the reigns of Francis I. and Louis XII. of France, the world of fashion was accustomed to dine long before the sun had arrived at the meridian, and to sup at what we now call "afternoon tea time." Louis XIV. did not dine till twelve; and his contemporaries, Oliver Cromwell and the Merry Monarch, sat down to the principal meal at one. In 1700, two was the fashionable time; and in 1751 we read that the Duchess of Somerset's hour for dinner was three. The hour for putting the soup on the table kept on advancing, until, after Waterloo, it became almost a penal offence to dine before six; and so to the end of the century, when we sit down to a sumptuous repast at a time when farm-labourers and artisans are either snug between the blankets, or engaged in their final wrangle at the "Blue Pig." The Romans in the time of Cicero had a light breakfast at 3.30 A.M., lunched at noon, and attacked the _coena_ at periods varying between 3 and 7 P.M.--according to the season of the year. They commenced the first course with eggs, and each noble Roman was supposed to clear his palate with an apple at the conclusion of the third course. "A banquet with Vitellius," we read, "was no light and simple repast. Leagues of sea and miles of forest had been swept to furnish the mere groundwork of the entertainment. Hardy fishermen had spent their nights on the heaving wave, that the giant turbot might flap its snowy flakes on the Emperor's table, broader than its broad dish of gold. Many a swelling hill, clad in the dark oak coppice, had echoed to ringing shout of hunter and deep-mouthed bay of hound, ere the wild boar yielded his grim life, by the morass, and the dark grisly carcase was drawn off to provide a standing dish that was only meant to gratify the eye. Even the peacock roasted in its feathers was too gross a dainty"--especially the feather part, we should think--"for epicures who studied the art of gastronomy under Caesar; and that taste would have been considered rustic in the extreme which could partake of more than the mere fumes and savour of so substantial a dish. A thousand nightingales had been trapped and killed, indeed, for this one supper, but brains and tongues were all they contributed to the banquet; while even the wing of a roasted hare would have been considered far too coarse and common food for the imperial table." Talk about a bean-feast! According to Suetonius (whose name suggests "duff") the villain Nero was accustomed to dine in a superb apartment, surrounded with mechanical scenery, which could be "shifted" with every course. The suppers of "Vitellius the Glutton" cost, on the average, more than £4000 a-piece--which reads like a "Kaffir Circus" dinner at the Savoy--and the celebrated feast to which he invited his brother was down in the bill for £40,350. Now a-nights we don't spend as much on a dinner, even when we invite other people's wives. "It consisted"--I always think of Little Dombey and the dinner at Doctor Blimber's, on reading these facts--"of two thousand different dishes of fish, and seven thousand of fowls, with other equally numerous meats." "Sharp-biting salads," salted herrings, and pickled anchovies, were served, as _hors d'oeuvres_ during the first course of a Roman banquet, to stimulate the hunger which the rest of the meal would satisfy; but although Vitellius was, according to history, "a whale on" oysters, they do not appear to have been eaten as a whet to appetite. And it was the duty of one, or more, of the Emperor's "freedmen" to taste every dish before his imperial master, in case poison might lurk therein. A garland of flowers around the brows was the regular wear for a guest at a "swagger" dinner party in ancient Rome, and, the eating part over, said garland was usually tilted back on the head, the while he who had dined disposed himself in an easy attitude on his ivory couch, and proffered his cup to be filled by the solicitous slave. Then commenced the "big drink." But it must be remembered that although the subsequent display of fireworks was provided from lively Early Christians, in tar overcoats, these Romans drank the pure, unadulterated juice of the grape, freely mixed with water; so that headaches i' th' morn were not _de rigueur_, nor did the subsequent massacres and other diversions in the Amphitheatre cause any feelings of "jumpiness." The Roman bill-of-fare, however, does not commend itself to all British epicures, one of whom wrote, in a convivial song-- "Old Lucullus, they say, Forty cooks had each day, And Vitellius's meals cost a million; But I like what is good, When or where be my food, In a chop-house or royal pavilion. At all feasts (if enough) I most heartily stuff, And a song at my heart alike rushes, Though I've not fed my lungs Upon nightingales' tongues, Nor the brains of goldfinches and thrushes." My pen loves to linger long over the gastronomies of those shaven voluptuaries, the ancient Italians; and my Caledonian readers will forgive the old tales when it is further set forth that the Romans introduced, amongst other things, _Haggis_ into Bonnie Scotland. Yes, the poet's "great chieftain o' the puddin' race" is but an Italian dish after all. The Apician pork haggis[3] was a boiled pig's stomach filled with fry and brains, raw eggs, and pine-apples beaten to a pulp, and seasoned with _liquamen_. For although some of the Romans' tastes savoured of refinement, many of them were "absolutely beastly." The idea of pig's fry and pine-apples mixed is horrible enough; but take a look into the constitution of this _liquamen_, and wonder no longer that Gibbons wrote his _Decline and Fall_ with so much feeling and _gusto_. This sauce was obtained from the intestines, gills, and blood of fishes, great and small, stirred together with salt, and exposed in an open vat in the sun, until the compound became putrid. When putrefaction had done its work, wine and spices were added to the hell-broth, which was subsequently strained and sent into the Roman market. This _liquamen_ was manufactured in Greece, and not one of all the poets of sunny Italy seems to have satirised the "made-in-Greece" custom, which in those days must have been almost as obnoxious as the "made-in-Germany" or the "made-in-Whitechapel" scare of to-day. The usual farinaceous ingredient of the Roman haggis was frumenty, but frequently no grain whatever was applied; and instead of mincing the ingredients, as do the Scots, the ancients pounded them in a mortar, well moistened with _liquamen_, until reduced to pulp. We are further told in history that a Roman gladiator was capable, after playing with eggs, fish, nightingales' tongues, dormice, and haggis, of finishing a wild boar at a sitting. But as the old lady remarked of the great tragedy, this happened a long time ago, so let's hope it isn't true. The Saxon dining-table was oblong, and rounded at the ends. The cloth was crimson, with broad gilt edgings hanging low beneath the table, and, it is to be feared, often soiled by the dirty boots of the guests, who sat on chairs with covered backs, the counterfeit presentments of which are still to be seen in the Tottenham Court Road. The food consisted of fish, fowls, beef, mutton, venison, and pork--wild and domestic--either boiled, baked, or broiled, and handed to the company by the attendants on small _sples_. A favourite "fish joint" of the old Saxon was a cut out of the middle of a porpoise; and bread of the finest wheaten flour reposed in two silver baskets at each end of the table, above the salt, the retainers having to content themselves with coarser "household" out of a wooden cradle. Almost the only vegetable in use amongst the Saxons was colewort, although the Romans had brought over many others, years before; but hatred of anything foreign was more rampant in early Saxon days than at present. Forks were not introduced into England until during the reign of King "Jamie": so that our ancestors had perforce to "thumb" their victuals. The fair Queen Elizabeth (like much more modern monarchs) was accustomed to raise to her mouth with her virgin fingers a turkey leg and gnaw it. But even in the earliest days of the thirteenth century, each person was provided with a small silver basin and two flowered napkins of the finest linen, for finger-washing and wiping purposes. Grapes, figs, nuts, apples, pears, and almonds, constituted a Saxon dessert; and in the reign of Edward III. an Act of Parliament was passed, forbidding any man or woman to be served with more than two courses, unless on high days and holidays, when each was entitled to three. Here is the bill for the ingredients of a big dinner provided by a City Company in the fifteenth century: "Two loins of veal and two loins of mutton, 1s. 4d.; one loin of beef, 4d.; one dozen pigeons and 12 rabbits, 9d.; one pig and one capon, 1s.; one goose and 100 eggs, 1s. 0½d.; one leg of mutton, 2½d.; two gallons of sack, 1s. 4d.; eight gallons of strong ale, 1s. 6d.; total, 7s. 6d." Alas! In these advanced days the goose alone would cost more than the "demmed total." Cedric the Saxon's dining table, described in _Ivanhoe_, was of a much simpler description than the one noted above; and the fare also. But there was no lack of assorted liquors--old wine and ale, good mead and cider, rich morat (a mixture of honey and mulberry juice, a somewhat gouty beverage, probably), and odoriferous pigment--which was composed of highly-spiced wine, sweetened with honey. The Virgin Queen, at a later epoch, was catered for more delicately; and we read that she detested all coarse meats, evil smells, and strong wines. During the Georgian era coarse meats and strong wines were by no means out of favour; and Highland banquets especially were Gargantuan feasts, to be read of with awe. The dinner given by Fergus MacIvor, in honour of Captain Waverley, consisted of dishes of fish and game, carefully dressed, at the upper end of the table, immediately under the eye of the English stranger. "Lower down stood immense clumsy joints of beef," says the gifted author, "which, but for the absence of pork, abhorred in the Highlands, resembled the rude festivity of the banquet of Penelope's suitors. But the central dish was a yearling lamb, called a "hog in har'st," roasted whole. It was set upon its legs, with a bunch of parsley in its mouth, and was probably exhibited in that form to gratify the pride of the cook, who piqued himself more on the plenty than the elegance of his master's table. The sides of this poor animal"--the lamb, not the cook, we suppose is meant--"were fiercely attacked by the clansmen, some with dirks, others with the knives worn in the same sheath as the dagger, so that it was soon rendered a mangled and rueful spectacle." A spectacle which reminds the writer of a dinner table at the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, in the early sixties. "Lower down," continues Sir Walter, "the victuals seemed of yet coarser quality, though sufficiently abundant. Broth, onions, cheese, and the fragments of the feast, regaled the sons of Ivor, who feasted in the open air." The funeral baked meats used after the interment of the chief of the Clan Quhele (described in _The Fair Maid of Perth_) were also on a very extensive scale, and were, like the other meal, "digested" with pailfuls of usquebaugh, for which no Highland head that supported a bonnet was ever "the waur i' th' morn." And the custom of placing bagpipers behind the chairs of the guests, after they have well drunk, which is still observed in Highland regiments, was probably introduced by the aforesaid Fergus MacIvor, who really ought to have known better. And so the years rolled on; and at the commencement of the nineteenth century, old England, instead of enjoying the blessings of universal peace, such as the spread of the Gospel of Christianity might have taught us to expect, found herself involved in rather more warfare than was good for trade, or anything else. The first "innings" of the Corsican usurper was a short but merry one; the second saw him finally "stumped." And from that period dates the "avenging of Waterloo" which we have suffered in silence for so long. The immigration of aliens commenced, and in the tight little island were deposited a large assortment of the poisonous seeds of alien cookery which had never exactly flourished before. The combat between the Roast Beef of old England and the bad fairy "_Ala_," with her attendant sprites Grease, Vinegar, and Garlic, commenced; a combat which at the end of the nineteenth century looked excessively like terminating in favour of the fairy. It has been repeatedly urged against my former gastronomic writings that they are unjustly severe on French cookery; that far greater minds than mine own have expressed unqualified approval thereof; that I know absolutely nothing about the subject; and that my avowed hatred of our lively neighbours and their works is so ferocious as to become ridiculous. These statements are not altogether fair to myself. I have no "avowed hatred" of our lively neighbours; in fact, upon one occasion on returning from the celebration of the Grand Prix, I saw a vision of----but that is a different anecdote. My lash has never embraced the entire _batterie de cuisine_ of the _chef_, and there be many French _plats_ which are agreeable to the palate, as long as we are satisfied that the _matériel_ of which they are composed is sound, wholesome, and of the best quality. It is the cheap _restaurateur_ who should be improved out of England. I was years ago inveigled into visiting the kitchen of one of these grease-and-garlic shops, and----but the memory is too terrible for language. And will anybody advance the statement that a basin of the _tortue claire_ of the average _chef_ deserves to be mentioned in the same breath with a plate of clear turtle at Birch's or Painter's? or that good genuine English soup, whether ox-tail, mock-turtle, pea, oyster, or Palestine, is not to be preferred to the French _purée_, or to their teakettle broth flavoured with carrots, cabbages, and onions, and dignified by the name of _consommé_? Then let us tackle the subject of fish. Would you treat a salmon in the British way, or smother him with thick brown gravy, fried onions, garlic, mushrooms, inferior claret, oysters, sugar, pepper, salt, and nutmeg, _en Matelote_, or mince him fine to make a ridiculous _mousse_? Similarly with the honest, manly sole; would you fry or grill him plain, or bake him in a coat of rich white sauce, onion juice, mussel ditto, and white wine, or cider, _à la Normande_; or cover him with toasted cheese _à la Cardinal_? The fairy "_Ala_" is likewise responsible for the clothing of purely English food in French disguises. Thus a leg of mutton becomes a _gigot_, a pheasant (for its transgressions in eating the poor farmer's barley) a _faisan_, and is charged for at special rates in the bill; whilst the nearest to a beef-steak our lively neighbours can get is a portion of beef with the fibre smashed by a wooden mallet, surmounted by an exceedingly bilious-looking compound like axle-grease, and called a _Châteaubriand_; and curry becomes under the new _régime_, _kari_. Undoubtedly, the principal reason for serving food smothered in made-gravies lies in the inferiority of the food. Few judges will credit France with the possession of better butcher's-meat--with the exception of veal--than the perfidious island, which is so near in the matter of distance, and yet so far in the matter of custom. And it is an established fact that the fish of Paris is not as fresh as the fish of London. Hence the _sole Normande_, the _sole au gratin_, and the sole smothered in toasted cheese. But when we islanders are charged at least four times as much for the inferior article, in its foreign cloak, as for the home article in its native majesty, I think the time has come to protest. It is possible to get an excellent dinner at any of the "Gordon" hotels, at the "Savoy," the "Cecil," and at some other noted food-houses--more especially at Romano's--by paying a stiff price for it; but it is due to a shameful lack of enterprise on the part of English caterers that a well-cooked English dinner is becoming more difficult to procure, year after year. There be three purely British dishes which are always "hoff" before all others on the programme of club, hotel, or eating-house; and these are, Irish stew, liver-and-bacon, and tripe-and-onions. Yet hardly a week passes without a new _dîner Parisien_ making its appearance in the advertisement columns of the newspapers; whilst the cheap-and-nasty _table d'hôte_, with its six or seven courses and its Spanish claret, has simply throttled the Roast Beef of Old England. "Sir," said Dr. Johnson, after examining a French _menu_, "my brain is obfuscated after the perusal of this heterogeneous conglomeration of bastard English ill-spelt, and a foreign tongue. I prithee bid thy knaves bring me a dish of hog's puddings, a slice or two from the upper cut of a well-roasted sirloin, and two apple-dumplings." "William," said George Augustus Sala to the old waiter at the "Cheshire Cheese," "I've had nothing fit to eat for three months; get me a point steak, for God's sake!" The great lauder of foreign cookery had only that day returned from a special mission to France, to "write up" the works of the _cordon bleu_ for the benefit of us benighted Englishmen. No man in the wide wide world knew so much, or could write so much, on the subject of and in praise of the fairy "_Ala_," as George Sala; and probably no man in the wide wide world so little appreciated her efforts. But how has it come about that the fairy "_Ala_" has gained such headway in this island of ours? The answer must commence another chapter. CHAPTER VII DINNER (_continued_) "It is the cause!" Imitation--Dear Lady Thistlebrain--Try it on the dog--Criminality of the English Caterer--The stove, the stink, the steamer--Roasting _v._ Baking--False Economy--Dirty ovens--Frills and fingers--Time over Dinner--A long-winded Bishop--Corned beef. Now for the cause, alluded to at the end of the last chapter. _Imprimis_, the French invasion is due to the universal craze for imitation, which may be the sincerest form of flattery, but which frequently leads to bad results. For years past the fair sex of Great Britain have been looking to Paris for fashion in dress, as well as in cookery; whilst the other sex have long held the mistaken notion that "they manage things better in France." The idea that France is the only country capable of clothing the outer and the inner man, artistically, has taken deep root. Thus, if the Duchess of Dulverton import, regardless of expense, a divine creation in bonnets from the Rue de Castiglione, and air the same in church, it is good odds that little Mrs. Stokes, of the Talbot Road, Bayswater, will have had the _chapeau_ copied, at about one-twentieth of the original cost, by the next Sabbath day. Dear Lady Thistlebrain, who has _such_ taste (since she quitted the family mangle in Little Toke Street, Lambeth, for two mansions, a castle, and a deer park), and with whom money is no object, pays her _chef_ the wages of an ambassador, and everybody raves over her dinners. Mrs. Potter of Maida Vale sets her "gal" (who studied higher gastronomy, together with the piano, and flower-painting on satin, at the Board School) to work on similar _menus_--with, on the whole, disastrous results. The London society and fashion journals encourage this snobbish idea by quoting _menus_, most of them ridiculous. Amongst the middle classes the custom of giving dinner parties at hotels has for some time past been spreading, partly to save trouble, and partly to save the brain of the domestic cook; so that instead of sitting down to a plain dinner, with, maybe, an _entrée_ or two sent in by the local confectioner--around the family mahogany tree, all may be fanciful decoration, and not half enough to eat, electric light, and _à la_ with attendance charged in the bill. The only way to stop this sort of thing is to bring the system into ridicule, to try it on the groundlings. A fair leader of _ton_, late in the sixties, appeared one morning in the haunts of fashion, her shapely shoulders covered with a cape of finest Russian sables, to the general admiration and envy of all her compeers. Thereupon, what did her dearest friend and (of course) most deadly rival do? Get a similar cape, or one of finer quality? Not a bit of it. She drove off, then and there, to her furriers, and had her coachman and footman fitted with similar capes, in (of course) cheaper material; and, when next afternoon she took the air in the park, in her perfectly appointed landau, her fur-clad menials created something like a panic in the camp of her enemy, whilst fur capes for fair leaders of "_ton_," were, like hashed venison at a City luncheon, very soon "hoff." It is extremely probable that, could it be arranged to feed our starving poor, beneath the public gaze, on _sôles Normandes_, _côtelettes à la Reform_, and _salmi de gibier truffé_; to feast our workhouse children on _bisque d'écrévisses_ and _Ananas à la Créole_, the upper classes of Great Britain would soon revert to plain roast and boiled. But after all it is the English caterer who is chiefly to blame for his own undoing. How is it that in what may be called the "food streets" of the metropolis the foreign food-supplier should outnumber the purveyor of the Roast Beef of Old England in the proportion of fifty to one? Simply because the Roast Beef of Old England has become almost as extinct as the Dodo. There are but few English kitchens, at this end of the nineteenth century, in the which meat is roasted in front of the fire. In order to save the cost of fuel, most English (save the mark!) cooking is now performed by gas or steam; and at many large establishments the food, whether fish, flesh, fowl, vegetables or pastry, all goes, in a raw state, into a species of chest of drawers made of block-tin, in which receptacle the daily luncheons, dinners, and suppers are steamed and robbed of all flavour, save that of hot tin. The pity of it! Better, far better for mankind the _à la_ system than to be gradually "steamed" into the tomb! It is alleged that as good results in the way of roasting can be got from an oven as from the spit. But that oven must be ventilated--with both an inlet and an outlet ventilator, for one will not act without the other. It is also advisable that said oven should be cleaned out occasionally; for a hot oven with no joint therein will emit odours anything but agreeable, if not attended to; and it is not too sweeping a statement to say that the majority of ovens in busy kitchens are foul. The system of steaming food (the alleged "roasts" being subsequently browned in an oven) is of comparatively recent date; but the oven as a roaster was the invention of one Count Rumford, at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In one of his lectures on oven-roasting, this nobleman remarked that he despaired of getting any Englishman to believe his words; so that he was evidently confronted with plenty of prejudice, which it is devoutly to be prayed still exists in English homes. For I do vow and protest that the oven odours which pervade the neighbourhood of the Strand, London, at midday, are by no means calculated to whet the appetite of the would-be luncher or diner. This is what such an authority as Mr. Buckmaster wrote on the subject of the spit _versus_ the oven: "I believe I am regarded as a sort of heretic on the question of roasting meat. My opinion is that the essential condition of good roasting is constant basting, and this the meat is not likely to have when shut up in an iron box; and what is not easily done is easily neglected." In this connection there are more heretics than Mr. Buckmaster. But if during my lifetime the days of burning heretics should be revived, I shall certainly move the Court of Criminal Appeal in favour of being roasted or grilled before, or over, the fire, instead of being deprived of my natural juices in an iron box. Some few "roast" houses are still in existence in London, but they be few and far between; and since Mr. Cooper gave up the "Albion," nearly opposite the stage-door of Drury Lane Theatre, the lover of good, wholesome, English food has lost one old-fashioned tavern in the which he was certain of enjoying such food. It has been repeatedly urged in favour of French cookery that it is so economical. But economy in the preparation of food is by no means an unmixed blessing. I do not believe that much sole-leather is used up in the ordinary _ragoût_, or _salmi_; but many of us who can afford more expensive joints have a prejudice against "scrags"; whilst the tails of mutton chops frequently have a tainted flavour, and the drumsticks and backs of fowls are only fit to grill, or boil down into gravy. And it is not only the alien who is economical in his preparation of the banquet. Many of the dwellers in the highways and bye-ways of our great metropolis will boil down the outer skin of a ham, and place a portion thereof, together with such scraps as may also be purchased, at a penny or twopence the plateful, at the ham and beef emporium, with maybe a "block ornament" or two from the butcher's, in a pie dish, with a superstructure of potatoes, and have the "scrap pie" cooked at the baker's for the Sunday dinner. Poor wretches! Not much "waste" goes on in such households. But I have known the "gal" who tortured the food in a cheap lodging-house throw away the water in which a joint had just been boiled, but whether this was from sheer ignorance, or "cussedness," or the desire to save herself any future labour in the concoction of soup, deponent sayeth not. By the way, it is in the matter of soup that the tastes of the British and French peasantry differ so materially. Unless he or she be absolutely starving, it is next to impossible to get one of the groundlings of old England to attempt a basin of soup. And when they do attempt the same, it has been already made for them. The Scotch, who are born cooks, know much better than this; but do not, O reader, if at all thin of skin, or refined of ear, listen too attentively to the thanks which a denizen of the "disthressful counthry" will bestow upon you for a "dhirty bowl o' bone-juice." How many modern diners, we wonder, know the original object of placing frills around the shank of a leg or shoulder of mutton, a ham, the shins of a fowl, or the bone of a cutlet? Fingers were made before--and a long time before--forks. In the seventeenth century--prior to which epoch not much nicety was observed in carving, or eating--we read that "English gentlewomen were instructed by schoolmistresses and professors of etiquette as to the ways in which it behoved them to carve joints. That she might be able to grasp a roasted chicken without greasing her left hand, the gentle housewife was careful to trim its foot and the lower part of its legs with cut paper. The paper frill which may still be seen round the bony point and small end of a leg of mutton, is a memorial of the fashion in which joints were _dressed_ for the dainty hands of lady-carvers, in time prior to the introduction of the carving-fork, an implement that was not in universal use so late as the Commonwealth." How long we should sit over the dinner-table is a matter of controversy. At the commencement of the nineteenth century, in the hard-drinking times, our forefathers were loth indeed to quit the table. But the fairer portion of the guests were accustomed to adjourn early, for tea and scandal in the withdrawing-room, the while their lords sat and quarrelled over their port, with locked doors; and where they fell there they frequently passed the night. The editor of the _Almanach des Gourmands_ wrote: "Five hours at table are a reasonable latitude to allow in the case of a large party and recondite cheer." But the worthy Grimod de la Reymière, the editor aforesaid, lived at a period when dinner was not served as late as 8.30 P.M. There is a legend of an Archbishop of York "who sat three entire years at dinner." But this is one of those tales which specially suited the dull, brandy-sodden brains of our ancestors. The facts are simply as follows:--the archbishop had just sat down to dinner at noon when an Italian priest called. Hearing that the dignitary was sitting at meat the priest whiled away an hour in looking at the minster, and called again, but was again "repelled by the porter." Twice more that afternoon did the surly porter repel the Italian, and at the fourth visit "the porter, in a heate, answered never a worde, and churlishlie did shutte the gates upon him." Then the discomfited Italian returned to Rome; and three years later, encountering an Englishman in the Eternal City, who declared himself right well known to His Grace of York, the Italian, all smiles, inquired: "I pray you, good sir, hath that archbishop finished dinner yet?" Hence the story, which was doubtless originally told by a fly-fisher. It is not a little singular that with increasing civilisation, a gong, which is of barbaric, or semi-barbaric origin, should be the means usually employed to summon us to the dinner-table. In days of yore the horn, or cornet, was blown as the signal. Alexander Dumas tells us that "at the period when noon was the dinner hour, the horn or cornet (_le cor_) was used in great houses to announce dinner. Hence came an expression which has been lost; they used to say cornet (or trumpet) the dinner (_cornez le diner_)." And we are asked to believe that to this practice "corned" beef owes its derivation. "In days when inferior people ate little meat in the winter months save salted beef, the more usual form of the order was _cornez le boeuf_, or 'corn the beef.' Richardson errs egregiously when he insists that corned beef derived its distinguishing epithet from the grains or corns of salt with which it was pickled. Corned beef is trumpeted beef, or as we should nowadays say, dinner-bell beef." Well--"I hae ma doots," as the Scotsman said. I am not so sure that Richardson erred egregiously. But after all, as long as the beef be good, and can be carved without the aid of pick and spade, what does it matter? Let us to dinner! CHAPTER VIII DINNER (_continued_) "The strong table groans Beneath the smoking sirloin stretched immense." A merry Christmas--Bin F--A _Noel_ banquet--Water-cress--How Royalty fares--The Tsar--_Bouillabaisse_--_Tournedos_--_Bisque_--_Vol-au-vent_--_Prè salé_--Chinese banquets--A fixed bayonet--_Bernardin salmi_--The duck-squeezer--American cookery--"Borston" beans--He couldn't eat beef. A Christmas dinner in the early Victorian era! _Quelle fête magnifique!_ The man who did not keep Christmas in a fitting manner in those days was not thought much of. "Dines by himself at the club on Christmas day!" was the way the late Mr. George Payne of sporting memory, summed up a certain middle-aged recluse, with heaps of money, who, although he had two estates in the country, preferred to live in two small rooms in St. James's Place, S.W., and to take his meals at "Arthur's." And how we boys (not to mention the little lasses in white frocks and black mittens) used to overeat ourselves, on such occasions, with no fear of pill, draught, or "staying in," before our eyes! The writer has in his mind's eye a good specimen of such an old-fashioned dinner, as served in the fifties. It was pretty much the same feast every Christmas. We commenced with some sort of clear soup, with meat in it. Then came a codfish, crimped--the head of that household would have as soon thought of eating a _sôle au vin blanc_ as of putting before his family an uncrimped cod--with plenty of liver, oyster sauce, and pickled walnuts; and at the other end of the table was a dish of fried smelts. _Entrées?_ Had any of the diners asked for an _entrée_, his or her _exit_ from the room would have been a somewhat rapid one. A noble sirloin of Scotch beef faced a boiled turkey anointed with celery sauce; and then appeared the blazing pudding, and the mince-pies. For the next course, a dish of toasted (or rather stewed) cheese, home-made and full of richness, was handed round, with dry toast, the bearer of which was closely pursued by a varlet carrying a huge double-handed vessel of hot spiced-ale, bobbing or floating about in the which were roasted crab-apples and sippets of toast; and it was _de rigueur_ for each of those who sat at meat to extract a sippet, to eat with the cheese. How the old retainer, grey and plethoric with service, loved us boys, and how he would manoeuvre to obtain for us the tit-bits! A favoured servitor was "Joseph"; and though my revered progenitor was ostensibly the head of the house, he would, on occasion, "run a bad second" to "Joseph." Memory is still keen of a certain chilly evening in September, when the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, and the male guests were invited to be seated at the small table which had been wheeled close to the replenished fire. "Joseph," said the dear old man, "bring us a bottle or two of the yellow seal--_you_ know--Bin F." The servitor drew near to his master, and in a stage whisper exclaimed: "You can't afford it, sir!" "What's that?" roared the indignant old man. "You can't afford it, sir--Hawthornden's won th' Leger!" "Good Gad!" A pause--and then, "Well, never mind, Joseph, we'll have up the yellow seal, all the same." One of the writer's last Christmas dinners was partaken of in a sweet little house in Mayfair; and affords somewhat of a contrast with the meal quoted above. We took our appetites away with a salad composed of anchovies, capers, truffles, and other things, a Russian sardine or two, and rolls and butter. Thence, we drifted into _Bouillabaisse_ (a tasty but bile-provoking broth), toyed with some _filets de sôle à la Parisienne_ (good but greasy), and disposed of a _tournedos_, with a nice fat oyster atop, apiece (_et parlez-moi d'ça!_). Then came some dickey-birds _sur canapé_--alleged to be snipe, but destitute of flavour, save that of the tin they had been spoiled in, and of the "canopy." An alien cook can _not_ cook game, whatever choice confections he may turn out--at least that is the experience of the writer. We had _cressons_, of course, with the birds; though how water-cress can possibly assimilate with the flesh of a snipe is questionable. "Water-creases" are all very well at tea in the arbour, but don't go smoothly with any sort of fowl; and to put such rank stuff into a salad--as my hostess's cook did--is absolutely criminal. To continue the Mayfair banquet, the salad was followed by a _soufflée à la Noel_ (which reminded some of the more imaginative of our party of the festive season), some cheese straws, and the customary ices, coffee, and liqueurs. On the whole, not a bad meal; but what would old Father Christmas have said thereto? What would my revered progenitor have remarked, had he been allowed to revisit the glimpses of the moon? He did not love our lively neighbours; and, upon the only occasion on which he was inveigled across the Channel, took especial care to recross it the very next day, lest, through circumstances not under his own control, he might come to be "buried amongst these d----d French!" The following _menu_ may give some idea as to how _Royalty_ entertains its guests. Said _menu_, as will be seen, is comparatively simple, and many of the dishes are French only in name:-- Huîtres ---- Consommé aux oeufs pochés Bisque d'écrevisses ---- Turbot, sauce d'homard Fillets de saumon à l'Indienne ---- Vol-au-vent Financière Mauviettes sur le Nid ---- Selle de mouton de Galles rotie Poulardes à l'Estragon ---- Faisans Bécassines sur croûte ---- Chouxfleur au gratin ---- Plum Pudding Bavarois aux abricots ---- Glace à la Mocha Truly a pattern dinner, this; and 'twould be sheer impertinence to comment thereon, beyond remarking that English dishes should, in common fairness, be called by English names. Her Imperial Majesty the Tsaritza, on the night of her arrival at Darmstadt, in October 1896, sat down, together with her august husband, to the following simple meal:-- Consommé de Volaille Cronstades d'écrevisses ---- Filet de Turbot à la Joinville ---- Cimier de Chevreuil [A haunch of Roebuck is far to be desired above the same quarter of the red deer]. ---- Terrine de Perdreaux ---- Ponche Royale ---- Poularde de Metz ---- Choux de Bruxelles ---- Bavarois aux Abricots ---- Glaces Panachées The partiality of crowned heads towards "Bavarois aux Abricots"--"Bavarois" is simply Bavarian cheese, a superior sort of _blanc mange_--is proverbial. And the above repast was served on priceless Meissen china and silver. The only remarks I will make upon the above _menu_ are that it is quite possible that the capon may have come from Metz, though not very probable. French cooks name their meat and poultry in the most reckless fashion. For instance, owing to this reckless nomenclature the belief has grown that the best ducks come from Rouen. Nothing of the sort. There are just as good ducks raised at West Hartlepool as at Rouen. "Rouen" in the bill-of-fare is simply a corruption of "roan"; and a "roan duck" is a quacker who has assumed (through crossing) the reddish plumage of the wild bird. As for (alleged) Surrey fowls, most of them come from Heathfield in Sussex, whence £142,000 worth were sent in 1896. Let us enquire into the composition of some of the high-sounding _plats_, served up by the average _chef_. _Bouillabaisse._--Of it Thackeray sang-- "This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is-- A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotch-potch of all sorts of fishes That Greenwich never could outdo: Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; All these you eat at Terré's tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse." Avoid eels and herrings in this concoction as too oily. Soles, mullet, John Dory, whiting, flounders, perch, roach, and mussels will blend well, and allow half a pound of fish for each person. For every pound of fish put in the stewpan a pint of water, a quarter of a pint of white wine, and a tablespoonful of salad oil. If there be four partakers, add two sliced onions, two cloves, two bay-leaves, two leeks (the white part only, chopped), four cloves of garlic, a tablespoonful chopped parsley, a good squeeze of lemon juice, half an ounce of chopped capsicums, a teaspoonful (or more _ad lib._) of saffron, with pepper and salt. Mix the chopped fish in all this, and boil for half an hour. Let the mixture "gallop" and strain into a tureen with sippets, and the fish served separately. _Tournedos._--No relation to tornado, and you won't find the word in any Gallic dictionary. A _tournedos_ is a thin collop of beef, steeped in a _marinade_ for twenty-four hours (personally I prefer it without the aid of the marine) and fried lightly. Turn it but _once_. The oyster atop is simply scalded. _Try this dish._ _Bisque._--In the seventeenth century this was made from pigeons by the poor barbarians who knew not the gentle lobster, nor the confiding crayfish. Heat up to boiling-point a Mirepoix of white wine. You don't know what a _Mirepoix_ is? Simply a faggot of vegetables, named after a notorious cuckold of noble birth in the time of Louis XV. Two carrots, two onions, two shalots, two bay-leaves, a sprig of thyme and a clove of garlic. Mince very small, with half a pound of fat bacon, half a pound of raw ham, pepper and salt, and a little butter. Add a sufficiency of white wine. In this mixture cook two dozen crayfish for twenty minutes, continually tossing them about till red, when take them out to cool. Shell them, all but the claws, which should be pounded in a mortar and mixed with butter. The flesh of the tails is reserved to be put in the soup at the last minute; the body-flesh goes back into the _mirepoix_, to which two quarts of broth are now added. Add the pounded shells to the soup, simmer for an hour and a half, strain, heat up, add a piece of butter, the tails, a seasoning of cayenne, and a few _quenelles_ of whiting. _Vol-au-vent Financière._--This always reminds me of the fearful threat hurled by the waiter in the "Bab Ballads" at his flighty sweetheart: "Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu oses, Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère: Je lui dirai d'quoi on compose Vol-au-vent à la Financière!" Make your crust--light as air, and flaky as snow, an you value your situation--and fill with button mushrooms, truffles, cock's-combs, _quenelles_ of chicken, and sweetbread, all chopped, seasoned, and moistened with a butter sauce. Brown gravy is objectionable. Garnish the _Vol_ with fried parsley, which goes well with most luxuries of this sort. There are some words which occur frequently in French cookery which, to the ordinary perfidious Briton, are cruelly misleading. For years I was under the impression that _Brillat Savarin_ was a species of filleted fish (brill) in a rich gravy, instead of a French magistrate, who treated gastronomy poetically, and always ate his food too fast. And only within the last decade have I discovered what a _Pré Salé_ really means. Literally, it is "salt meadow, or marsh." It is said that sheep fed on a salt marsh make excellent mutton; but is it not about time for Britannia, the alleged pride of the ocean, and ruler of its billows, to put her foot down and protest against a leg of "prime Down"--but recently landed from the Antipodes--being described on the card as a _Gigot de pré salé_? The meals, like the ways, of the "Heathen Chinee" are peculiar. Some of his food, to quote poor Corney Grain, is "absolutely beastly." _Li Hung Chang_ was welcomed to Carlton House Terrace, London, with a dinner, in twelve courses, the following being the principal items:--Roast duck, roast pork and raspberry jam, followed by dressed cucumber. Shrimps were devoured, armour and all, with leeks, gherkins, and mushrooms. A couple of young chickens preserved in wine and vinegar, with green peas, a _purée_ of pigeon's legs followed by an assortment of sour jellies. The banquet concluded with sponge cakes and tea. In his own land the _Chinaman's Evening Repast_ is much more variegated than the above. It is almost as long as a Chinese drama, and includes melon seeds, bitter almonds, bamboo sprouts, jelly-fish, cucumber, roast duck, chicken stewed in spirit dregs,[4] peas, prawns, sausages, scallions, fish-brawn, pork chops, plum blossoms, oranges, bird's-nest soup, pigeons' eggs in bean curd--the eggs being "postponed" ones--fungus, shrimps, macerated fish-fins, ham in flour, ham in honey, turnip cakes, roast sucking-pig, fish maws, roast mutton, wild ducks' feet, water chestnuts, egg rolls, lily seeds, stewed mushrooms, dressed crab with jam, chrysanthemum pasties, _bêche-de-mer_, and pigs' feet in honey. Can it be wondered at that this nation should have been brought to its knees by gallant little Japan? _The Englishman in China_ has not a particularly good time of it, in the gastronomic way, and H.M. forces in Hong Kong are largely dependent on Shanghai for supplies. There is "plenty pig" all over the land; but the dairy-fed pork of old England is preferable. And the way "this little pig goes to market" savours so strongly of the most refined cruelty that a branch of the R.S.P.C.A. would have the busiest of times of it over yonder. Reverting to French cookery, here is an appetising dish, called a _Bernardin Salmi_. It should be prepared in the dining-room, before the eyes of the guests; and Grimod de la Reyniere (to whom the recipe was given by the prior of an abbey of Bernardin monks) recommends that the _salmi_ should be conveyed to the mouth with a fork, for fear of devouring one's fingers, should they touch the sauce. Take three woodcocks, underdone, and cut them into neat portions. On a silver dish bruise the livers and trails, squeeze over them the juice of four (?) lemons, and grate over them a little of the thin rind. Add the portions of woodcock, seasoned with salt, and--according to the prior--mixed spices and two teaspoonfuls of French mustard; but the writer would substitute cayenne _seul_; over all half a wine-glass of sherry; and then put the dish over a spirit lamp. When the mixture is _nearly_ boiling, add a tablespoonful of salad oil, blow out the light, and stir well. _Four_ lemons are mentioned in this recipe, as at the time it was written lemons were very small when "cocks" were "in." _Two_ imported lemons (or limes) will amply suffice nowadays. _A Salmi of Wild Duck_ can be made almost in the same way, but here the aid of that modern instrument the _Duck-Squeezer_ is necessary. Cut the best of the meat in slices, off a lightly-roasted wild-duck, after brought to table; break up the carcase and place in a species of mill (silver) called a "duck-squeezer," which possesses a spout through which the richness of the animal escapes, after being squeezed. Make a gravy of this liquor, in a silver dish (with a spirit lamp beneath), added to a small pat of butter, the juice of a lemon, a tablespoonful of Worcester sauce, with cayenne and salt to taste, and half a wine-glassful of port wine. Warm the meat through in this gravy, which must not boil. Of course these two last-named dishes are only intended for bachelor-parties. Lovely woman must not be kept waiting for "duck-squeezers" or anything else. _The Jesuits_ introduced the turkey into Europe, of which feat the Jesuits need not boast too much; for to some minds there be many better edible birds; and the "gobbler" requires, when roasted or boiled, plenty of seasoning to make him palatable. The French stuff him in his roasted state, with truffles, fat force-meat, or chestnuts, and invariably "bard" the bird--"bard" is old English as well as old French--with fat bacon. The French turkey is also frequently brazed, with an abundant _mirepoix_ made with what their cooks call "Madére," but which is really Marsala. It is only we English who boil the "gobbler," and stuff him (or her, for it is the hen who usually goes into the pot) with oysters, or force-meat, with celery sauce. Probably the best parts of the turkey are his legs, when grilled for breakfast, and smothered with the sauce mentioned in one of the chapters on "Breakfast"; and _Pulled Turkey_ makes an agreeable luncheon-dish, or _entrée_ at dinner, the breast-meat being pulled off the bone with a fork, and fricasseed, surrounded in the dish by the grilled thighs and pinions. Who introduced the turkey into America deponent sayeth not. Probably, like Topsy, it "growed" there. Anyhow the bird is so familiar a table-companion in the States, that Americans, when on tour in Europe, fight very shy of him. "Tukkey, sah, cranberry sarce," used to be the stereotyped reply of the black waiter when interrogated on the subject of the bill of fare. _Coloured Help_ is, however, gradually being ousted (together with sulphur matches) from the big hotels in New York, where white waiting and white food are coming into, or have come into, regular use. In fact, with the occasional addition of one or other of such special dishes as terrapin, soft-shell crab, clam chowder, and the everlasting pork and beans, a dinner in New York differs very little at the time of writing (1897) from one in London. The taste for _Clam Chowder_ is an acquired one, nor will stewed tortoise ever rank with thick turtle in British estimation, although 'tis not the same tortoise which is used in London households to break the coals with. A _Canvass-back Duck_, if eaten in the land of his birth, is decidedly the most delicately-flavoured of all the "Quack" family. His favourite food is said to be wild celery, and his favoured haunts the neighbourhood of Chesapeake Bay, from whose waters comes the much prized "diamond-back" terrapin, which is sold at the rate of 50$ or 60$ the dozen. The canvass-back duck, however, suffers in transportation; in fact, the tendency of the ice-house aboard ship is to rob all food of its flavour. But however good be the living in _New York City_ --where the hotels are the best in the world, and whose _Mr. Delmonico_ can give points to all sorts and conditions of food caterers--it is "a bit rough" in the provinces. There is a story told of a young actor, on tour, who "struck" a small town out West, and put up at a small inn. In the course of time dinner was served, and the landlord waited at table. The principal cover was removed, disclosing a fine joint of coarsish, indifferently-cooked beef. Our young actor was strangely moved at the sight. "What?" he cried. "Beef again? This is horrible! I've seen no other food for months, and I'm sick and tired of it. I can't eat beef." Whereupon his host whipped out a huge "six-shooter" revolver, and covering the recalcitrant beef-eater, coolly remarked: "Guess you kin!" But I don't believe that story, any more than I believe the anecdote of the cowboys and the daylight let through the visitor who couldn't eat beans. CHAPTER IX DINNER (_continued_) "The combat deepens. On ye brave, The _cordon bleu_, and then the grave! Wave, landlord! all thy _menus_ wave, And charge with all thy devilry!" French soup--A regimental dinner--A city banquet--_Baksheesh_--Aboard ship--An ideal dinner--Cod's liver--Sleeping in the kitchen--A _fricandeau_--Regimental messes--Peter the Great--Napoleon the Great--Victoria--The Iron Duke--Mushrooms--A medical opinion--A North Pole banquet--Dogs as food--Plain unvarnished fare--The Kent Road cookery--More beans than bacon. "What's in a name?" inquired the love-sick Juliet. "What?" echoes the bad fairy "_Ala_." After all the fuss made by the French over their soups, we might expect more variety than is given us. If it be true that we English have only one sauce, it is equally true that our lively neighbours have only one soup--and that one is a broth. It is known to the frequenters of restaurants under at least eleven different names _Brunoise_, _Jardinière_, _Printanier_, _Chiffonade_, _Macédoine_, _Julienne_, _Faubonne_, _Paysanne_, _Flamande_, _Mitonnage_, _Croûte au Pot_, and, as Sam Weller would say, "It's the flavouring as does it." It is simply _bouillon_, plain broth, and weak at that. The addition of a cabbage, or a leek, or a common or beggar's crust, will change a _potage à la Jardinière_ into a _Croûte au Pot_, and _vice versa_. Great is "_Ala_"; and five hundred per cent is her profit! The amount of money lavished by diners-about upon the productions of the alien _chef_ would be ludicrous to consider, were not the extravagance absolutely criminal. The writer has partaken of about the most expensive dinner--English for the most part, with French names to the dishes--that could be put on the table, the charge being (including wines) one guinea per mouth. Another banquet, given by a gay youth who had acquired a large sum through ruining somebody else on the Stock Exchange--the meal positively reeking of _Ala_--was charged for by the hotel manager at the rate of _sixteen pounds_ per head, also including wines. I was told afterwards, though I am still sceptical as to the veracity of the statement, that the flowers on the table at that banquet cost alone more than £75. And only on the previous Sunday, our host's father--a just nobleman and a God-fearing--had delivered a lecture, at a popular institution, on "Thrift." Here follows the _menu_ of the above-mentioned guinea meal, _A Regimental Dinner_, held at a well-known city house. _Vins._ | _Hors d'OEuvres._ | Crevettes. Thon Mariné. Beurre. | Radis. | | _Potages._ Madère. | Tortue Claire et Liée. | Gras de Tortue Vert. | | _Relevés de Tortue._ Ponche Glacé. | Ailerons aux fines Herbes. | Côtelettes à la Périgueux. | | _Poissons._ | Souché de Saumon. Schloss Johannisberg. | Turbot au Vin Blanc. | Blanchaille Nature et Kari. | | _Entrées._ Amontillado. | Suprême de Ris de Veau à la Princesse. | Aspic de Homard. | Champagne. | _Relevés._ Piper Heidsieck, 1884. | Venaison, Sauce Groseille. Boll et Cie., 1884. | York Ham au Champagne. Burgundy. | Poulardes à l'Estragon. Romanée, 1855. | ----- | Asperges. Haricots Verts. | Pommes Rissoliées. | | _Rôt._ Port, 1851. | Canetons de Rouen. | | _Entremets._ Claret. | Ananas à la Créole. Patisserie Parisienne. Château Léoville. | Gelées Panachées. | | _Glace._ Liqueurs. | Soufflés aux Fraises. | | _Dessert, etc._ And some of the younger officers complained bitterly at having to pay £1:1s. for the privilege of "larking" over such a course! There are only three faults I can find in the above programme: (1) Confusion to the man who expects the British Army to swallow green fat in French. (2) Whitebait is far too delicately flavoured a fowl to curry. (3) Too much eating and drinking. _City Dinners_ are for the most part an infliction (or affliction) on the diner. With more than fourscore sitting at meat, the miracle of the loaves and fishes is repeated--with, frequently, the fish left out. "I give you my word, dear old chappie," once exclaimed a gilded youth who had been assisting at one of these functions, to the writer, "all I could get hold of, during the struggle, was an orange and a cold plate!" The great and powerful system of _Baksheesh_, of course, enters largely into these public entertainments; and the man who omits to fee the waiter in advance, as a rule, "gets left." Bookmakers and others who go racing are the greatest sinners in this respect. A well-known magnate of the betting-ring (1896) invariably, after arriving at an hotel, hunts up the _chef_, and sheds upon him a "fiver," or a "tenner," according to the size of the house, and the repute of its cookery. And that metallician and his party are not likely to starve during their stay, whatever may be the fate of those who omit to "remember" the Commissariat Department. I have seen the same bookmaker carry, with his own hands, the remains of a great dish of "Hot-pot" into the dining-room of his neighbours, who had been ringing for a waiter, and clamouring for food for the best part of an hour, without effect. The same system prevails aboard ship; and the passenger who has not propitiated the head steward at the commencement of the voyage will not fare sumptuously. The steamship companies may deny this statement; but 'tis true nevertheless. _Dinner Afloat._ Here is an average dinner-card during a life on the ocean wave: Julienne soup, boiled salmon with shrimp sauce, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, jugged hare, French beans _à la Maître d'Hôtel_, chicken curry, roast turkey with _purée_ of chestnuts, _fanchouettes_ (what are they?), sausage rolls, greengage tarts, plum-puddings, lemon-jellies, biscuits and cheese, fruit, coffee. Plenty of variety here, though some epicures might resent the presence of a sausage-roll (the common or railway-station bag of mystery) on the dinner table. But since the carriage of live stock aboard passenger ships has been abandoned, the living is not nearly as good; for, as before observed, the tendency of the ice-house is to make all flesh taste alike. Civilisation has, doubtless, done wonders for us; but most people prefer mutton to have a flavour distinct from that of beef. My _Ideal Dinner_ was partaken of in a little old-fashioned hostelry (at the west end of London), whose name the concentrated efforts of all the wild horses in the world would not extract. Familiarity breeds contempt, and publicity oft kills that which is brought to light. Our host was a wine-merchant in a large way of business. "I can only promise you plain food, good sirs," he mentioned, in advance--"no foreign kick-shaws; but everything done to a turn." Six of us started with clear turtle, followed by a thick wedge out of the middle of a patriarchal codfish, with plenty of liver. And here a pause must be made. In not one cookery-book known to mankind can be found a recipe for cooking the _Liver of a Cod_. Of course it should not be cooked _with_ the fish, but in a separate vessel. The writer once went the rounds of the kitchens to obtain information on this point. "'Bout half-an-hour," said one cook, a "hard-bitten" looking food-spoiler. "_Ma foi!_ I cook not at all the liver of the cod," said an unshorn son of Normandy. "He is for the _malade_ only." After asking a number of questions, and a journey literally "round the town," the deduction made from the various answers was that a piece of liver enough for six people would take eighteen minutes, after being placed in _boiling_ water. To continue with our dinner. No sauce with the oysters, but these simply scalded in their own liquor. Then came on a monster steak, an inch thick, cut from the rump immediately before being placed on the gridiron. And here a word on the grilling of a steak. We English place it nearer the fire than do our lively neighbours, whose grills do not, in consequence, present that firm surface which is the charm of an English steak. The late Mr. Godfrey Turner of the _Daily Telegraph_ (who was almost as great an authority as Mr. Sala on gastronomies) once observed to the writer, "Never turn your steak, or chop, more than once." Though by no means a disciple of _Ala_, he was evidently a believer in the French method of grilling, which leaves a sodden, flabby surface on the meat. The French cook only turns a steak once; but if he had his gridiron as close to the fire as his English rival, the _chef_ would inevitably cremate his _morçeau d'boeuf_. I take it that in grilling, as in roasting, the meat should, in the first instance, almost touch the glowing embers. We had nothing but horse-radish with our steak, which was succeeded by golden plovers (about the best bird that flies) and marrow bones. And a dig into a ripe Stilton concluded a banquet which we would not have exchanged for the best efforts of Francatelli himself. Yes--despite the efforts of the bad fairy _Ala_, the English method of cooking good food--if deftly and properly employed--is a long way the better method. Unfortunately, through the fault of the English themselves, this method is but seldom employed deftly or properly. And at a cheap English eating-house the kitchen is usually as dirty and malodorous as at an inexpensive foreign restaurant. As both invariably serve as sleeping apartments during the silent watches of the night, this is, perhaps, not altogether to be wondered at. But there is one _plât_ in the French cookery book which is not to be sneered at, or even condemned with faint praise. A properly-dressed _fricandeau_ is a dainty morsel indeed. In fact the word _fricand_ means, in English, "dainty." Here is the recipe of the celebrated _Gouffé_ for the FRICANDEAU: Three pounds of veal fillet, trimmed, and larded with fat bacon. Put in the glazing stewpan the trimmings, two ounces of sliced carrot, two ditto onion, with pepper and salt. Lay the _fricandeau_ on the top; add half a pint of broth; boil the broth till it is reduced and becomes thick and yellow; add a pint and a half more broth, and simmer for an hour and a quarter--the stewpan half covered. Then close the stewpan and put live coals on the top. Baste the _fricandeau_ with the gravy--presumably after the removal of the dead coals--every four minutes till it is sufficiently glazed; then take it out and place on a dish. Strain the gravy, skim off the fat, and pour over the meat. It may be added that a spirit lamp beneath the dish is (or should be) _de rigueur_. In their clubs, those (alleged) "gilded saloons of profligacy and debauchery, favoured of the aristocracy," men, as a rule dine wisely, and well, and, moreover, cheaply. The extravagant diner-out, with his crude views on the eternal fitness of things, selects an hotel, or restaurant, in the which, although the food may be of the worst quality, and the cookery of the greasiest, the charges are certain to be on the millionaire scale. For bad dinners, like bad lodgings, are invariably the dearest. _At the Mess-Table_ of the British officer there is not much riot or extravagance nowadays, and the food is but indifferently well cooked; though there was a time when the youngest cornet would turn up his nose at anything commoner than a "special _cuvée_" of champagne, and would unite with his fellows in the "bear-fight" which invariably concluded a "guest night," and during which the messman, or one of his myrmidons, was occasionally placed atop of the ante-room fire. And there was one messman who even preferred that mode of treatment to being lectured by his colonel. Said officer was starchy, punctilious, and long-winded, and upon one occasion, when the chaplain to the garrison was his guest at dinner, addressed the terrified servant somewhat after this wise: "Mr. Messman--I have this evening bidden to our feast this eminent divine, who prayeth daily that we may receive the fruits of the earth in due season; to which I, an humble layman, am in the habit of responding: 'We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.' Mr. Messman, don't let me see those d----d figs on the table again." At a military guest-night in India, a turkey and a "Europe" ham are--or were--_de rigueur_ at table; and on the whole the warrior fares well, if the _khansamah_ do not attempt luxuries. His chicken cutlets are not despicable, and we can even forgive the repetition of the _vilolif_ but his _bifisteakishtoo_ (stewed steak) is usually too highly-spiced for the European palate. Later in the evening, however, he will come out strong with _duvlebone_, and grilled sardines in curlpapers. The presence of the bagpipes, in the mess-room of a Highland regiment, when men have well drunk, is cruelly unkind--to the Saxon guest at all events. The bagpipe is doubtless a melodious instrument (to trained ears), but its melodies are apt to "hum i' th' head o'er muckle ye ken," after a course of haggis washed down with sparkling wines and old port. "Tell me what a man eats," said Brillat Savarin, "and I'll tell you what he is." _Peter the Great_ did not like the presence of "listening lacqueys" in the dining-room. Peter's favourite dinner was, like himself, peculiar: "A soup, with four cabbages in it; gruel; pig, with sour cream for sauce; cold roast meat with pickled cucumbers or salad; lemons and lamprey, salt meat, ham, and Limburg cheese." "Lemons and lamprey" must have had a roughish seat, atop of pig and sour cream. I once tasted lampreys--only once. It was in Worcestershire, and said lampreys were stewed (I fancy) in burgundy, and served in a small tureen--_en casserole_, our lively neighbours would have called the production, which was grateful, but much embarrassed with richness. _Napoleon the Great_, whose tastes were simple, is said to have preferred a broiled breast of mutton to any other dinner-dish. Napoleon III., however, encouraged extravagance of living; and Zola tells us in _Le Débâcle_ that the unfortunate emperor, ill as he was, used to sit down to so many courses of rich foods every night until "the downfall" arrived at Sédan, and that a train of cooks and scullions with (literally) a "_batterie_" _de cuisine_, was attached to his staff. _Her Majesty_ Queen Victoria's dinner-table is invariably graced with a cold sirloin of beef, amongst other joints; and the same simple fare has satisfied the aspirations and gratified the palate of full many a celebrity. The great _Duke of Wellington_ was partial to a well-made Irish stew; and nothing delighted Charles Dickens more than a slice out of the breast of a hot roast-goose. A word about the mushroom. Although said to be of enormous value in sauces and ragouts, I shall always maintain that the mushroom is best when eaten all by his quaint self. His flavour is so delicate that 'tis pitiful to mix him with fish, flesh, or fowl--more especially the first-named. I have seen mushrooms and bacon cooked together, and I have seen beef-steak (cut into small pieces) and bacon cooked together, and it was with some difficulty that my Irish host got me out of the kitchen. If ever I am hanged, it will be for killing a cook. Above all never eat mushrooms which you have not seen in their uncooked state. The mushroom, like the truffle, loses more flavour the longer he is kept; and to "postpone" either is fatal. "The plainer the meal the longer the life." Thus an eminent physician--already mentioned in these pages. "We begin with soup, and perhaps a glass of cold punch, to be followed by a piece of turbot, or a slice of salmon with lobster sauce; and while the venison or South-down is getting ready, we toy with a piece of sweetbread, and mellow it with a bumper of Madeira. No sooner is the mutton or venison disposed of, with its never-failing accompaniments of jelly and vegetables, than we set the whole of it in a ferment with champagne, and drown it with hock and sauterne. These are quickly followed by the wing and breast of a partridge, or a bit of pheasant or wild duck; and when the stomach is all on fire with excitement, we cool it for an instant with a piece of iced pudding, and then immediately lash it into a fury with undiluted alcohol in the form of cognac or a strong liqueur; after which there comes a spoonful or so of jelly as an emollient, a morsel of ripe Stilton as a digestant, a piquant salad to whet the appetite for wine, and a glass of old port to persuade the stomach, if it can, into quietness. All these are more leisurely succeeded by dessert, with its baked meats, its fruits, and its strong drinks, to be afterwards muddled with coffee, and complicated into a rare mixture with tea, floating with the richest cream." Hoity, toity! And not a word about a French _plât_, or even a curry, either! But we must remember that this diatribe comes from a gentleman who has laid down the theory that cold water is not only the cheapest of beverages, but the best. Exception, too, may be taken to the statement that a "piquant salad" whets the appetite for wine. I had always imagined that a salad--and, indeed, anything with vinegar in its composition--rather spoilt the human palate for wine than otherwise. And what sort of "baked meats" are usually served with desert? _How the Poor Live._ An esteemed friend who has seen better days, sends word how to dine a man, his wife, and three children for 7½d. He heads his letter _The Kent Road Cookery_. A stew is prepared with the following ingredients: 1 lb. bullock's cheek (3½d.), ½ pint white beans (1d.), ½ pint lentils (1d.), pot-herbs (1d.), 2 lb. potatoes (1d.)--Total 7½d. When he has friends, the banquet is more expensive: 1 lb. bullock's cheek (3½d.), ½ lb. cow-heel (2½d.), ½ lb. leg of beef (3d.), 1 pint white beans (2d.), ½ pint lentils (1d.), pot-herbs (1d.), 5 lb. potatoes (2d.)--total 1s. 3d. As we never know what may happen, the above _menus_ may come in useful. _Doctor Nansen's Banquet_ on the ice-floe, to celebrate his failure to discover the Pole, was simple enough, at all events. But it would hardly commend itself to the _fin de siècle_ "Johnny." There was raw gull in it, by way of a full-flavoured combination of _poisson_ and _entrée_; there was meat chocolate in it, and peli--I should say, pemmican. There were pancakes, made of oatmeal and dog's blood, fried in seal's blubber. And I rather fancy the _relevé_ was _Chien au nature_. For in his most interesting work, _Across Greenland_, Doctor Nansen has inserted the statement that the man who turns his nose up at raw dog for dinner is unfit for an Arctic expedition. For my own poor part, I would take my chance with a Porterhouse steak, cut from a Polar bear. _Prison Fare._ Another simple meal. Any visitor to one of H.M. penitentiaries may have noticed in the cells a statement to the effect that "beans and bacon" may be substituted for meat, for the convicts' dinners, on certain days. "Beans and bacon" sounds rural, if not absolutely bucolic. "Fancy giving such good food to the wretches!" once exclaimed a lady visitor. But those who have sampled the said "beans and bacon" say that it is hardly to be preferred to the six ounces of Australian dingo or the coarse suet-duff (plumless) which furnish the ordinary prison dinner. For the tablespoonful of pappy beans with which the captive staves off starvation are of the _genus_ "haricot"; and the parallelogram of salted hog's-flesh which accompanies the beans does not exceed, in size, the ordinary railway ticket. CHAPTER X VEGETABLES "Herbs and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses." Use and abuse of the potato--Its eccentricities--Its origin--Hawkins, not Raleigh, introduced it into England--With or without the "jacket"?--Don't let it be _à-la_-ed--Benevolence and large-heartedness of the cabbage family--Peas on earth--Pythagoras on the bean--"Giving him beans"--"Haricot" a misnomer--"Borston" beans--Frijoles--The carrot--Crécy soup--The Prince of Wales--The Black Prince and the King of Bohemia. Item, the POTATO, earth-apple, murphy, or spud; the most useful, as well as the most exasperating gift of a bountiful Providence. Those inclined to obesity may skip the greater part of this chapter. You can employ a potato for almost anything. It comes in very handy for the manufacture of starch, sugar, Irish stew, Scotch whisky, and Colorado beetles. Cut it in half, and with one half you restore an old master, and with the other drive the cat from the back garden. More deadly battles have been waged over the proper way to cook a potato, than over a parish boundary, or an Irish eviction. Strong-headed men hurl the spud high in air, and receive and fracture it on their frontal bones; whilst a juggler like Paul Cinquevalli can do what he likes with it. Worn inside the pocket, it is an infallible cure for chronic rheumatism, fits, and tubercular meningitis. Worn inside the body it will convert a living skeleton into a Daniel Lambert. Plant potatoes in a game district, and if they come up you will find that after the haulms have withered you can capture all your rich neighbour's pheasants, and half the partridges in the country. A nicely-baked potato, deftly placed beneath the root of his tail, will make the worst "jibber" in the world travel; whilst, when combined with buttermilk, and a modicum of meal, the earth-apple has been known to nourish millions of the rising generation, and to give them sufficient strength and courage to owe their back rents, and accuracy of aim for exterminating the brutal owner of the soil. The waiter, bless ye! the harmless, flat-footed waiter, doesn't know all this. Potatoes to him are simply 2d. or 3d. in the little account, according to whether they be "biled, mash, or soty"; and if questioned as to the natural history of the floury tuber, he would probably assume an air of injured innocence, and assure you that during his reign of "thirty-five year, man and boy," that establishment had "never 'ad no complaints." The potato is most eccentric in disposition, and its cultivator should know by heart the beautiful ode of Horace which commences _Aequam memento rebus in arduis_ . . . The experiences of the writer as a potato grower have been somewhat mixed, and occasionally like the following:--Set your snowflakes in deeply-trenched, heavily-manured ground, a foot apart. In due time you will get a really fine crop of groundsel, charlock, and slugs, with enough bind-weed to strangle the sea-serpent. Clear all this rubbish off, and after a week or two the eye will be gladdened with the sight of the delicate green leaf of the tuber peeping through the soil. Slow music. Enter the Earl of Frost. No; they will not _all_ be cut off. You will get _one_ tuber. Peel it carefully, and place it in the pig-stye--the peeling spoils the quality of the pork. Throw the peeling away--on the bed in which you have sown annuals for choice--and in the late Spring you will have a row of potatoes which will do you credit. But this is frivolous. The origin of the potato is doubtful; but that it was used by the ancients, in warfare, is tolerably certain. Long before the Spaniards reached the New World it was cultivated largely by the Incas; and it was the Spaniards who brought the tuber to Europe, in the beginning of the sixteenth century. It was brought to England from Virginia by Sir John Hawkins in 1563; and again in 1586 by Sir Francis Drake, to whom, as the introducer of the potato, a statue was erected at Offenburg, in Baden, in 1853. In schools and other haunts of ignorance, the credit for the introduction of the tuber used to be and is (I believe) still given to Sir Walter Raleigh, who has been wrongly accredited with as many "good things" as have been Theodore Hook or Sidney Smith. And I may mention _en parenthèse_, that I don't entirely believe that cloak story. For many years the tuber was known in England as the "Batata"--overhaul your _Lorna Doone_--and in France, until the close of the eighteenth century, the earth apple was looked upon with suspicion, as the cause of leprosy and assorted fevers; just as the tomato, at the close of the more civilised nineteenth century, is said by the vulgar and swine-headed to breed cancer. Now then, With or without the jacket? And the reader who imagines that I am going to answer the question has too much imagination. As the old butler in Wilkie Collins's _The Moonstone_ observes, there is much to be said on both sides. Personally I lean to the "no-jacket" side, unless the tuber be baked; and I would make it penal to serve a potato in any other way than boiled, steamed, or baked.[5] The bad fairy _Ala_ should have no hand in its manipulation; and there be few æsthetic eaters who would not prefer the old-fashioned "ball of flour" to slices of the sodden article swimming in a bath of grease and parsley, and called a _Sauté_. The horrible concoction yclept "preserved potatoes," which used to be served out aboard sailing vessels, after the passengers had eaten all the real articles, and which tasted like bad pease-pudding dressed with furniture polish, is, happily, deceased. And the best potatoes, the same breed which our fathers and our forefathers munched in the Covent Garden "Cave of Harmony," grow, I am credibly informed, in Jermyn Street. Moreover if you wish to spoil a dish of good spuds, there is no surer way than by leaving on the dish-cover. So much for boiling 'em--or steaming 'em. The CABBAGE is a fine, friendly fellow, who makes himself at home, and generally useful, in the garden; whilst his great heart swells, and swells, in the full knowledge that he is doing his level best to please all. Though cut down in the springtime of his youth, his benevolence is so great that he will sprout again from his headless trunk, if required, and given time for reflection. The Romans introduced him into Great Britain, but there was a sort of cow-cabbage in the island before that time which our blue forefathers used to devour with their bacon, and steaks, in a raw state. "The most evolved and final variety of the cabbage," writes a _savant_, "is the CAULIFLOWER, in which the vegetative surplus becomes poured into the flowering head, of which the flowering is more or less checked; the inflorescence becoming a dense corymb instead of an open panicle, and the majority of the flowers aborting"--the head gardener usually tells you all this in the Scottish language--"so as to become incapable of producing seed. Let a specially vegetative cabbage repeat the excessive development of its leaf parenchyma, and we have the wrinkled and blistered SAVOY, of which the hardy constitution, but comparative coarseness, become also more intelligible; again a specially vegetative cauliflower gives us an easily grown and hardy winter variety, BROCCOLI"--_Broccilo_ in Costerese--"from which, and not from the ordinary cauliflower, a sprouting variety arises in turn." In Jersey the cabbage-stalks are dried, varnished, and used as spars for thatched roofs, as also for the correction of the youthful population. Cook all varieties of the cabbage in water already at the boil, with a little salt and soda in it. The French sprinkle cheese on a cauliflower, to make it more tasty, and it then becomes _Choufleur aû Gratin_. Remove the green leaves, and _underboil_ your cauliflower. Pour over it some butter sauce in which have been mixed two ounces of grated cheese--half Gruyère and half Parmesan. Powder with bread crumbs, or raspings, and with more grated cheese. Lastly, pour over it a teaspoonful of oiled butter. Place in a hot oven and bake till the surface is a golden brown, which should be in from ten to fifteen minutes. Serve in same dish. Vegetarians should be particularly careful to soak every description of cabbage in salt and water before cooking. Otherwise the vegetarians will probably eat a considerable portion of animal food. Here occurs an opportunity for the recipe for an elegant dish, which the French call _Perdrix aux Choux_, which is simply _Partridge Stewed with Cabbage, etc._ A brace of birds browned in the stewpan with butter or good dripping, and a portion of a hand of pickled pork in small pieces, some chopped onion and a clove or two. Add some broth, two carrots (chopped), a bay-leaf, and a chopped sausage or two. Then add a Savoy cabbage, cut into quarters, and seasoned with pepper and salt. Let all simmer together for an hour and a half. Then drain the cabbage, and place it, squashed down, on a dish. Arrange the birds in the middle, surround them with the pieces of pork and sausage, and pour over all the liquor from the stew. This is an excellent dish, and savours more of Teutonic than of French cooking. But you mustn't tell a Frenchman this, if he be bigger than yourself. The toothsome PEA has been cultivated in the East from time immemorial, though the ancient Greeks and Romans do not appear to have had knowledge of such a dainty. Had Vitellius known the virtues of duck and green peas he would probably have not been so wrapt up in his favourite dormice, stuffed with poppy-seed and stewed in honey. The ancient Egyptians knew all about the little pulse, and not one of the leaders of society was mummified without a pod or two being placed amongst his wrappings. And after thousand of years said peas, when sown, have been known to germinate. The mummy pea-plant, however, but seldom bears fruit. Our idiotic ancestors, the ancient Britons, knew nothing about peas, nor do any of their descendants appear to have troubled about the vegetable before the reign of the Virgin Queen. Then they were imported from Holland, together with schnapps, curaçoa, and other things, and no "swagger" banquet was held without a dish of "fresh-shelled 'uns," which were accounted "fit dainties for ladies, they came so far and cost so dear." In England up-to-date peas are frequently accompanied by pigeon pie at table; the dove family being especially partial to the little pulse, either when attached to the haulm, in the garden, or in a dried state. So that the crafty husbandman, who possesses a shot gun, frequently gathereth both pea and pigeon. A chalky soil is especially favourable to pea cultivation; and deal sawdust sprinkled well over the rows immediately after the setting of the seed will frustrate the knavish tricks of the field mouse, who also likes peas. The man who discovered the affinity between mint and this vegetable ought to have received a gold medal, and I would gladly attend the execution of the caitiff who invented the tinned peas which we get at the foreign restaurants, at three times the price of the English article. Here is a good simple recipe for PEA SOUP, made from the dried article: Soak a quart of split peas in rain-water for twelve hours. Put them in the pot with one carrot, one onion, one leek, a sprig or two of parsley (all chopped), one pound of streaky bacon, and three quarts of the liquor in which either beef, mutton, pork, or poultry may have been boiled. Boil for nearly three hours, remove the bacon, and strain the soup through a tammy. Heat up, and serve with dried mint, and small cubes of fat bacon fried crisp. GREEN-PEA SOUP is made in precisely the same way; but the peas will not need soaking beforehand, and thrifty housewives put in the shells as well. Harmless and nutritious a vegetable as the BEAN would appear to be, it did not altogether find favour with the ancients. Pythagoras, who had quaint ideas on the subject of the human soul, forbade his disciples to eat beans, because they were generated in the foul ooze out of which man was created. Lucian, who had a vivid imagination, describes a philosopher in Hades who was particularly hard on the bean, to eat which he declared was as great a crime as to eat one's father's head. And yet Lucian was accounted a man of common sense in his time. The Romans only ate beans at funerals, being under the idea that the souls of the dead abode in the vegetable. According to tradition, the "caller herrin'" hawked in the streets of Edinburgh were once known as "lives o' men," from the risks run by the fishermen. And the Romans introduced the bean into England by way of cheering up our blue forefathers. In the Roman festival of Lemuralia, the father of the family was accustomed to throw black beans over his head, whilst repeating an incantation. This ceremony probably inspired Lucian's philosopher--for whom, however, every allowance should be made, when we come to consider his place of residence--with his jaundiced views of the _Faba vulgaris_. Curiously enough, amongst the vulgar folk, at the present day, there would seem to be some sort of prejudice against the vegetable; or why should "I'll give him beans" be a synonymous threat with "I'll do him all the mischief I can?" There is plenty of nourishment in a bean; that is the opinion of the entire medical faculty. And whilst beans and bacon make a favourite summer repast for the farm-labourer and his family, the dish is also (at the commencement of the bean season) to be met with at the tables of the wealthy. The aroma of the flower of the broad bean was once compared, in one of John Leech's studies in _Punch_, to "the most delicious 'air oil," but, apart from this fragrance, there is but little sentiment about the _Faba vulgaris_. A much more graceful vegetable is the _Phaseolus vulgaris_, the kidney, or, as the idiotic French call it, the _haricot_ bean. It is just as sensible to call a leg of Welsh mutton a _pré salé_, or salt meadow. No well-behaved hashed venison introduces himself to our notice unless accompanied by a dish of kidney beans. And few people in Europe besides Frenchmen and convicts eat the dried seeds of this form of bean, which is frequently sown in suburban gardens to form a fence to keep out cats. But the suburban cat knows a trick worth a dozen of that one; and no bean that was ever born will arrest his progress, or turn him from his evil ways. It is criminal to smother the kidney bean with melted butter at table. A little oil, vinegar, and pepper agree with him much better. In the great continent of America, the kidney-bean seed, dried, is freely partaken of. Pork and "Borston" beans, in fact, form the national dish, and right good it is. But do not attempt any violent exercise after eating the same. The Mexicans are the largest bean-eaters in the world. They fry the vegetables in oil or stew them with peppers and onions, and these _frijoles_ form the principal sustenance of the lower orders. An English "bean feast" (Vulg. _beano_) is a feast at which no beans, and not many other things, are eaten. The intelligent foreigner may take it that _beano_ simply means the worship of Bacchus. With the exception of the onion there is no more useful aid to cookery of all sorts than the lowly carrot, which was introduced into England--no, not by the Romans--from Holland, in the sixteenth century. And the ladies who attended the court of Charles I. were in the habit of wearing carrot leaves in the hair, and on their court robes, instead of feathers. A similar fashion might be revived at the present epoch, with advantage to the banking account of vile man. As the Flemish gardeners brought over the roots, we should not despise carrots cooked in the FLEMISH way. Simmer some young carrots in butter, with pepper and salt. Add cream (or milk and yolk of eggs), a pinch of sugar, and a little chopped parsley. H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, according to report, invariably eats carrot soup on the 26th of August. The French call it "CRÉCY" soup, because their best carrots grow there; and Crécy it may be remembered was also the scene of a great battle, when one Englishman proved better than five Frenchmen. In this battle the Black Prince performed prodigies of valour, afterwards assuming the crest of the late Bohemian King--three ostrich feathers (surely these should be carrot tops?) with the motto "_Ich Dien_." _Crécy Soup._ Place a mirepoix of white wine in the pot, and put a quantity of sliced carrots atop. Moisten with broth, and keep simmering till the carrots are done. Then pour into a mortar, pound, and pass through a tammy. Thin it with more broth, sweeten in the proportion of one tablespoonful of sugar to two gallons of soup; heat up, pop a little butter in at the finish, and in serving it add either small cubes of fried bread, or rice boiled as for curry (see page 145). CHAPTER XI VEGETABLES (_continued_) "Earth's simple fruits; we all enjoy them. Then why with sauces rich alloy them?" The brief lives of the best--A vegetable with a pedigree--Argenteuil--The Elysian Fields--The tomato the emblem of love--"Neeps"--Spinach--"Stomach-brush"--The savoury tear-provoker--Invaluable for wasp-stings--Celery merely cultivated "smallage"--The "_Apium_"--The parsnip--O Jerusalem!--The golden sunflower--How to get pheasants--A vegetarian banquet--"Swelling wisibly." It is one of the most exasperating laws and ordinations of Nature that the nicest things shall last the shortest time. "Whom the gods love die young," is an ancient proverb; and the produce of the garden which is most agreeable to man invariably gives out too soon. Look at peas. Every gardener of worth puts in the seed so that you may get the different rows of marrow-fats and telephones and _ne plus ultras_ in "succession"; and up they all come, at one and the same time, whilst, if you fail to pick them all at once, the combined efforts of mildew and the sun will soon save you the labour of picking them at all. Look at strawberries; and why can't they stay in our midst all the year round, like the various members of the cabbage family? Then look at ASPARAGUS. The gardener who could persuade the heads of this department to pop up in succession, from January to December would earn more money than the Prime Minister. The favourite vegetable of the ancient Romans was introduced by them, with their accustomed unselfishness, into Britain, where it has since flourished--more particularly in the alluvial soil of the Thames valley in the neighbourhood of Mortlake and Richmond, ground which is also especially favourable to the growth of celery. In an ancient work called _De Re Rustica_, Cato the Elder, who was born 234 B.C., has much to say--far more, indeed, than I can translate without the aid of a dictionary or "crib"--about the virtues and proper cultivation of asparagus; and Pliny, another noble Roman, devotes several chapters of his _Natural History_ (published at the commencement of the Christian era) to the same subject. "Of all the productions of your garden" says this Mr. Pliny, "your chief care will be your asparagus." And the cheerful and sanguine householder of to-day who sows his asparagus, and expects to get it "while he waits" has ample consolation for disappointment in the reflection that his labours will benefit posterity, if not the next tenant. The foreigners can beat us for size, in the matter of asparagus; but ours is a long way in front for flavour. In France the vegetable is very largely grown at Argenteuil on the Seine, a district which has also produced, and still produces, a wine which is almost as dangerous to man as hydrocyanic acid, and which was invariably served in the restaurants, after the sitting had been a lengthy one, no matter what special brand might have been ordered. English hosts play the same game with their "military" ports and inferior sherries. The Argenteuil asparagus is now grown between the vines--at least 1000 acres are in cultivation--hence the peculiar flavour which, however grateful it may be to Frenchmen, is somewhat sickly and not to be compared with that of the "little gentleman in Green," nearly the whole of whom we English can consume with safety to digestion. According to Greek mythology, asparagus grew in the Elysian fields; but whether the blessed took oil and vinegar with it, or the "bill-sticker's paste," so favoured in middle-class kitchens of to-day, there is no record. It goes best, however, with a plain salad dressing--a "spot" of mustard worked into a tablespoonful of oil, and a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, with pepper and salt _ad lib_. Asparagus is no longer known in the British pharmacopoeia, but the French make large medicinal use of its root, which is supposed to still the action of the heart, like foxglove, and to act as a preventive of calculi. In cooking the vegetable, tie in small bundles, which should be stood on end in the saucepan, so that the delicate heads should be _steamed_, and not touched by the boiling water. Many cooks will contest this point; which, however, does not admit of argument. There was once a discussion in a well-known hostelry, as to whether the _Tomato_ was a fruit or a vegetable. Eventually the head-waiter was invited to solve the great question. He did so on the spot. "Tumarter, sir? Tumarter's a hextra." And as a "hextra" it has never since that period ceased to be regarded. A native of South America, the plant was introduced into Europe by the Spaniards, late in the sixteenth century, and the English got it in 1596. Still until a quarter of a century ago the tomato has not been largely cultivated, save by the market gardener; in fact in private gardens it was conspicuous by its absence. Those who eat it do _not_ invariably succumb to cancer; and the dyspeptic should always keep it on the premises. As the tomato is also known as the "love-apple," a great point was missed by our old friend Sergeant Buzfuz, in the celebrated Bardell v. Pickwick trial, when referring to the postscript, "chops, and tomato sauce." Possibly Charles Dickens was not an authority on veget---- I beg pardon, "hextras." Here is a French recipe for _Tomate au Gratin_: Cut open the tops and scoop out the pulp. Pass it through a sieve, to clear away the pips, and mix with it either a modicum of butter, or oil, some chopped shalot and garlic, with pepper and salt. Simmer the mixture for a quarter of an hour, then stir in some bread-crumbs, previously soaked in broth, and some yolks of egg. When cold, fill the tomato skins with the mixture, shake some fine bread raspings over each, and bake in quick oven for ten or twelve minutes. The _Turnip_ is not, as might be sometimes imagined, entirely composed of compressed deal splinters, but is a vegetable which was cultivated in India long before the Britons got it. The Scotch call turnips "neeps"; but the Scotch will do anything. Probably no member of the vegetable family is so great a favourite with the insect pests sent on earth by an all-wise Providence to prevent mankind having too much to eat. But see that you get a few turnips to cook when there is roast duck for dinner. _Spinach_ was introduced into Spain by the Arabs, and as neither nation possessed at that time, at all events, the attribute of extra-cleanliness, they must have eaten a great deal of "matter in the wrong place," otherwise known as dirt. For if ever there was a vegetable the preparation of which for table would justify any cook in giving notice to leave, it is spinach. The Germans have nick-named it "stomach-brush," and there is no plant growing which conduces more to the health of man. But there has been more trouble over the proper way to serve it at table than over Armenia. The French chop up their _épinards_ and mix butter, or gravy, with the mess. Many English, on the other hand, prefer the leaves cooked whole. It is all a matter of taste. But I seem to scent a soft, sweet fragrance in the air, a homely and health-giving reek, which warns me that I have too long neglected to touch upon the many virtues of the _Onion_. Indigenous to India in the form of _Garlic_ (or _gar-leek_, the original onion), the Egyptians got hold of the tear-provoker and cultivated it 2000 years before the Christian era. So that few of the mortals of whom we have ever read can have been ignorant of the uses of the onion, or _gar-leek_. But knowledge and practice have enabled modern gardeners to produce larger bulbs than even the most imaginative of the ancients can have dreamt of. To mention all the uses to which the onion is put in the kitchen would be to write a book too weighty for any known motive power to convey to the British Museum; but it may be briefly observed of the juice of the _Cepa_ that it is invaluable for almost any purpose, from flavouring a dish fit to set before a king, to the alleviation of the inflammation caused by the poison-bearing needle which the restless wasp keeps for use within his, or her, tail. In fact, the inhabited portion of the globe had better be without noses than without onions. Like the tomato, CELERY is a "hextra"--and a very important one. If you buy the heads at half-a-crown per hundred and sell them at threepence a portion, it will not exercise your calculating powers to discover the profits which can be made out of this simple root. Celery is simply cultivated "smallage"; a weed which has existed in Britain since the age of ice. It was the Italians who made the discovery that educated smallage would become celery; and it is worthy of note that their forefathers, the conquerors of the world, with the Greeks, seem to have known "no touch of it"--as a relish, at all events; though some writers will have it that the "Apium," with which the victors at the Isthmian and other games were crowned was not parsley but the leaf of the celery plant. But what does it matter? Celery is invaluable as a flavourer, and when properly cultivated, and not stringy, a most delightful and satisfactory substance to bite. In fact a pretty woman never shows to more advantage than when nibbling a crisp, "short" head of celery--provided she possess pretty teeth. With boiled turkey, or ditto pheasant, celery sauce is _de rigueur_; and it should be flavoured slightly with slices of onion, an ounce of butter being allowed to every head of celery. The French are fond of it stewed; and as long as the flavour of the gravy, or _jus_, does not disguise the flavour of the celery, it is excellent when thus treated. Its merits in a salad will be touched upon in another chapter. The PARSNIP is a native of England, where it is chiefly used to make an inferior kind of spirit, or a dreadful brand of wine. Otherwise few people would trouble to cultivate the parsnip; for we can't be having boiled pork or salt fish for dinner every day. The VEGETABLE MARROW is a member of the pumpkin family and is a comparatively tasteless occupant of the garden, its appearance in which heralds the departure of summer. In the suburbs, if you want to annoy the people next door, you cannot do better than put in a marrow plant or two. If they come to anything, and get plenty of water, they will crawl all over your neighbour's premises; and unless he is fond of the breed, and cuts and cooks them, they make him mad. The frugal housewife, blessed with a large family, makes jam of the surplus marrows; but I prefer a conserve of apricot, gooseberry, or greengage. Another purpose to which to put this vegetable is-- Scoop out the seeds, after cutting it in half, lengthways. Fill the space with minced veal (cooked), small cubes of bacon, and plenty of seasoning--some people add the yoke of an egg--put on the other half marrow, and bake for half-an-hour. This BAKED MARROW is a cheap and homely dish which, like many another savoury dish, seldom finds its way to the rich man's dining-room. The ARTICHOKE is a species of thistle; and the man who pays the usual high-toned restaurant prices for the pleasure of eating such insipid food, is an--never mind what. Boil the thing in salt and water, and dip the ends of the leaves in oil and vinegar, or Holland sauce, before eating. Then you will enjoy the really fine flavour of the--oil and vinegar, or Holland sauce. The so-called JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE is really a species of sunflower. Its tuber is not a universal favourite, though it possesses far from a coarse flavour. The plant has nothing whatever to do with Jerusalem, and never had. Put a tuber or two into your garden, and you will have Jerusalem artichokes as long as you live on those premises. For the vegetable will stay with you as long as the gout, or the rate-gatherer. Pheasants are particularly partial to this sort of crop. By far the best vegetable production of the gorgeous East is the _Brinjal_ 'Tis oval in shape, and about the size of a hen's egg, the surface being purple in colour. It is usually cut in twain and done "on the grating"; I have met something very like the _brinjal_ in Covent Garden; but can find no record of the vegetable's pedigree in any book. Although there are still many vegetarian restaurants in our large towns, the prejudice against animal food is, happily, dying out; and if ridicule could kill, we should not hear much more of the "cranks" who with delightful inconsistency, would spurn a collop of beef, and gorge themselves on milk, in every shape and form. If milk, butter, and cheese be not animal food I should like to know what is? And it is as reasonable to ask a man to sustain life on dried peas and mushrooms as to feed a tiger on cabbages. Once, and only once, has the writer attempted a _Vegetarian Banquet_. It was savoury enough; and possessed the additional merit of being cheap. Decidedly "filling at the price" was that meal. We--I had a messmate--commenced with (alleged) Scotch broth--which consisted principally of dried peas, pearl barley, and oatmeal--and a large slice of really excellent brown bread was served, to each, with this broth. Thereupon followed a savoury stew of onions and tomatoes, relieved by a "savoury pie," apparently made from potatoes, leeks, bread crumbs, butter, and "postponed" mushrooms. We had "gone straight" up to now, but both shied a bit at the maccaroni and grated cheese. We had two bottles of ginger beer apiece, with this dinner, which cost less than three shillings for the two, after the dapper little waitress had been feed. On leaving, we both agreed to visit that cleanly and well-ordered little house again, if only from motives of economy; but within half an hour that programme was changed. Like the old lady at the tea-drinking, I commenced to "swell wisibly"; and so did my companion. "Mon alive!" he gasped. "I feel just for all the wor-rld like a captive balloon, or a puffy-dunter--that's a puffing whale, ye ken. I'll veesit yon onion-hoose nae mair i' ma life!" And I think it cost us something like half a sovereign in old brandy to neutralise the effects of that vegetarian banquet. CHAPTER XII CURRIES "Thou com'st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee." Different modes of manufacture--The "native" fraud--"That man's family"--The French _kari_--A Parsee curry--"The oyster in the sauce"--Ingredients--Malay curry--Locusts--When to serve--What to curry--Prawn curry--Dry curry, a champion recipe--Rice--The Bombay duck. The poor Indian grinds his coriander seeds, green ginger, and other ingredients between two large flat stones; taking a whiff at the family "hubble-bubble" pipe at intervals. The frugal British housewife purchases (alleged) curry powder in the warehouse of Italy--where it may have lived on, like Claudian, "through the centuries"--stirs a spoonful or two into the hashed mutton, surrounds it with a wall of clammy rice, and calls it BENARES CURRY, made from the recipe of a very dear uncle who met his death while tiger-shooting. And you will be in the minority if you do not cut this savoury meat with a knife, and eat potatoes, and very often cabbage, with it. The far-seeing eating-house keeper corrals a _Lascar_ or a discharged _Mehtar_ into the firm, gives him his board, a pound a month, and a clean _puggaree_ and _Kummerbund_ daily, and "stars" him in the bill as an "Indian _chef_, fresh from the Chowringhee Club, Calcutta." And it is part of the duties of this Oriental--supposed by the unwary to be at least a prince in his native land--to hand the portions of curry, which he may or may not have concocted, to the appreciative guests, who enjoy the repast all the more from having the scent of the Hooghly brought across the footlights. I was once sadly and solemnly reproved by the head waiter of a very "swagger" establishment indeed for sending away, after one little taste, the (alleged) curry which had been handed me by an exile from Ind, in snow-white raiment. "You really ought to have eaten that, sir," said the waiter, "for that man's family have been celebrated curry-makers for generations." I smole a broad smile. In the Land of the Moguls the very babies who roll in the dust know the secret of curry-making. But that "that man" had had any hand in the horrible concoction placed before me I still resolutely decline to believe. And how can a man be cook and waiter at the same time? The "native curry-maker," depend on it, is more or less of a fraud; and his aid is only invoked as an excuse for overcharging. At the Oriental Club are served, or used to be served, really excellent curries, assorted; for as there be more ways than one of killing a cat, so are there more curries than one. The French turn out a horrible mixture, with parsley and mushrooms in it, which they call _kari_; it is called by a still worse name on the Boulevards, and the children of our lively neighbours are frequently threatened with it by their nurses. On the whole, the East Indian method is the best; and the most philanthropic curry I ever tasted was one which my own _Khitmughar_ had just prepared, with infinite pains, for his own consumption. The poor heathen had prospected a feast, as it was one of his numerous "big days"; so, despising the homely _dhal_, on the which, with a plate of rice and a modicum of rancid butter, he was wont to sustain existence, he had manufactured a savoury mess of pottage, the looks of which gratified me. So, at the risk of starting another Mutiny, it was ordained that the slave should serve the refection at the table of the "protector of the poor." And a _pukkha_ curry it was, too. Another dish of native manufacture with which the writer became acquainted was a _Parsee Curry_. The eminent firm of Jehangeer on one occasion presented a petition to the commanding-officer that they might be allowed to supply a special curry to the mess one guest-night. The request was probably made as an inducement to some of the young officers to pay a little on account of their "owings" to the firm; but it is to be feared that no special vote of thanks followed the sampling of that special curry. It was a curry! I tasted it for a week (as the Frenchman did the soup of Swindon); and the Parsee _chef_ must have upset the entire contents of the spice-box into it. I never felt more like murder than when the hotel cook in Manchester put nutmeg in the oyster sauce; but after that curry, the strangling of the entire firm of Jehangeer would, in our cantonments, at all events, have been brought in "justifiable homicide." "Oyster sauce" recalls a quaint _simile_ I once heard a bookmaker make use of. He was talking of one of his aristocratic debtors, whom he described as sure to pay up, if you could only get hold of him. "But mark you," continued the layer of odds, "he's just about as easy to get hold of as _the oyster in the sauce_, at one of our moonicipal banquets!" But return we to our coriander seeds. There is absolutely no reason why the frugal housewife in this country should not make her own curry powder from day to day, as it may be required. Here is an average Indian recipe; but it must be remembered that in the gorgeous East tastes vary as much as elsewhere, and that Bengal, Bombay, Madras (including Burmah), Ceylon, and the Straits Settlements, have all different methods of preparing a curry. A few coriander and cumin seeds--according to taste--eight peppercorns, a small piece of turmeric, and one dried chili, all pounded together. When making the curry _mixture_, take a piece of the heart of a cabbage, the size of a hen's egg; chop it fine and add one sour apple in thin slices the size of a Keswick codlin, the juice of a medium-sized lemon, a salt-spoonful of black pepper, and a tablespoonful of the above curry powder. Mix all well together; then take six medium-sized onions which have been chopped small and fried a delicate brown, a clove of garlic, also chopped small, two ounces of fresh butter, two ounces of flour, and one pint of beef gravy. Boil up this lot (which commences with the onions), and _when boiling_ stir in the rest of the mixture. Let it all simmer down, and then add the solid part of the curry, _i.e._ the meat, cut in portions not larger than two inches square. Remember, O frugal housewife, that the turmeric portion of the entertainment should be added with a niggard hand. "Too much turmeric" is the fault which is found with most curries made in England. I remember, when a boy, that there was an idea rooted in my mind that curries were made with Doctor Gregory's Powder, an unsavoury drug with which we were periodically regaled by the head nurse; and there was always a fierce conflict at the dinner-table when the bill-of-fare included this (as we supposed) physic-al terror. But it was simply the taste of turmeric to which we took exception. What is TURMERIC? A plant in cultivation all over India, whose tubers yield a deep yellow powder of a resinous nature. This resinous powder is sold in lumps, and is largely used for adulterating mustard; just as inferior anchovy sauce is principally composed of Armenian Bole, the deep red powder with which the actor makes up his countenance. Turmeric is also used medicinally in Hindustan, but not this side of Suez, although in chemistry it affords an infallible test for the presence of alkalies. The CORIANDER has become naturalised in parts of England, but is more used on the Continent. Our confectioners put the seeds in cakes and buns, also comfits, and in Germany, Norway, Sweden, and (I fancy) Russia, they figure in household bread. In the south of England, coriander and caraway seeds are sown side by side, and crops of each are obtained in alternate years. The coriander seed, too, is largely used with that of the caraway and the cumin, for making the liqueur known as KÜMMEL. CUMIN is mentioned in Scripture as something particularly nice. The seeds are sweet-savoured, something like those of the caraway, but more potent. In Germany they put them into bread, and the Dutch use them to flavour their cheeses. The seeds we get in England come principally from Sicily and Malta. And now that my readers know all about the ingredients of curry-powder--it is assumed that no analysis of the chili, the ginger-root, or the peppercorn, is needed--let them emulate the pupils of Mr. Wackford Squeers, and "go and do it." ANOTHER RECIPE for curry-powder includes fenugreek, cardamoms, allspice, and cloves; but I verily believe that this was the powder used in that abominable Parsee hell-broth, above alluded to, so it should be cautiously approached, if at all. "Fenugreek" sounds evil; and I should say a curry compounded of the above ingredients would taste like a "Number One" pick-me-up. Yet another recipe (DOCTOR KITCHENER'S) specifies six ounces of coriander seed, five ounces of turmeric (_ower muckle, I'm of opeenion_) two ounces each of black pepper and mustard seed (_ochone!_), half an ounce of cumin seed, half an ounce of cinnamon (_donner und blitzen!_), and one ounce of lesser cardamoms. All these things are to be placed in a cool oven, kept therein one night, and pounded in a marble mortar next morning, preparatory to being rubbed through a sieve. "Kitchener" sounds like a good cooking name; but, with all due respect, I am not going to recommend his curry-powder. A MALAY CURRY is made with blanched almonds, which should be fried in butter till lightly browned. Then pound them to a paste with a sliced onion and some thin lemon-rind. Curry powder and gravy are added, and a small quantity of cream. The Malays curry all sorts of fish, flesh, and fowl, including the young shoots of the bamboo--and nice tender, succulent morsels they are. At a hotel overlooking the harbour of Point de Galle, Ceylon, "run," at the time of the writer's visit, by a most convivial and enterprising Yankee, a canning concocter of all sorts of "slings" and "cocktails," there used to be quite a plethora of curries in the bill-of-fare. But for a prawn curry there is no place like the City of Palaces. And the reason for this super-excellence is that the prawns--but that story had, perhaps, best remain untold. CURRIED LOCUSTS formed one of the most eccentric dishes ever tasted by the writer. There had come upon us that day a plague of these all-devouring insects. A few billions called on us, in our kitchen gardens, in passing; and whilst they ate up every green thing--including the newly-painted wheelbarrow, and the regimental standard, which had been incautiously left out of doors--our faithful blacks managed to capture several _impis_ of the marauding scuts, in revenge; and the mess-cook made a right savoury _plât_ of their hind-quarters. It is criminal to serve curry during the _entrée_ period of dinner. And it is worse form still to hand it round after gooseberry tart and cream, and trifle, as I have seen done at one great house. In the land of its birth, the spicy pottage invariably precedes the sweets. Nubbee Bux marches solemnly round with the mixture, in a deep dish, and is succeeded by Ram Lal with the rice. And in the Madras Presidency, where _dry_ curry is served as well as the other brand, there is a procession of three brown attendants. Highly-seasoned dishes at the commencement of a long meal are a mistake; and this is one of the reasons why I prefer the middle cut of a plain-boiled Tay salmon, or the tit-bit of a lordly turbot, or a flake or two of a Grimsby cod, to a _sole Normande_, or a red mullet stewed with garlic, mushrooms, and inferior claret. I have even met _homard à l'Américaine_, during the fish course, at the special request of a well-known Duke. The soup, too, eaten at a large dinner should be as plain as possible; the edge being fairly taken off the appetite by such concoctions as _bisque_, _bouillabaisse_, and _mulligatawny_--all savoury and tasty dishes, but each a meal in itself. Then I maintain that to curry whitebait is wrong; partly because curry should on no account be served before roast and boiled, and partly because the flavour of the whitebait is too delicate for the fish to be clad in spices and onions. The lesson which all dinner-givers ought to have learnt from the Ancient Romans--the first people on record who went in for æsthetic cookery--is that highly-seasoned and well-peppered dishes should figure at the end, and not the commencement of a banquet. Here follows a list of some of the productions of Nature which it is allowable to curry. _What to Curry._ TURBOT. SOLE. COD. LOBSTER. CRAYFISH. PRAWNS,--but _not_ the so-called "DUBLIN PRAWN," which is delicious when eaten plain boiled, but no good in a curry. WHELKS.[6] OYSTERS. SCALLOPS. MUTTON. VEAL. PORK. CALF'S HEAD. OX PALATE. TRIPE.[6] EGGS. CHICKEN. RABBIT (the "bunny" lends itself better than anything else to this method of cooking). PEASE. KIDNEY BEANS.[6] VEGETABLE MARROW. CARROTS. PARSNIPS. BAMBOO SHOOTS. LOCUST LEGS. A mistaken notion has prevailed for some time amongst men and women who write books, that the Indian curry mixture is almost red-hot to the taste. As a matter of fact it is of a far milder nature than many I have tasted "on this side." Also the Anglo-Indian does not sustain life entirely on food flavoured with turmeric and garlic. In fact, during a stay of seven years in the gorgeous East, the writer's experience was that not one in ten touched curry at the dinner table. At second breakfast--otherwise known as "tiffin"--it was a favoured dish; but the stuff prepared for the meal of the day--or the bulk thereof--usually went to gratify the voracious appetite of the "_mehters_," the Hindus who swept out the mess-rooms, and whose lowness of "caste" allowed them to eat "anything." An eccentric meal was the _mehter's_ dinner. Into the empty preserved-meat tin which he brought round to the back door I have seen emptied such assorted _pabulum_ as mock turtle soup, lobster salad, plum pudding and custard, curry, and (of course), the surplus _vilolif_; and in a few seconds he was squatting on his heels, and spading into the mixture with both hands. In the Bengal Presidency cocoa-nut is freely used with a curry dressing; and as some men have as great a horror of this addition, as of oil in a salad, it is as well to consult the tastes of your guests beforehand. A PRAWN CURRY I have seen made in Calcutta as follows, the proportions of spices, etc., being specially written down by a _munshi_:-- Pound and mix one tablespoonful of coriander seed, one tablespoonful of poppy seed, a salt-spoonful of turmeric, half a salt-spoonful of cumin seed, a pinch of ground cinnamon, a ditto of ground nutmeg, a small lump of ginger, and one salt-spoonful of salt. Mix this with butter, add two sliced onions, and fry till lightly browned. Add the prawns, shelled, and pour in the milk of a cocoa-nut. Simmer for twenty minutes, and add some lime juice. But the champion of curries ever sampled by the writer was a dry curry--a decided improvement on those usually served in the Madras Presidency--and the recipe (which has been already published in the _Sporting Times_ and _Lady's Pictorial_), only came into the writer's possession some years after he had quitted the land of temples. _Dry Curry._ 1 lb. of meat (mutton, fowl, or white fish). 1 lb. of onions. 1 clove of garlic. 2 ounces of butter. 1 dessert-spoonful of curry powder. 1 dessert-spoonful of curry paste. 1 dessert-spoonful of chutnee (or tamarind preserve, according to taste). A very little cassareep, which is a condiment (only obtainable at a few London shops) made from the juice of the bitter cassava, or manioc root. Cassareep is the basis of that favourite West Indian dish "Pepper-pot." Salt to taste. A good squeeze of lemon juice. First brown the onions in the butter, and then dry them. Add the garlic, which must be mashed to a pulp with the blade of a knife. Then mix the powder, paste, chutnee, and cassareep into a thin paste with the lemon juice. Mash the dried onions into this, and let all cook gently till thoroughly mixed. Then add the meat, cut into small cubes, and let all simmer very gently for three hours. This sounds a long time, but it must be remembered that the recipe is for a _dry_ curry; and when served there should be no liquid about it. 'Tis a troublesome dish to prepare; but, judging from the flattering communications received by the writer, the lieges would seem to like it. And the mixture had better be cooked in a _double_ or porridge-saucepan, to prevent any "catching." Already, in one of the breakfast chapters, has the subject of the preparation of rice, to be served with curry, been touched upon; but there will be no harm done in giving the directions again. _Rice for Curry_ Soak a sufficiency of rice in cold water until by repeated strainings all the dirt is separated from it. Then put the rice into _boiling_ water, and let it "gallop" for nine or ten minutes--_no longer_. Strain the water off through a colander, and dash a little _cold_ water over the rice to separate the grains. Put in a hot dish, and serve immediately. A simple enough recipe, surely? So let us hear no more complaints of stodgy, clammy, "puddingy" rice. Most of the cookery books give far more elaborate directions, but the above is the method usually pursued by the poor brown heathen himself. Soyer's recipe resembles the above; but, after draining the water from the cooked rice, it is replaced in the saucepan, the interior of which has in the interim been anointed with butter. The saucepan is then placed either near the fire (not on it), or in a slow oven, for the rice to swell. Another way: After washing the rice, throw it into plenty of boiling water--in the proportion of six pints of water to one pound of rice. Boil it for five minutes, and skim it; then add a wine-glassful of milk for every half pound of rice, and continue boiling for five minutes longer. Strain the water off through a colander, and put it dry into the pot, on the corner of the stove, pouring over the rice a small piece of butter, which has been melted in a tablespoonful of the hot milk and water in which the rice was boiled. Add salt, and stir the rice for five minutes more. The decayed denizen of the ocean, dried to the consistency of biscuit, and known in Hindustan as a BOMBAY DUCK, which is frequently eaten with curry, "over yonder," does not find much favour, this side of Port Said, although I have met the fowl in certain city restaurants. The addition is not looked upon with any particular favour by the writer. "I have yet to learn" once observed that great and good man, the late Doctor Joseph Pope,[7] to the writer, in a discussion on "postponed" game, "that it is a good thing to put corruption into the human stomach." CHAPTER XIII SALADS "O green and glorious, O herbaceous meat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat. Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul, And dip his fingers in the salad bowl!" Nebuchadnezzar _v._ Sydney Smith--Salt?--No salad-bowl--French origin--Apocryphal story of Francatelli--Salads _and_ salads--Water-cress and dirty water--Salad-maker born not made--Lobster salad--Lettuce, Wipe or wash?--Mayonnaise--Potato salad--Tomato ditto--Celery ditto--A memorable ditto. If Sydney Smith had only possessed the experience of old King Nebuchadnezzar, after he had been "turned out to grass," the witty prebend might not have waxed quite so enthusiastic on the subject of "herbaceous meat." Still the subject is a vast and important one, in its connection with gastronomy, and lends itself to poetry far easier than doth the little sucking pig, upon whom Charles Lamb expended so great and unnecessary a wealth of language. But look at the terse, perfunctory, and far from satisfactory manner in which the _Encyclopædia_ attacks the subject. "Salad," we read, "is the term given to a preparation of raw herbs for food. It derives its name from the fact that salt is one of the chief ingredients used in dressing a salad." This statement is not only misleading but startling; for in the "dressing" of a salad it would be the act of a lunatic to make salt the "chief ingredient." Long before they had learnt the art of dressing the herbs, our ancestors partook of cresses (assorted), celery, and lettuces, after being soaked in water for a considerable period; and they dipped the raw herbs into salt before consuming them. In fact, in many a cheap eating-house of to-day, the term "salad" means plain lettuce, or cress, or possibly both, absolutely undressed--in a state of nature, _plus_ plenty of dirty water. Even the English cook of the end of the nineteenth century cannot rid himself, or herself, of the idea that lettuce, like water-cress, knows the running brook, or the peaceful pond, as its natural element. And thirty years before the end of that century, a salad bowl was absolutely unknown in nine-tenths of the eating-houses of Great Britain. There is no use in blinking the fact that it is to our lively neighbours that we owe the introduction of the salad proper. Often as the writer has been compelled, in these pages, to inveigh against the torturing of good fish and flesh by the alien cook, and the high prices charged for its endowment with an alien flavour, let that writer (figuratively) place a crown of endive, tipped with baby onions, upon the brows of the philanthropist who dressed the first salad, and gave the recipe to the world. That recipe has, of course, been improved upon; and although the _savant_ who writes in the _Encyclopædia_ proclaims that "salad has always been a favourite food with civilised nations, and has varied very little in its composition," the accuracy of both statements is open to question. "Every art," observes another writer, "has its monstrosities; gastronomy has not been behind-hand; and though he must be a bold man who will venture to blaspheme the elegancies of French cookery, there comes a time to every Englishman who may have wandered into a mistaken admiration of sophisticated messes, when he longs for the simple diet of his native land, and vows that the best cookery in the world, and that which satisfies the most refined epicureanism, sets up for its ideal--plainness of good food, and the cultivation of natural tastes." And yet the French have taught us, or tried to teach us, how to prepare a dish of raw herbs, in the simplest way in the world! "Now a salad," says the same writer, "is simplicity itself, and here is a marvel--it is the crowning grace of a French dinner, while, on the other hand, it is little understood and villainously treated at English tables." Ahem! I would qualify that last statement. At _some_ English tables I have tasted salads compared with which the happiest effort of the _chef_ deserves not to be mentioned in the same garlic-laden breath. And "garlic-laden breath" naturally reminds me of the story of Francatelli--of which anecdote I do not believe one word, by the way. It was said of Franc., whilst _chef_ at the Reform Club, that his salads were such masterpieces, such things of beauty, that one of the members questioned him on the subject. "How do you manage to introduce such a delicious flavour into your salads?" "Ah! that should be my secret," was the reply. "But I will tell him to you. After I have made all my preparations, and the green food is mixed with the dressing, I chew a little clove of garlic between my teeth--so--and then breathe gently over the whole." But, as observed before, I do not believe that garlic story. O salad, what monstrosities are perpetrated in thy name! Let the genteel boarding-house cook-maid, the young lady who has studied harmony and the higher mathematics at the Board School, spread herself over the subject; and then invite the angels to inspect the matter, and weep! For this is the sort of "harmony" which the "paying guest," who can appreciate the advantages of young and musical society, an airy front bed-chamber, and a bicycle room, is expected to enthuse over at the _table d'hôte_: a _mélange_ of herbs and roots, including water-cress and giant radishes, swimming in equal parts of vinegar and oil, and a large proportion of the water in which the ingredients have been soaking for hours--said ingredients being minced small, like veal collops, with a steel knife. And the same salad, the very identical horror, obtrudes itself on the table at other genteel establishments than boarding-houses. For they be "mostly fools" who people the civilised world. Let it be laid down as a golden rule, that the concoction of a salad should never, or hardly ever, be entrusted to the tender mercies of the British serving-maid. For the salad-maker, like the poet, is born, not made; and the divine _afflatus_--I don't mean garlic--is as essential in the one as in the other. We will take the simple mixture, what is commonly known as the _French Salad_, first. This is either composed, in the matter of herbs, of lettuce, chopped taragon, chervil, and chives; or of endive, with, "lurking in the bowl," a _chapon_, or crust of bread on which a clove of garlic has been rubbed. But the waiter, an he be discreet, will ask the customer beforehand if he prefer that the _chapon_ be omitted. The dressing is simplicity itself: Within the bowl of a table-spoon are placed, in succession, a spot of made mustard, and a sprinkling of black pepper and salt. The bowl is filled up with vinegar, and with a fork in the other hand the waiter stirs quickly the mustard, etc., afterwards emptying the contents of the spoon over the green-stuff. Then the spoon is refilled--either twice or thrice, _ad lib._--with Lucca oil, which is also poured over the salad. Then the final mixing takes place, in the salad bowl. But there be many and elaborate ways of salad-making. Here is the writer's idea of a _Lobster Salad_ for half-a-dozen guests: In a soup plate, mix the yolks of two hard-boiled eggs--boiled for thirty minutes, and afterwards thrown into cold water--into a smooth paste with a teaspoonful of made mustard, and a tablespoonful of plain vinegar, added drop by drop. Keep on stirring, and add a dessert-spoonful of tarragon vinegar, a few drops of essence of anchovies, a teaspoonful (_not heaped_) of salt, about the same quantity of sifted sugar, and a good pinch of cayenne. [The tendency of black pepper is to make a salad gritty, which is an abomination.] Lastly, add, drop by drop, three tablespoonfuls of oil. Pour this dressing (which should be in a continual state of stir) into your salad bowl. Add the pickings of a hen lobster cut into dice, and atop of the lobster, lettuces which have been shred with clean fingers, or with ivory forks; a little endive may be added, with a slice or two of beetroot; but no onion (or very little) in a lobster salad. A few shreds of anchovy may be placed atop; with beetroot cut into shapes, the whites of the eggs, and the coral of the lobster, for the sake of effect; but seek not, O student, to achieve prettiness of effect to the detriment of practical utility. I need hardly add that the sooner after its manufacture a salad is eaten, the better will be its flavour. And the solid ingredients should only be mixed with the dressing at the very last moment; otherwise a sodden, flabby effect will be produced, which is neither pleasing to the eye, nor calculated to promote good digestion. I am perfectly aware that the above is not a strict _Mayonnaise_ dressing, in which the egg yolks should be raw, instead of cooked. But, like the Scotsman, I have "tried baith," and prefer my own way, which more resembles the _sauce Tartare_, than the _Mayonnaise_ of our lively neighbours, who, by the way, merely wipe, instead of wash, their lettuces and endive, to preserve, as they say, the flavour. Of course this is a matter of taste, but the writer must own to a preference for the baptised article, which must, however, on no account be left to soak, but be simply freed from dirt, grit, and--other things. What is the origin of the word "MAYONNAISE"? No two Frenchmen will give you the same answer. "Of or belonging to Mayonne" would seem to be the meaning of the word; but then there is no such place as Mayonne in the whole of France. Grimod de la Reyniere maintained that the proper word was "BAYONNAISE," meaning a native of Bayonne, on the Spanish frontier. Afterwards Grimod, who was a resourceful man, got hold of another idea, and said that the word was probably "MAHONNAISE," and so named in honour of Marshal Richelieu's capture of the stronghold of Mahon, in the island of Minorca. But what had this victory got to do with a salad dressing? What was the connection of raw eggs and tarragon vinegar with Marshal Richelieu? Then up came another cook, in the person of Carême, who established it as an absolute certainty that the genuine word was "MAGNONNAISE," from the word "_manier_," to manipulate. But as nobody would stand this definition for long, a fresh search had to be made; and this time an old Provençal verb was dug up--_mahonner_, or more correctly _maghonner_, to worry or fatigue. And this is now said by purists to be the source of _Mayonnaise_--"something worried," or fatigued. And the reason for the gender of the noun is said to be that in ancient times lovely woman was accustomed to manipulate the salad with her own fair fingers. In the time of Rousseau, the phrase _retourner la salade avec les doigts_ was used to describe a woman as being still young and beautiful; just as in Yorkshire at the present time, "she canna mak' a bit o' bread" is used to describe a woman who is of no possible use in the house. So a _Mayonnaise_ or a _Mahonnaise_--I care not which be the correct spelling--was a young lady who "fatigued" the salad. More shame to the gallants of the day, who allowed "fatigue" to be associated with youth and beauty! But can it possibly matter what the word means, when the mixture is smooth and savoury; and so deftly blended that no one flavour predominates? And herein lies the secret of every mixture used for the refreshment of the inner man and woman; whether it be a soup, a curry, a trifle, a punch, or a cup--no one ingredient should be of more weight or importance than another. And that was the secret of the "delicious gravy" furnished by the celebrated stew at the "Jolly Farmers," in _The Old Curiosity Shop_ of Charles Dickens. MAYONNAISE (we will drop for the nonce, the other spelling) is made thus: In the proportions of two egg yolks to half a pint of Lucca oil, and a small wine-glassful of tarragon vinegar. Work the yolks smooth in a basin, with a seasoning of pepper (cayenne for choice), salt, and--according to the writer's views--sifted sugar. Then a few drops of oil, and fewer of vinegar; stirring the mixture all the time, from right to left, with a wooden, or ivory, spoon. In good truth 'tis a "fatiguing" task; and as in very hot weather the sauce is liable to decompose, or "curdle," before the finishing touches are put to it, it may be made over ice. "Stir, sisters, stir, Stir with care!" is the motto for the _Mayonnaise_-mixer. And in many cases her only reward consists in the knowledge that through her art and patience she has helped to make the sojourn of others in this vale of tears less tearful and monotonous. "Onion atoms" should "lurk within the bowl," on nearly every occasion, and as for a potato salad--don't be afraid, I'm not going to quote any more Sydney Smith, so don't get loading your guns--well, here is the proper way to make it. _Potato Salad._ Cut nine or ten average-sized kidney potatoes (cooked) into slices, half an inch thick, put them in a salad bowl, and pour over them, after mixing, two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, one tablespoonful of tarragon vinegar, six tablespoonfuls of oil, one of minced parsley, a dessert-spoonful of onions chopped very fine, with cayenne and salt to taste. Shredded anchovies may be added, although it is preferable without; and this salad should be made a couple of hours or so before partaken of. The German recipe for a potato salad is too nasty to quote; and their HERRING SALAD, although said to be a valuable restorative of nerve power, by no means presents an attractive appearance, when served at table. Far more to the mind and palate of the average epicure is a _Tomato Salad_. This is the author's recipe: Four large tomatoes and one Spanish onion, cut into thin slices. Mix a spot of mustard, a little white pepper and salt, with vinegar, in a table-spoon, pour it over the love apples, etc., and then add two tablespoonfuls of oil. Mix well, and then sprinkle over the mixture a few drops of Lea and Perrins's Worcester Sauce. For the fair sex, the last part of the programme may be omitted, but on no account leave out the breath of sunny Spain. And mark this well. The man, or woman, who mixes tomatoes with lettuces, or endives, in the bowl, is hereby sentenced to translate the whole of this book into Court English. _Celery Salad._ An excellent winter salad is made with beetroot and celery, cut in thin slices, and served--with or without onions--either with a mayonnaise sauce, or with a plain cream sauce: to every tablespoonful of cream add a teaspoonful of tarragon vinegar, a little sugar, and a suspicion of cayenne. This salad looks best served in alternate slices of beet and celery, on a flat silver dish, around the sauce. _A Gentleman Salad Maker._ Although in the metropolis it is still customary, in middle-class households, to hire "outside help" on the occasion of a dinner-party, we have not heard for some time of a salad-dresser who makes house-to-house visitations in the exercise of his profession. But, at the end of the 18th century, the Chevalier d'Allignac, who had escaped from Paris to London in the evil days of the Revolution, made a fortune in this way. He was paid at the rate of £5 a salad, and naturally, soon started his own carriage, "in order that he might pass quickly from house to house, during the dining hours of the aristocracy." High as the fee may appear to be, it is impossible to measure the width of the gulf which lies between the salad as made by a lover of the art, and the kitchen-wench; and a perfect salad is, like a perfect curry, "far above rubies." _A Memorable Salad_ was once served in my own mansion. The _chef_, who understood these matters well, when her hair was free from vine leaves, had been celebrating her birthday or some other festival; and had mixed the dressing with Colza oil. Her funeral was largely attended. CHAPTER XIV SALADS AND CONDIMENTS "Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite." Roman salad--Italian ditto--Various other salads--Sauce for cold mutton--Chutnine--Raw chutnee--Horse-radish sauce--Christopher North's sauce--How to serve a mackerel--_Sauce Tartare_--Ditto for sucking pig--Delights of making _Sambal_--A new language. It has, I hope, been made sufficiently clear that neither water-cress nor radishes should figure in a dressed salad; from the which I would also exclude such "small deer" as mustard and cress. There is, however, no black mark against the narrow-leaved CORN SALAD plant, or "lamb's lettuce"; and its great advantage is that it can be grown almost anywhere during the winter months, when lettuces have to be "coddled," and thereby robbed of most of their flavour. Instead of yolk of egg, in a dressing, cheese may be used, with good results, either cream cheese--_not_ the poor stuff made on straws, but what are known as "napkin," or "New Forest" cheeses--or Cheddar. Squash it well up with oil and vinegar, and do not use too much. A piece of cheese the size of an average lump of sugar will be ample, and will lend a most agreeable flavour to the mixture. _Roman Salad_ Lucullus and Co.--or rather their cooks--had much to learn in the preparation of the "herbaceous meat" which delighted Sydney Smith. The Romans cultivated endive; this was washed free from "matter in the wrong place," chopped small--absolutely fatal to the taste--anointed with oil and _liquamen_, topped up with chopped onions, and further ornamented with honey and vinegar. But before finding fault with the conquerors of the world for mixing honey with a salad, it should be remembered that they knew not "fine Demerara," nor "best lump," nor even the beet sugar which can be made at home. Still I should not set a Roman salad before my creditors, if I wanted them to have "patience." An offer of the very smallest dividend would be preferable. _Italian Salad._ The merry Italian has improved considerably upon the herbaceous treat (I rather prefer "treat" to "meat") of his ancestors; though he is far too fond of mixing flesh-meat of all sorts with his dressed herbs, and his boiled vegetables. Two cold potatoes and half a medium sized beet sliced, mixed with boiled celery and Brussels sprouts, form a common salad in the sunny South; the dressing being usually oil and vinegar, occasionally oil _seule_, and sometimes a _Tartare_ sauce. Stoned olives are usually placed atop of the mess, which includes fragments of chicken, or veal and ham. _Russian Salad._ This is a difficult task to build up; for a sort of Cleopatra's Needle, or pyramid, of cooked vegetables, herbs, pickles, etc., has to be erected on a flat dish. Carrots, turnips, green peas, asparagus, French beans, beetroot, capers, pickled cucumbers, and horse-radish, form the solid matter of which the pyramid is built. Lay a _stratum_ on the dish, and anoint the _stratum_ with _Tartare_ sauce. Each layer must be similarly anointed, and must be of less circumference than the one underneath, till the top layer consists of one caper. Garnish with bombs of caviare, sliced lemon, crayfish, olives, and salted cucumber; and then give the salad to the policeman on fixed-point duty. At least, if you take my advice. _Anchovy Salad._ This is usually eaten at the commencement of dinner, as a _hors d'oeuvre_. Some shreds of anchovy should be arranged "criss-cross" in a flat glass dish. Surround it with small heaps of chopped truffles, yolk and white of hard-boiled eggs, capers, and a stoned olive or two. Mix all the ingredients together with a little Chili vinegar, and twice the quantity of oil. The mixture is said to be invaluable as an appetiser; but the modest oyster on the _deep shell_--if he has not been fattened at the bolt-hole of the main sewer--is to be preferred. Cooked vegetables, for salad purposes, are not, nor will they ever be, popular in England, Nine out of ten Britains will eat the "one sauce" with asparagus, in preference to the oiled butter, or plain salad dressing, of mustard, vinegar, pepper, salt, and oil; whilst 'tis almost hopeless to attempt to dissuade madame the cook from smothering her cauliflowers with liquefied paste, before sending them to table. Many a wild weed which foreign nations snatch greedily from the soil, prior to dressing it, is passed by with scorn by our islanders, including the dandelion, which is a favourite of our lively neighbours, for salad purposes, and is doubtless highly beneficial to the human liver. So is the cauliflower; and an eminent medical authority once gave out that the man who ate a parboiled cauliflower, as a salad, every other day, need never send for a doctor. Which sounds rather like fouling his own nest. _Fruit Salad._ This is simply a French _compôte_ of cherries, green almonds, pears, limes, peaches, apricots in syrup slightly flavoured with ginger; and goes excellent well with any cold brown game. Try it. _Orange Salad._ Peel your orange, and cut it into thin slices. Arrange these in a glass dish, and sugar them well. Then pour over them a glass of sherry, a glass of brandy, and a glass of maraschino. _Orange Sauce._ Cold mutton, according to my notions, is "absolutely beastly," to the palate. More happy homes have been broken up by this simple dish than by the entire army of Europe. And 'tis a dish which should never be allowed to wander outside the servants' hall. The superior domestics who take their meals in the steward's room, would certainly rise in a body, and protest against the indignity of a cold leg, or shoulder. As for a cold loin--but the idea is too awful. Still, brightened up by the following condiment, cold mutton will go down smoothly, and even gratefully:-- Rub off the thin yellow rind of two oranges on four lumps of sugar. Put these into a bowl, and pour in a wine-glass of port, a quarter pint of dissolved red-currant jelly, a teaspoonful of mixed mustard--don't be frightened, it's all right--a finely-minced shallot, a pinch of cayenne, and some more thin orange rind. Mix well. When heated up, strain and bottle off. But amateur sauces should, on the whole, be discouraged. The writer has tasted dozens of imitations of Lea and Perrins's "inimitable," and it is still inimitable, and unapproachable. It is the same with chutnee. You can get anything in that line you want at Stembridge's, close to Leicester Square, to whom the writer is indebted for some valuable hints. But here is a recipe for a mixture of chutnee and pickle, which must have been written a long time ago; for the two operations are transposed. For instance, _the onions should be dealt with first_. _Chutnine._ Ten or twelve large apples, peeled and cored, put in an earthenware jar, with a little vinegar (on no account use water) in the oven. Let them remain till in a pulp, then take out, and add half an ounce of curry powder, one ounce of ground ginger, half a pound of stoned raisins, chopped fine, half a pound moist sugar, one teaspoonful cayenne pepper, one tablespoonful salt. Take four large onions (_this should be done first_), chop very fine, and put them in a jar with a pint and a half of vinegar. Cork tightly and let them remain a week. Then add the rest of the ingredients, after mixing them well together. Cork tightly, and the chutnine will be ready for use in a month. It improves, however, by keeping for a year or so. _Raw Chutnee_ is another aid to the consumption of cold meat, and I have also seen it used as an accompaniment to curry, but do not recommend the mixture. One large tomato, one smaller Spanish onion, one green chili, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Pulp the tomato; don't try to extract the seeds, for life is too short for that operation. Chop the onion and the chili very fine, and mix the lot up with a pinch of salt, and the same quantity of sifted sugar. I know plenty of men who would break up their homes (after serving the furniture in the same way) and emigrate; who would go on strike, were roast beef to be served at the dinner-table unaccompanied by horse-radish sauce. But this is a relish for the national dish which is frequently overlooked. _Horse-radish Sauce._ Grate a young root as fine as you can. It is perhaps needless to add that the fresher the horse-radish the better. No vegetables taste as well as those grown in your own garden, and gathered, or dug up, just before wanted. And the horse-radish, like the Jerusalem artichoke, comes to stay. When once he gets a footing in your garden you will never dislodge him; nor will you want to. Very well, then: Having grated your horse, add a quarter of a pint of cream--English or Devonshire--a dessert-spoonful of sifted sugar, half that quantity of salt, and a tablespoonful of vinegar. Mix all together, and, if for hot meat, heat in the oven, taking care that the mixture does not curdle. Many people use oil instead of cream, and mix grated orange rind with the sauce. The Germans do not use oil, but either make the relish with cream, or hard-boiled yolk of egg. Horse-radish sauce for hot meat may also be heated by pouring it into a jar, and standing the jar in boiling water--"jugging it" in fact. _Celery Sauce_, for boiled pheasant, or turkey, is made thus: Two or three heads of celery, sliced thin, put into a saucepan with equal quantities of sugar and salt, a dust of white pepper, and two or three ounces of butter. Stew your celery slowly till it becomes pulpy, but _not brown_, add two or three ounces of flour, and a good half-pint of milk, or cream. Let it simmer twenty minutes, and then rub the mixture through a sieve. The carp as an item of food is, according to my ideas, a fraud. He tastes principally of the mud in which he has been wallowing until dragged out by the angler. The ancients loved a dish of carp, and yet they knew not the only sauce to make him at all palatable. _Sauce for Carp._ One ounce of butter, a quarter pint of good beef gravy, one dessert-spoonful of flour, a quarter pint of cream and two anchovies chopped very small. Mix over the fire, stir well till boiling, then take off, add a little Worcester sauce, and a squeeze of lemon, just before serving. _Christopher North's Sauce._ This is a very old recipe. Put a dessert-spoonful of sifted sugar, a salt-spoonful of salt, and rather more than that quantity of cayenne, into a jar. Mix thoroughly, and add, gradually, two tablespoonfuls of Harvey's sauce, a dessert-spoonful of mushroom ketchup, a tablespoonful of lemon juice, and a large glass of port. Place the jar in a saucepan of boiling water, and let it remain till the mixture is very hot, but not boiling. If bottled directly after made, the sauce will keep for a week, and may be used for duck, goose, pork, or (Christopher adds) "any broil." But there is but _one_ broil sauce, the GUBBINS SAUCE, already mentioned in this work. _Sauce for Hare._ What a piece of work is a hare! And what a piece of work it is to cook him in a laudable fashion! Crumble some bread--a handful or so--soak it in port wine, heat over the fire with a small lump of butter, a tablespoonful of red-currant jelly, a little salt, and a tablespoonful of Chili vinegar. Serve as hot as possible. Mackerel is a fish but seldom seen at the tables of the great. And yet 'tis tasty eating, if his Joseph's coat be bright and shining when you purchase him. When stale he is dangerous to life itself. And he prefers to gratify the human palate when accompanied by _Gooseberry Sauce_, which is made by simply boiling a few green gooseberries, rubbing them through a sieve, and adding a little butter and a suspicion of ginger. Then heat up. "A wine-glassful of sorrel or spinach-juice," observes one authority, "is a decided improvement." H'm. I've tried both, and prefer the gooseberries unadorned with spinach liquor. Now for a sauce which is deservedly popular all over the world, and which is equally at home as a salad dressing, as a covering for a steak off a fresh-run salmon, or a portion of fried eel; the luscious, the invigorating _Sauce Tartare_, so called because no tallow-eating Tartar was ever known to taste thereof. I have already given a pretty good recipe for its manufacture, in previous salad-dressing instructions, where the yolks of hard-boiled eggs are used. But chopped chervil, shallots, and (occasionally) gherkins, are added to the _Tartare_ arrangement; and frequently the surface is adorned with capers, stoned olives, and shredded anchovies. In the chapters devoted to dinners, no mention has been made of the sucking pig, beloved of Charles Lamb.[8] This hardened offender should be devoured with _Currant Sauce_: Boil an ounce of currants, after washing them and picking out the tacks, dead flies, etc., in half a pint of water, for a few minutes, and pour over them a cupful of finely grated crumbs. Let them soak well, then beat up with a fork, and stir in about a gill of oiled butter. Add two tablespoonfuls of the brown gravy made for the pig, a glass of port, and a pinch of salt. Stir the sauce well over the fire. It is also occasionally served with roast venison; but not in the mansions of my friends. What is sauce for Madame Goose is said to be sauce for Old Man Gander. Never mind about that, however. The parents of young Master Goose, with whom alone I am going to deal, have, like the flowers which bloom in the spring, absolutely nothing to do with the case. This is the best _Sauce for the Goose_ known to civilisation: Put two ounces of green sage leaves into a jar with an ounce of the thin yellow rind of a lemon, a minced shallot, a teaspoonful of salt, half a ditto of cayenne, and a pint of claret. Let this soak for a fortnight, then pour off the liquid into a tureen; or boil with some good gravy. This sauce will keep for a week or two, bottled and well corked up. And now, having given directions for the manufacture of sundry "cloyless sauces"--with only one of the number having any connection with _Ala_, and that one a sauce of world-wide reputation, I will conclude this chapter with a little fancy work. It is not probable that many who do me the honour to skim through these humble, faultily-written, but heartfelt gastronomic hints are personally acquainted with the cloyless _Sambal_, who is a lady of dusky origin. But let us quit metaphor, and direct the gardener to Cut the finest and straightest cucumber in his crystal palace. Cut both ends off, and divide the remainder into two-inch lengths. Peel these, and let them repose in salt to draw out the water, which is the indigestible part of the cucumber. Then take each length, in succession, and with a very sharp knife--a penknife is best for the purpose--pare it from surface to centre, until it has become one long, curly shred. Curl it up tight, so that it may resemble in form the spring of a Waterbury watch. Cut the length through from end to end, until you have made numerous long thin shreds. Treat each length in the same way, and place in a glass dish. Add three green chilies, chopped fine, a few chopped spring onions, and some tiny shreds of the Blue Fish of Java. Having performed a fishless pilgrimage in search of this curiosity, you will naturally fall back upon the common or Italian anchovy, which, after extracting the brine and bones, and cleansing, chop fine. Pour a little vinegar over the mixture. "Sambal" will be found a delicious accompaniment to curry--when served on a salad plate--or to almost any description of cold meat and cheese. It is only fair to add, however, that the task of making the relish is arduous and exasperating to a degree; and that the woman who makes it--no male Christian in the world is possessed of a tithe of the necessary patience, now that Job and Robert Bruce are no more--should have the apartment to herself. For the labour is calculated to teach an entirely new language to the manufacturer. CHAPTER XV SUPPER "We are such stuff As dreams are made of." Cleopatra's supper--Oysters--Danger in the Aden bivalve--Oyster stew--Ball suppers--Pretty dishes--The _Taj Mahal_--Aspic--Bloater paste and whipped cream--Ladies' recipes--Cookery colleges--Tripe--Smothered in onions--North Riding fashion--An hotel supper--Lord Tomnoddy at the "Magpie and Stump." That cruel and catlike courtesan, Cleopatra, is alleged to have given the most expensive supper on record, and to have disposed of the _bonne bouche_ herself, in the shape of a pearl, valued at the equivalent of £250,000, dissolved in vinegar of extra strength. Such a sum is rather more than is paid for a supper at the Savoy, or the Cecil, or the Metropole, in these more practical times, when pearls are to be had cheaper; and there is probably about as much truth in this pearl story as in a great many others of the same period. I have heard of a fair _declassée_ leader of fashion at Monte Carlo, who commanded that her _major domo_ should be put to death for not having telegraphed to Paris for peaches, for a special dinner; but the woman who could melt a pearl in vinegar, and then drink----_halte la!_ Perhaps the pearl was displayed in the deep shell of the oyster of which the "noble curtesan" partook? We know how Mark Antony's countrymen valued the succulent bivalve; and probably an oyster feast at Wady Halfa or Dongola was a common function long before London knew a "Scott's," a "Pimm's," or a "Sweeting's." Thanks partly to the "typhoid scare," but principally to the prohibitive price, the "native" industry of Britain has been, at the latter end of the nineteenth century, by no means active, although in the illustrated annuals Uncle John still brings with him a barrel of the luscious bivalves, in addition to assorted toys for the children, when he arrives in the midst of a snow-storm at the old hall on Christmas Eve. But Uncle John, that good fairy of our youth, when Charles Dickens invented the "festive season," and the very atmosphere reeked of goose-stuffing, resides, for the most part, "in Sheffield," in these practical days, when sentiment and goodwill to relatives are rapidly giving place to matters of fact, motor cars, and mammoth rates. The Asiatic oyster is not altogether commendable, his chief merit consisting in his size. Once whilst paying a flying visit to the city of Kurachi, I ordered a dozen oysters at the principal hotel. Then I went out to inspect the lions. On my return I could hardly push my way into the coffee-room. It was full of oyster! There was no room for anything else. In fact _one_ Kurachi oyster is a meal for four full-grown men. More tragic still was my experience of the bivalves procurable at Aden--which cinder-heap I have always considered to be a foretaste of even hotter things below. Instead of living on coal-dust (as might naturally be expected) the Aden oyster appears to do himself particularly well on some preparation of copper. The only time I tasted him, the after consequences very nearly prevented my ever tasting anything else, on this sphere. And it was only the comfort administered by the steward of my cabin which got me round. "Ah!" said that functionary, as he looked in to see whether I would take hot pickled pork or roast goose for dinner. "The last time we touched at Aden, there was two gents 'ad 'ysters. One of 'em died the same night, and the other nex' mornin'." I laughed so much that the poison left my system. Yet still we eat oysters--the _Sans Bacilles_ brand, for choice. And if we can only persuade the young gentleman who opens the bivalves to refrain from washing the grit off each in the tub of dirty water behind the bar, so much the better. And above all, the bivalves should be opened on the _deep_ shell, so as to conserve some of the juice; for it is advisable to get as much of the bivalve as we can for the money. Every time I crunch the bones of a lark I feel that I am devouring an oratorio, in the way of song; and whilst the bivalve is sliding down the "red lane" it may be as well to reflect that "there slips away fourpence"; or, as the Scotsman had it, "bang went saxpence!" In connection with Mr. Bob Sawyer's supper party in _Pickwick_, it may be recollected that "the man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork: and very little was done in this way." And in one's own house, unless there be an adept at oyster-opening present, the simplest way to treat the bivalve is the following. It should be remembered that a badly-opened oyster will resemble in flavour a slug on a gravel walk. So _roast_ him, good friends, in his own fortress. _Oysters in their own Juice._ With the tongs place half-a-dozen oysters, mouths outwards, between the red-hot coals of the parlour or dining-room fire--the deep shell must be at the bottom--and the oysters will be cooked in a few minutes, or when the shells gape wide. Pull them out with the tongs, and insert a fresh batch. No pepper, vinegar, or lemon juice is necessary as an adjunct; and the oyster never tastes better. At most eating-houses, _Scalloped Oysters_ taste of nothing but scorched bread-crumbs; and the reason is obvious, for there is but little else in the scallop shell. _Natives only_ should be used. Open and beard two dozen, and cut each bivalve in half. Melt two ounces of butter in a stewpan, and mix into it the same allowance of flour, the strained oyster liquor, a teacupful of cream, half a teaspoonful of essence of anchovies, and a pinch of cayenne--death to the caitiff who adds nutmeg--and stir the sauce well over the fire. Take it off, and add the well-beaten yolks of two eggs, a tablespoonful of finely chopped parsley, and a teaspoonful of lemon juice. Put in the oysters, and stir the whole over a gentle fire for five minutes. Put the mixture in the shells, grate bread-crumbs over, place a small piece of butter atop, and bake in a Dutch oven before a clear fire until the crumbs are lightly browned, which should be in about a quarter of an hour. _Oyster Stew_ is thoroughly understood in New York City. On this side, the dish does not meet with any particular favour, although no supper-table is properly furnished without it. Open two dozen oysters, and take the beards off. Put the oysters into a basin and squeeze over them the juice of half a lemon. Put the beards and the strained liquor into a saucepan with half a blade of mace, half a dozen peppercorns ground, a little grated lemon rind, and a pinch of cayenne. Simmer gently for a quarter of an hour, strain the liquid, thicken it with a little butter and flour, add a quarter of a pint (or a teacupful) of cream, and stir over the fire till quite smooth. Then put in the oysters, and let them warm through--they must not boil. Serve in a soup tureen, and little cubes of bread fried in bacon grease may be served with the stew, as with pea-soup. Be very careful to whose care you entrust your barrel, or bag, of oysters, after you have got them home. A consignment of the writer's were, on one memorable and bitter cold Christmas Eve, consigned to the back dairy, by Matilda Anne. Result--frostbite, gapes, dissolution, disappointment, disagreeable language. _Ball Suppers._ More hard cash is wasted on these than even on ball dresses, which is saying a great deal. The alien caterer, or _charcutier_, is chiefly to blame for this; for he it is who has taught the British matron to wrap up wholesome food in coats of grease, inlaid with foreign substances, to destroy its flavour, and to bestow upon it an outward semblance other than its own. There was handed unto me, only the other evening, what I at first imagined to be a small section of the celebrated _Taj Mahal_ at Agra, the magnificent mausoleum of the Emperor Shah Jehan. Reference to the bill-of-fare established the fact that I was merely sampling a galantine of turkey, smothered in some white glazy grease, inlaid with chopped carrot, green peas, truffles, and other things. And the marble column (also inlaid) which might have belonged to King Solomon's Temple, at the top of the table, turned out to be a Tay salmon, decorated _à la mode de charcutier_, and tasting principally of garlic. A shriek from a fair neighbour caused me to turn my head in her direction; and it took some little time to discover, and to convince her, that the item on her plate was not a mouse, too frightened to move, but some preparation of the liver of a goose, in "aspic." This said ASPIC--which has no connection with the asp which the fair Cleopatra kept on the premises, although a great French lexicographer says that aspic is so called because it is as cold as a snake--is invaluable in the numerous "schools of cookery" in the which British females are educated according to the teaching of the bad fairy _Ala_. The cold chicken and ham which delighted our ancestors at the supper-table--what has become of them? Yonder, my dear sir, is the fowl, in neat portions, minced, and made to represent fragments of the almond rock which delighted us whilst in the nursery. The ham has become a ridiculous _mousse_, placed in little accordion-pleated receptacles of snow-white paper; and those are not poached eggs atop, either, but dabs of whipped cream with a preserved apricot in the centre. It was only the other day that I read in a journal written by ladies for ladies, of a dainty dish for luncheon or supper: _croûtons_ smeared with bloater paste and surmounted with whipped cream; and in the same paper was a recipe for stuffing a fresh herring with mushrooms, parsley, yolk of egg, onion, and its own soft roe. I am of opinion that it was a bad day for the male Briton when the gudewife, with her gude-daughter, and her gude cook, abandoned the gude roast and boiled, in favour of the works of the all-powerful _Ala_. And now let us proceed to discuss the most homely supper of all, and when I mention the magic word _Tripe_ there be few of my readers who will not at once allow that it is not only the most homely of food, but forms an ideal supper. This doctrine had not got in its work, however, in the 'sixties, at about which period the man who avowed himself an habitual tripe-eater must have been possessed of a considerable amount of nerve. Some of the supper-houses served it--such as the Albion, the Coal Hole, and more particularly, "Noakes's," the familiar name for the old Opera Tavern which used to face the Royal Italian Opera House, in Bow Street, Covent Garden. But the more genteel food-emporiums fought shy of tripe until within three decades of the close of the nineteenth century. Then it began to figure on the supper bills, in out-of-the-way corners; until supper-eaters in general discovered that this was not only an exceedingly cheap, but a very nourishing article of food, which did not require any special divine aid to digest. Then the price of tripe went up 75 per cent on the programmes. Then the most popular burlesque _artiste_ of any age put the stamp of approval upon the new supper-dish, and tripe-dressing became as lucrative a profession as gold-crushing. There is a legend afloat of an eminent actor--poor "Ned" Sothern, I fancy, as "Johnny" Toole would never have done such a thing--who bade some of his friends and acquaintance to supper, and regaled them on sundry rolls of house flannel, smothered with the orthodox onion sauce. But that is another story. Practical jokes should find no place in this volume, which is written to benefit, and not alarm, posterity. Therefore let us discuss the problem _How to Cook Tripe_. Ask for "double-tripe," and see that the dresser gives it you nice and white. Wash it, cut into portions, and place in equal parts of milk and water, boiling fast. Remove the saucepan from the hottest part of the fire, and let the tripe keep just on the boil for an hour and a half. Serve with whole onions and onion sauce--in this work you will not be told how to manufacture onion sauce--and baked potatoes should always accompany this dish to table. Some people like their tripe cut into strips rolled up and tied with cotton, before being placed in the saucepan; but there is really no necessity to take this further trouble. And if the cook should forget to remove the cotton before serving, you might get your tongues tied in knots. In the North Riding of Yorkshire, some of the farmers' wives egg-and-bread-crumb fillets of tripe, and fry them in the drip of thick rashers of ham which have been fried previously. The ham is served in the centre of the dish, with the fillets around the pig-pieces. This is said to be an excellent dish, but I prefer my tripe smothered in onions, like the timid "bunny." Edmund Yates, in his "Reminiscences," describes "nice, cosy, little suppers," of which in his early youth he used to partake, at the house of his maternal grandfather, in Kentish Town. "He dined at two o'clock," observed the late proprietor of the _World_, "and had the most delightful suppers at nine; suppers of sprats, or kidneys, or tripe and onions; with foaming porter and hot grog afterwards." I cannot share the enthusiasm possessed by some people for SPRATS, as an article of diet. When very "full-blown," the little fish make an excellent fertiliser for Marshal Niel roses; but as "winter whitebait," or sardines they are hardly up to "Derby form." Sprats are not much encouraged at the fashionable hotels; and when tripe is brought to table, which is but rarely, that food is nearly always filleted, sprinkled with chopped parsley, and served with tomato sauce. This is the sort of supper which is provided in the "gilt-edged" _caravanserais_ of the metropolis, the following being a _verbatim_ copy of a bill of fare at the Hotel Cecil:-- SOUPER, 5s. Consommé Riche en tasses. Laitances Frites, Villeroy. Côte de Mouton aux Haricots Verts. Chaudfroid de Mauviettes. Strasbourg evisie. Salade. Biscuit Cecil. A lady-like repast this; and upon the whole, not dear. But roast loin of mutton hardly sounds tasty enough for a meal partaken of somewhere about the stroke of midnight. Still, such a supper is by no means calculated to "murder sleep." Upon the other hand it is a little difficult to credit the fact that the whole of the party invited by "My Lord Tomnoddy" to refresh themselves at the "Magpie and Stump," including the noble host himself, should have slumbered peacefully, with a noisy crowd in the street, after a supper which consisted of "Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars, Welsh rabbits and kidneys, Rare work for the jaws." CHAPTER XVI SUPPER (_continued_) "To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it." Old supper-houses--The Early Closing Act--Evans's--Cremorne Gardens--The "Albion"--Parlour cookery--Kidneys fried in the fire-shovel--The true way to grill a bone--"Cannie Carle"--My lady's bower--Kidney dumplings--A Middleham supper--Steaks cut from a colt by brother to "Strafford" out of sister to "Bird on the Wing." The Early Closing Act of 1872 had a disastrous effect upon the old London supper-houses. What Mr. John Hollingshead never tired of calling the "slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed law" rang the knell of many a licensed tavern, well-conducted, where plain, well-cooked food and sound liquor were to be obtained by men who would have astonished their respective couches had they sought them before the small hours. _Evans's._ The "Cave of Harmony" of Thackeray was a different place to the "Evans's" of my youthful days. Like the younger Newcome, I was taken there in the first instance, by the author of my being. But Captain Costigan was conspicuous by his absence; and "Sam Hall" was _non est_. I noted well the abnormal size of the broiled kidneys, and in my ignorance of anatomy, imagined that Evans's sheep must be subjected to somewhat the same process--the "ordeal by fire"--as the Strasbourg geese. And the potatoes--zounds, sirs! What potatoes! "Shall I turn it out, sir?" inquired the attentive waiter; and, as he seized the tuber, enveloped in the snow-white napkin, broke it in two, and ejected a floury pyramid upon my plate, I would, had I known of such a decoration in those days, have gladly recommended that attendant for the Distinguished Service order. In the course of many visits I never saw any supper commodity served here besides chops, steaks, kidneys, welsh-rarebits, poached eggs, and (I think) sausages; and the earliest impression made upon a youthful memory was the air of extreme confidence which pervaded the place. We certainly "remembered" the waiter; but not even a potato was paid for until we encountered the head functionary at the exit door; and his peculiar ideas of arithmetic would have given Bishop Colenso a succession of fits. Who "Evans" was, we neither knew nor cared. "Paddy" Green, with his chronic smile, was enough for us; as he proffered his ever-ready snuff-box, inquired after our relatives--"Paddy," like "Spanky" at Eton, knew everybody--and implored silence whilst the quintette _Integer Vitæ_ was being sung by the choir. We used to venerate that quintette far more than any music we ever heard in church, and I am certain "Paddy" Green would have backed his little pack of choristers--who, according to the general belief, passed the hours of daylight in waking the echoes of St. Paul's Cathedral, or Westminster Abbey, and therefore, at Evans's, always looked a bit stale and sleepy--against any choir in the world. As for Harry Sidney, the fat, jolly-looking gentleman who was wont to string together the topics of the day and reproduce them, fresh as rolls, set to music, we could never hear enough of him; and I wish I had now some of the half-crowns which in the past were bestowed upon Herr Von Joel, the indifferent _siffleur_, who was "permanently retained upon the premises," and who was always going to take a benefit the following week. "Kidneys and 'armony"--that was the old programme in the "Cave." And then the march of time killed poor old Paddy, and another management reigned. Gradually the "lady element" was introduced, and a portion of the hall was set apart for the mixed assembly. And then came trouble, and, finally, disestablishment. And for some time before the closing of the Cave as a place of entertainment, it was customary to remove the fine old pictures (what became of them, I wonder), from the walls, at "Varsity Boat Race" time. For the undergraduate of those days was nothing if not rowdy. Youth will have its fling; and at Evans's the fling took the form of tumblers. Well do I recollect a fight in "the old style" in the very part of the "Cave" where eminent barristers, actors, and other wits of a past age, used to congregate. The premier boxer of Cambridge University had been exercising his undoubted talents as a breaker of glass, during the evening, and at length the overwrought manager obliged him with an opponent worthy of his fists in the person of a waiter who could also put up his fists. Several rounds were fought, strictly according to the rules of the Prize Ring, and in the result, whilst the waiter had sustained considerable damage to his ribs, the "Cambridge gent" had two very fine black eyes. Well do I remember that "mill," also the waiter, who afterwards became an habitual follower of the turf. If Cremorne introduced the fashion of "long drinks," sodas, and et ceteras, the suppers served in the old gardens had not much to recommend them. A slice or two of cold beef, or a leg of a chicken, with some particularly salt ham, formed the average fare; but those who possessed their souls with patience occasionally saw something hot, in the way of food--chiefly cutlets. The great virtue of the cutlet is that it can be reheated; and one dish not infrequently did duty for more than one party. The rejected portion, in fact, would "reappear" as often as a retiring actor. "I know them salmon cutlets," the waiter in _Pink Dominoes_ used to observe, "as well as I know my own mother!" In fact, Cremorne, like the "night houses" of old, was not an ideal place to sup at. But, _per contra_, the "Albion" _was_. Until the enforcement of the "slap-me-and-put-me-to-bed" policy there was no more justly celebrated house of entertainment than the one which almost faced the stage door of Drury Lane theatre, in Great Russell Street. One of the brothers Cooper--another kept the Rainbow in Fleet Street--retired on a fortune made here, simply by pursuing the policy of giving his customers the best of everything. And a rare, Bohemian stamp of customers he had, too--a nice, large-hearted, open-handed lot of actors, successful and otherwise, dramatic critics ditto, and ditto journalists, also variegated in degree; with the usual, necessary, leavening of the "City" element. The custom of the fair sex was not encouraged at the old tavern; though in a room on the first floor they were permitted to sup, if in "the profession" and accompanied by males, whose manners and customs could be vouched for. In winter time, assorted grills, of fish, flesh, and fowl, were served as supper dishes; whilst tripe was the staple food. Welsh rarebits, too, were in immense demand. And I think it was here that I devoured, with no fear of the future before my plate, a _Buck Rarebit_. During the silent watches of the rest of the morning, bile and dyspepsia fought heroically for my soul; and yet the little animal is easy enough to prepare, being nothing grander than a Welsh rarebit, with a poached egg atop. But the little tins (silver, like the forks and spoons, until the greed and forgetfulness of mankind necessitated the substitution of electro-plate) which the Hebes at the "Old Cheshire Cheese" fill with fragments of the hostelry's godfather--subsequently to be stewed in good old ale--are less harmful to the interior of the human diaphragm. A favourite Albion supper-dish during the summer months was _Lamb's Head and Mince_. I have preserved the recipe, a gift from one of the waiters--but whether Ponsford, Taylor, or "Shakespeare" (so-called because he bore not the faintest resemblance to the immortal bard) I forget--and here it is: The head should be scalded, scraped, and well washed. Don't have it singed, in the Scottish fashion, as lamb's wool is not nice to eat. Then put it, with the liver (the sweetbread was chopped up with the brain, I fancy), into a stewpan, with a Spanish onion stuck with cloves, a bunch of parsley, a little thyme, a carrot, a turnip, a bay leaf, some crushed peppercorns, a tablespoonful of salt, and half a gallon of cold water. Let it boil up, skim, and then simmer for an hour. Divide the head, take out the tongue and brain, and dry the rest of the head in a cloth. Mince the liver and tongue, season with salt and pepper, and simmer in the original gravy (thickened) for half-an-hour. Brush the two head-halves with yolk of egg, grate bread crumbs over, and bake in oven. The brain and sweetbread to be chopped and made into cakes, fried, and then placed in the dish around the head-halves. Ah me! The old tavern, after falling into bad ways, entertaining "extra-ladies" and ruined gamesters, has been closed for years. The ground floor was a potato warehouse the last time I passed the place. And it should be mentioned that the actors, journalists, etc., who, in the 'seventies, possessed smaller means, or more modest ambitions, were in the habit of supping--on supping days--at a cheaper haunt in the Strand, off (alleged) roast goose. But, according to one Joseph Eldred, a comedian of some note and shirt-cuff, the meat which was apportioned to us here was, in reality, always bullock's heart, sliced, and with a liberal allowance of sage and onions. "It's the seasoning as does it," observed Mr. Samuel Weller. Then there was another Bohemian house of call, and supper place, in those nights--the "Occidental," once known as the "Coal Hole," where, around a large, beautifully polished mahogany table, many of the wits of the town--"Harry" Leigh and "Tom" Purnell were two of the inveterates--sat, and devoured Welsh rarebits, and other things. The house, too, could accommodate not a few lodgers; and one of its great charms was that nobody cared a button what time you retired to your couch, or what time you ordered breakfast. In these matters, the Occidental resembled the "Limmer's" of the "Billy Duff" era, and the "Lane's" of my own dear subaltern days. _Parlour Cookery._ It was after the last-named days that, whilst on tour with various dramatic combinations--more from necessity than art, as far as I was concerned--that the first principles of parlour cookery became impregnated in mine understanding. We were not all "stars," although we did our best. Salaries were (according to the advertisements) "low but sure"; and (according to experiences) by no means as sure as death, or taxes. The "spectre" did not invariably assume his "martial stalk," of a Saturday; and cheap provincial lodgings do not hold out any extra inducement in the way of cookery. So, whilst we endured the efforts of the good landlady at the early dinner, some of us determined to dish up our own suppers. For the true artist never really feels (or never used to feel, at all events) like "picking a bit" until merely commercial folks have gone to bed. Many a time and oft, with the aid of a cigar box (empty, of course), a couple of books, and an arrangement of plates, have I prepared a savoury supper of mushrooms, toasted cheese, or a _kebob_ of larks, or other small fowl, in front of the fire. More than once have I received notice to quit the next morning for grilling kidneys on the perforated portion of a handsome and costly steel fire-shovel. And by the time I had become sufficiently advanced in culinary science to stew tripe and onions, in an enamel-lined saucepan, the property of the "responsible gent," we began to give ourselves airs. Landladies' ideas on the subject of supper for "theatricals," it may be mentioned, seldom soared above yeast dumplings. And few of us liked the name, even, of yeast dumplings. But perhaps the champion effort of all was when I was sojourning in the good city of Carlisle--known to its inhabitants by the pet name of "Cannie Carle." A good lady was, for her sins, providing us with board and lodging, in return for (promised) cash. My then companion was a merry youth who afterwards achieved fame by writing the very funniest and one of the most successful of three-act farces that was ever placed upon the stage. Now there is not much the matter with a good joint of ribs of beef, roasted to a turn. But when that beef is placed on the table hot for the Sunday dinner, and cold at every succeeding meal until finished up, one's appetite for the flesh of the ox begins to slacken. So we determined on the Wednesday night to "strike" for a tripe supper. "Indeed," protested the good landlady, "ye'll get nae tripe in this hoose, cannie men. Hae ye no' got guid beef, the noo?" Late that night we had grilled bones for supper; not the ordinary _Grilled Bones_ which you get in an eating house, but a vastly superior article. We, or rather my messmate, cut a rib from off the aforementioned beef, scored the flesh across, and placed the bone in the centre of a beautifully clear fire which had been specially prepared. It was placed there by means of the tongs--a weapon of inestimable value in Parlour Cookery--and withdrawn by the same medium. Some of the black wanted scraping off the surface of the meat, but the grill was a perfect dream. The GUBBINS SAUCE, already mentioned in this volume, had not at that time been invented; but as I was never without a bottle of TAPP SAUCE--invaluable for Parlour Cookery; you can get it at Stembridge's--we had plenty of relish. Then we severed another rib from the carcase, and served it in the same manner. For it was winter time and we had wearied of frigid ox. Next morning the landlady's face was a study. I rather think that after some conversation, we propitiated her with an order for two for the dress circle; but it is certain that we had tripe that evening. An ideal supper in _miladi's boudoir_ is associated, in the writer's mind, with rose-coloured draperies, dainty china, a cosy fire, a liberal display of _lingerie_, a strong perfume of heliotrope and orris root--and _miladi_ herself. When next she invites her friends, she will kindly order the following repast to be spread:-- Clear soup, in cups. Fillets of soles Parisienne. Chaudfroid of Quails. Barded sweetbreads. Perigord pâté. By way of contrast, let me quote a typical supper-dish which the "poor player" used to order, when he could afford it. _Kidney Dumpling._ Cut a large Spanish onion in half. Take out the heart, and substitute a sheep's kidney, cut into four. Season with salt and pepper, join the two halves, and enclose in a paste. Bake on a buttered tin, in a moderate oven, for about an hour. _N.B._--Be sure the cook _bakes_ this dumpling, as it is not nice boiled. An artistic friend who at one time of his life resided near the great horse-training centre of Middleham, in Yorkshire, gave a steak supper at the principal inn, to some of the stable attendants. The fare was highly approved of. "Best Scotch beef I ever put tooth into!" observed the "head lad" at old Tom Lawson's stables. "Ah!" returned the host, who was a bit of a wag, "your beef was cut from a colt of Lord Glasgow's that was thought highly of at one time; and he was shot the day before yesterday." And it was so. For Lord Glasgow never sold nor gave away a horse, but had all his "failures" shot. And then a great cry went up for brown brandy. CHAPTER XVII "CAMPING OUT" "Thou didst eat strange flesh, Which some did die to look on." The ups and downs of life--Stirring adventures--Marching on to glory--Shooting in the tropics--Pepper-pot--With the _Rajah Sahib_--Goat-sacrifices at breakfast time--Simla to Cashmere--Manners and customs of Thibet--Burmah--No place to get fat in--Insects--Voracity of the natives--Snakes--Sport in the Jungle--Loaded for snipe, sure to meet tiger--With the gippos--No baked hedgehog--Cheap milk. The intelligent reader may have gathered from some of the foregoing pages that the experiences of the writer have been of a variegated nature. As an habitual follower of the Turf once observed: "When we're rich we rides in chaises, And when we're broke we walks like ----" Never mind what. It was an evil man who said it, but he was a philosopher. Dinner in the gilded saloon one day, on the next no dinner at all, and the key of the street. Such is life! Those experiences do not embrace a mortal combat with a "grizzly" in the Rockies, nor a tramp through a miasma-laden forest in Darkest Africa, with nothing better to eat than poisonous _fungi_, assorted grasses, red ants, and dwarfs; nor yet a bull fight. But they include roughing it in the bush, on underdone bread and scorched kangaroo, a tramp from Benares to the frontier of British India, another tramp or two some way beyond that frontier, a dreadful journey across the eternal snows of the Himalayas, a day's shooting in the Khyber Pass, a railway accident in Middlesex, a mad elephant (he had killed seven men, one of them blind) hunt at Thayet Myoo, in British Burmah, a fine snake anecdote or two, a night at Cambridge with an escaped lunatic, a tiger story (of course), and a capture for debt by an officer of the Sheriff of Pegu, with no other clothing on his body than a short jacket of gaily coloured silk, and a loin cloth. My life's history is never likely to be written--chiefly through sheer laziness on my own part, and the absence of the gambling instinct on that of the average publisher--but like the brown gentleman who smothered his wife, I have "seen things." In this chapter no allusion will be made to "up river" delights, the only idea of "camping out" which is properly understood by the majority of "up to date" young men and maidens; for this theme has been already treated, most comically and delightfully, by Mr. Jerome, in the funniest book I ever read. My own camping experiences have been for the most part in foreign lands, though I have seen the sun rise, whilst reclining beneath the Royal trees in St. James's Park; and as this book is supposed to deal with gastronomy, rather than adventure, a brief sketch of camp life must suffice. On the march! What a time those who "served the Widdy"--by which disrespectful term, our revered Sovereign was _not_ known in those days--used to have before the continent of India had been intersected by the railroad! The absence of one's proper _quantum_ of rest, the forced marches over _kutcha_ (imperfectly made) bye-roads, the sudden changes of temperature, raids of the native thief, the troubles with "bobbery" camels, the still more exasperating behaviour of the _bail-wallahs_ (bullock-drivers), the awful responsibilities of the officer-on-baggage-guard, on active duty, often in the saddle for fifteen hours at a stretch, the absolutely necessary cattle-raids, by the roadside--all these things are well known to those who have undergone them, but are far too long "another story" to be related here. As for the food partaken of during a march with the regiment, the bill-of-fare differed but little from that of the cantonments; but the officer who spent a brief holiday in a shooting expedition had to "rough it" in more ways than one. There was plenty of game all over the continent in my youthful days, and the average shot need not have lacked a dinner, even if he had not brought with him a consignment of "Europe" provisions. English bread was lacking, certainly, and biscuits, native or otherwise--"otherwise" for choice, as the bazaar article tasted principally of pin-cushions and the smoke of dried and lighted cow-dung--or the ordinary _chupatti_, the flat, unleavened cake, which the poor Indian manufactures for his own consumption. Cold tea is by far the best liquid to carry--or rather to have carried for you--whilst actually shooting; but the weary sportsman will require something more exciting, and more poetical, on his return to camp. As for solid fare it was usually _Pepper-pot_ for dinner, day by day. We called it Pepper-pot--that is to say, although it differed somewhat from the West Indian concoction of that name, for which the following is the recipe:-- Put the remains of any cold flesh or fowl into a saucepan, and cover with _cassaripe_--which has been already described in the Curry chapter as extract of Manioc root. Heat up the stew and serve. Our pepper-pot was usually made in a gipsy-kettle, suspended from a tripod. The foundation of the stew was always a tin of some kind of soup. Then a few goat chops--mutton is bad to buy out in the jungle--and then any bird or beast that may have been shot, divided into fragments. I have frequently made a stew of this sort, with so many ingredients in it that the flavour when served out at table--or on the bullock-trunk which often did duty for a table--would have beaten the wit of man to describe. There was hare soup "intil't" (as the Scotsman said to the late Prince Consort), and a collop or two of buffalo-beef, with snipe, quails, and jungle-fowl. There were half the neck of an antelope and a few sliced onions lurking within the bowl. And there were potatoes "intil't," and plenty of pepper and salt. And for lack of cassaripe we flavoured the savoury mess with mango chutnee and Tapp sauce. And if any cook, English or foreign, can concoct a more worthy dish than this, or more grateful to the palate, said cook can come my way. The old _dak gharry_ method of travelling in India may well come under the head of Camping Out. In the hot weather we usually progressed--or got emptied into a ditch--or collided with something else, during the comparative "coolth" of the night; resting (which in Hindustan usually means perspiring and calling the country names) all day at one or other of the _dak bungalows_ provided by a benevolent Government for the use of the wandering _sahib_. The larder at one of those rest-houses was seldom well filled. Although the _khansamah_ who prostrated himself in the sand at your approach would declare that he was prepared to supply everything which the protector-of-the-poor might deign to order, it would be found on further inquiry that the _khansamah_ had, like the Player Queen in Hamlet, protested too much--that he was a natural romancer. And his "everything" usually resolved itself into a "spatch-cock," manufactured from the spectral rooster, who had heralded the approach of the _sahib's_ caravan. _A Rajah's_ ideas of hospitality are massive. Labouring under the belief that the white _sahib_ when not eating must necessarily be drinking, the commissariat arrangements of Rajahdom are on a colossal scale--for the chief benefit of his _major domo_. I might have bathed in dry champagne, had the idea been pleasing, whilst staying with a certain genial prince, known to irreverent British subalterns as "Old Coppertail"; whilst the bedroom furniture was on the same liberal scale. True, I lay on an ordinary native _charpoy_, which might have been bought in the bazaar for a few _annas_, but there was a grand piano in one corner of the apartment, and a buhl cabinet containing rare china in another. There was a coloured print of the Governor-General over the doorway, and an oil painting of the Judgment of Solomon over the mantelshelf. And on a table within easy reach of the bed was a silver-plated dinner service, decked with fruits and sweetmeats, and tins of salmon, and pots of Guava jelly and mixed pickles, and two tumblers, each of which would have easily held a week-old baby. And there was a case of champagne beneath that table, with every appliance for cutting wires and extracting the corks. Another time the writer formed one of a small party invited to share the hospitality of a potentate, whose estate lay on the snowy side of Simla. The fleecy element, however, was not in evidence in June, the month of our visit, although towards December Simla herself is usually wrapt in the white mantle, and garrisoned by monkeys, who have fled from the land of ice. Tents had been erected for us in a barren-looking valley, somewhat famous, however, for the cultivation of potatoes. There was an annual celebration of some sort, the day after our arrival, and for breakfast that morning an _al fresco_ meal had been prepared for us, almost within whispering distance of an heathen temple. And it _was_ a breakfast! There was a turkey stuffed with a fowl, to make the breast larger, and there was a "Europe" ham. A tin of lobster, a bottle of pickled walnuts, a dreadful concoction, alleged to be an omelette, but looking more like the sole of a tennis shoe, potatoes, boiled eggs, a dish of Irish stew, a fry of small fish, a weird-looking curry, a young goat roasted whole, and a plum pudding! The tea had hardly been poured out--Kussowlie beer, Epps's cocoa, and (of course) champagne, and John Exshaw's brandy were also on tap--when a gentleman with very little on proceeded to decapitate a goat at the foot of the temple steps. This was somewhat startling, but when the (presumed) high-priest chopped off the head of another bleating victim, our meal was interrupted. The executions had been carried out in very simple fashion. First, the priest sprinkled a little water on the neck of the victim (who was held in position by an assistant), and then retired up the steps. Then, brandishing a small sickle, he rushed back, and in an instant off went the head, which was promptly carried, reeking with gore, within the temple. But if, as happened more than once, the head was not sliced off at the initial attempt, it was left on the ground when decapitation had been at length effected. The deity inside was evidently a bit particular! Nine goats had been sacrificed, ere our remonstrances were attended to; and we were allowed to pursue our meal in peace. But I don't think anybody had goat for breakfast that morning. Later on, the fun of the fair commenced, and the _paharis_, or hill men, trooped in from miles round, with their sisters, cousins, and aunts. Their wives, we imagined, were too busily occupied in carrying their accustomed loads of timber to and fro. Your Himalayan delights in a fair, and the numerous swings and roundabouts were all well patronised; whilst the jugglers, and the snake charmers--in many instances it was difficult to tell at a glance which was charmer and which snake--were all well patronised. Later on, when the lamps had been lit, a _burra nâtch_ was started, and the Bengali Baboos who had come all the way from Simla in _dhoolies_ to be present at this, applauded vigorously. And our host being in constant dread lest we should starve to death or expire of thirst, never tired of bidding us to a succession of banquets at which we simply went through the forms of eating, to please him. And just when we began to get sleepy these simple hill folks commenced to dance amongst themselves. They were just a little monotonous, their choregraphic efforts. Parties of men linked arms and sidled around fires of logs, singing songs of their mountain homes the while. And as they were evidently determined to make a night of it, sleep for those who understood not the game, with their tents close handy, was out of the question. And when, as soon as we could take our departure decently and decorously, we started up the hill again, those doleful monotonous dances were still in progress, although the fires were out, and the voices decidedly husky. A native of the Himalayas is nothing if not energetic--in his own interests be it understood. A few months later I formed one of a small party who embarked on a more important expedition than the last named, although we traversed the same road. It is a journey which has frequently been made since, from Simla to Cashmere, going as far into the land of the Great Llama as the inhabitants will allow the stranger to do--which is not very far; but, in the early sixties there were but few white men who had even skirted Thibet. In the afternoon of life, when stirring the fire has become preferable to stirring adventure, it seems (to the writer at all events) very like an attempt at self-slaughter to have travelled so many hundreds of miles along narrow goatpaths, with a _khud_ (precipice) of thousands of feet on one side or the other; picking one's way, if on foot, over the frequent avalanche (or "land slip," as we called it in those days) of shale or granite; or if carried in a _dhoolie_--which is simply a hammock attached by straps to a bamboo pole--running the risk of being propelled over a precipice by your heathen carriers. It is not the pleasantest of sensations to cross a mountain torrent by means of a frail bridge (called a _jhula_) of ropes made from twigs, and stretched many feet above the torrent itself, nor to "weather" a corner, whilst clinging tooth and nail to the face of a cliff. And when there is any riding to be done, most people would prefer a hill pony to a _yak_, the native ox of Thibet. By far the best part of a _yak_ is his beautiful silky, fleecy tail, which is largely used in Hindustan, by dependants of governors-general, commanders-in-chief, and other mighty ones, for the discomfiture of the frequent fly. A very little equestrian exercise on the back of a _yak_ goes a long way; and if given my choice, I would sooner ride a stumbling cab-horse in a saddle with spikes in it. But those days were our salad ones; we were not only "green of judgment," but admirers of the beautiful, and reckless of danger. But it was decidedly "roughing it." As it is advisable to traverse that track as lightly laden as possible, we took but few "Europe" provisions with us, depending upon the villages, for the most part, for our supplies. We usually managed to buy a little flour, wherewith to make the inevitable _chupati_, and at some of the co-operative stores _en route_, we obtained mutton of fair flavour. We did not know in those days that flesh exposed to the air, in the higher ranges of the Himalayas, will not putrefy, else we should have doubtless made a species of _biltong_ of the surplus meat, to carry with us in case of any famine about. So "short commons" frequently formed the bill of fare. Our little stock of brandy was carefully husbanded, against illness; and, judging from the subsequent histories of two of the party, this was the most miraculous feature of the expedition. For liquid refreshment we had neat water, and _thé à la mode de Thibet_. Doctor Nansen, in his book on the crossing of Greenland, inveighs strongly against the use of alcohol in an Arctic expedition; but I confess that the first time I tasted Thibet tea I would have given both my ears for a soda and brandy. The raw tea was compressed into the shape of a brick, with the aid of--we did not inquire what; its infusion was drunk, either cold or lukewarm, flavoured with salt, and a small lump of butter which in any civilised police court would have gained the vendor a month's imprisonment without the option of a fine. The people of the district were in the habit of gorging themselves with flesh when they could get it; and polyandry was another of their pleasant customs. We saw one lady who was married to three brothers, but did not boast of it. Thibet is probably the most priest-ridden country in the world, and ought to be the most religious; for the natives can grind out their prayers, on wheels, at short intervals, in pretty much the same way as we grind our coffee in dear old England. But we reached the promised land at last; and here at least there was no lack of food and drink. Meat was cheap in those days; and one of the party, without any bargaining whatever, purchased a sheep for eight annas, or one shilling sterling. Mutton is not quite as cheap at the time of writing this book (1897), I believe; but in the long ago there were but few English visitors to the land of Lalla Rookh, and those who did go had to obtain permission of the Rajah, through the British Resident. With improved transit, and a railroad from Rangoon to Mandalay, matters gastronomic may be better in British Burmah nowadays; but in the course of an almost world-wide experience I have never enjoyed food less than in Pagoda-land during the sixties. And as a Burmese built house was not a whit more comfortable than a tent, and far less waterproof, this subject may well be included in the chapter headed "Camping Out." Fruits there were, varied and plentiful; and if you only planted the crown of a pine-apple in your compound one evening you would probably find a decent-sized pine-apple above ground next--well, next week. At least so they told me when I arrived in the country. This fruit, in fact, was so plentiful that we used to peel the pines, and gnaw them, just like a school-boy would gnaw the ordinary variety of apple. But we had no mutton--not up the country, that is to say; and we were entirely dependent upon Madras for potatoes. Therefore, as there was only a steamer once a month from Madras to Rangoon, which invariably missed the Irrawaddy monthly mail-boat, we "exiles" had to content ourselves with yams, or the abominable "preserved" earth-apple. The insects of the air wrestled with us at the mess-table, for food; and the man who did not swallow an evil-tasting fly of some sort in his soup was lucky.[9] As for the food of the Burman himself, "absolutely beastly" was no name for it. Strips of cat-fish the colour of beef were served at his marriage feasts; and he was especially fond of a condiment the name of which was pronounced _nuppee_--although that is probably not the correct spelling, and I never studied the language of that country--which was concocted from a smaller description of fish, buried in the earth until decomposition had triumphed, and then mashed up with _ghee_ (clarified--and "postponed"--butter). There was, certainly, plenty of shooting to be obtained in the district; but, as it rained in torrents for nine months in every year, the shooter required a considerable amount of nerve, and, in addition to a Boyton suit, case-hardened lungs and throat. And, singularly enough, it was an established fact that if loaded for snipe you invariably met a tiger, or something else with sharp teeth, and _vice versa_. Also, you were exceptionally fortunate if you did not step upon one of the venomous snakes of the country, of whom the _hamadryad's_ bite was said to be fatal within five minutes. I had omitted to mention that snake is also a favourite food of the Burman; and as I seldom went home of an evening without finding a rat-snake or two in the verandah, or the arm-chair, the natives had snake for breakfast, most days. The rat-snake is, however, quite harmless to life. I have "camped out" in England once or twice; once with a select circle of gipsies, the night before the Derby. I wished merely to study character; and, after giving them a few words of the Romany dialect, and a good deal of tobacco, I was admitted into their confidences. But the experience gained was not altogether pleasing, nor yet edifying; nor did we have baked hedgehog for supper. In fact I have never yet met the "gippo" (most of them keep fowls) who will own to having tasted this _bonne bouche_ of the descriptive writer. Possibly this is on account of the scarcity of the hedgehog. "Tea-kettle broth"--bread sopped in water, with a little salt and dripping to flavour the soup--on the other hand, figures on most of the gipsy _menus_. And upon one occasion, very early in the morning, another wanderer and the writer obtained much-needed liquid refreshment by milking the yield of a Jersey cow into each other's mouths, alternately. But this was a long time ago, and in the neighbourhood of Bagshot Heath, and it was somebody else's cow; so let no more be said about it. I fear this chapter is not calculated to make many mouths water. In fact what in the world has brought it into the midst of a work on gastronomy I am at a loss to make out. However here it is. CHAPTER XVIII COMPOUND DRINKS "Flow wine! Smile woman! And the universe is consoled." Derivation of punch--"Five"--The "milk" brand--The best materials--Various other punches--Bischoff or Bishop--"Halo" punch--Toddy--The toddy tree of India--Flip--A "peg"--John Collins--Out of the guard-room. The subject of PUNCH is such an important one that it may be placed first on the list of dainty beverages which can be made by the art or application of man or woman. First, let us take the origin of the word. DOCTOR KITCHENER, an acknowledged authority, during his lifetime, on all matters connected with eating and drinking, has laid it down that punch is of West Indian origin, and that the word when translated, means "five"; because there be five ingredients necessary in the concoction of the beverage. But Doctor Kitchener and his disciples (of whom there be many) may go to the bottom of the cookery class; for although from the large connection which rum and limes have with the mixture, there would seem to be a West Indian flavour about it; the word "five," when translated into West Indianese, is nothing like "punch." Having satisfied themselves that this is a fact, modern authorities have tried the East Indies for the source of the name, and have discovered that _panch_ in Hindustani really does mean "five." "Therefore," says one modern authority, "it is named punch from the five ingredients which compose it--(1) spirit, (2) acid, (3) spice, (4) sugar, (5) water." Another modern authority calls punch "a beverage introduced into England from India, and so called from being usually made of five (Hindi, _panch_) ingredients--arrack, tea, sugar, water, and lemon juice." This sounds far more like an East Indian concoction than the other; but at the same time punch--during the latter half of the nineteenth century at all events--was as rare a drink in Hindustan as _bhang_ in Great Britain. The _panch_ theory is an ingenious one, but there are plenty of other combinations (both liquid and solid) of five to which the word punch is never applied; and about the last beverage recommended by the faculty for the consumption of the sojourner in the land of the Great Mogul, would, I should think, be the entrancing, seductive one which we Britons know under the name of punch. Moreover it is not every punch-concoctor who uses five ingredients. In the minds of some--youthful members of the Stock Exchange, for the most part--water is an altogether unnecessary addition to the alcoholic mixture which is known by the above name. And what manner of man would add spice to that delight of old Ireland, "a jug o' punch?" On the other hand, in many recipes, there are more than five ingredients used. But after all, the origin of the name is of but secondary importance, as long as you can make punch. Therefore, we will commence with a few recipes for _Milk Punch_. 1. Three bottles of rum. The most delicately-flavoured rum is the "Liquid Sunshine" brand. One bottle of sherry. 13 lbs of loaf-sugar. The rind of six lemons, and the juice of twelve. One quart of boiling skimmed milk. Mix together, let the mixture stand eight days, stirring it each day. Strain and bottle, and let it stand three months. Then re-bottle, and let the bottles lie on their sides in the cellar for two years, to mature. The flavour will be much better than if drunk after the first period of three months. It is not everybody, however, who would care to wait two years, three months, and eight days for the result of his efforts in punch-making. Therefore another recipe may be appended; and in this one no "close time" is laid down for the consumption of the mixture. 2. Put into a bottle of rum or brandy the thinly-pared rinds of three Seville oranges, and three lemons. Cork tightly for two days. Rub off on 2 lbs of lump sugar the rinds of six lemons, squeeze the juice from the whole of the fruit over the 2 lbs of sugar, add three quarts of boiling water, one of boiling milk, half a teaspoonful of nutmeg, and mix all thoroughly well together until the sugar is dissolved. Pour in the rum or brandy, stir, and strain till clear; bottle closely. There is more than one objection to this recipe. (1) Rum, and not brandy (by itself), should be used for milk punch. (2) There is an "intolerable amount" of water; and (3) the nutmeg had better remain in the spice-box. 3. Cut off the thin yellow rind of four lemons and a Seville orange, taking care not to include even a fragment of the _white_ rind, and place in a basin. Pour in one pint of Jamaica rum, and let it stand, covered over, twelve hours. Then strain, and mix with it one pint of lemon juice, and two pints of cold water, in which one pound of sugar-candy has been dissolved; add the whites of two eggs, beaten to a froth, three pints more of rum, one pint of madeira, one pint of strong green tea, and a large wine-glassful of maraschino. Mix thoroughly, and pour over all one pint of boiling milk. Let the punch stand a little while, then strain through a jelly-bag, and either use at once, or bottle off. Here let it be added, lest the precept be forgotten, that the _Very best Materials_ are absolutely necessary for the manufacture of punch, as of other compound drinks. In the above recipe for instance by "madeira," is meant "Rare Old East Indian," and _not_ marsala, which wine, in French kitchens, is invariably used as the equivalent of madeira. There must be no inferior sherry, Gladstone claret, cheap champagne, nor potato-brandy, used for any of my recipes, or I will not be responsible for the flavour of the beverage. The following is the best idea of a milk punch known to the writer:-- 4. Over the yellow rind of four lemons and one Seville orange, pour one pint of rum. Let it stand, covered over, for twelve hours. Strain and mix in two pints more of rum, one pint of brandy, one pint of sherry, half-a-pint of lemon juice, the expressed juice of a peeled pine-apple, one pint of green tea, one pound of sugar dissolved in one quart of boiling water, the whites of two eggs beaten up, one quart of boiling milk. Mix well, let it cool, and then strain through a jelly-bag, and bottle off. This punch is calculated to make the epicure forget that he has just been partaking of conger-eel broth instead of clear turtle. _Cambridge Milk Punch._ This a fairly good boys' beverage, there being absolutely "no offence in't." Put the rind of half a lemon (small) into one pint of new milk, with twelve lumps of sugar. Boil very slowly for fifteen minutes, then remove from the fire, take out the lemon rind, and mix in the yolk of one egg, which has been previously blended with one tablespoonful of cold milk, two tablespoonfuls of brandy, and four of rum. Whisk all together, and when the mixture is frothed, it is ready to serve. _Oxford Punch._ There is no milk in this mixture, which sounds like "for'ard on!" for the undergraduate who for the first time samples it. Rub off the yellow rind of three lemons with half-a-pound of loaf sugar. Put the result into a large jug, with the yellow rind of one Seville orange, the juice of three Seville oranges and eight lemons, and one pint of liquefied calf's-foot jelly. Mix thoroughly, then pour over two quarts of boiling water, and set the jug on the hob for thirty minutes. Strain the mixture into a punch-bowl, and when cool add one small bottle of capillaire (an infusion of maidenhair fern, flavoured with sugar and orange-flower water); one pint of brandy, one pint of rum, half-a-pint of dry sherry, and one quart of orange shrub--a mixture of orange-peel, juice, sugar, and rum. After drinking this, the young student will be in a fit state to sally forth, with his fellows, and "draw" a Dean, or drown an amateur journalist. I have a very old recipe, in MS., for "Bischoff," which I take to be the original of the better known beverage called "Bishop," for the manufacture of which I have also directions. For the sake of comparison I give the two. _Bischoff._ Cut into four parts each, three Seville oranges, and slightly score the rinds across with a sharp knife. Roast the quarters lightly before a slow fire, and put them into a bowl with two bottles of claret, with a little cinnamon and nutmeg. Infuse this mixture over a slow heat for five or six hours, then pass it through a jelly-bag, and sweeten. It may be drunk hot or cold, but in any case must never be allowed to boil. _Bishop._ Two drachmas each of cloves, mace, ginger, cinnamon, and allspice, boiled in half-a-pint of water for thirty minutes. Strain. Put a bottle of port in a saucepan over the fire, add the spiced infusion, and a lemon stuck with six cloves. Whilst this is heating gradually--it must not boil--take four ounces of loaf sugar, and with the lumps grate off the outer rind of a lemon into a punch-bowl. Add the sugar, and juice, and the hot wine, etc. Add another bottle of port, and serve either hot or cold. I am prepared to lay a shade of odds on the "op" against the "off." Another old recipe has been quoted in some of my earlier public efforts, under different names. I have improved considerably upon the proportion of the ingredients, and now hand the whole back, under the name of _Halo Punch_. With a quarter pound of loaf sugar rub off the outer rind of one lemon and two Seville oranges. Put rind and sugar into a large punch-bowl with the juice and pulp, mix the sugar well with the juice and one teacupful of boiling water, and stir till cold. Add half-a-pint of pine-apple syrup, one pint of strong green tea, a claret-glassful of maraschino, a smaller glassful of noyeau, half-a-pint of white rum, one pint of brandy, and one bottle of champagne. Strain and serve, having, if necessary, added more sugar. Note well the proportions. This is the same beverage which some Cleveland friends of mine, having read the recipe, thought _boiling_ would improve. The result was--well, a considerable amount of chaos. _Glasgow Punch._ The following is from _Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk_, and is from the pen of John Gibson Lockhart:-- The sugar being melted with a little _cold_ water, the artist squeezed about a dozen lemons through a wooden strainer, and then poured in water enough almost to fill the bowl. In this state the liquor goes by the name of sherbet, and a few of the connoisseurs in his immediate neighbourhood were requested to give their opinion of it--for in the mixing of the sherbet lies, according to the Glasgow creed, at least one-half of the whole battle. This being approved of by an audible smack from the lips of the umpires, the rum was added to the beverage, I suppose, in something about the proportion from one to seven. Does this mean one of sherbet and seven of rum, or the converse? Last of all, the maker cut a few limes, and running each section rapidly round the rim of his bowl, squeezed in enough of this more delicate acid to flavour the whole composition. In this consists the true _tour-de-maitre_ of the punch-maker. Well, possibly; but it seems a plainish sort of punch; and unless the rum be allowed to preponderate, most of us would be inclined to call the mixture lemonade. And I do not believe that since Glasgow has been a city its citizens ever drank much of _that_. A few more punches, and then an anecdote. _Ale Punch._ One quart of mild ale in a bowl, add one wine-glassful of brown sherry, the same quantity of old brandy, a tablespoonful of sifted sugar, the peel and juice of one lemon, a grate of nutmeg, and an iceberg. _N.B._--Do not insert old ale, by mistake. And for my own part, I think it a mistake to mix John Barleycorn with wine (except champagne) and spirits. _Barbadoes Punch._ A tablespoonful of raspberry syrup, a ditto of sifted sugar, a wine-glassful of water, double that quantity of brandy, half a wine-glassful of guava jelly, liquid, the juice of half a lemon, two slices of orange, one slice of pine-apple, in a long tumbler. Ice and shake well and drink through straws. _Curaçoa Punch._ Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, one wine-glassful of brandy, the same quantity of water, half a wine-glassful of Jamaica rum, a wine-glassful of curaçoa, and the juice of half a lemon; fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and drink through straws. _Grassot Punch._ This has nothing to do with warm asparagus, so have no fear. It is simply another big-tumbler mixture, of one wine-glassful of brandy, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, a squeeze of lemon, two teaspoonfuls sugar, one of syrup of strawberries, one wine-glassful of water, and the thin rind of a lemon; fill up the tumbler with crushed ice, shake, and put slices of ripe apricots atop. Drink how you like. Most of the above are hot-weather beverages, and the great beauty of some of them will be found in the small quantity of water in the mixture. Here is a punch which may be drunk in any weather, and either hot or cold. _Regent Punch._ Pour into a bowl a wine-glassful of champagne, the same quantities of hock, curaçoa, rum, and madeira. Mix well, and add a pint of boiling tea, sweetened. Stir well and serve. _Apropos_ of the derivation of "punch," I was unaware until quite recently that Messrs. Bradbury's & Agnew's little paper had any connection therewith. But I was assured by one who knew all about it, that such was the case. "What?" I exclaimed. "How can the _London Charivari_ possibly have anything to do with this most seductive of beverages?" "My dear fellow," was the reply, "have you never heard of Mark _Lemon_?" I turned to smite him hip and thigh; but the jester had fled. And now a word or two as to "TODDY." One of the authorities quoted in the punch difficulty declares that toddy is also an Indian drink. So it is. But that drink no more resembles what is known in more civilised lands as toddy than I resemble the late king Solomon. The palm-sap which the poor Indian distils into arrack and occasionally drinks in its natural state for breakfast after risking his neck in climbing trees to get it, can surely have no connection with hot whisky and water? Yet the authority says so; but he had best be careful ere he promulgates his theory in the presence of Scotsmen and others who possess special toddy-glasses. This is how I make _Whisky Toddy_. The Irish call this whisky punch. But do not let us wrangle over the name. Into an ordinary-sized tumbler which has been warmed, put one average lump of sugar, a ring of thin lemon peel, and a silver teaspoon. Fill the tumbler one quarter full of water as near boiling point as possible. Cover over until the sugar be dissolved and peel be infused. Then add one wine-glassful--not a small one--of the best whisky you can find--the "Pollok" brand, and the "R.B." are both excellent. Then drink the toddy, or punch; for should you attempt to add any more water you will incur the lifelong contempt of every Irishman or Scotsman who may be in the same room. If Irish whisky be used, of course you will select "John Jameson." 'Twixt ale-flip and egg-flip there is not much more difference than 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee. Both are equally "more-ish" on a cold evening; and no Christmas eve is complete without a jug of one or the other. _Ale-flip._ Pour into a saucepan three pints of mild ale, one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, a blade of mace, a clove, and a small piece of butter; and bring the liquor to a boil. Beat up in a basin the white of one egg and the yolks of two, mixed with about a wine-glassful of cold ale. Mix all together in the saucepan, then pour into a jug, and thence into another jug, from a height, for some minutes, to froth the flip thoroughly but do not let it get cold. _Egg-flip._ Heat one pint of ale, and pour into a jug. Add two eggs, beaten with three ounces of sugar, and pour the mixture from one jug to the other, as in the preceding recipe. Grate a little nutmeg and ginger over the flip before serving. Were I to ask What is _A Peg_? I should probably be told that a peg was something to hang something or somebody else on, or that it was something to be driven through or into something else. And the latter would be the more correct answer, for at the time of my sojourn in the great continent of India, a peg meant a large brandy-and-soda. At that time whisky was but little known in Punkahland, and was only used high up in the Punjaub during the "cold weather"--and it is cold occasionally in that region, where for some months they are enabled to make ice--but that is _une autre histoire_. Rum I once tasted at Simla, and gin will be dealt with presently. But since the visit of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, a peg has always signified a _whisky_-and-soda. And yet we have not heard of any particular decrease in the death-rate. Despite what those who have only stayed a month or two in the country have committed to print, alcohol is _not_ more fatal in a tropical country than a temperate one. But you must not overdo your alcohol. I have seen a gay young spark, a fine soldier, and over six feet in height, drink _eight_ pegs of a morning, ere he got out of bed. There was no such thing as a "split soda"--or a split brandy either--in those days. We buried him in the Bay of Bengal just after a cyclone, on our way home. By the way, the real meaning of "peg" was said to be the peg, or nail, driven into the coffin of the drinker every time he partook. And the coffin of many an Anglo-Indian of my acquaintance was all nails. A _John Collins_ is simply a gin-sling with a little curaçoa in it. That is to say, soda-water, a slice of lemon, curaçoa--and gin. But by altering the proportions this can be made a very dangerous potion indeed. The officers of a certain regiment--which shall be nameless--were in the habit of putting this potion on tap, after dinner on a guest night. It was a point of honour in those evil, though poetical, times, to send no guest empty away, and more than one of those entertained by this regiment used to complain next morning at breakfast--a peg, or a swizzle, and a hot pickle sandwich--of the escape of "Private John Collins" from the regimental guard-room. For towards dawn there would not be much soda-water in that potion--which was usually served hot at that hour. CHAPTER XIX CUPS AND CORDIALS "Can any mortal mixture Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?" "The evil that men do lives after them." Five recipes for claret cup--Balaclava cup--Orgeat--Ascot cup--Stout and champagne--Shandy-gaff for millionaires--Ale cup--Cobblers which will stick to the last--Home Ruler--Cherry brandy--Sloe gin--Home-made, if possible--A new industry--Apricot brandy--Highland cordial--Bitters--Jumping-powder--Orange brandy--"Mandragora"--"Sleep rock thy brain!" I suppose there are almost as many recipes for claret cup as for a cold in the head. And of the many it is probable that the greater proportion will produce a cup which will neither cheer nor inebriate; for the simple reason that nobody, who was not inebriated already, would be physically capable of drinking enough of it. Let us first of all take the late Mr. Donald's recipe for Claret Cup: _A._ 1 bottle claret. 1 wine-glassful fine pale brandy. ½ do. chartreuse yellow. ½ do. curaçoa. ¼ do. maraschino. 2 bottles soda or seltzer.[10] 1 lemon, cut in thin slices. A few sprigs of borage; not much. Ice and sugar to taste. Here is a less expensive recipe: _B._ Put into a bowl the rind of one lemon pared very thin, add some sifted sugar, and pour over it a wine-glassful of sherry; then add a bottle of claret, more sugar to taste, a sprig of verbena, one bottle of aerated water, and a grated nutmeg; strain and ice it well. Once more let the fact be emphasised that the better the wine, spirit, etc., the better the cup. Here is a good cup for Ascot, when the sun is shining, and you are entertaining the fair sex. _C._ Put in a large bowl three bottles of claret (St. Estephe is the stamp of wine), a wine-glassful (large) of curaçoa, a pint of dry sherry, half a pint of old brandy, a large wine-glassful of raspberry syrup, three oranges and one lemon cut into slices; add a few sprigs of borage and a little cucumber rind, two bottles of seltzer water, and three bottles of Stretton water. Mix well, and sweeten. Let it stand for an hour, and then strain. Put in a large block of ice, and a few whole strawberries. Serve in small tumblers. Another way and a simpler: _D._ Pour into a large jug one bottle of claret, add two wine-glassfuls of sherry, and half a glass of maraschino. Add a few sliced nectarines, or peaches, and sugar to taste (about a tablespoonful and a half). Let it stand till the sugar is dissolved, then put in a sprig of borage. Just before using add one bottle of Stretton water, and a large piece of ice. My ideal claret cup: _E._ 2 bottles Pontet Canet. 2 wine-glassfuls old brandy. 1 wine-glassful curaçoa. 1 pint bottle sparkling moselle. 2 bottles aerated water. A sprig or two of borage, and a little lemon peel. Sugar _ad lib._: one cup will not require much. Add the moselle and popwater just before using; then put in a large block of ice. Those who have never tried can have no idea of the zest which a small proportion of moselle lends to a claret cup. My earliest recollection of a cup dates from old cricketing days beneath "Henry's holy shade," on "a match day"--as poor old "Spanky" used to phrase it; a day on which that prince of philosophers and confectioners sold his wares for cash only. Not that he had anything to do with the compounding of the _Cider Cup_. Toast a slice of bread and put it at the bottom of a large jug. Grate over the toast nearly half a small nutmeg, and a very little ginger. Add a little thin lemon rind, and six lumps of sugar. Then add two wine-glasses of sherry, and (if for adults) one of brandy. (If for boys the brandy in the sherry will suffice.) Add also the juice of a small lemon, two bottles of lively water, and (last of all) three pints of cider. Mix well, pop in a few sprigs of borage, and a block or two of ice. Remember once more that the purer the cider the better will be the cup. There is an infinity of bad cider in the market. There used to be a prejudice against the fermented juice of the apple for all who have gouty tendencies; but as a "toe-martyr" myself, I can bear testimony to the harmlessness of the "natural" Norfolk cider made at Attleborough, in the which is no touch of Podagra. For a good _Champagne Cup_ _vide_ Claret Cup _A._ Substituting the "sparkling" for the "ruby," the ingredients are precisely the same. A nice, harmless beverage, suitable for a tennis party, or to accompany the "light refreshments" served at a "Cinderella" dance, or at the "breaking-up" party at a ladies' school, is _Chablis Cup_. Dissolve four or five lumps of sugar in a quarter of a pint of boiling water, and put it into a bowl with a very thin slice of lemon rind; let it stand for half-an-hour, then add a bottle of chablis, a sprig of verbena, a wine-glassful of sherry, and half-a-pint of water. Mix well, and let the mixture stand for a while, then strain, add a bottle of seltzer water, a few strawberries or raspberries, and a block of ice. Serve in small glasses. _Balaclava Cup._ "Claret to right of 'em, 'Simpkin' to left of 'em-- Cup worth a hundred!" Get a large bowl, to represent the Valley--which only the more rabid abstainer would call the "Valley of Death." You will next require a small detachment of thin lemon rind, about two tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, the juice of two lemons, and half a cucumber, cut into thin slices, with the peel on. Let all these ingredients skirmish about within the bowl; then bring up your heavy cavalry in the shape of two bottles of Château something, and one of the best champagne you have got. Last of all, unmask your soda-water battery; two bottles will be sufficient. Ice, and serve in tumblers. _Crimean Cup._ This is a very serious affair. So was the war. The cup, however, leads to more favourable results, and does not, like the campaign, leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Here are the ingredients: One quart of syrup of orgeat (to make this _vide_ next recipe), one pint and a half of old brandy, half a pint of maraschino, one pint of old rum, two large and one small bottles of champagne, three bottles of Seltzer-water, half-a-pound of sifted sugar, and the juice of five lemons. Peel the lemons, and put the thin rind in a mortar, with the sugar. Pound them well, and scrape the result with a silver spoon into a large bowl. Squeeze in the juice of the lemons, add the seltzer water, and stir till the sugar is quite dissolved. Then add the orgeat, and whip the mixture well with a whisk, so as to whiten it. Add the maraschino, rum, and brandy, and strain the whole into another bowl. Just before the cup is required, put in the champagne, and stir vigorously with a punch ladle. The champagne should be well iced, as no apparent ice is allowable in this mixture. _Orgeat._ Blanch and pound three-quarters of a pound of sweet almonds, and thirty bitter almonds, in one tablespoonful of water. Stir in by degrees two pints of water and three pints of milk. Strain the mixture through a cloth. Dissolve half-a-pound of loaf sugar in one pint of water. Boil and skim well, and then mix with the almond water. Add two tablespoonfuls of orange-flower water, and half-a-pint of old brandy. Be careful to boil the _eaû sucré_ well, as this concoction must not be too watery. _Ascot Cup._ Odds can be laid freely on this; and the host should stay away from the temptations of the betting-ring, on purpose to make it. And--parenthetically be it observed--the man who has no soul for cup-making should never entertain at a race meeting. The servants will have other things to attend to; and even if they have not it should be remembered that a cup, or punch, like a salad, should always, if possible, be mixed by some one who is going to partake of the same. Dissolve six ounces of sugar in half-a-pint of boiling water; add the juice of three lemons, one pint of old brandy, a wine-glassful of cherry brandy, a wine-glassful of maraschino, half a wine-glassful of yellow chartreuse, two bottles of champagne. All these should be mixed in a large silver bowl. Add a few sprigs of borage, a few slices of lemon, half-a-dozen strawberries, half-a-dozen brandied cherries, and three bottles of seltzer water. Put the bowl, having first covered it over, into the refrigerator for one hour, and before serving, put a small iceberg into the mixture, which should be served in little tumblers. How many people, I wonder, are aware that _Champagne and Guinness' Stout_ make one of the best combinations possible? You may search the wide wide world for a cookery book which will give this information; but the mixture is both grateful and strengthening, and is, moreover, far to be preferred to what is known as _Rich Man's Shandy Gaff_, which is a mixture of champagne and ale. The old Irishman said that the "blackgyard" should never be placed atop of the "gintleman," intending to convey the advice that ale should not be placed on the top of champagne. But the "black draught" indicated just above is well worth attention. It should be drunk out of a pewter tankard, and is specially recommended as a between-the-acts refresher for the amateur actor. _Ale Cup._ Squeeze the juice of a lemon into a round of hot toast; lay on it a thin piece of the rind, a tablespoonful of pounded sugar, a little grated nutmeg, and a sprig of balm. Pour over these one glass of brandy, two glasses of sherry, and three pints of mild ale. Do not allow the balm to remain in the mixture many minutes. One of the daintiest of beverages is a _Moselle Cup_. Ingredients: One bottle of moselle. One glass of brandy. Four or five thin slices of pine-apple. The peel of half a lemon, cut very thin. Ice; and sugar _ad lib_. Just before using add one bottle of sparkling water. _Sherry Cobbler_ although a popular drink in America, is but little known on this side of the Atlantic. Place in a soda-water tumbler two wine-glassfuls of sherry, one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, and two or three slices of orange. Fill the tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. Drink through straws. _Champagne Cobbler._ Put into a large tumbler one tablespoonful of sifted sugar, with a thin paring of lemon and orange peel; fill the tumbler one-third full of crushed ice, and the remainder with champagne. Shake, and ornament with a slice of lemon, and a strawberry or two. Drink through straws. _Home Ruler._ This was a favourite drink at the bars of the House of Commons, during the reign of the Uncrowned King. It was concocted of the yolks of two raw eggs, well beaten, a little sugar added, then a tumbler of hot milk taken gradually into the mixture, and last of all a large wine-glassful of "J.J." whisky. _Cordials._ In treating of cordials, it is most advisable that they be _home made_. The bulk of the cherry brandy, ginger brandy, etc., which is sold over the counter is made with inferior brandy; and frequently the operation of blending the virtue of the fruit with the spirit has been hurried. We will commence with the discussion of the favourite cordial of all, _Cherry Brandy_. This can either be made from Black Gean cherries, or Morellas, but the latter are better for the purpose. Every pound of cherries will require one quarter of a pound of white sugar, and one pint of the best brandy. The cherries, with the sugar well mixed with them, should be placed in wide-mouthed bottles, filled up with brandy; and if the fruit be previously pricked, the mixture will be ready in a month. But a better blend is procured if the cherries are untouched, and this principle holds good with all fruit treated in this way, and left corked for at least three months. _Sloe Gin._ For years the sloe, which is the fruit of the black-thorn, was used in England for no other purpose than the manufacture of British Port. But at this end of the nineteenth century, the public have been, and are, taking kindly to the cordial, which for a long time had been despised as an "auld wife's drink." As a matter of fact, it is just as tasty, and almost as luscious as cherry brandy. But since sloe gin became fashionable, it has become almost impossible for dwellers within twenty or thirty miles of London to make the cordial at home. For sloes fetch something like sixpence or sevenpence a pound in the market; and in consequence the hedgerows are "raided" by the (otherwise) unemployed, the fruit being usually picked before the proper time, _i.e._ when the frost has been on it. The manufacture of sloe gin is as simple as that of cherry brandy. All that is necessary to be done is to allow 1 lb. of sugar (white) to 1 lb. of sloes. Half fill a bottle--which need not necessarily be a wide-mouthed one--with sugared fruit, and "top up" with gin. If the sloes have been pricked, the liquor will be ready for use in two or three months; but _do not hurry it_. In a year's time the gin will have eaten all the goodness out of the unpricked fruit, and it is in this gradual blending that the secret (as before observed) of making these cordials lies. As a rule, if you call for sloe gin at a licensed house of entertainment, you will get a ruby-coloured liquid, tasting principally of gin--and not good gin "at that." This is because the making has been hurried. Properly matured sloe gin should be the colour of full-bodied port wine. _Apricot Brandy._ This is a cordial which is but seldom met with in this country. To every pound of fruit (which should not be quite ripe) allow one pound of loaf sugar. Put the apricots into a preserving-pan, with sufficient water to cover them. Let them boil up, and then simmer gently until tender. Remove the skins. Clarify and boil the sugar, then pour it over the fruit. Let it remain twenty-four hours. Then put the apricots into wide-mouthed bottles, and fill them up with syrup and brandy, half and half. Cork them tightly, with the tops of corks sealed. This apricot brandy should be prepared in the month of July, and kept twelve months before using. _Highland Cordial._ Here is another rare old recipe. Ingredients, one pint of white currants, stripped of their stalks, the thin rind of a lemon, one teaspoonful of essence of ginger, and one bottle of old Scotch whisky. Let the mixture stand for forty-eight hours, and then strain through a hair sieve. Add one pound of loaf sugar, which will take at least a day to thoroughly dissolve. Then bottle off, and cork well. It will be ready for use in three months, but will keep longer. _Bitters._ One ounce of Seville orange-peel, half an ounce of gentian root, a quarter of an ounce of cardamoms. Husk the cardamoms, and crush them with the gentian root. Put them in a wide-mouthed bottle, and cover with brandy or whisky. Let the mixture remain for twelve days, then strain, and bottle off for use, after adding one ounce of lavender drops. _Ginger Brandy._ Bruise slightly two pounds of black currants, and mix them with one ounce and a half of ground ginger. Pour over them one bottle and a half of best brandy, and let the mixture stand for two days. Strain off the liquid, and add one pound of loaf sugar which has been boiled to a syrup in a little water. Bottle and cork closely. "_Jumping Powder_" comes in very handy, on a raw morning, after you have ridden a dozen miles or so to a lawn meet. "No breakfast, thanks, just a wee nip, that's all." And the ever ready butler hands round the tray. If you are wise, you will declare on _Orange Brandy_ which, as a rule, is well worth sampling, in a house important enough to entertain hunting men. And orange brandy "goes" much better than any other liqueur, or cordial, before noon. It should be made in the month of March. Take the thin rinds of six Seville oranges, and put them into a stone jar, with half-a-pint of the strained juice, and two quarts of good old brandy. Let it remain three days, then add one pound and a quarter of loaf sugar--broken, not pounded--and stir till the sugar is dissolved. Let the liquor stand a day, strain it through paper till quite clear, pour into bottles, and cork tightly. The longer it is kept the better. _Mandragora._ "Can't sleep." Eh? What! not after a dry chapter on liquids? Drink this, and you will not require any rocking. Simmer half-a-pint of old ale, and just as it is about to boil pour it into a tumbler, grate a little nutmeg over it, and add a teaspoonful of moist sugar, and two tablespoonfuls of brandy. Good night, Hamlet! CHAPTER XX THE DAYLIGHT DRINK "Something too much of this." "A nipping and an eager air." Evil effects of dram-drinking--The "Gin-crawl"--Abstinence in H.M. service--City manners and customs--Useless to argue with the soaker--Cocktails--Pet names for drams--The free lunch system--Fancy mixtures--Why no Cassis?--Good advice like water on a duck's back. Whilst holding the same opinion as the epicure who declared that good eating required good drinking, there is no question but that there should be a limit to both. There is, as Shakespeare told us, a tide in the affairs of man, so why should there not be in this particular affair? Why should it be only ebb tide during the few hours that the man is wrapped in the arms of a Bacchanalian Morpheus, either in bed or in custody? The abuse of good liquor is surely as criminal a folly as the abstention therefrom; and the man who mixes his liquors injudiciously lacks that refinement of taste and understanding which is necessary for the appreciation of a good deal of this book, or indeed of any other useful volume. Our grandfathers swore terribly, and drank deep; but their fun did not commence until after dinner. And they drank, for the most part, the best of ale, and such port wine as is not to be had in these days of free trade (which is only an euphemism for adulteration) and motor cars. Although mine own teeth are, periodically, set on edge by the juice of the grape consumed by an ancestor or two; although the gout within me is an heritage from the three-, aye! and four-, bottle era, I respect mine ancestors, in that they knew not "gin and bitters." The baleful habit of alcoholising the inner sinner between meal times, the pernicious habit of dram-drinking, or "nipping," from early morn till dewy eve, was not introduced into our cities until the latter half of the nineteenth century had set in. "Brandy-and-soda," at first only used as a "livener"--and a deadly livener it is--was unknown during the early Victorian era; and the "gin-crawl," that interminable slouch around the hostelries, is a rank growth of modernity. The "nipping habit" came to us, with other pernicious "notions," from across the Atlantic Ocean. It was Brother Jonathan who established the bar system; and although for the most part, throughout Great Britain, the alcohol is dispensed by young ladies with fine eyes and a great deal of adventitious hair, and the "bar-keep," with his big watch chain, and his "guns," placed within easy reach, for quick-shooting saloon practice, is unknown on this side, the hurt of the system (to employ an Americanism) "gets there just the same." There is not the same amount of carousing in the British army as in the days when I was a "gilded popinjay" (in the language of Mr. John Burns; "a five-and-twopenny assassin," in the words of somebody else). In those days the use of alcohol, if not absolutely encouraged for the use of the subaltern, was winked at by his superiors, as long as the subalterns were not on duty, or on the line of march--and I don't know so much about the line of march, either. But with any orderly or responsible duty to be done, the beverage of heroes was not admired. "Now mind," once observed our revered colonel, in the ante-room, after dinner, "none of you young officers get seeing snakes and things, or otherwise rendering yourselves unfit for service; or I'll try the lot of you by court martial, I will, by ----." Here the adjutant let the regimental bible drop with a bang. Tea is the favourite ante-room refreshment nowadays, when the officer, young or old, is always either on duty, or at school. And the education of the modern warrior is never completed. But the civilian--sing ho! the wicked civilian--is a reveller, and a winebibber, for the most part. Very little business is transacted except over what is called "a friendly glass." "I want seven hundred an' forty-five from you, old chappie," says Reggie de Beers of the "House," on settling day. "Right," replies his friend young "Berthas": "toss you double or quits. Down with it!" And it would be a cold day were not a magnum or two of "the Boy" to be opened over the transaction. The cheap eating-house keeper who has spent his morning at the "market," cheapening a couple of pigs, or a dozen scraggy fowls, will have spent double the money he has saved in the bargain, in rum and six-penny ale, ere he gets home again; and even a wholesale deal in evening journals, between two youths in the street, requires to be "wetted." Very sad is it not? But, as anything which I--who am popularly supposed to be something resembling a roysterer, but who am in reality one of the most discreet of those who enjoy life--can write is not likely to work a change in the system which obtains amongst English-speaking nations, perhaps the sooner I get on with the programme the better. Later on I may revert to the subject. Amongst daylight (and midnight, for the matter of that) drinks, the COCKTAIL, that fascinating importation from Dollarland, holds a prominent place. This is a concoction for which, with American bars all over the Metropolis, the cockney does not really require any recipe. But as I trust to have some country readers, a few directions may be appended. _Brandy Cocktail._ One wine-glassful of old brandy, six drops of Angostura bitters, and twenty drops of curaçoa, in a small tumbler--all cocktails should be made in a small silver tumbler--shake, and pour into glass tumbler, then fill up with crushed ice. Put a shred of lemon peel atop. _Champagne Cocktail._ One teaspoonful of sifted sugar, ten drops of Angostura bitters, a small slice of pine-apple, and a shred of lemon peel. Strain into glass tumbler, add crushed ice, and as much champagne as the tumbler will hold. Mix with a spoon. _Bengal Cocktail._ Fill tumbler half full of crushed ice. Add thirty drops of maraschino, one tablespoonful of pine-apple syrup, thirty drops of curaçoa, six drops of Angostura bitters, one wine-glassful of old brandy. Stir, and put a shred of lemon peel atop. _Milford Cocktail._ (Dedicated to Mr. Jersey.) Put into a half-pint tumbler a couple of lumps of best ice, one teaspoonful of sifted sugar, one teaspoonful of orange bitters, half a wine-glassful of brandy. Top up with bottled cider, and mix with a spoon. Serve with a strawberry, and a sprig of verbena atop. _Manhattan Cocktail._ Half a wine-glassful of vermouth (Italian), half a wine-glassful of rye whisky (according to the American recipe, though, personally, I prefer Scotch), ten drops of Angostura bitters, and six drops of curaçoa. Add ice, shake well, and strain. Put a shred of lemon peel atop. _Yum Yum Cocktail._ Break the yolk of a new-laid egg into a small tumbler, and put a teaspoonful of sugar on it. Then six drops of Angostura bitters, a wine-glassful of sherry, and half a wine-glassful of brandy. Shake all well together, and strain. Dust a very little cinnamon over the top. _Gin Cocktail._ Ten drops of Angostura bitters, one wine-glassful of gin, ten drops of curaçoa, one shred of lemon peel. Fill up with ice, shake, and strain. _Newport Cocktail._ Put two lumps of ice and a small _slice_ of lemon into the tumbler, add six drops of Angostura bitters, half a wine-glassful of noyau, and a wine-glassful of brandy. Stir well, and serve with peel atop. _Saratoga Cocktail._ This is a more important affair, and requires a large tumbler for the initial stage. One teaspoonful of pine-apple syrup, ten drops of Angostura bitters, one teaspoonful of maraschino, and a wine-glassful of old brandy. Nearly fill the tumbler with crushed ice, and shake well. Then place a couple of strawberries in a small tumbler, strain the liquid on them, put in a strip of lemon peel, and top up with champagne. _Whisky Cocktail._ Put into a small tumbler ten drops of Angostura bitters, and one wine-glassful of Scotch whisky. Fill the tumbler with crushed ice, shake well, strain into a large wine-glass, and place a strip of peel atop. But the ordinary British "bar-cuddler"--as he is called in the slang of the day--recks not of cocktails, nor, indeed, of Columbian combinations of any sort. He has his own particular "vanity," and frequently a pet name for it. "Gin-and-angry-story" (Angostura), "slow-and-old" (sloe-gin and Old Tom), "pony o' Burton, please miss," are a few of the demands the attentive listener may hear given. Orange-gin, gin-and-orange-gin, gin-and-sherry (O bile where is thy sting?), are favourite midday "refreshers"; and I have heard a well-known barrister call for "a split Worcester" (a small wine-glassful of Worcester sauce with a split soda), without a smile on his expressive countenance. "Small lem. and a dash" is a favourite summer beverage, and, withal, a harmless one, consisting of a small bottle of lemonade with about an eighth of a pint of bitter ale added thereto. In one old-fashioned hostelry I wot of--the same in which the chair of the late Doctor Samuel Johnson is on view--customers who require to be stimulated with gin call for "rack," and Irish whisky is known by none other name than "Cork." The habitual "bar-cuddler" usually rubs his hands violently together, as he requests a little attention from the presiding Hebe; and affects a sort of shocked surprise at the presence on the scene of any one of his friends or acquaintances. He is well-up, too, in the slang phraseology of the day, which he will ride to death on every available opportunity. Full well do I remember him in the "How's your poor feet?" era; and it seems but yesterday that he was informing the company in assertive tones, "Now we _shan't_ be long!" The "free lunch" idea of the Yankees is only thoroughly carried out in the "North Countree," where, at the best hotels, there is often a great bowl of soup, or a dish of jugged hare, or of Irish stew, _pro bono publico_; and by _publico_ is implied the hotel directorate as well as the customers. In London, however, the free lunch seldom soars above salted almonds, coffee beans, cloves, with biscuits and American cheese. But at most refreshment-houses is to be obtained for cash some sort of a restorative sandwich, or _bonne bouche_, in the which anchovies and hard-boiled eggs play leading parts; and amongst other restorative food, I have noticed that parallelograms of cold Welsh rarebit are exceedingly popular amongst wine-travellers and advertisement-agents. The genius who propounded the statement that "there is nothing like leather" could surely never have sampled a cold Welsh rarebit! _Bosom Caresser._ Put into a small tumbler one wine-glassful of sherry, half a wine-glassful of old brandy, the yolk of an egg, two teaspoonfuls of sugar, and two grains of cayenne pepper; add crushed ice, shake well, strain, and dust over with nutmeg and cinnamon. _A Nicobine_, (or "Knickerbein" as I have seen it spelt), used to be a favourite "short" drink in Malta, and consisted of the yolk of an egg (intact) in a wine-glass with _layers_ of curaçoa, maraschino, and green chartreuse; the liquors not allowed to mix with one another. The "knickerbein" recipe differs materially from this, as brandy is substituted for chartreuse, and the ingredients are shaken up and strained, the white of the egg being whisked and placed atop. But, either way, you will get a good, bile-provoking mixture. In the _West Indies_, if you thirst for a rum and milk, cocoa-nut milk is the "only wear"; and a very delicious potion it is. A favourite mixture in Jamaica was the juice of a "star" apple, the juice of an orange, a wine-glassful of sherry, and a dust of nutmeg. I never heard a name given to this. _Bull's Milk._ This is a comforting drink for summer or winter. During the latter season, instead of adding ice, the mixture may be heated. One teaspoonful of sugar in a _large_ tumbler, half-a-pint of milk, half a wine-glassful of rum, a wine-glassful of brandy; add ice, shake well, strain, and powder with cinnamon and nutmeg. _Fairy Kiss._ Put into a small tumbler the juice of a quarter of lemon, a quarter of a wine-glassful each of the following:--Vanilla syrup, curaçoa, yellow chartreuse, brandy. Add ice, shake, and strain. _Flash of Lightning._ One-third of a wine-glassful each of the following, in a small tumbler:--Raspberry syrup, curaçoa, brandy, and three drops of Angostura bitters. Add ice, shake and strain. _Flip Flap._ One wine-glassful of milk in a small tumbler, one well-beaten egg, a little sugar, and a wine-glassful of port. Ice, shake, strain, and sprinkle with cinnamon and nutmeg. _Maiden's Blush._ Half a wine-glassful of sherry in a small tumbler, a quarter of a wine-glassful of strawberry syrup, and a little lemon juice. Add ice, and a little raspberry syrup. Shake, and drink through straws. _Athole Brose_ is compounded, according to a favourite author, in the following manner:-- "Upon virgin honeycombs you pour, according to their amount, the oldest French brandy and the most indisputable Scotch whisky in equal proportions. You allow this goodly mixture to stand for days in a large pipkin in a cool place, and it is then strained and ready for drinking. Epicures drop into the jug, by way of imparting artistic finish, a small fragment of the honeycomb itself. This I deprecate." _Tiger's Milk._ Small tumbler. Half a wine-glassful each of cider and Irish whisky, a wine-glassful of peach brandy. Beat up separately the white of an egg with a little sugar, and add this. Fill up the tumbler with ice; shake, and strain. Add half a tumbler of milk, and grate a little nutmeg atop. _Wyndham._ Large tumbler. Equal quantities (a liqueur glass of each) of maraschino, curaçoa, brandy, with a little orange peel, and sugar. Add a glass of champagne, and a _small_ bottle of seltzer water. Ice, and mix well together. Stir with a spoon. _Happy Eliza._ Put into a skillet twelve fresh dried figs cut open, four apples cut into slices without peeling, and half a pound of loaf sugar, broken small. Add two quarts of water, boil for twenty minutes, strain through a--where's the brandy? Stop! I've turned over two leaves, and got amongst the _Temperance Drinks_. Rein back! _Mint Julep._ This, properly made, is the most delicious of all American beverages. It is mixed in a large tumbler, in the which are placed, first of all, two and a half tablespoonfuls of water, one tablespoonful of sugar (crushed), and two or three sprigs of mint, which should be pressed, with a spoon or crusher, into the sugar and water to extract the flavour. Add two wine-glassfuls of old brandy--_now_ we shan't be long--fill up with powdered ice, shake well, get the mint to the top of the tumbler, stalks down, and put a few strawberries and slices of orange atop. Shake in a little rum, last of all, and drink through straws. _Possets._ (An eighteenth-century recipe.) "Take three gills of sweet cream, a grated rind of lemon, and juice thereof, three-quarters of a pint of sack or Rhenish wine. Sweeten to your taste with loaf sugar, then beat in a bowl with a whisk for one hour, and fill your glasses and drink to the king." We are tolerably loyal in this our time; still it is problematical if there exist man or woman in Merry England, in our day who would whisk a mixture for sixty minutes by the clock, even with the prospect of drinking to the reigning monarch. _Brandy Sour._ This is simplicity itself. A teaspoonful of sifted sugar in a small tumbler, a little lemon rind and juice, one wine-glassful of brandy. Fill nearly up with crushed ice, shake and strain. WHISKY SOUR is merely Scotch whisky treated in the same kind, open-handed manner, with the addition of a few drops of raspberry syrup. _Blue Blazer._ Don't be frightened; there is absolutely no danger. Put into a silver mug, or jug, previously heated, two wine-glassfuls of overproof (or proof) Scotch whisky, and one wine-glassful of _boiling_ water. Set the liquor on fire, and pass the blazing liquor into another mug, also well heated. Pass to and fro, and serve in a tumbler, with a lump of sugar and a little thin lemon peel. Be very particular not to drop any of the blazer on the cat, or the hearth-rug, or the youngest child. This drink would, I should think, have satisfied the aspirations of Mr. Daniel Quilp. One of the most wholesome of all "refreshers," is a simple liquor, distilled from black-currants, and known to our lively neighbours as _Cassis._ This syrup can be obtained in the humblest _cabaret_ in France; but we have to thank the eccentric and illogical ways of our Customs Department for its absence from most of our own wine lists. The duty is so prohibitive--being half as much again as that levied on French brandy--that it would pay nobody but said Customs Department to import it into England; and yet the amount of alcohol contained in cassis is infinitesimal. Strange to say nobody has ever started a cassis still on this side. One would imagine that the process would be simplicity itself; as the liquor is nothing but cold black-currant tea, with a suspicion of alcohol in it. _Sligo Slop._ This is an Irish delight. The juice of ten lemons, strained, ten tablespoonfuls of sifted sugar, one quart of John Jameson's oldest and best whisky, and two port wine-glassfuls of curaçoa, all mixed together. Let the mixture stand for a day or two, and then bottle. This should be drunk neat, in liqueur-glasses, and is said to be most effectual "jumping-powder." It certainly reads conducive to timber-topping. Take it altogether the daylight drink is a mistake. It is simply ruin to appetite; it is more expensive than those who indulge therein are aware of at the time. It ruins the nerves, sooner or later; it is _not_ conducive to business, unless for those whose heads are especially hard; and it spoils the palate for the good wine which is poured forth later on. The precept cannot be too widely laid down, too fully known: _Do not drink between Meals!_ Better, far better the three-bottle-trick of our ancestors, than the "gin-crawl" of to-day. CHAPTER XXI GASTRONOMY IN FICTION AND DRAMA "Let me not burst in ignorance." "A chiel's amang ye, taking notes." Thomas Carlyle--Thackeray--Harrison Ainsworth--Sir Walter Scott--Miss Braddon--Marie Corelli--F. C. Philips--Blackmore--Charles Dickens--_Pickwick_ reeking with alcohol--Brandy and oysters--_Little Dorrit_--_Great Expectations_--Micawber as a punch-maker--_David Copperfield_--"Practicable" food on the stage--"Johnny" Toole's story of Tiny Tim and the goose. Considering the number of books which have been published during the nineteenth century, it is astonishing how few of them deal with eating and drinking. We read of a banquet or two, certainly, in the works of the divine William, but no particulars as to the _cuisine_ are entered into. "Cold Banquo" hardly sounds appetising. Thomas Carlyle was a notorious dyspeptic, so it is no cause for wonderment that he did not bequeath to posterity the recipes for a dainty dish or two, or a good Derby Day "Cup." Thackeray understood but little about cookery, nor was Whyte Melville much better versed in the mysteries of the kitchen. Harrison Ainsworth touched lightly on gastronomy occasionally, whilst Charles Lamb, Sydney Smith, and others (blessings light on the man who invented the phrase "and others") delighted therein. Miss Braddon has slurred it over hitherto, and Marie Corelli scorns all mention of any refreshment but absinthe--a weird liquid which is altogether absent from these pages. In the lighter novels of Mr. F. C. Philips, there is but little mention of solid food except devilled caviare, which sounds nasty; but most of Mr. Philips's men, and all his women, drink to excess--principally champagne, brandy, and green chartreuse. And one of his heroines is a firm believer in the merits of cognac as a "settler" of champagne. According to Mr. R. D. Blackmore, the natives of Exmoor did themselves particularly well, in the seventeenth century. In that most delightful romance _Lorna Doone_ is a description of a meal set before Tom Faggus, the celebrated highwayman, by the Ridd family, at Plover's Barrows:-- "A few oysters first, and then dried salmon, and then ham and eggs, done in small curled rashers, and then a few collops of venison toasted, and next a little cold roast pig, and a woodcock on toast to finish with." This meal was washed down with home-brewed ale, followed by Schiedam and hot water. One man, and one man alone, who has left his name printed deep on the sands of time as a writer, thoroughly revelled in the mighty subjects of eating and drinking. Need his name be mentioned? What is, after all, the great secret of the popularity of _Charles Dickens_ as a novelist? His broad, generous views on the subject of meals, as expressed through the mouths of most of the characters in his works; as also the homely nature of such meals, and the good and great deeds to which they led. I once laid myself out to count the number of times that alcoholic refreshment is mentioned in some of the principal works of the great author; and the record, for _Pickwick_ alone, was sufficient to sweep from the surface of the earth, with its fiery breath, the entire Blue Ribbon Army. Mr. Pickwick was what would be called nowadays a "moderate drinker." That is to say, he seldom neglected an "excuse for a lotion," nor did he despise the "daylight drink." But we only read of his being overcome by his potations on two occasions; after the cricket dinner at Muggleton, and after the shooting luncheon on Captain Boldwig's ground. And upon the latter occasion I am convinced that the hot sun had far more to do with his temporary obfuscation than the cold punch. Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen were by no means exaggerated types of the medical students of the time. The "deputy sawbones" of to-day writes pamphlets, drinks coffee, and pays his landlady every Saturday. And it was a happy touch of Dickens to make Sawyer and Allen eat oysters, and wash them down with neat brandy, before breakfast. I have known medical students, aye! and full-blown surgeons too, who would commit equally daring acts; although I doubt much if they would have shone at the breakfast-table afterwards, or on the ice later in the day. For the effect exercised by brandy on oysters is pretty well known to science. Breathes there a man with soul so dead as not to appreciate the delights of Dingley Dell? Free trade and other horrors have combined to crush the British yeoman of to-day; but we none the less delight to read of him as he was, and I do not know a better cure for an attack of "blue devils"--or should it be "black dog?"--than a good dose of Dingley Dell. The wholesale manner in which Mr. Wardle takes possession of the Pickwickians--only one of whom he knows intimately--for purposes of entertainment, is especially delightful, and worthy of imitation; and I can only regret the absence of a good, cunningly-mixed "cup" at the picnic after the Chatham review. The wine drunk at this picnic would seem to have been sherry; as there was not such a glut of "the sparkling" in those good old times. And the prompt way in which "Emma" is commanded to "bring out the cherry brandy," before his guests have been two minutes in the house, bespeaks the character of dear old Wardle in once. "The Leathern Bottle," a charming old-world hostelry in that picturesque country lying between Rochester and Cobham, would hardly have been in existence now, let alone doing a roaring trade, but for the publication of _Pickwick_; and the notion of the obese Tupman solacing himself for blighted hopes and taking his leave of the world on a diet of roast fowl bacon, ale, etc., is unique. The bill-of-fare at the aforementioned shooting luncheon might not, perhaps, satisfy the aspirations of Sir Mota Kerr, or some other _nouveau riche_ of to-day, but there was plenty to eat and drink. Here is the list, in Mr. Samuel Weller's own words: "Weal pie, tongue: a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's: bread, knuckle o' ham, reg'lar picter, cold beef in slices; wery good. What's in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?" "Beer in this one," replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap, "cold punch in t'other." "And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether," said Mr. Weller. Possibly; though cold beef in slices would be apt to get rather dryer than was desirable on a warm day. And milk punch hardly seems the sort of tipple to encourage accuracy of aim. Mrs. Bardell's notion of a nice little supper we gather from the same immortal work, was "a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese." The pettitoes were presumably simmered in milk, and the cheese was, undoubtedly, "browning away most delightfully in a little Dutch oven in front of the fire." Most of us will smack our lips after this description; though details are lacking as to the contents of the "black bottle" which was produced from "a small closet." But amongst students of _Pickwick_, "Old Tom" is a hot favourite. The Deputy Shepherd's particular "vanity" appears to have been buttered toast and reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, which sounds like swimming-in-the-head; and going straight through the book, we next pause at the description of the supper given by the medical students, at their lodgings in the Borough, to the Pickwickians. "The man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the cheese went a great way, for it was very strong." Probably the oysters had not been paid for in advance, and the man imagined that they would be returned upon his hands none the worse. For at that time--as has been remarked before, in this volume on gastronomy--the knowledge that an oyster baked in his own shells, in the middle of a clear fire, is an appetising dish, does not appear to have been universal. It is questionable if a supper consisting of a boiled leg of mutton "with the usual trimmings" would have satisfied the taste of the "gentleman's gentleman" of to-day, who is a hypercritic, if anything; but let that supper be taken as read. Also let it be noted that the appetite of the redoubtable Pickwick never seems to have failed him, even in the sponging-house--five to one can be betted that those chops were _fried_--or in the Fleet Prison itself. And mention of this establishment recalls the extravagant folly of Job Trotter (who of all men ought to have known better) in purchasing "a small piece of raw loin of mutton" for the refection of himself and ruined master; when for the same money he could surely have obtained a sufficiency of bullock's cheek or liver, potatoes, and onions, to provide dinner for three days. _Vide_ the "Kent Road Cookery," in one of my earlier chapters. The description of the journeys from Bristol to Birmingham, and back to London, absolutely reeks with food and alcohol; and it has always smacked of the mysterious to myself how Sam Weller, a pure Cockney, could have known so much of the capacities of the various hostelries on the road. Evidently his knowledge of other places besides London was "peculiar." Last scene of all in _Pickwick_ requiring mention here, is the refection given to Mr. Solomon Pell in honour of the proving of the late Dame Weller's last will and testament. "Porter, cold beef, and oysters," were some of the incidents of that meal, and we read that "the coachman with the hoarse voice took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without betraying the least emotion." It is also set down that brandy and water, as usual in this history, followed the oysters; but we are not told if any of those coachmen ever handled the ribbons again, or if Mr. Solomon Pell spent his declining days in the infirmary. In fact, there are not many chapters in Charles Dickens' works in which the knife and fork do not play prominent parts. The food is, for the most part, simple and homely; the seed sown in England by the fairy _Ala_ had hardly begun to germinate at the time the novels were written. Still there is, naturally, a suspicion of _Ala_ at the very commencement of _Little Dorrit_, the scene being laid in the Marseilles prison, where Monsieur Rigaud feasts off Lyons sausage, veal in savoury jelly, white bread, strachino cheese, and good claret, the while his humble companion, Signor John Baptist, has to content himself with stale bread, through reverses at gambling with his fellow prisoner. After that, there is no mention of a "square meal" until we get to Mr. Casby's, the "Patriarch." "Everything about the patriarchal household," we are told, "promoted quiet digestion"; and the dinner mentioned began with "some soup, some fried soles, a butter-boat of shrimp sauce, and a dish of potatoes." Rare old Casby! "Mutton, a steak, and an apple pie"--and presumably cheese--furnished the more solid portion of the banquet, which appears to have been washed down with porter and sherry wine, and enlivened by the inconsequent remarks of "Mr. F.'s Aunt." In _Great Expectations_ occurs the celebrated banquet at the Chateau Gargery on Christmas Day, consisting of a leg of pickled pork and greens, a pair of roast stuffed fowls, a handsome mince pie, and a plum-pudding. The absence of the savoury pork-pie, and the presence of tar-water in the brandy are incidents at that banquet familiar enough to Sir Frank Lockwood, Q.C., M.P., and other close students of Dickens, whose favourite dinner-dish would appear to have been a fowl, stuffed or otherwise, roast or boiled. In _Oliver Twist_ we get casual mention of oysters, sheep's heads, and a rabbit pie, with plenty of alcohol; but the bill of fare, on the whole, is not an appetising one. The meat and drink at the Maypole Hotel, in _Barnaby Rudge_, would appear to have been deservedly popular; and the description of Gabriel Varden's breakfast is calculated to bring water to the most callous mouth: "Over and above the ordinary tea equipage the board creaked beneath the weight of a jolly round of beef, a ham of the first magnitude, and sundry towers of buttered Yorkshire cake, piled slice upon slice in most alluring order. There was also a goodly jug of well-browned clay, fashioned into the form of an old gentleman not by any means unlike the locksmith, atop of whose bald head was a fine white froth answering to his wig, indicative, beyond dispute, of sparkling home brewed ale. But better than fair home-brewed, or Yorkshire cake, or ham, or beef, or anything to eat or drink that earth or air or water can supply, there sat, presiding over all, the locksmith's rosy daughter, before whose dark eyes even beef grew insignificant, and malt became as nothing." Ah-h-h! There is not much eating in _A Tale of Two Cities_; but an intolerable amount of assorted "sack." In _Sketches by Boz_ we learn that Dickens had no great opinion of public dinners, and that oysters were, at that period, occasionally opened by the fair sex. There is a nice flavour of fowl and old Madeira about _Dombey and Son_, and the description of the dinner at Doctor Blimber's establishment for young gentlemen is worth requoting: "There was some nice soup; also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, pie, and cheese." [_Cheese_ at a small boys' school!] "Every young gentleman had a massive silver fork and a napkin; and all the arrangements were stately and handsome. In particular there was a butler in a blue coat and bright buttons" [surely this was a footman?] "who gave quite a winey flavour to the table beer, he poured it out so superbly." Dinner at Mrs. Jellyby's in _Bleak House_ is one of the funniest and most delightful incidents in the book, especially the attendance. "The young woman with the flannel bandage waited, and dropped everything on the table wherever it happened to go, and never moved it again until she put it on the stairs. The person I had seen in pattens (who I suppose to have been the cook) frequently came and skirmished with her at the door, and there appeared to be ill-will between them." The dinner given by Mr. Guppy at the "Slap Bang" dining house is another feature of this book--veal and ham, and French beans, summer cabbage, pots of half-and-half, marrow puddings, "three Cheshires" and "three small rums." Of the items in this list, the marrow pudding seems to be as extinct--in London, at all events--as the dodo. It appears to be a mixture of bread, pounded almonds, cream, eggs, lemon peel, sugar, nutmeg, and marrow; and sounds nice. David Copperfield's dinner in his Buckingham Street chambers was an event with a disastrous termination. "It was a remarkable want of forethought on the part of the ironmonger who had made Mrs. Crupp's kitchen fireplace, that it was capable of cooking nothing but chops and mashed potatoes. As to a fish-kettle, Mrs. Crupp said 'Well! would I only come and look at the range? She couldn't say fairer than that. Would I come and look at it?' As I should not have been much the wiser if I _had_ looked at it I said never mind fish. But Mrs. Crupp said, 'Don't say that; oysters was in, and why not them?' So _that_ was settled. Mrs. Crupp then said 'What she would recommend would be this. A pair of hot roast fowls--from the pastry cook's; a dish of stewed beef, with vegetables--from the pastry cook's; two little corner things, as a raised pie and a dish of kidneys--from the pastry cook's; a tart, and (if I liked) a shape of jelly--from the pastry cook's. This,' Mrs. Crupp said, 'would leave her at full liberty to concentrate her mind on the potatoes, and to serve up the cheese and celery as she could wish to see it done.'" Then blessings on thee, Micawber, most charming of characters in fiction, mightiest of punch-brewers! The only fault I have to find with the novel of _David Copperfield_ is that we don't get enough of Micawber. The same fault, however, could hardly be said to lie in the play; for if ever there was a "fat" part, it is Wilkins Micawber. _Martin Chuzzlewit_ bubbles over with eating and drinking; and "Todgers" has become as proverbial as Hamlet. In _Nicholas Nickleby_, too, we find plenty of mention of solids and liquids; and as a poor stroller myself at one time, it has always struck me that "business" could not have been so very bad, after all, in the Crummles Combination; for the manager, at all events, seems to have fared particularly well. Last on the list comes _The Old Curiosity Shop_, with the celebrated stew at the "Jolly Sandboys," the ingredients in which have already been quoted by the present writer. With regard to this stew all that I have to remark is that I should have substituted an ox-kidney for the tripe, and left out the "sparrowgrass," the flavour of which would be quite lost in the crowd of ingredients. But there! who can cavil at such a feast? "Fetch me a pint of warm ale, and don't let nobody bring into the room even so much as a biscuit till the time arrives." Codlin may not have been "the friend"; but he was certainly the judge of the "Punch" party. In this realistic age, meals on the stage have to be provided from high-class hotels or restaurants; and this is, probably, the chief reason why there is so little eating and drinking introduced into the modern drama. Gone are the nights of the banquet of pasteboard poultry, "property" pine-apples, and gilded flagons containing nothing more sustaining than the atmosphere of coal-gas. Not much faith is placed in the comic scenes of a pantomime nowadays; or it is probable that the clown would purloin real York hams, and stuff Wall's sausages into the pockets of his ample pants. Champagne is champagne under the present regime of raised prices, raised salaries, raised everything; and it is not so long since I overheard an actor-manager chide a waiter from a fashionable restaurant, for forgetting the _Soubise_ sauce, when he brought the cutlets. In my acting days we usually had canvas fowls, stuffed with sawdust, when we revelled on the stage; or, if business had been particularly good, the poultry was made from breakfast rolls, with pieces skewered on, to represent the limbs. And the potables--Gadzooks! What horrible concoctions have found their way down this unsuspecting throttle! Sherry was invariably represented by cold tea, which is palatable enough if home-made, under careful superintendence, but, drawn in the property-master's den, usually tasted of glue. Ginger beer, at three-farthings for two bottles, poured into tumblers containing portions of a seidlitz-powder, always did duty for champagne; and as for port or claret--well, I quite thought I had swallowed the deadliest of poisons one night, until assured it was only the cold leavings of the stage-door-keeper's coffee! The story of Tiny Tim who ate the goose is a pretty familiar one in stage circles. When playing Bob Cratchit, in _The Christmas Carol_ at the Adelphi, under Mr. Benjamin Webster's management, Mr. J. L. Toole had to carve a real goose and a "practicable" plum-pudding during the run of that piece, forty nights. And the little girl who played Tiny Tim used to finish her portions of goose and pudding with such amazing celerity that Mr. Toole became quite alarmed on her account. "'I don't like it,' I said," writes dear friend "Johnny," in his _Reminiscences_; "'I can't conceive where a poor, delicate little thing like that puts the food. Besides, although I like the children to enjoy a treat'--and how they kept on enjoying it for forty nights was a mystery, for I got into such a condition that if I dined at a friend's house, and goose was on the table, I regarded it as a personal affront--I said, referring to Tiny Tim, 'I don't like greediness; and it is additionally repulsive in a refined-looking, delicate little thing like this; besides, it destroys the sentiment of the situation--and when I, as Bob, ought to feel most pathetic, I am always wondering where the goose and the pudding are, or whether anything serious in the way of a fit will happen to Tiny Tim before the audience, in consequence of her unnatural gorging!' Mrs. Mellon laughed at me at first, but eventually we decided to watch Tiny Tim together. "We watched as well as we could, and the moment Tiny Tim was seated, and began to eat, we observed a curious shuffling movement at the stage-fireplace, and everything that I had given her, goose and potatoes, and apple-sauce disappeared behind the sham stove, the child pretending to eat as heartily as ever from the empty plate. When the performance was over, Mrs. Mellon and myself asked the little girl what became of the food she did not eat, and, after a little hesitation, she confessed that her little sister (I should mention that they were the children of one of the scene-shifters) waited on the other side of the fireplace for the supplies, and then the whole family enjoyed a hearty supper every night. "Dickens was very much interested in the incident. When I had finished, he smiled a little sadly, I thought, and then, shaking me by the hand, he said, 'Ah! you ought to have given her the whole goose.'" CHAPTER XXII RESTORATIVES "Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some antibilious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the soul." William of Normandy--A "head" wind at sea--Beware the druggist--Pick-me-ups of all sorts and conditions--Anchovy toast for the invalid--A small bottle--Straight talks to fanatics--Total abstinence as bad as the other thing--Moderation in all things--Wisely and slow--_Carpe diem_--But have a thought for the morrow. "I care not," observed William of Normandy to his quartermaster-general, on the morning after the revelry which followed the Battle of Hastings, "who makes these barbarians' wines; send me the man who can remove the beehive from my o'erwrought brain." This remark is not to be found in Macaulay's _History of England_; but learned authorities who have read the original MS. in Early Norman, make no doubt as to the correct translation. "It is excellent," as the poet says, "to have a giant's thirst; but it is tyrannous to use it like a giant." And not only "tyrannous" but short-sighted. For the law of compensation is one of the first edicts of Nature. The same beneficent hand which provides the simple fruits of the earth for the delectation of man, furnishes also the slug and the wasp, to see that he doesn't get too much. Our friend the dog is deprived of the power of articulation, but he has a tail which can be wagged at the speed of 600 revolutions to the minute. And the man who overtaxes the powers of his inner mechanism during the hours of darkness is certain to feel the effects, to be smitten of conscience, and troubled of brain, when he awakes, a few hours later on. As this is not a medical treatise it would be out of place to analyse at length the abominable habit which the human brain and stomach have acquired, of acting and reacting on each other; suffice it to say that there is no surer sign of the weakness and helplessness of poor, frail, sinful, fallen humanity than the obstinacy with which so many of us will, for the sake of an hour or two's revelry, boldly bid for five times the amount of misery and remorse. And this more especially applies to a life on the ocean wave. The midshipmite who over-estimates his swallowing capacity is no longer "mast-headed" next morning; but the writer has experienced a cyclone in the Bay of Bengal, ere the effects of a birthday party on the previous night had been surmounted; and the effects of "mast-heading" could hardly have been less desirable. In that most delightful work for the young, Dana's _Two years before the Mast_, we read: "Our forecastle, as usual after a liberty-day, was a scene of tumult all night long, from the drunken ones. They had just got to sleep toward morning, when they were turned up with the rest, and kept at work all day in the water, carrying hides, their heads aching so that they could hardly stand. This is sailors' pleasure." Dana himself was ordered up aloft, to reef "torpsles," on his first morning at sea; and he had probably had some sort of a farewell carouse, 'ere quitting Boston. And the present writer upon one occasion--such is the irony of fate--was told off to indite a leading article on "Temperance" for an evening journal, within a very few hours of the termination of a "Derby" banquet. But how shall we alleviate the pangs? How make that dreadful "day after" endurable enough to cause us to offer up thanks for being still allowed to live? Come, the panacea, good doctor! First of all, then, avoid the chemist and his works. I mean no disrespect to my good friend Sainsbury, or his "Number One Pick-me-up," whose corpse-reviving claims are indisputable; but at the same time the habitual swallower of drugs does not lead the happiest life. I once knew a young subaltern who had an account presented to him by the cashier of the firm of Peake and Allen, of the great continent of India, for nearly 300 rupees; and the items in said account were entirely chloric ether, extract of cardamoms--with the other component parts of a high-class restorative, and interest. Saddening! The next thing to avoid, the first thing in the morning, is soda-water, whether diluted with brandy or whisky. The "peg" may be all very well as an occasional potation, but, believe one who has tried most compounds, 'tis a precious poor "livener." On the contrary, although a beaker of the straw-coloured (or occasionally, mahogany-coloured) fluid may seem to steady the nerves for the time being, that effect is by no means lasting. But the same panacea will not do in every case. If the patient be sufficiently convalescent to digest a _Doctor_ (I do _not_ mean a M.R.C.S.) his state must be far from hopeless. A "Doctor" is a mixture of beaten raw egg--not forgetting the white, which is of even more value than the yolk to the invalid--brandy, a little sifted sugar, and new milk. But many devotees of Bacchus could as soon swallow rum-and-oysters, in bed. And do not let us blame Bacchus unduly for the matutinal trouble. The fairy _Ala_ has probably had a lot to do with that trouble. A "Doctor" can be made with sherry or whisky, instead of brandy; and many stockbrokers' clerks, sporting journalists, and other millionaires prefer a _Surgeon-Major_, who appears in the form of a large tumbler containing a couple of eggs beaten, and filled to the brim with the wine of the champagne district. _A Scorcher_ is made with the juice of half a lemon squeezed into a large wine-glass; add a liqueur-glassful of old brandy, or Hollands, and a dust of cayenne. Mix well, and do not allow any lemon-pips to remain in the glass. _Prairie Oyster._ This is an American importation. There is a legend to the effect that one of a hunting party fell sick unto death, on the boundless prairie of Texas, and clamoured for oysters. Now the close and cautious bivalve no more thrives in a blue grass country than he possesses the ability to walk up stairs, or make a starting-price book. So one of the party, an inventive genius, cudgelled his brains for a substitute. He found some prairie hen's eggs, and administered the unbroken yolks thereof, one at a time, in a wine-glass containing a teaspoonful of vinegar. He shook the pepper-castor over the yolks and added a pinch of salt. The patient recovered. The march of science has improved on this recipe. Instead of despoiling the prairie hen, the epicure now looks to Madame Gobble for a turkey egg. And a _Worcester Oyster_ is turned out ready made, by simply substituting a teaspoonful of Lea and Perrins' most excellent sauce for vinegar. _Brazil Relish._ This is, I am assured, a much-admired restorative in Brazil, and the regions bordering on the River Plate. It does not sound exactly the sort of stimulant to take after a "bump supper," or a "Kaffir" entertainment, but here it is: Into a wine-glass half full of curaçoa pop the unbroken yolk of a bantam's egg. Fill the glass up with maraschino. According to my notion, a good cup of hot, strong tea would be equally effectual, as an emetic, and withal cheaper. But they certainly take the mixture as a pick-me-up in Brazil. _Port-flip_ is a favourite stimulant with our American cousins. Beat up an egg in a tumbler--if you have no metal vessels to shake it in, the shortest way is to put a clean white card, or a saucer, over the mouth of the tumbler, and shake--then add a little sugar, a glass of port, and some pounded ice. Strain before drinking. Leaving out the ice and the straining, this is exactly the same "refresher" which the friends of a criminal, who had served his term of incarceration in one of H.M. gaols, were in the habit of providing for him; and when the Cold Bath Fields Prison was a going concern, there was a small hostelry hard by, in which, on a Monday morning, the consumption of port wine (fruity) and eggs ("shop 'uns," every one) was considerable. This on the word of an ex-warder, who subsequently became a stage-door keeper. One of the most unsatisfactory effects of good living is that the demon invoked over-night does not always assume the same shape in your waking hours. Many sufferers will feel a loathing for any sort of food or drink, except cold water. "The capting," observed the soldier-servant to a visitor (this is an old story), "ain't very well this morning, sir; he've just drunk his bath, and gone to bed again." And on the other hand, I have known the over-indulger absolutely ravenous for his breakfast. "Brandy and soda, no, dear old chappie; as many eggs as they can poach in five minutes, a thick rasher of York ham, two muffins, and about a gallon and a half of hot coffee--that's what I feel like." Medical men will be able to explain those symptoms in the roysterer, who had probably eaten and drunk quite as much over-night as the "capting." For the roysterer with a shy appetite there are few things more valuable than an _Anchovy Toast_. The concoction of this belongs to bedroom cookery, unless the sitting-room adjoins the sleeping apartment. For the patient will probably be too faint of heart to wish to meet his fellow-men and women downstairs, so early. The mixture must be made _over hot water_. Nearly fill a slop-basin with the boiling element, and place a soup-plate over it. In the plate melt a pat of butter the size of a walnut. Then having beaten up a raw egg, stir it in. When thoroughly incorporated with the butter add a dessert-spoonful of essence of anchovies. Cayenne _ad lib_. Then let delicately-browned crisp toast be brought, hot from the fire. Soak this in the mixture, and eat as quickly as you can. The above proportions must be increased if more than one patient clamours for anchovy toast; and this recipe is of no use for a dinner, or luncheon toast; remember that. After the meal is finished turn in between the sheets again for an hour; then order a "Doctor," or a "Surgeon-Major" to be brought to the bedside. In another twenty minutes the patient will be ready for his tub (with the chill off, if he be past thirty, and has any wisdom, or liver, left within him). After dressing, if he live in London and there be any trace of brain-rack remaining, let him take a brisk walk to his hair-dresser's, having his boots cleaned _en route_. This is most important, whether they be clean or dirty; for the action of a pair of briskly-directed brushes over the feet will often remove the most distressing of headaches. Arrived at the perruquier's, let the patient direct him to rub _eau de Cologne_, or some other perfumed spirit, into the o'er-taxed cranium, and to squirt assorted essences over the distorted countenance. A good hard brush, and a dab of bay rum on the temples will complete the cure; the roysterer will then be ready to face his employer, or the maiden aunt from whom he may have expectations. If the flavour of the anchovy be disagreeable, let the patient try the following toast, which is similar to that used with wildfowl: Melt a pat of butter over hot water, stir in a dessert-spoonful of Worcester sauce, the same quantity of orange juice, a pinch of cayenne, and about half a wine-glassful of old port. Soak the toast in this mixture. The virtues of old port as a restorative cannot be too widely known. _St. Mark's Pick-me-up._ The following recipe was given to the writer by a member of an old Venetian family. Ten drops of Angostura in a liqueur-glass, filled up with orange bitters. One wine-glassful of old brandy, one ditto cold water, one liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, and the juice of half a lemon. Mix well together. I have not yet tried this, which reads rather acid. For an _Overtrained_ athlete, who may not take kindly to his rations, there is no better cure than the lean of an underdone chop (_not blue_ inside) hot from the fire, on a hot plate, with a glass of port poured over. A _Hot-pickle Sandwich_ should be made of two thin slices of crisp toast (no butter) with chopped West Indian pickles in between. And for a _Devilled Biscuit_ select the plain cheese biscuit, heat in the oven, and then spread over it a paste composed of finely-pounded lobster worked up with butter, made mustard, ground ginger, cayenne, salt, chili vinegar, and (if liked) a little curry powder. Reheat the biscuit for a minute or two, and then deal with it. Both the last-named restoratives will be found valuable (?) liver tonics; and to save future worry the patient had better calculate, at the same time, the amount of Estate Duty which will have to be paid out of his personalty, and secure a nice dry corner, out of the draught, for his place of sepulture. A _Working-Man's Livener_, (and by "working-man" the gentleman whose work consists principally in debating in taverns is intended) is usually a hair of the dog that bit him over-night; and in some instances where doubt may exist as to the particular "tufter" of the pack which found the working-man out, the livener will be a miscellaneous one. For solid food, this brand of labourer will usually select an uncooked red-herring, which he will divide into swallow-portions with his clasp-knife, after borrowing the pepper-castor from the tavern counter. And as new rum mixed with four-penny ale occasionally enters into the over-night's programme of the horny-handed one, he is frequently very thirsty indeed before the hour of noon. I have seen a journalist suck half a lemon, previously well besprinkled with cayenne, prior to commencing his matutinal "scratch." But rum and milk form, I believe, the favourite livener throughout the district which lies between the Adelphi Theatre and St. Paul's Cathedral. And, according to Doctor Edward Smith (the chief English authority on dietetics), rum and milk form the most powerful restorative known to science. With all due respect to Doctor Smith I am prepared to back another restorative, commonly known as "a small bottle"; which means a pint of champagne. I have prescribed this many a time, and seldom known it fail. In case of partial failure repeat the dose. A valuable if seldom-employed restorative is made with _Bovril_ as one of the ingredients. Make half-a-pint of beef-tea in a tumbler with this extract. Put the tumbler in a refrigerator for an hour, then add a liqueur-glassful of old brandy, with just a dust of cayenne. This is one of the very best pick-me-ups known to the faculty. A _Swizzle_, for recuperative purposes is made with the following ingredients:--a wine-glassful of Hollands, a liqueur-glassful of curaçoa, three drops of Angostura bitters, a little sugar, and half a small bottle of seltzer-water. Churn up the mixture with a swizzle-stick, which can be easily made with the assistance of a short length of cane (the ordinary school-treat brand) a piece of cork, a bit of string, and a pocket knife. A very extraordinary pick-me-up is mentioned by Mr. F. C. Philips, in one of his novels, and consists of equal parts of brandy and chili vinegar in a large wine-glass. Such a mixture would, in all probability, corrode sheet-iron. I am afraid that writers of romance occasionally borrow a little from imagination. The most effectual restorative for the total abstainer is unquestionably, old brandy. It should be remembered that a rich, heavy dinner is not bound to digest within the human frame, if washed down with tea, or aerated beverages. In fact, from the personal appearances of many worthy teetotallers I have known digestion cannot be their strong suit. Then many abstainers only abstain in public, for the sake of example. And within the locked cupboard of the study lurks a certain black bottle, which does _not_ contain Kopps's ale. Therefore I repeat that the most effectual restorative for the total abstainer--whether as a direct change, or as a hair of the dog--is brandy. Our ancestors cooled their coppers with small ale, and enjoyed a subsequent sluice at the pump in the yard; these methods are still pursued by stable-helpers and such like. A good walk acts beneficially sometimes. Eat or drink nothing at all, but try and do five miles along the turnpike road within the hour. Many habitual roysterers hunt the next morning, with heads opening and shutting alternately, until the fox breaks covert, when misery of all sorts at once takes to itself wings. And I have heard a gallant warrior, whilst engaged in a Polo match on York Knavesmire, protest that he could distinctly see _two_ Polo balls. But he was not in such bad case as the eminent jockey who declined to ride a horse in a hood and blinkers, because "one of us must see, and I'm hanged if _I_ can!" It was the same jockey who, upon being remonstrated with for taking up his whip at the final bend, when his horse was winning easily, replied: "whip be blowed! it was my balance pole: I should have fell off without it!" _Straight Talks._ In the lowest depth there is a lower depth, which not only threatens to devour, but which will infallibly devour the too-persistent roysterer. For such I labour not. The seer of visions, the would-be strangler of serpents, the baffled rat-hunter, and other victims to the over-estimation of human capacity will get no assistance, beyond infinite pity, from the mind which guides this pen. The dog will return to his own vomit; the wilful abuser of the goods sent by a bountiful Providence is past praying for. But to others who are on the point of crossing the Rubicon of good discretion I would urge that there will assuredly come a time when the pick-me-up will lose its virtue, and will fail to chase the sorrow from the brow, to minister to the diseased mind. Throughout this book I have endeavoured to preach the doctrine of moderation in enjoyment. Meat and drink are, like fire, very good servants, but the most oppressive and exacting of slave-drivers. Therefore enjoy the sweets of life, whilst ye can; but as civilised beings, as gentlemen, and not as swine. For here is a motto which applies to eating and drinking even more than to other privileges which we enjoy: "Wisely, and slow; They stumble who run fast!" A resort to extremes is always to be deprecated, and many sensible men hold the total abstainer in contempt, unless he abstain simply and solely because a moderate use of "beer and baccy" makes him ill; and this man is indeed a rarity. The teetotaller is either a creature with no will-power in his composition, a Pharisee, who thanks Providence that he is not as other men, or a lunatic. There can be no special virtue in "swearing off" good food and good liquor; whether for the sake of example, or for the sake of ascending a special pinnacle and posing to the world as the incarnation of perfection and holiness. In the parable, the Publican was "justified" rather than the Pharisee, because the former had the more common sense, and knew that if he set up as immaculate and without guile he was deceiving himself and nobody else. But here on earth, in the nineteenth century, the Publican stands a very poor chance with the Pharisee, whether the last-named assume the garb of "Social Purity," or "Vigilance," or the sombre raiment of the policeman. This is not right. This is altogether wrong. The total abstainer, the rabid jackass who denies himself--or claims that he does so--the juice of the grape, and drinks the horrible, flatulent, concoctions known as "temperance beverages," is just as great a sinner against common sense as that rabid jackass the habitual glutton, or drunkard, who, in abusing the good things of life--the gifts which are given us to enjoy--is putting together a rod of rattlesnakes for his own back. There is nothing picturesque about drunkenness; and there is still less of manliness therein. There is plenty of excuse for the careless, happy-go-lucky, casual over-estimater, who revels, on festive occasions, with his boon companions. 'Tis a poor heart that never rejoices; and wedding-feasts, celebrations of famous victories, birthday parties, and Christmas festivities have been, and will continue to be, held by high and low, from the earliest times. But there is no excuse, but only pity and disgust, for the sot who sits and soaks--or, worse still, stands and soaks--in the tavern day after day, and carries the brandy-bottle to bed with him. I have lived through two-thirds of the years allotted to man, and have never yet met the man who has done himself, or anybody else, any good by eating or drinking to excess. Nor is the man who has benefited himself, or society, through scorning and vilifying good cheer, a familiar sight in our midst. "Keep in the middle of the road," is the rule to be observed; and there is no earthly reason why the man who may have applied "hot and rebellious liquors" to his blood, as a youth, should not enjoy that "lusty winter" of old age, "frosty but kindly," provided those warm and warlike liquors have been applied in moderation. I will conclude this sermon with part of a verse of the poet Dryden's imitation of the twenty-ninth Ode of Horace, though its heathen _carpe diem_ sentiments should be qualified by a special caution as to the possible ill effects of bidding too fierce a defiance to the "reaction day." "Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own; He who, secure within, can say;-- To-morrow, do thy worst, I've liv'd to-day!" INDEX "_Ala_," the fairy, 68 "Albion," the, 77 Alexander Dumas, 80 Allowable breakfast-dishes, 14 _Almanach des Gourmands_, 79, 184 Anchovy toast, 267 Angel's pie, 55 _Apium_, the, 129 Apricot brandy, 229 Artichoke, the, 130 Jerusalem, 131 Ascot luncheon, 54 Asparagus, 124 with eggs, 17 Aspic, 176 Athole brose, 241 Baksheesh, 100 Ball suppers, 175 Banquet, a vegetarian, 132 "Beano," a, 121 Beans, 119 "Borston," 120 Beef, "can't eat," 96 Bernardin salmi, a, 92 Birch's, 37 _Bischoff_, 211 Biscuit, a devilled, 269 Bishop, 212 Bisque, 89 Bitters, 229 Blackmore, R. D., 247 Blue blazer, 243 Bombay duck, a, 146 Bones, grilled, 189 Bosom caresser, a, 239 Bouillabaisse, 88 Bovril, 271 Braddon, Miss, 247 Brandy, apricot, 229 cherry, 227 ginger, 230 orange, 230 sour, 243 Brazil relish, 265 Breakfast, allowable dishes at, 14 French, 27 Indian, 31 Mediterranean, 26 with "my tutor," 32 Brillat Savarin, 106 Brinjal, the, 131 Broth, Scotch, 52 Buckmaster, 77 Bull's milk, 240 Burmah, food in, 203 Burns, John, 234 Cabbage, the, 115 Calcutta jumble, 16 "Cannie Carle," 189 Canvass-back duck, a, 95 Carlton House Terrace, 91 Carlyle, Thomas, 246 Carrot, the, 121 Cassis, 244 Cauliflower, the, 115 Cedric the Saxon, 66 Celery, 129 sauce, 164 Champagne and stout, 225 Charles Dickens, 52, 248 _Chateaûbriand_, a, 70 Chef, Indian, 135 "Cheshire Cheese," the, 39 pudding, 39 Chinaman's meal, a, 91 Chops, 50 _Chota Hazri_, 29 _Choufleur aû gratin_, 116 Chowringhee Club, the, 135 Christmas dinner, a, 82 Chutnee, raw, 163 Chutnine, 163 Cinquevalli, Paul, 112 City dinners, 100 Clam chowder, 95 Cleopatra, 170 "Coal-hole," the, 187 Cobbler, champagne, 226 sherry, 226 Cocktail, Bengal, 236 brandy, 235 champagne, 236 gin, 237 Manhattan, 236 Milford, 236 Newport, 237 Saratoga, 237 whisky, 237 Yum Yum, 236 Cod liver, 102 Coffee tree, the, 7 Cold mutton, 162 Collins, John, 218 Coloured help, 94 Corelli, Marie, 247 Cow, milking a, 205 Crécy soup, 122 Cremorne Gardens, 184 Cup, ale, 226 Ascot, 224 Balaclava, 223 Chablis, 222 champagne, 222 cider, 221 claret, 220 Crimean, 223 Moselle, 226 Curry, Benares, 134 dry Madras, 144 locust, 140 Malay, 140 Parsee, 136 powder, 139 Prawn, 143 rice for, 17, 145 what to, 142 when served, 141 Cyclone, a, 262 Dana, 263 Delmonico, 95 Devilled biscuit, a, 269 Dickens, Charles, 52, 248 Dingley Dell, 249 Dinner, afloat, 101 city, 100 Christmas, 82 an ideal, 101 Doctor, a, 264 Samuel Johnson, 71 Donald, 220 Duck, Bombay, 146 canvass-back, 95 jugged, with oysters, 46 Rouen, 87 -squeezer, 93 Dumas, Alexander, 80 Dumpling, kidney, 190 Early Christians, 63 Closing Act, 181 Eggs and bacon, 13 Elizabeth, Queen, 66 Englishman in China, the, 92 Evans's, 181 Fairy "_Ala_," the, 68 kiss, a, 240 Fergus MacIvor, 67 Fin'an haddie, 23 Fixed bayonet, a, 91 Flash of lightning, a, 240 Flip, ale-, 216 egg-, 217 -flap, 241 Fowls, Surrey, 88 Free trade, 8 French soup, 97 _Fricandeau_, a, 104 Garlic, 128 Gin, sloe, 227 Ginger brandy, 230 Glasgow, the late Lord, 191 Goats, sacrifice of, 198 Goose pie, 56 Gordon hotels, 71 Green, "Paddy," 182 Greenland, across, 110 Grilled bones, 189 Grouse pie, 48 Gubbins sauce, 14 Haggis, 63 Halibut steak, a, 20 Happy Eliza, 242 Hawkins, Sir John, 113 Hawthornden, 84 Help, coloured, 94 Highland cordial, 229 Hollingshead, John, 181 Home Ruler, 227 Horatius Flaccus, 112 Horse-radish sauce, 164 steaks, 191 Hotch potch, 53 Hotel breakfasts, 17 "Parish," 21 Hot-pot, Lancashire, 42 Hunting luncheons, 48 Indian breakfasts, 31 Irish stew, 50 James I., King, 64 Japan, 92 Jesuits, the, 93 Johnson, Doctor, 71 John Collins, 218 "Jolly Sandboys," the, 51 "Joseph," 83 Jugged duck with oysters, 46 Jumping powder, 230 Kent Road Cookery, the, 109 Kidney dumpling, 190 in fire-shovel, 188 King James I., 64 Kiss, a fairy, 240 Kitchener, Doctor, 139 Knickerbein, a, 239 Lamb, Charles, 146 Lamb's head and mince, 186 Lampreys, 106 Lancashire hot-pot, 42 Large peach, a, 15 Larks, such, 46 Lightning, a flash of, 240 Li Hung Chang, 91 Liver, cod's, 102 _Lorna Doone_, 247 Louis XII., 60 XIV., 60 Lucian, 119 Luncheon, Ascot, 54 race-course, 50 Simla, 58 Macaulay, Lord, 261 _Madère_, 94 Maiden's blush, 241 Majesty, Her, 107 Mandragora, 231 Marrow, vegetable, 130 Marsala, 94 Mayfair, 85 Mayonnaise, 153 Mediterranean breakfast, a, 26 Mess-table, the, 105 Miladi's boudoir, 190 Milk, bull's, 240 Mint julep, 242 _Mirepoix_, a, 89 Mutton, cold, 162 Nansen's banquet on the ice, 109 Napoleon the Great, 107 Nero, 62 New York City, 95 Nipping habit, the, 233 "No cheques accepted," 18 Off to Gold-land, 25 "Old Coppertail," 197 Onion, the, 128 Orange brandy, 230 sauce, 161 Orgeat, 224 Out West, 96 Oven, the, 76 Overtrained, 269 Oysters, Aden, 172 in their own juice, 173 Kurachi, 171 prairie, 265 sauce, 137 scalloped, 173 stewed, 174 Worcester, 265 "Paddy" Green, 182 Parsnip, the, 129 Parlour cookery, 187 Payne, George, 82 Peake and Allen, 263 Pea soup, 118 Pease, 117 "Peg," a, 217 Pepper-pot, 195 Peter the Great, 106 Physician, an eminent, 108 Pick-me-up, "Number One," 263 St. Mark's, 268 Pickles, hot, 269 Pie, angel's, 55 goose, 56 grouse, 48 pigeon, 55 pork, 49 Wardon, 5 woodcock, 47 Yorkshire, 49 Poor, how they live, 109 Pope, Doctor Joseph, 146 Possets, 242 Pork, roast, 45 Potato, the, 111 salad, 155 Port-flip, 266 Powder, jumping, 230 _Pré salé_, a, 90 Prison fare, 110 "Property" food, 258 Pudding, Cheshire cheese, 39 plover, 46 rabbit, 45 snipe, 41 Pulled turkey, 94 Punch, 206 ale, 214 Barbadoes, 214 Cambridge, 210 Curaçoa, 214 Grassot, 214 Glasgow, 213 Halo, 212 milk, 208 Oxford, 210 Regent, 215 Queen Elizabeth, 66 Rabbit pie, 45 Race-course luncheons, 50 sandwich, 53 Rajah's hospitality, a, 196 Raleigh, Sir Walter, 113 Rat snakes, 204 Regimental dinner, a, 99 Rice for curry, 17, 145 Richardson, 81 Roasting, 76 Romans, the, 59 Royalty, 85 Rouen ducks, 87 Salad, anchovy, 160 a memorable, 157 boarding-house, 150 celery, 156 cheese in, 158 corn, 158 Francatelli's, 150 French, 151 fruit, 161 herring, 155 Italian, 159 lobster, 151 maker, a gentleman-, 156 orange, 161 potato, 155 Roman, 159 Russian, 160 tomato, 156 Salads, 147 Sala, George Augustus, 71 _Salmi Bernardin_, 92 of wild-duck, 93 Salmon steak, 24 Sandhurst R.M.C., 67 Sandwich, a race-course, 53 _Sambal_, 168 St. Leger, the, 84 Sauce, carp, 165 celery, 164 Christopher North's, 165 currant, 167 goose, 168 gooseberry, 166 Gubbins, 14 hare, 165 horse-radish, 164 orange, 161 oyster, 137 Tapp, 190 _Tartare_, 166 Savarin, Brillat, 90 Saxon dining-table, a, 65 Scorcher, a, 264 Scott, Sir Walter, 67 Scalloped oysters, 173 Scotch broth, 52 Shandy gaff, rich man's, 225 Shepherd's pie, 45 Ship and Turtle, the, 38 Sidney, Harry, 183 Simla, luncheon at, 58 to Cashmere, 200 Sligo slop, 244 Sloe gin, 227 Smith, Sydney, 147 Snipe pudding, 41 Soup, French, 97 "Spanky," 182 Spinach, 127 Sprats, 179 Staff of life, the, 7 Steaks, 50 salmon, 24 thoroughbred horse, 191 Steam-chest, the, 76 Stew, Irish, 50 "Jolly Sandboys," 51 oyster, 174 Stout and champagne, 225 Straight talks, 272 Suetonius, 61 Suffolk pride, 56 Such larks, 46 Supper, Hotel Cecil, 179 ball, 175 Surgeon-major, a, 264 Surrey fowls, 88 Swizzle, a, 271 Tapp sauce, 190 Tartar sauce, 166 Tea, 6 _à la Française_, 28 Thibet, 200 Thumb-piece, 53 Tiger's milk, 241 Toddy, 215 whisky, 216 Tomato, the, 126 Tomnoddy, Lord, 180 Toole, John Lawrence, 258 _Tournedos_, a, 89 Tripe, 177 how to cook, 178 Tsar, the, 57 Tsaritza, the, 86 Turkey, the, 94 pulled, 94 Turmeric, 139 Turnip, 127 Turner, Godfrey, 103 Vegetarian banquet, a, 132 Vitellius, 61 _Vol-au-Vent financière_, 90 Waiter, the, 112 Wardon pie, a, 5 Wellington, Duke of, 107 West Indies, the, 240 West, out, 96 Whisky, sour, 243 Wild-duck, salmi of, 93 William the Conqueror, 261 Woodcock pie, 47 Working man, the, 270 Wyndham, 241 Yates, Edmund's Reminiscences, 178 York, New, 95 Yorkshire pie, 49 THE END MILLER, SON, AND COMPY., LIMITED, PRINTERS, FAKENHAM AND LONDON. FOOTNOTES: [1] It is incorrect to speak of bread as the sole "staff of life." Eggs, milk, cheese, potatoes, and some other vegetables, supply between them far more phosphoric acid than is to be got from bread, either white or brown. And a man could support existence on "beer and baccy" as well as he could do so on bread alone. [2] In most recipes for puddings or pies, rump steak is given. But this is a mistake, as the tendency of that part of the ox is to _harden_, when subjected to the process of boiling or baking. Besides the skirt--the _thick_ skirt--there be tit-bits to be cut from around the shoulder. [3] The cannie Scot, however, never made his haggis from anything belonging to the pig. The dislike of the Scots to pork dates from very long ago, as we read in a note to Sir Walter Scott's _Waverley_. King "Jamie" carried this prejudice to England, and is known to have abhorred pork almost as much as he did tobacco. His proposed banquet to the "Deil" consisted of a loin of pork, a poll (or head) of ling, with a pipe of tobacco for digestion. [4] This dish must somewhat resemble the "Fixed Bayonet," which at one time was the favourite tit-bit of "Tommy Atkins," when quartered in India. It consisted of a fowl, stuffed with green chilis, and boiled in rum. The fowl was picked to the bones, and the soldier wound up with the soup. Very tasty! [5] Kidney potatoes should always be boiled, as steaming makes them more "waxy." [6] Doubtful starters. [7] Formerly Assistant-Surgeon Royal Artillery. A celebrated lecturer on "The Inner Man," and author of _Number One, and How to take Care of Him_, etc. [8] "Of all the delicacies in the whole _mundus edibilis_ I will maintain it to be the most delicate--_princeps obsoniorum_. I speak not of your grown porkers--things between pig and pork--those hobbydehoys; but a young and tender suckling, under a moon old, guiltless as yet of the sty, with no original speck of the _amor immunditiae_, the hereditary failing of the first parents, yet manifest--his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble and a grumble--the mild forerunner or _praeludium_ of a grunt. He must be _roasted_. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled--but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument! "His sauce should be considered. Decidedly a few bread-crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic--you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are; but consider, he is a weakling--a flower."--_Lamb on Pig._ [9] Our then commanding officer was noted for his powers of self-control. I once noticed him leave the table hurriedly, and retire to the verandah. After an interval he returned, and apologised to the President. Our revered chief had only swallowed a flying bug. And he never even used a big D. [10] An excellent aerated water and a natural one, is obtained from springs in the valley beneath the Long Mynd, near Church Stretton, in Shropshire. In fact, the Stretton waters deserve to be widely known, and are superior to most of the foreign ones. 
42863	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. BRIGHT IDEAS FOR ENTERTAINING Two hundred forms of amusement or entertainment for social gatherings of all kinds: large or small parties, clubs, sociables, church entertainments, etc.; with special suggestions for birthdays, wedding anniversaries, Hallowe'en, All Fools' Day, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, and other holidays. By MRS. HERBERT B. LINSCOTT PHILADELPHIA GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO. PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1905, by MRS. HERBERT B. LINSCOTT Published July, 1905 Thirty articles appearing in this book have been taken from "The Ladies' Home Journal," to which the author gratefully acknowledges permission to reprint them. Bright Ideas for Entertaining ACTING PROVERBS In this game the company may be divided into actors and spectators. The actors are each given a proverb, which they are to act alone in pantomime. The first player may come into the room where the spectators are waiting, with a sprinkler in one hand and a cup in the other. He begins sprinkling the flowers, then he pours water over them, acting the proverb, "It never rains but it pours." The second actor also brings a cup of water. He repeatedly attempts to drink from the cup, which keeps slipping from his fingers as he brings it near his mouth. "There's many a slip between the cup and the lip." The third brings in a purse containing brass buttons, which he takes out and counts over deliberately. Then he looks at them closely, and with seeming distrust, finally flinging them from him in a rage. "All is not gold that glitters." The fourth actor appears with a stone, which he rolls all about the room. Then he examines it critically and shakes his head dubiously. "A rolling stone gathers no moss." The next actor brings in a bundle of hay and tosses it about with his fork, which he carries for the purpose, looking up frequently at an imaginary sky. "Make hay while the sun shines." This game is more interesting if spectators are furnished with slips of paper and pencils, that they may write down their guessing of each proverb when the actor passes from the room, to be followed by another. ADVERTISEMENT ITEMS Cut out pictures from advertisements; for instance, from "Quaker Oats," cut out the Quaker, but nothing that will tell what it represents. Have a number of them and paste on plain white paper. Number each ad, and keep a "key" to them yourself. Furnish paper and pencil to each guest and have them guess what each picture represents. The one who guesses the most receives a prize. Also request every one to write an advertisement on some article. Still another form of the game is for each person to choose his theme for an advertisement, and write it without naming the article. He will read his advertisement, and the company must guess what article he is advertising. A variation of this game is to distribute papers, allowing a few minutes for examining them, and then let each player describe some article as nearly as possible in the language of its printed advertisement, with, of course, such changes as will serve to divert the company, and give the rest an opportunity to guess what advertisement he has been reading. Of course the article should not be named in the course of the description. ALL ABOUT KATE This game will furnish amusement at an evening entertainment, but may also be played after a ladies' luncheon. The questions, on sheets of paper with spaces allowed for the answers, are distributed, and fifteen minutes given for answering them. Each answer is composed of one word ending with the letters c-a-t-e; for instance: Kate is a good pleader (advo-cate). When fifteen minutes have elapsed each player signs her name and passes her paper to the person on her right. The answers are then read, and the player having the most correct answers wins a prize. QUESTIONS-- 1. Kate is a good pleader. 2. Kate judges judicially. 3. Kate is apt to use other people's money wrongfully. 4. Kate is very frail. 5. Kate sometimes gets out of joint. 6. Kate makes everything double. 7. Kate loves to teach. 8. Kate takes out ink spots. 9. Kate helps people out of difficulties. 10. Kate is good at constructing. 11. Kate gives a pledge of security. 12. Kate sometimes invokes evil. 13. Kate is perplexing; hard to understand. 14. Kate often prays earnestly. 15. Kate makes wheels run easily. 16. Kate uses her teeth. 17. Kate is not always truthful. 18. Kate can foretell events. 19. Kate makes an affirmative. 20. Kate gets smothered. 21. Kate points out clearly. 22. Kate makes business combinations. 23. Kate goes into the country. 24. Kate will now move out. 1. Advocate. 2. Adjudicate. 2. Adjudicate. 3. Defalcate. 4. Delicate. 5. Dislocate. 6. Duplicate. 7. Educate. 8. Eradicate. 9. Extricate. 10. Fabricate. 11. Hypothecate. 12. Imprecate. 13. Intricate. 14. Supplicate. 15. Lubricate. 16. Masticate. 17. Prevaricate. 18. Prognosticate. 19. Predicate. 20. Suffocate. 21. Indicate. 22. Syndicate. 23. Rusticate. 24. Vacate. APPLE SOCIABLE Cards are sent out with the following: _Come to the Apple Social and see who gets the_ _B--A--P_ _L--A--P_ _N--A--P_ _Social given under the auspices of the East End Connett Y. W. C. T. U., Monday evening, Sept. 10, 1905_ Have cards printed with a letter on each one, forming the names of various apples; for instance, B-A-L-D-W-I-N and G-R-E-E-N-I-N-G. Have as many letters of one color made as there are letters in the name of the apple, and have each group of letters a separate color. These are passed to the guests, after which each one proceeds to find the rest of the letters colored like the one he holds, and when the group is complete, the holders of the letters proceed to spell out the name of their apple. Each group then composes an original poem on its apple. The poems are read to the audience, then the prize of B--A--P (big apple pie) is given to the best poem, L--A--P (little apple pie) to the poorest, and N--A--P (no apple pie) to the group who composes no poem. All kinds of apples are served for refreshments. APRIL FOOL DINNER The dinner I shall serve will be plain and substantial, but it may be as elaborate as one chooses. Following is the menu: Vegetable Soup Pickles Crackers Roast Beef Mashed Potatoes Brown Gravy Celery Stewed Peas Tomatoes Bread Butter Tea Cheese Jelly Cream Pie. When the dinner is all ready to serve the fun will begin. Imagine the surprise of the guests when they sit down to the table, to find the soup served in teacups, the pickles shining forth from the sugar-bowl and the crackers in a covered vegetable dish. The roast beef will be cut in slices and arranged on a silver cake dish, the mashed potatoes in a dainty glass berry dish, and the gravy in small individual sauce dishes. The stewed peas will be served from the water-pitcher in glass tumblers, the celery on the bread-plate, bread in the salad bowl, butter on the celery tray, and the tea in soup bowls. The jelly will be placed on the largest meat platter and served with the carving-knife, the cheese in the gravy dish, and finally the pie on large dinner plates. The sugar will appear in the cracker jar together with the gravy-ladle, and the cream in the china teapot. The salt will be found in the mustard cup, the pepper alone remaining as it should be. Water must necessarily be served at the dinner, but even this will not be in the usual manner. I shall serve it in the after dinner coffee cups. The soup must be eaten with teaspoons, as the larger ones will be reserved for the tea. APRIL FOOL PARTY Invitations may be copied after a dance card of a "Comus" ball at New Orleans, which represents a large-sized gilt folly bell with ribbons attached. On arriving, each guest is given a favor, which may serve also as a score marker. These are follies' heads, capped and ruffled and fastened to a stick, which has ribbons wrapped around it. The colors of these ribbons, not more than two being alike, determine partners. An attached tiny square of pasteboard, bearing a painted number, directs to the tables. Instead of playing one game only, a variety of games are introduced. At the head, or "Hearts," table is a large-sized tally-ho horn, tied with a profusion of motley colors. At the conclusion of the game, the defeated ones blow the horn and the winners at all the tables are given little brass bells to tie upon the folly sticks or baubles. The prizes, both head and booby, are fools' caps of white crepe paper with huge red rosettes. The refreshments should be as deceiving as possible. One hostess at an April first dinner went so far as to serve the entire course backwards, beginning with ice cream and ending with soup. Or a very suitable menu may be served in strange and unusual guise: potato salad arranged as cream puffs; English walnut shells as receptacles for olives; sandwiches as slices of cake with nut filling; ice cream as croquettes, cone-shaped and plentifully sprinkled with toasted cake-crumbs; cake as sandwiches, with ice cream between and tied with ribbon; coffee served in bouillon cups; bonbons served in exact size artificial fruit. Among the bona-fide dainties may be "April fool" bonbons--"chocolate creams" stuffed with cotton, button-moulds covered with chocolate, and round, yellow pill-boxes filled with flour, iced to represent small cakes. After the refreshments the hostess may say that she has a picture to show which she has just received and which has given her much pleasure. A curtain is hung before it, which, when withdrawn with grave ceremony, reveals a mirror reflecting the expectant faces of the guests, while on its surface, written with soap, are the words "April Fool!" AUTHORS' CONTEST Questions to be answered by giving in each case the name of a well-known author: 1. A name that means such fiery things, you can't describe their pains and stings. (Burns.) 2. What a rough man said to his son, when he wished him to eat properly. (Chaucer.) 3. Pilgrims and flatterers have knelt low to kiss him. (Pope.) 4. Makes and mends for first-class customers. (Taylor.) 5. Represents the dwellings of civilized men. (Holmes.) 6. Is worn on the head. (Hood.) 7. A chain of hills covering a dark treasure. (Coleridge.) 8. A brighter and smarter than the other. (Whittier.) 9. A worker in precious metals. (Goldsmith.) 10. A vital part of the body. (Hart.) 11. A disagreeable fellow to have on one's foot. (Bunyan.) 12. Meat, what are you doing in the oven? (Browning.) AUTHORS' GUESSING GAME 1. When we leave here we go to seek our what? (Author of "Elsie Venner.") 2. What dies only with life? (Author of "Phroso.") 3. What does a maid's heart crave? (Author of "Handy Andy.") 4. What does an angry person often raise? (Author of "The Christian.") 5. What should all literary people do? (Author of "Put Yourself in His Place.") 6. If a young man would win, what must he do? (Author of "Wandering Jew.") 7. How do we dislike to grow? (Authors of "Silence of Dean Maitland" and "Dawn.") 8. What would we prefer to be? (Authors of "Book of Golden Deeds," "Man Without a Country," and "Under the Greenwood Tree.") 9. What is a suitable adjective for the national library building? (Author of "The Heavenly Twins.") 10. What would we consider the person who answers correctly all these questions? (Author of "From Post to Finish.") The answers to the above questions are: 1. Oliver Wendell Holmes. (Homes.) 2. Anthony Hope. (Hope.) 3. Samuel Lover. (Lover.) 4. Hall Caine. (Cain.) 5. Charles Reade. (Read.) 6. Eugene Sue. (Sue.) 7. Maxwell Grey and Rider Haggard. (Gray and haggard.) 8. Charlotte Yonge, E. E. Hale, Thomas Hardy. (Young, hale and hardy.) 9. Sarah Grande. (Grand.) 10. Hawley Smart. (Smart.) Give the most successful contestant a nicely bound copy of the latest popular book, and the least successful one a gaily colored copy of a child's primer, or a gaudy poster picture. AUTHORS' VERBAL GAME This is an interesting and instructive game. The players seat themselves so as to form a ring. An umpire and a score-keeper are appointed, and each player in turn rises and announces the name of a well-known book. The one who first calls out the name of the author of the book scores a point; the one who has the largest score when the game ceases is the victor, and may be given a prize. This game may be varied by the naming of well-known authors, leaving the titles of books, by these authors, to be supplied. And it may be played in yet another way. Give each player a pencil and paper, and instead of calling aloud the title of a book, as each author is announced, ask the players to write on a slip of paper the name of the author, the title of a book by that author, and the name of a character in the book. Thus: 1. Oliver Goldsmith--"She Stoops to Conquer," Miss Hardcastle. 2. Harriet Beecher Stowe--"Uncle Tom's Cabin," Miss Ophelia. 3. William Shakespeare--"Romeo and Juliet," Tybalt. If the game be played in this way the scores will probably be close. "B" SOCIABLE Be sure to come to the home of Brother Linscott next Monday eve, Because we will insure you a good time By the enjoyment of our "B" social. BUSY BEES. Busy Bees' bill o' fare: Bread. Baked beans. Beef. Baked potatoes. Boiled pudding. Boston's overthrow. Butter. Beets. Batter cake. Bologna. Bananas. Brown bread. This can be changed to suit any other letter and the invitations may be worded as desired. Have tiny boxes, barrels, bags, and baskets filled with candy, fruit, or nuts, for souvenirs. If it is desired to make money, a price may be placed upon each article of food, and the souvenirs may be offered for sale. BARN PARTY _Miss Gertrude S. Derr requests the pleasure of your company at a Barn Party, Monday evening, August 12, 1905, on Water Road, Shortsville, New York_ ARRANGING FOR THE PARTY To insure the success of such a party, a moonlight night should be selected. The barn chosen should be large, the floor space ample, and the decorations lavish. They may consist of green boughs, vines and goldenrod, and a number of American flags. The two large opposite doors should be thrown wide open for free circulation of air. The floor should then be cleared, swept and washed. High up over one door a large flag may be draped, and wires stretched across from beam to beam, away from direct draughts, upon which Japanese lanterns may be hung, care being taken that none are allowed to come into contact with the bunting in case of one's taking fire. Chairs should also be provided, and a rope stretched across one side of the open space, on the farther side of which place a table. On this table place a large bowl of soapsuds, into which a spoonful of glycerine has been put, and by its side place half as many pipes as there are to be guests. Prepare half as many cards also as there are to be guests, and write across the full length of each card the name of an agricultural implement, as hay-rake, hay-cutter, pitchfork, hoe, spade, scythe, sickle, mower, plow, reaper, binder, seeder. On the reverse side each card should be numbered at the top, and a question written concerning the implement named on it; besides this the number and another query should be written upon the lower half. Questions like the following will answer: No. 1. What is the true mission of a harrow? No. 1. Can you tell a harrowing tale? No. 2. What is a hoe used for? No. 2. What is a good receipt for hoe cake? The cards should then be cut in halves, and the matching of them will determine partners for the bubble blowing contest. The answering of the questions will also afford much amusement throughout the evening. BASEBALL PARTY A novel party was recently given by a mother to celebrate the sixteenth birthday of her only son. She had been rather envious of her friends in their happiness of planning many luncheons and other pretty affairs for their girls, consequently she entered heart and soul into this party for her boy, sparing neither expense nor trouble to make it a success. It was announced as "A Baseball Party," and by enlisting the services of a niece, who was very enthusiastic over the national game, she was able to carry out the idea. Eight of her son's friends were invited, who, with the boy himself, made the required "nine." Luncheon was first served. Before going into the dining-room each boy was assigned a place on the "team," and found his place at the table accordingly. In place of name-cards were tiny "fans" bearing the words "catcher," "pitcher," etc., and, of course, each guest knew just where to sit. The menu-cards were booklets with the words "Official Score" written on the covers. The menu consisted of nine courses, or "innings," as they were more appropriately termed. It was written in language unintelligible to the average feminine mind, but the boys guessed what many of the viands were amid much merriment. The reading of the menu, and the conjectures as to what the courses would be, broke up any stiffness that might have resulted from nine boys lunching together. It read as follows--only in the original the interpretations were, of course, left out: FIRST INNING First strike (Oyster cocktail) SECOND INNING Where the losing team lands (Soup) THIRD INNING Caught on the fly (Small trout with diamonds of crisp toast) FOURTH INNING A sacrifice (Lamb chops with potato balls) FIFTH INNING A "fowl ball" (Chicken croquettes with French peas) SIXTH INNING The umpire when we lose (Lobster salad with cheese straws) SEVENTH INNING A fine diamond (Ice cream in diamond-shaped slices. Cakes) EIGHTH INNING Necessary for good (Preserved ginger with wafers and coffee) playing NINTH INNING Everybody scores (The passing of favors) The favors consisted of a ticket for a ball game to be played on the local grounds that afternoon for each boy, and a tin horn with which to "root," as the boys expressed it. As soon as the luncheon was finished the nine boys departed in great glee for the ball grounds, relieving the hostess of the responsibility of further entertaining them. BEAN BAGS Make twelve or fifteen bags, six inches square, of bed-ticking, and loosely fill them with beans which have been washed and dried to remove all dust. Appoint two leaders, who choose sides, arranging the sides in lines facing each other, with a small table at each end of each line. The bean bags being equally divided, each leader deposits his share upon the table nearest him. Then, at a given signal, seizing one bag at a time with one hand, with the other he starts it down the line, each player passing it to the next until all the bags reach the last, who drops them upon the table at his end of the line. When all the bags have reached this table, the last player, seizing each in turn, sends them back up the line to the leader, who drops them upon his table. Whichever side first succeeds in passing all the bags down the line and back, wins the round. It takes five rounds to make a game, so that three out of five must be successful for the winning side. BEAN SOCIABLE _Have you ever "bean" to a "bean" sociable? If not come to the one the Connett Y. W. C. T. U. are having Monday evening, September 1st. If you have never "bean" to one you will enjoy the_ _"Bean porridge hot, Bean porridge cold, Bean porridge in the pot, Nine days old."_ Supper should consist of baked beans, cold and hot, bean porridge or soup, brown bread and butter, and pickles, tea and gingerbread. Bean bags to go with this sociable. BERRY GUESSING CONTEST 1. What berry is red when it's green? Blackberry. 2. " " " used for making ladies' dresses? Mulberry. 3. " " " found on the grass? Dewberry. 4. " " " a dunce? Gooseberry. 5. " " " irritating? Raspberry. 6. " " " used for bedding cattle? Strawberry. 7. " " " " " celebrating a great festival? Holly berry. 8. " " should be respected for its age? Elderberry. 9. " " is melancholy? Blueberry. 10. " " " named for a month? Juneberry. 11. " " " used in sewing? Thimbleberry. 12. " " " named for a bird? Pigeonberry. BIBLE CONTEST The game of Bible Contest cards can be played very profitably and is very instructive. It can be found in any book store in large cities or can be had of the United Society of Christian Endeavor, Boston, Mass. The cost is very little. Or the cards may be written out as follows: 1. Give the first and last words of the Bible. 2. Whose three daughters were the fairest in all the land? 3. How old was Methuselah when he died? 4. Who was called "a ready scribe in the law of Moses"? 5. Give the names of the three persons who were put in the fiery furnace. 6. Who was the author of the expression, "What hath God wrought?" 7. With how many men did Gideon conquer the Midianites? 8. Who was Moses' brother? 9. Who went down into a pit on a snowy day and slew a lion? 10. Who said "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved"? 11. Who was the mother of Samuel? 12. Who commanded the gates of Jerusalem to be closed on the Sabbath? 13. Whose flock was Moses tending when he saw the burning bush? 14. What city was saved from famine by lepers? 15. Who waxed fat and kicked? Name. No. No. Have the cards distributed; then on a given signal have the answers written out; as fast as finished have them handed in to be examined by the committee who afterward returns them. The first blank for number is for the order in which the cards are handed in, and the second for the order of correctness of the answers. BIBLE EVENING Here is a well-known alphabet of Scripture proper names, which may be utilized at a social by ranking the members on two sides, and reading these lines one at a time, in the same way that a spelling-bee is carried on: A was a monarch who reigned in the East (Esth. 1: 1). B was a Chaldee who made a great feast (Dan. 5: 1-4). C was veracious, when others told lies (Num. 13: 30-33). D was a woman, heroic and wise (Judg. 4: 4-14). E was a refuge, where David spared Saul (1 Sam. 24: 1-7). F was a Roman, accuser of Paul (Acts 26: 24). G was a garden, a favorite resort (John 18: 1, 2; Matt. 26: 36). H was a city where David held court (2 Sam. 2: 11). I was a mocker, a very bad boy (Gen. 16: 16). J was a city, preferred as a joy (Ps. 137: 6). K was a father, whose son was quite tall (1 Sam. 9: 1, 2). L was a proud one, who had a great fall (Isa. 14: 12). M was a nephew, whose uncle was good (Col. 4: 10; Acts 11: 24). N was a city, long hid where it stood (Zeph. 2: 13). O was a servant, acknowledged a brother (Philem. 16). P was a Christian greeting another (2 Tim. 1: 1, 2). R was a damsel who knew a man's voice (Acts 12: 13, 14). S was a sovereign who made a bad choice (1 Kings 11: 4-11). T was a seaport, where preaching was long (Acts 20: 6, 7). U was a teamster, struck dead for his wrong (2 Sam. 6: 7). V was a cast-off, and never restored (Esth. 1: 19). Z was a ruin with sorrow deplored (Ps. 137: 1). BIBLE NAMES Choose sides as in a spelling match, and let the leader of the first side give the first syllable of the name of some Bible character. The leader of the opposite side will then complete the name, if he can. Failing this, his side loses a member, selected by the leader of the opposite side. And so the contest goes on down the line, first one side and then the other proposing the first syllable of some name. BIBLE READINGS A good way to promote study of the Bible is a "Bible oratorical contest," in which four or five contestants recite, or give as readings, selections from the Bible. If well done, it will prove most entertaining, and many people will go home surprised that the Bible is such an interesting book. BIRD CARNIVAL The invitations to the carnival had various kinds of birds painted upon them, and each guest was requested to come representing the kind of bird designated on his or her invitation. There were two invitations of each kind, one sent to a lady and one to a gentleman, that there might be a "pair" of each variety of bird. As the guests arrived, each was labeled with the name of the bird he or she represented, and in this way it was easy for them to find their "mates" for refreshments. The house was profusely trimmed with flowers, vines, and leaves (many of them artificial, borrowed from a near-by store); every available space was covered, the banisters, the mantel posts, the door- and window-frames, the archways, etc., and even the walls of the dining-room were hung with the trailing vines, so that the place looked like a veritable woodland dell. All the stuffed birds that could be secured were perched here and there among the vines and branches, some on nests with their mates beside them; a large owl was placed high in one corner, and in a cozy nook in another corner was the nest of a meadow lark, with father and mother birds teaching their young ones to fly. Besides this canaries in cages were distributed throughout the house, lending their music to the general effect. Bird eggs of every description were also used to help decorate. In the centre of the dining table a nest was arranged, containing a mother bird and her little ones, while suspended from the gas jet by gayly colored ribbons and reaching almost to the nest, were many prettily decorated egg shells, the contents having been "blown" from them by means of small holes made in each end. Twenty-five rhymes about birds were pinned about the rooms, the guests being required to answer them. Following are given the rhymes and their answers. The hostess kept the "key" and read the correct list at the close of the contest, when a canary bird in a cage was given as first prize and a stuffed bird as second to the most successful contestants. At the close of the contest, the roll was called and each "bird" present responded by an appropriate quotation, these having been previously distributed by the hostess. BIRD PIE After refreshments were served, an enormous "bird pie" was placed upon the table and each guest was given a slice. This pie was made of pie crust, and was filled with tiny trifles wrapped in tissue paper, most of them representing birds, eggs, nests, etc. On the top of the pie twenty-four little birds cut out of black paper were perched by means of pins stuck through their feet. Also pinned to the pie was this verse: When this pie is opened The birds begin to sing? That is where you all are fooled; We won't do such a thing! BIRD GUESSING CONTEST 1. A flash of sky on wing.--(_Bluebird._) 2. Oh, shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice? Thy note from household clocks is heard, And children's ears rejoice.--(_Cuckoo._) 3. King of the water, as the air, He dives and finds his prey.--(_Kingfisher._) 4. Thy plaintive cry announces punishment, And warns the luckless boy for whom 'tis sent. --(_Whippoorwill._) 5. You introduce yourself throughout your song, And tell the world your brief, old-fashioned name.--(_Phoebe._) 6. "Bob White!" you call Along the marshy coast. Speak not so loud Or you will be on toast.--(_Quail._) 7. Cooing 'neath barn rafters, Pouting, sometimes, too, Rippling like child laughter All the winter through.--(_Pigeon._) 8. An English emigrant, bird of the street, So common that some like thee not at all. Yet in the Holy Bible we are told The Father careth if but one should fall.--(_Sparrow._) 9. Red-breasted harbinger of spring We wait in hope to hear thee sing.--(_Robin._) 10. Yellow captive of the cage, Silver notes thou giv'st as wage.--(_Canary._) 11. A flash of white upon the sea, And yet 'tis not a sail. A "little brother of the air" Hath dared to ride the gale.--(_Sea-gull._) 12. "Jenny" named in children's books, Bright in spirit, dull in looks; With Cock Robin as thy mate, Nothing else I'll have to state.--(_Wren._) 13. In Blue Grass regions is thy splendor seen, Thou flash of flame. August thy name, Red-coated pontiff of the green.--(_Kentucky Cardinal._) 14. Black robber of the corn-fields, oh, beware! The farmer can do other things than scare.--(_Crow._) 15. We know how long ago You frightened Mr. Poe-- Black-coated prophet of adversity.--(_Raven._) 16. Named for the animal the dairies need, Yet, in thy nature, quite a different breed.--(_Cowbird._) 17. Black-winged in crimson roses thou art dressed, Fine feathers make fine birds, it is confessed; And none more fine than thou, Oh, brilliant beauty of the bough!--(_Scarlet Tanager._) 18. The melody is trickling from thy beak, And silver whistlings help thy voice to speak. Oh, singer, famed by thousands, clear the strain Which ripples from thy pulsing throat like rain.--(_Nightingale._) 19. Bird of the night, Thy round eyes are aglow With all the learning Which the sages know.--(_Owl._) 20. The mother hen must watch her little brood Lest thou come down and bear them off for food, And use them for a dinner, Oh, prowling sinner.--(_Hawk._) 21. You imitate the foe which does you wrong, And call "Meouw," instead of chanting song.--(_Catbird._) 22. Your coat is like the leaden sky Which drops the feathery snow, And when that leaves us, by and by, Still further north you go.--(_Snowbird._) 23. A symbol of the perfect Love Shed from above.--(_Dove._) 24. I supplicate At Heaven's gate And rest on wing Where angels sing.--(_Lark._) 25. I'm always offered cracker, And though I like it well I think some other viands Would answer just as well.--(_Parrot._) BIRTHDAY PARTY _We herewith extend a most kind invitation To you and your friends or any relation To come to a party. This little silk sack Is intended to furnish a good place to pack As many pennies as you are years old. We promise the secret shall never be told. If Methuselah's age would be the right sum Of the years to which you already have come, If objections to exposing your age should arise, One hundred would be a splendid disguise. A musical program of very rare merit Will be given to those who will just come and hear it. We'll give you good cheer for the weak inner man And a gallery of pictures unique to well scan; We'll meet young and old with greetings most hearty As you come, one and all, to your own Birthday Party._ These invitations can be given and sent out beforehand, each accompanied by a tiny silk bag to hold the money. Prepare a nice musical treat and something good to eat. Have each member of the society giving the entertainment bring a picture of himself when a baby or small child, and have a picture gallery. Do not forget to be very social and make every one feel that he is welcome, not only for the money he brings, but for himself also. BISHOP'S RIDDLE A most eccentric yet interesting man was Bishop Brooks of Brookville; although not a large or strong man, wherever he went, night or day, he was always either accompanied by or carrying: Two playful animals--calves. A number of small animals of a less tame breed--hares (hairs). A member of the deer family--hart (heart). A number of whips without handles--lashes (eyelashes). Some weapons of warfare--arms. The steps of a hotel--inn steps (insteps). The House of Representatives when a vote is taken--ayes and noes (eyes and nose). Some Spanish grandees to wait upon him--ten dons (tendons). Two places of worship--temples. Two scholars--pupils. What Napoleon wished to leave his son--crown. Two coverings of kettles--lids (eyelids). Two musical instruments--drums. Two established measures--feet and hands. Two coverings for the head--caps (kneecaps). Several articles that a carpenter cannot do without--nails. A couple of fish--soles. A number of shell-fish--mussels (muscles). Two lofty trees--palms. Two kinds of flowers--tulips and iris. BOX PARTY A box party can be made very enjoyable if every one enters into the contest. Each lady should pack a box with lunch for two and at the party the boxes can be auctioneered off to the highest bidder. Or, if there is any objection to that, the ladies' names can be placed on slips of paper and the papers put into a hat and passed to the gentlemen; the slip each draws contains the name of the one with whom he is to eat refreshments. If this party is to make money for some society the wisest way will be to sell the boxes. The same plan may also be followed for a Sunday-school or other picnic. CAKE SALE Probably the description of a cake sale that was held for the benefit of a library fund may not come amiss to show just how attractive and successful such an affair can be made. The principal feature of this sale was the cake contest--a game, with cake prizes. This game was devised to take the place of raffling, which was voted out of date. It was played by groups of ten, who on paying a fee were given printed lists of questions to be answered. Each list had to be signed with the player's name and put in the "post-office" by a certain time in the evening, and later the names of the prize-winners in each group were announced. To promote sociability and fun, a lady's and a gentleman's first prize, and a lady's and a gentleman's booby were given in each group. The prizes were cakes, iced and fancifully decorated with colored candies, and each cake was put on a wooden plate, covered with a frill of crepe paper. The boobies were ginger and sugar horsecakes. Below is the list of questions and answers used in the contest, which may be lengthened or shortened at will: Which cake did the society woman buy? Reception. The schoolgirl? Composition. The grocer? Sugar. The artist? Exhibition. The farmer? Harvest. The mean man? Sponge. The tramp? Loaf. The minister? Scripture. The milliner? Feather. The maiden aunt? Tea. The dairyman? Cream. The champion? Cup. The pretty girls? Ribbon. The jockey? Horse. The shoemaker? The last. The sculptor? Marble. The small boys? Snowballs. The gossip? Spice. The Bryan man? Silver. The young man for his sweetheart? Angel. The fond mamma for her daughter? Wedding. The candidate for office? Election. The politician? Plum. Then there were cakes for sale, whole or cut. Small tables were placed at one end of the hall; and here cake was served with tea, coffee or chocolate. The cake booths were attractively decorated with crepe paper and flags. Posters announced the specialties and prices at each. Watermelon cakes were the novelty at one booth; apple lemon cakes at another; a plentiful supply of cookies, dominoes, horsecakes, gingerbread dolls, and little patty pan cakes, containing a prize to attract the patronage of the children, at another. Little china dolls, marbles, china dogs, cats, vases, etc., were put in the dough when the little pans were filled. These china toys were not injured by the baking and delighted the children beyond measure. * * * * * At a cake sale recently held for the benefit of a church, a novel feature was introduced in the sale of "Scripture cake." The cakes were baked in several different sizes, and sold for from twenty-five cents to one dollar. With each cake sold was given a copy of the recipe by which it was made, which was as follows: SCRIPTURE CAKE 1 cup of butter Judges 5:25 3½ cups flour I Kings 4:22 3 cups sugar Jeremiah 6:20 2 cups raisins I Samuel 30:12 2 cups figs I Samuel 30:12 1 cup water Genesis 24:17 1 cup almonds Genesis 43:11 6 eggs Isaiah 10:14 1 tablespoonful honey Exodus 16:21 A pinch of salt Leviticus 16:13 Spices to taste I Kings 10:10 2 tablespoonfuls baking-powder I Cor. 5:6 Follow Solomon's advice for making good boys, and you will have a good cake. Proverbs 23:14. CAKE WALK (Novel kind) I hope this will not shock any of my readers, and I don't think it will after it is read. It can be held in a church or Sunday school room without any qualms of conscience on any one's part. Have each one come to represent a cake. For instance, sponge cake can be represented by having sponges all over the body; batter cake, by young man wearing baseball suit of clothes and carrying bat; cup cake, by wearing cups around the neck and waist; fruit cake, by carrying baskets of different kinds of small fruits; angel cake, by wearing pictures of angels on the dress and hair; one, two, three, four cake, by wearing the figures 1, 2, 3, 4 pinned on dress or coat; cooky, by wearing chef's cap and apron and a large letter E making that person cook-e; plain cake, by dressing very plainly; orange cake, by carrying orange in each hand; nut cake, by carrying nuts. Any other cake can be represented by carrying out the same idea. All should keep moving around so that the people can see what each one represents. A prize of a cake can be given to the one guessing the greatest number of cakes correctly. Refreshments should consist of every variety of cake served with cocoa or coffee. CALICO CARNIVAL The society who gave it had the oddly written announcement given below published in the local papers a week in advance. They also used it as a handbill: CALICO CARNIVAL "Consider yourself cordially invited to be present at the correctly constructed and considerately combined calico carnival to be held at ---- Hall, Friday night, February --, 1905, admission fifteen cents. "Conspicuous courses served in confused compactness: One conglomerated compound circle; one cup communicative cordial (containing no chickory), or one cup of Chinese cheer, or one cup of choice churned cream; one cider cured cucumber; and one cup of cold comfort. "Rules and regulations: All ladies to wear calico gowns, also requested to bring half a pound of carefully cut carpet rags each. All gentlemen to wear calico ties and requested to bring thimbles. "Fines will be imposed for the following: Any lady who fails to wear a calico gown, ten cents; any lady who fails to bring half a pound of carefully cut carpet rags, ten cents; any gentleman who fails to wear a calico tie, twenty-five cents; any gentleman who fails to bring a thimble, five cents. "P. S.--There will be for sale, cheap, cunning calico conveniences that will be a constant comfort. "N. B.--Any person who sits in a corner and refuses to converse will be fined five cents. "The sale of calico conveniences will begin at ----." Of course, everybody came. The fines and admissions alone would have paid the ladies for the trouble of getting up the carnival. The "conspicuous courses" consisted of cake; coffee, tea, or buttermilk; pickles; and ice water. Among the "calico conveniences" which sold readily were the following articles: Dusting caps, button bags and bags of every description, chair cushions, aprons with bibs and aprons without, and, in fact, everything that could possibly be manufactured from calico. The carpet rags were given to the gentlemen to sew. An inexpensive prize was given to the one who first finished his task. CAN FACTORY The words to be guessed all begin with CAN--the definitions of the whole words being here given. Booklets with tiny pencils attached, and containing the verses, may be distributed among the guests and, after the contest is decided, returned as souvenirs of the occasion. 1. Though this can _is_ a can, you all will agree, The can is termed thus because it holds tea. 2. This long, narrow can holds so precious a stock, That oft you will find it has more than one lock. 3. The most wick-éd can, tho' safe from police, Should you search for its heart you will find it in grease. 4. This can is a can that delights you and me, It always is "open" and likewise is "free." 5. Where breezes blow and surges roll, With swelling form and manner proud, This can in triumph rides the waves, The sailor's living and his shroud. 6. Here's a can, which, bear in mind, Lives on others of its kind. 7. They say empty cans will produce the most noise, But, if properly filled, this will startle the boys. 8. Most cans are hardly fit to eat, Yet you'll like this kind, nice and sweet. 9. The waltz or the glee or the bold martial strain, Each one, as his favorite, endorses; But for those who prefer oratorio style, This can sweetest music discourses. 10. Now who would elect in a can to reside, Yet this as a shelter is known far and wide. 11. A can of most sagacious mind, 'Tis "frugal, prudent, shrewd," you'll find. 12. That a horse should use cans seems indeed strange to say, Yet if pressed to have one he'd not utter a nay. 13. To put cans in poems no one is inclined, Yet cans of this sort in some poems you'll find. 14. In tubs and in bowls men have ventured from land, And in cans of this kind, so I understand. 15. Now, here is a can that is yellow and round, 'Twould seem little prized, for it grows on the ground. KEY 1. Canister. 2. Canal. 3. Candle. 4. Candid. 5. Canvas. 6. Cannibal. 7. Cannon. 8. Candy. 9. Cantata. 10. Canopy. 11. Canny. 12. Canter. 13. Canto. 14. Canoe. 15. Cantaloup. CAT GUESSING CONTEST 1. I wonder what Tabby the ---- to now? (Catsup) 2. We will buy some ---- for puss. (Catnip) 3. We all should learn our ----. (Catechism) 4. Both are in the same ----. (Category) 5. See the ---- grazing on the hillside. (Cattle) 6. The artist's name is not in the ----. (Catalogue) 7. It is very distressing to have the ----. (Catarrh) 8. Be sure to visit the ---- in Rome. (Catacombs) 9. See the ---- crawling on the ground. (Caterpillar) 10. What does the ---- to? (Catamount) CHESTNUT SOCIABLE First procure a good quantity of chestnuts. Plain and roasted chestnuts may be sold at one table. They should be measured into pint and half-pint paper bags, ready for customers. A second table will be needed for bonbons. An excellent taffy is made by stirring chopped chestnuts into plain molasses candy when ready to take from the fire. Caramels are improved by adding chopped chestnuts. Chopped chestnuts and figs added to crisp sugar candy make a good sweet-meat. Shelled chestnuts are glazed by dipping in hot sugar candy. A variety of candies can be made from this receipt: One pound of confectioners' sugar, well beaten white of one egg, one tablespoonful of cold water, one teaspoonful of vanilla. Mix well together and mould on a board. Mix it with chopped chestnuts and cut into cubes. Small balls of the cream can be rolled between the hands, and a whole chestnut (shelled) pressed on one side. The cream can be colored with fruit coloring and different shapes can be made from this. Shelled chestnuts dipped in melted sweet chocolate are delicious. Old "chestnuts" are prepared by putting old jokes in chestnut shells and glueing them together. These will cause much fun and merriment for the young. Have a large bowl of water with three chestnuts in it and let each guest be given two toothpicks to try to get the chestnuts out of the water with the toothpicks, without getting the fingers wet. PROGRAM FOR CHESTNUT SOCIABLE Have some one recite "Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night" and "Over the Hills to the Poor House." Let some one sing "The Old Oaken Bucket" and "Annie Laurie." Have some one read "The Sword of Bunker Hill" and "Bingen on the Rhine." Any variety of entertainment can be gotten up with a little forethought. CHILDREN'S BIRTHDAY FLOWERS Each month has a flower or plant appropriated to it, and to each a meaning is attached. The list is as follows: January--Snowdrop. February--Primrose. March--Violet. April--Daisy. May--Hawthorn. June--Wild rose. July--Lily. August--Poppy. September--Morning-glory. October--Hop. November--Chrysanthemum. December--Holly. The snowdrop means consolation; the primrose, the freshness of early youth; the violet, modesty; the daisy, innocence; the hawthorn, hope; the wild rose, simplicity; the lily, purity; the poppy, the consolation of sleep; the morning-glory, contentment; hops, joy; the chrysanthemum, cheerfulness; the holly, foresight and protection. The morning-glory is such a perishable flower that it is almost useless for the purpose of decoration, consequently it will be wise to substitute goldenrod, symbolizing stateliness, in its stead. CHILDREN'S BIRTHDAY PARTIES A birthday is an important event in a child's life, and should not pass unnoticed. A small party for little children is usually more enjoyable and more easily managed than a large one. With many mothers it is the custom to invite as many little guests as correspond to the number of years of the child whose birthday is celebrated. Make the table look as attractive as possible with flowers. A pretty arrangement for a fifth birthday is to have a round table, with vines, or a rope of wild flowers or leaves, arranged over it to represent a five-pointed star. The sandwiches, confectionery, etc., may be placed within the star, the birthday cake in the centre, and the five guests seated between the points of decoration. For a sixth birthday, a pretty arrangement would be a six-pointed star, the points to be made with the long fronds of the sword fern. So many people have pots of these ferns growing in their houses, and the foliage is so abundant, that some of the older fronds of the plant may well be spared. The money myrtle is also effective for this decoration, and, in summer, the little partridge vine with its red berries, to be found in every woods, makes very pretty trimming. The cake should be in the centre, and the other viands placed within the star, the children's plates between the points. Either a round or square table may be used as preferred. For an eighth birthday, a square table may be used with walls of Troy decoration arranged for two children at a side. If the birthday comes in December, a rope of evergreen is appropriate and very effective for this decoration, with branches of holly or other red berries at the corners, the "goodies" to be placed in the centre. For a tenth birthday, quite a long table is needed, and a pretty arrangement of vines in scallops, with a small bunch of flowers at each point may be carried out, the viands being placed in the centre, and a child's plate in each one of the scallops. In all these arrangements due prominence must be given to the birthday cake, the principal feature of the feast. It is placed usually in the centre, is round, decorated with frosting, and as many tiny candles as the child is years old. These are placed in toy candlesticks, made so that they can easily be thrust into the frosting, and the candles are lighted just before the children go to the table. The candlesticks may be purchased at a toy store. It is an excellent idea to place some little souvenir in the cake for each child, tiny china dogs, cats and goats being desirable for this purpose. A candy house will also make a novel and attractive centrepiece for a children's party table. Build a log house of red and white sticks of candy, and form the roof of cocoanut strips. For a rail fence use sticks of chocolate candy or straws and make the grass of spun candy. CHILDREN'S CHRISTMAS PARTY There in the library stood the most perfect snow-man. He wore a fur cap and long white whiskers, and on the floor behind him lay his pack, which had just slipped off his back. He held a doll on one arm, and over the other was hung a line of tiny sleigh-bells. This snow Santa Claus was made of cotton batting, but he looked exactly like the snow-man in the yard, and the children greeted him with cries of delight. Two sticks, wrapped in many thicknesses of cotton to form the legs, had been nailed to a block of wood to make a foundation for this snow-man; the other parts of the body were made like snowballs and sewed in their proper places. Each child was allowed to throw a soft rubber ball twice in attempting to hit the string of bells which Santa held. Those who were successful were told to take some article out of the pack as a reward. Fancy cornucopias and small boxes filled with nuts and candy were found by the lucky contestants. The children were then asked to guess the number of berries on a large piece of mistletoe which hung from one of the chandeliers. The one guessing nearest the correct number received a stick-pin bearing a tiny enameled spray of mistletoe. Then came old-fashioned romping games, after which a Christmas carol was sung and the children marched in to supper. A star-shaped table had been arranged for the occasion. In its centre was a small but handsomely decorated tree. The refreshments consisted of turkey sandwiches, cocoa, lemon jelly with whipped cream, sponge cake, bonbons and nuts. The sponge cake was baked in small star-shaped pans, and ornamented with red and white icing. In the parlor an immense snowball was hung from the chandelier. This had been made by fastening four barrel-hoops together so as to form a round frame, over which was sewed white cambric. Then the ball was covered with batting and sprinkled with diamond dust. A slit was made in one side, and each child put in his hand and drew out some article wrapped in tissue paper. These proved to be dolls, balls, and toys of all sorts. Some drew out tiny boxes inside of which were slips of paper with directions like these: "Look under the divan and you will find a steam-engine," "Look beside the radiator and you will find a doll's kitchen," etc. In the dressing-room they were softly pelted with a mysterious shower of snowballs, which they endeavored to catch. The balls were packages of marshmallows wound loosely with white crepe paper. CHILDREN'S CHRISTMAS TABLEAUX Build a cave-shaped box on a raised platform, drape inside and out with white muslin, fasten evergreen boughs about the entrance and at the back, draping all of these with loose tufts of cotton like new-fallen snow, and sprinkling them with mica. Sprays of red berries can be introduced with splendid effect. White covered steps must lead up to the cave, about the mouth of which may be spread white fur rugs. Let the candles be fastened plentifully around the cave, but have the rest of the room very dimly lighted. In the cave arrange the gifts, wrapped and properly marked, being careful to have one for each person present. Dress a pretty, golden-haired little girl as a fairy, with wings and spangles to enter the cave and bring out the gifts, and a couple of little boys as imps or brownies to deliver them. Low music should be played in some concealed corner, with now and again a song or chorus by a band of children dressed as fairies. The presentation of the tableaux may either precede or follow the distribution of the gifts. BOY BLUE.--A little boy in a blue suit stands on a pile of hay, side to the audience, with a tin trumpet to his lips. Piano music, "Little Boy Blue." If the song is sung softly, it is an addition. BO PEEP.--A little girl in a white gown, with a shepherd's crook, in pursuit of a woolly lamb on rollers, being drawn across the stage by an invisible string. She stands as if she were running, with one foot out behind her, while the lamb disappears and some one reads the rhyme: "Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep And can't tell where to find them; Let them alone and they'll come home And bring their tails behind them." MISS MUFFET.--A little girl sits on Boy Blue's pile of hay, eating something from a saucer. A small boy steals up behind her, with an artificial spider on a string attached to a pole, which he slowly lowers into her plate. Appropriate music is played, and Miss Muffet screams as the curtain is drawn. CINDERELLA.--A little girl, with torn calico dress and unkempt hair, stands at the right of the stage, her hands clasped and uplifted, smiling in wonder. Before her stands a very small boy in a smart military suit, with a white cotton wig on his head, indicating the coach in which she is to go to the ball. The coach may be a pumpkin hollowed into the proper shape, and drawn by a small dog harnessed to it with ribbons, or a go-cart, or baby carriage, drawn by a larger dog. Some one behind the scenes plays a waltz very softly. Plenty of red fire. LITTLE JACK HORNER.--For this a boy with a mischievous face should be chosen. He sits on the floor in the centre of the stage, with a huge pan covered with white paper between his feet. Some one behind the scenes reads the nursery rhyme: Little Jack Horner Sat in a corner, Eating a Christmas pie; He put in his thumb And pulled out a plum, And said: "What a great boy am I!" Little Jack Horner, of course, suits the action to the words, pulling a prune, date or raisin out of a hole in the paper pasted over the pan. He puts it in his mouth as the curtain is drawn. FOLLOWING THE FLAG.--In one corner of the stage a tent is erected--a white sheet over a centre pole. All the small boys who have military suits, drums, trumpets and muskets, stand about, and one in the very front holds the flag. In front of the tent, on a pile of hay, lies another small boy, in a military suit, with his eyes closed, and behind him stands a little girl in a big white apron, with the symbol of the red cross on her left arm. Music behind the scenes is either "Tenting on the Old Camp Ground," or "The Star Spangled Banner," and all the rest of the red fire is ignited. When it dies down, the curtain is drawn, the lights are turned up, and the pianist plays "Home, Sweet Home." CHILDREN'S EASTER PARTY The little guests when they arrive will be made happy by giving them small baskets to hunt for the eggs which the mother has a few days before blown and colored and hidden all over the house. In a room where there is a hardwood floor have little yellow chicks arranged as tenpins at one end and give the children each an egg and let them roll the eggs and see how many chicks they can knock down. While they are doing this take some of the eggs they have found, run ribbon through them and suspend in different lengths from a chandelier. Among these suspended "eggshells" have Easter eggs filled with good things. You can buy the eggs, and fill some of them with candy and some with peanuts; put tiny dolls in some and small toys in others, so that no two eggs will be filled alike. Then blindfold one child at a time; give him a small cane and let him make one strike and see what he can bring down. It is a good idea to spread a sheet under the chandelier on the floor, so that the shells can be gathered up quickly. Then announce refreshments. In the centre of the supper-table upon a mound of smilax place a large rabbit on his haunches, and in his front paws an Easter egg. From this mound to each plate run a different-colored piece of ribbon, with a card attached. Upon the card have the child's name who sits at that place. At one end of the table have an Easter cake with lily decorations, and at the other end place something that looks like a large white frosted cake, with one little downy chick in the centre, and five or six in a row around the edge. This is not a cake but a baking-pan turned upside down, covered with white paper and frosted white. Have all the refreshments upon the table--thin slices of bread and butter, sandwiches, nuts, tiny cups of chocolate, cake and ice cream. After all have finished eating and are ready to leave the table the little ones may be told that at the count of three they are to pull their ribbons, first removing Bunny from his nest to avoid breaking any dishes. Then every child will find attached to the ribbon an egg, the color of his or her ribbon, filled with candy or a small gift of some sort. These eggs, a little yellow chick, and the baskets may be given to the children to carry home. EASTER SALAD A delicious and most attractive salad for Easter may be made by building a nest of narrow strips of cold boiled potatoes upon a few very crisp lettuce leaves. Fill the nest with eggs made of cream cheese rolled in grated yellow cheese. Serve on individual plates with a well-made mayonnaise dressing, and plain crackers, or thin slices of brown bread and butter. EASTER GELATINE Pour gelatine flavored with unfermented grape juice into egg shells and set them upon the ice. When the jelly seems to be firm remove the shells, and you will have as many pretty clear violet eggs as you have had shells. Arrange them around a mould of Bavarian cream, and serve. Gelatine flavored with chocolate, orange or cranberry juice would make equally pretty eggs, and probably please the children better than the violet ones. EASTER BASKETS OF DESSERT Little baskets of puff paste were filled with yellow "_eggs_" made from a rich custard which had been thickened with cornstarch, cooked until stiff and poured into egg-shaped moulds. When cold the custard "eggs" were removed from the moulds, placed in the pastry baskets and surrounded with whipped cream, which was dotted with white grapes cut in half and the seeds removed. The effect was very pretty and the dessert delighted the eyes of the guests as well as their palates. This dessert might be utilized for any other occasion by pouring the custard into different-shaped moulds and dotting the whipped cream with candied cherries or fresh berries. CHILDREN'S SOUVENIRS Souvenirs at a children's party should be very inexpensive. Candy put up in some pretty form is the most suitable thing that can be given. The dainty Japanese confections that may be purchased at any large store where Oriental goods are sold are novelties, and always please the little people. It is always a great pleasure to children to have something to take home with them from a party, and very inexpensive souvenirs will give happiness quite out of proportion to their value. Japanese trifles make pretty gifts, little boxes, bags or baskets filled with candy. Tiny kites are appropriate for boys, and fans for girls. Japanese dolls may be dressed with the lower part of the skirt prolonged into a bag and filled with candy. Only candy of the simplest kind should be used. Candy boxes in various fanciful forms, as banjos, drums, tambourines, watering-pots, pails, caps, helmets, fish, etc., may be purchased from any dealer in such wares. They are also made in the shape of birds and animals, as peacocks, canaries, turtles, alligators and elephants. Hollow oranges and apples, fruit baskets, with realistic cherries, grapes, etc., on top, and room for candy underneath, are very pretty. If these are thought too expensive ornamented cornucopias to hold bonbons may be procured at various prices, beginning at fifteen cents a dozen. Mottoes containing paper hats and caps may be procured as cheaply as ten cents a dozen, and a package of these, holding as many as the child is years old, tied with the birthday color, makes a dainty souvenir. Little cradles filled with candy and ornamented with bows are also appropriate gifts. A SOUVENIR PUDDING.--A common wash-tub, filled with bran or sawdust, will make a nice pudding for a child's party by putting the souvenirs in a layer in the bottom of the tub, then a layer of sawdust, then more presents, and so on until the tub is filled. Have a large wooden spoon and let each child make a dive with the spoon until he gets one souvenir. This will please the little ones. CHILDREN'S SWEET PEA TEA The invitations to this tea read like this: _Prepare yourself for a Sweet Pea Tea, The 'bus will call for you at three._ _July 19th._ In one corner of the card a sweet pea was painted in water colors. These cards were sent by mail. Of course, the recipients of these invitations had no idea where the party was to be, and waited in great expectation for the appointed day. Two 'bus men were engaged and furnished with a list of the invited, and at three o'clock, or as nearly that hour as possible, called for the guests, and after a short and misleading drive arrived at last at their destination. After being received by the hostess, the guests were given cards and pencils and ranged around a long table in the centre of the room, on which were strewn leaves of many kinds of plants. Five minutes were given for guessing the plants to which the leaves belonged. At the expiration of that time, the cards were taken (after names had been signed), and a prize given to the best guesser. The guests were then seated, and cards on which was the following list of questions passed around: 1. What field flower is something to eat and a dish we drink from? 2. What did the soldier say when he bade his sweetheart good-bye? 3. The name of what flower is used every day in a slang expression? 4. The name of what flower did Johnny's mother use when she told him to rise? 5. What hotel in New York city bears the name of a flower? 6. What flower is most popular in April? 7. The name of what flower means comfort? 8. What is the saddest flower? The answers are: 1. Buttercup. 2. Forget-me-not. 3. Daisy. 4. Johnny-jump-up. 5. Aster. 6. Easter lily. 7. Heartsease. 8. Bleeding-heart. The prize for this was a book of flowers and verses. A basket of sweet peas was then passed to the girls, a different color of flower for each one. A similar basket was passed to the boys, and the search for partners began. The boy with the yellow sweet pea became the partner of the girl with the yellow flower. The boy with the white found the girl with the white, etc. The table was strewn with sweet peas, a cut-glass bowl of sweet peas graced the centre, and on each napkin was pinned a small bunch of the flowers. CHILDREN'S TOM THUMB ENTERTAINMENT For a children's party try the following device: Place four chairs in one end of the room and throw over them a large blanket or shawl to cover them completely down to the floor. Have some one double up his hands into fists, and on the back of the hands, with a piece of charcoal, paint eyes, nose and mouth, and on one of them paint a moustache. Put dolls' dresses on the arms, reaching down to the elbows. Put hoods or caps on the hands. Let the person thus prepared crawl in between the chairs, and resting the elbows on the floor, hold his forearms perpendicular, so that the backs of the hands will be facing the audience. All the rest of the person's body should be concealed, of course, under the shawl. Call these two little people Tom Thumb and his wife. Have some one for their manager, who should stand in front of the chairs and tell them what to do. The manager should explain why Tom has a dress on. He can have them perform a number of clever tricks, such as bowing to the audience, kissing each other, pushing each other, etc. They can answer questions in a little, fine voice, or say, "How do you do?" It will be found that this entertainment will please the little folks immensely. CHILDREN'S VALENTINE PARTY From sheets of pink and creamy tinted paper, cut the requisite number of hearts--two for each invitation--and form into envelopes by pasting a pink heart and a creamy tinted one together along the edges, except at the large end, which must be left open to hold the written invitation. On a slightly smaller heart of thinner paper, write the following doggerel: "From half-past six to half-past nine, I pray you to be guest of mine. With Valentine, their patron Saint, Sure all good lovers are acquaint; So in his honor kindly spend A pleasant evening with a friend." Slip this in the envelope formed by the two hearts, having first glued to the indentation at the larger end of the small heart a loop of baby ribbon by which to pull it out. On the white side of the envelope write the name and address; on the pink side, an older sister may draw cunning little Cupids, or hearts transfixed with little arrows. Cut from pink paper as many hearts as there are to be boys, but no two of these hearts must be of the same size; cut from gilt paper the same number of hearts, one for each girl, matching in size those cut from the pink paper. When the guests arrive, give each boy a pink and each girl a gilt heart. When a boy finds the girl who holds a gilt heart matching in size his pink one, they are partners for the evening. In this search all formality will have worn off. Cupid's Darts will pass a jolly half hour. Make a large heart of several layers of pink tissue paper, and fill it loosely with bonbons; encase this in a slightly larger heart of open-meshed bobinet; hang on the wall on one side of the room by two loops sewed to the large, upper part of the heart. Provide a toy bow and arrow, and let each child in turn shoot at the heart. The arrows will remain sticking in the lace and paper, and the one whose arrow comes nearest the centre receives the first prize--a heart-shaped box of candy. Also provide small heart-shaped boxes filled with candies for each child to take home. For refreshments, make sandwiches from heart-shaped pieces of bread cut with a cake cutter; bake the cakes in heart-shaped tins, and have the ices frozen in the same design. As red and pink are the proper colors for decoration on this day, it will be a pretty idea to have the lemonade colored pink with fruit juice. Pretty favors can be made from crepe tissue-paper. Flowers, bonbon boxes, handkerchief-cases, and many another trifle, will please the young folks, more especially if they are the work of their little hostess's own hands. CHINESE PARTY Invitations should read as follows: _Come to the Chinese Tea Party and help eat Rice and Rats Prepared and Served by Chinese Girls at ---- Church Monday Evening, Jan. 4th._ You can stimulate interest in the heathen wonderfully by inviting them to come, with all their bag and baggage, and pay your society a visit. Have booths in the room representing the countries in which the church is doing missionary work. Let the attendants be costumed like the natives, and all the appointments of the booths suggest the life of the countries represented. When curiosity is thus piqued, information about these mission lands may be circulated by the help of questions on cards to be passed around. Write the questions in black ink, and underneath, in red ink, the answer to one of the other questions. It will require a pretty lively interchange of cards for each one to find the answer to his question. The committee should try to make this evening as attractive as possible, and if it can be arranged all the members should appear in Chinese costume. In the centre of the church room, fit up a booth, covered with a large Chinese umbrella, and around it place small tables on which to serve refreshments. This can be made to look like a Chinese garden. Rice and rats can be served as follows: Boil rice until rather stiff and turn it into cups to cool. After ready to serve turn upside down in dishes and serve each dish with a _candy rat_ on top. The rice should be served with cream and sugar. Also have tea and wafers. A small fee can be charged for refreshments to go to missionary purposes. Of course no one but the committee should know what the "rice and rats" is to be, as it would spoil the fun. A nice idea would be to give chopsticks as souvenirs. CHRISTMAS COSTUME PARTY The invitations for a Christmas party of this sort should be enclosed in white envelopes decorated with holly and should read as follows: _Master ----, as "Winter," and Miss ----, as "Christmas," will be glad to receive the "Months" on Thursday evening, December the twenty-fourth._ In the lower left-hand corner of each, above the address, should be indicated the character which the little guest is to represent, as, for instance: "Please represent July." Have the little host and hostess represent "Winter" and "Christmas." When the children arrive let them find a throne built of dry-goods boxes, covered with Canton flannel with the fuzzy side out, well sprinkled with diamond dust and tufts of cotton, and above the throne a canopy made of evergreen boughs. Dip some of the boughs first in a weak solution of gum-arabic and then in flour, and sprinkle them with diamond dust; hang others in alum water until crystals form over the foliage. Dress the little host in a suit of white cambric well bespangled with crystal beads and glass pendants. Let him wear white slippers and stockings, and over one shoulder a white shawl covered with artificial frost. On his head place a jaunty white beaver hat decorated with a long white plume. The little hostess should wear a white dress of soft, fluffy material, trimmed with holly and mistletoe, and red stockings and slippers. Seated upon the throne, beside one another, they should receive their guests, who should appear in the characters indicated upon their invitations. After all the children have been welcomed let them form in line, with "Winter" and "Christmas" leading, and march up-stairs and down to the music of piano and violin. The children might then be shown some views of Bethlehem and the Christ-Child and told or read a Christmas story. Just before going-home time some "grown-up" person, dressed to represent Santa Claus, might come in and deposit his pack in the dining-room and distribute some little gifts. Then some simple refreshments should be served before the children go home. CHRISTMAS MENU AND TABLE DECORATIONS Ottoman Country Roasted and Gorged. (Roast Turkey) Red Swamp Fruit Sauce. (Cranberry Sauce) Hibernia's Pride Crushed. (Mashed Potatoes) Cucurbita Maxima Crushed. (Mashed Squash) Stalks of Kalamazoo. (Celery) Bivalves Nestled. (Escalloped Oysters) Dough Baked. (Bread) Cream Churned. (Butter) Lover's Test. (Pickles) Curd Pressed. (Cheese) Arabian Nectar and Bossy's Best. (Coffee and Cream) Rosy Cheeks and Bossy's Best. (Peach Sherbet) Cherub's Diet. (Angel's Food) Nature's Food. (Fruit) Squirrel's Dependence. (Mixed Nuts) Sweet Compound. (Candy) Select for your color scheme red and green. Set the dining-table in the centre of the room directly under the chandelier. To the latter fasten a large bunch of holly with plenty of red berries, and make garlands of evergreen to reach from the chandelier to the four corners of the table, fastening each one to the tablecloth with a bow of red ribbon. Have plenty of holly berries in the garlands of evergreen. If holly is dipped in a strong solution of alum water and dried in the sun, it will have the effect of being frosted. Have a red carnation with a sprig of green laid at each plate. Red and green paper napkins should be used. Have pretty side dishes of red and green things, such as red apples, red and green grapes, and all kinds of red and green bonbons. The first column of the menu as given should be printed or written and laid at each plate, for the guests to study while the courses are being served. CHRISTMAS UMBRELLA GAME Take a large umbrella--an old one will do--wind the handle with bright yellow ribbon and line the body with red percaline as near the color of holly berries as possible. Be sure to shape the lining so that it will not sag. Cover the outside with green percaline and finish the top with sprigs of holly and a bow of red and green ribbon. Trim the edge of the umbrella with a row of tiny bells and wind the ribs with crepe or tissue paper the same color as the lining; do this the last thing so that it will not come undone. Select small appropriate gifts for the young guests; conceal them within dainty wrappings and tie them with ribbon to the ribs of the umbrella. When ready for the game let the children form a circle and choose one of their number to stand in the centre and hold the umbrella. The children may then dance around singing: "Merrily 'round this Christmas ring, Dancing gayly as we sing. What would this umbrella bring If we changed to hippetty-hop And our hostess called out 'stop'?" When singing "hippetty-hop" let the children hop around instead of dancing, and when the hostess calls out "stop" the child with the umbrella raises it over his head and the present which sways longest belongs to him. He unties it, and as he does so he hands the umbrella to another child, whose place he takes in the circle, and so on until all the children have had a chance to hold the umbrella and receive one of the gifts which hang from it. After the game the umbrella may be given to the child who receives the largest number of votes as a souvenir of the evening. If one does not wish the trouble of trimming an umbrella as described above, a Japanese umbrella may be purchased for a small sum, and will be equally appropriate. CHURCH BAZAAR SUGGESTIONS FOR AN ORANGE GROVE.--Evergreen trees should be procured and placed about the hall to make it resemble a grove. The oranges may be made of a wad of cotton, inclosing a trinket, covered with orange-colored tissue paper. Hang them on the trees and let each purchaser select the one he wants, paying a nominal sum for it. Other attractions may be a booth where real oranges may be bought; a well from which orangeade is dispensed; a booth for articles of fancy-work made in shades of orange, and one for orange-flavored cakes and candies. The booths should, of course, be draped in orange color, relieved by touches of white, the attendants' costumes being of the same shade. Orange blossoms, made of tissue paper, will add daintiness to the decorations. * * * * * An unoccupied house is a most convenient place to hold a fair. Each room may be devoted to some special attraction; one for the supper, one for the evening's entertainment, one for the fortune-teller, and so on. This idea is admirable for an affair of the nations, devoting one room to each country and its characteristics. * * * * * Seats should be provided in the grove where the visitors may be refreshed with orange ice, or orange gelatine and cake at a moderate price. If there is a small room adjoining the hall in which the fair is held it may be fitted up to represent a tropical scene. This would be the place to sell rubber plants, palms, ferns, etc. Long clusters of bananas hung amid the foliage will make the scene more realistic. * * * * * A tulip bed is one of the prettiest ways of hiding surprise packages. A portion of the floor should be marked off in a square and enclosed with boards one foot high, painted green. Fill this bed with sawdust and plant paper tulips in all colors. Have a package tied to the end of each tulip, making the flower stand firm when planted. Each purchaser pulls up any flower he chooses. * * * * * Although brown seems a sombre color for a fair booth, it may really be used most effectively. Have the booth made oblong with a counter across the front and have each end covered with brown crepe paper with frilled edges; have also a brown curtain below the counter hanging to the floor. Have the roof, and the posts supporting it, covered with the russet leaves of the chestnut-tree, while around the roof a fringe of chestnut burrs is hung. At one end of the booth serve hot chocolate with whipped cream; at the other have all kinds of nuts on sale; and in front have a display of chocolate and nut cakes and candies. In arranging for any sort of church entertainment remember that elaborate accessories are not of so much importance as the display of cleverness in the carrying out of the ideas which form the basis of the entertainment. COBWEB SOCIABLE First, wind strings all over the house before the arrival of the company. Suspend a rope diagonally across one corner of the room, over which the ends of the strings can hang, each one numbered: Numbers are to be given each one of the guests, and each is to hunt the string that has his number on it. A sheet can be hung across this end of the room hiding everything from view until time for winding. Have some games ready to play for the amusement of guests until all have arrived. As soon as all the company gathers, the sheet can be removed and all commence hunting their numbers at once. They are told to go wherever the string leads, but they may not succeed as the strings should be through keyholes, under beds, out of doors, around the house, in at the windows, and every place where they can be put. Plenty of fun can be had if every one enters into the game and keeps it up until finished. Bananas and cake can be served at this sociable or any other light refreshments desired. CONUNDRUM TEA 1. A survivor of the flood (Ham). 2. Woman of grit (sandwich). 3. Cattle in a railroad disaster (dried beef). 4. Impertinence (apple "sass"). 5. Spring's offering (water). 6. For old maids and bachelors (pickles). 7. Tabby's party (cat sup). 8. Boston's overthrow (tea). 9. What all people need (bread and butter). 10. New England brains (baked beans). 11. Young man's sweetheart (honey). 12. An unruly member (tongue). 13. Sahara (dessert). 14. Tree cake (cocoanut cake). EXTRAS 15. Love's symbol (doughnuts). 16. What I do when I mash my finger (ice cream). 17. A mass of types (pie). _Note._--Each society can use their own judgment about the price to be charged. A certain amount may be charged for the entire supper, or each article may have a price affixed, such as two cents, four cents, three cents, and so forth. COOK BOOK SALE Every lady in the church was asked to make, from sheets of brown wrapping paper, ten paper books of uniform size, four and one-half by six inches, sewing them to confine the leaves. The paper was two cents a sheet, and five sheets would make the ten books. In each book, clear and explicit written directions for ten of the best miscellaneous recipes that she used in cooking were to be contributed by each one, the same recipes to be in the ten books furnished, and signed by the one contributing them. The ten recipes included one soup, one salad, one made-over dish, one cake recipe, one cooky recipe, two muffin or gem recipes, and three dessert recipes. One week was allowed for this work, then the books were sent where the sale was to take place. There were five hundred books in all, fifty ladies having responded to the request. In the meantime, invitations had been sent to the members of the other two churches in the town, and to the summer visitors, and the vestry-rooms were crowded the evening of the sale. The books were offered for sale at five cents each, and in less than an hour all were sold, those contributed by housekeepers famous for their cooking being in great demand, while all were of more or less interest in a town where every one is well known. After the sale of the recipes, the real sport of the entertainment began. Each lady who contributed recipes also brought a sample of cake made from the cake recipe she had given. These samples were of all sizes, wrapped in waxed paper and tagged with the maker's name. They were auctioned off without being undone, the name attached to the tag being read by the auctioneer, and much merriment was occasioned by the witty, bright way in which he drew attention not only to the cake, but to the one who made it. If desired, such an auction sale may be held without the cook book sale preceding, whole and cut cakes, cookies, doughnuts, etc, being used. As the cakes are wrapped and no one knows what he is buying, much amusement results. COOKY SOCIABLE Cut paper into pieces the shape and size of a cooky. Write a proverb on each one, then cut each paper cooky into two parts, each in a different manner, so that no two cookies will be cut alike. One set of halves is to be given to the ladies, and the other to the gentlemen. Each person present then proceeds to match the half cooky he has; when found, the proverb should read correctly. The couple who match halves eat refreshments together. It is very nice to have some one play a march on the piano while the matched partners form in line two by two and march to the supper-room. For refreshments serve all kinds, shapes, and sizes of cookies with coffee or lemonade. CORN-HUSKING BEE Late in October, when the corn has matured and been stacked in the barn, the following informal invitations may be sent out to all the neighboring young people: _You are cordially invited to a Corn Husking to be held in Martin Mattice's Barn On the evening of October the thirty-first at eight o'clock._ Previous to the evening mentioned the ears of corn are stripped from the stalks and formed into two huge piles upon the barn floor. Lanterns should be hung here and there upon the beams to give the necessary light, and stools provided for the workers. The company, on arrival, is divided equally, one half being assigned to one pile, the other half to pile number two, and the contest begins, each division striving to finish its pile first. The husks must be entirely removed from each ear, and whoever first discloses to view a red ear is considered especially fortunate, as the first red ear shown is supposed to bring good luck to its possessor. After all the ears have been husked the winner of the red ear is escorted in state to the house, where a warm fire (always an open one, if possible) and a supper are waiting. Corn Supper Decorate the walls of the room in which the supper is to be served with as much green as can be procured at this season of the year. Procure a dozen pumpkins, remove the pulp, cutting a hole at the top of the shell; cut also four stars in the sides of each pumpkin, cover with light yellow paper and place candles inside. These lanterns, being set in various convenient spots about the room and lighted just before the supper is served, shed a corn-colored glow over the room. In the centre of the table arrange a vase filled with any late autumn yellow flowers--dahlias, chrysanthemums or marigolds; place candles at each end of the table screened by yellow crepe paper shades. The refreshments may consist of egg and lemon-butter sandwiches, cornbread, chicken salad, sponge cake, gold cake, lemon ice cream and lemon water ice, cup custards, honey in the comb, lemonade and coffee. DUTCH PARTY For decorations: Holland's national colors, blue and red; Dutch flags; tulips; crepe paper in Delft designs, etc. Instead of tally cards each guest may be furnished a little wooden shoe on a Delft-blue ribbon. Tiny pretzels are slipped on the ribbon for games won, the shoe keeping them from slipping off at the other end. Large wooden shoes may be used for bonbons and nuts at the tables. For prizes: handsome steins and pipes, a pair of burnt wood Holland shoes, Delft plaques, Dutch pictures, novelties decorated with quaint Dutch figures, a poster of Queen Wilhelmina, etc. The supper table may have for its centrepiece a large blue stein with red tulips tumbling out of it. Delft china and paper napkins are appropriate, and a _menu_ of Dutch dishes: Oysters Omelet Smoked Herring Creamed Codfish or Finna Haddie in Chafing Dish Cold Meat, in very thick slices Pickled Eggs, Pickled Beets, Pickled Onions Cucumbers, Lemons and Prawns Cold Slaw Fish or Potato Salad Cheese Sandwiches Rye Bread, in very thin slices Cheese Honey Cakes Oval Cinnamon Cakes Pancakes, size of a silver quarter Coffee and Chocolate EASTER EGG HUNT An Easter egg hunt will furnish plenty of amusement for an Easter party. The nests are made of paper moss. In them are placed eggs of different varieties, some genuine hard boiled eggs, some of china or wood and some of candy. The wooden eggs should contain tiny ducks or chickens. The nests are hidden in every nook and corner of the house. The guests are then bidden to go nest hunting, and a half hour is given for the hunt. Each guest is given a little fancy basket in which to gather his eggs. The one securing the greatest number of eggs is given a prize of a large fancy egg. The baskets and eggs may be retained as souvenirs. EASTER LUNCHEON Of course, silver and glassware must be sparkling, and the white cloth spotless, or, if one wishes, luncheon scarfs and mats or doilies are equally popular, and a highly polished table is a bit less formal than the regular dinner cloth. A centrepiece of gold cloth or of any yellow silken material is effective--the edges may be quickly overcast by heavy rope silk in long and short stitch. A bunch of Easter lily sprays in a bowl or gold and white vase crown the whole. If one can arrange to have the china gold and white it is very pretty; but every hostess must consult her own china store and plan accordingly. Napkins stiffly folded at each place can hold an artificial lily, which carries in its heart a tiny candy box. These lilies can be bought at some caterer's or made at home very easily. Stiff wire--yet not so stiff as not to bend in any desired shape--can form the skeleton. The stem is made of five wires woven together, green paper being twisted over them and at the top; each separate wire is bent out to form a foundation for each white petal, made of white crepe paper, easily shaped and pasted in place. A little practice will show the amateur that this is not at all difficult. A pill box covered with gold paper can be pressed down in the heart of the lily, the top being covered with stamens made of gold paper shredded and twisted. Lilies of the same type, only larger with larger boxes having no covers, can form the bonbon boxes. These must be even more conventional, as they have no stems, resting directly on the table. The menu should be simple. When the luncheon is over and the guests have left the dining-room for the drawing-room, a new edition of the old cobweb game makes merry fun and is arranged as follows: A huge flower-pot is placed on the centre of the table, in which are planted some artificial lilies to carry out the idea, and under the flower-pot are gathered the ends of many strings, each one of which must be appropriated by a guest. These strings cross and intercross about furniture and corners of course, and give opportunities for many tête-à-têtes. Here and there some little verses may be tied if it is wished to add fun to the quest. "Do not faint, oh, maid, I beg, You shall find a golden ----" "Gather roses while you may; Gather them--the livelong day." And many another nonsense couplet to suit the company and occasion. At the end of each string must be found a candy Easter egg, or a hollow egg containing some little trinket. EASTER SOCIABLE Have printed programs sent out with the following announcement (any name can be substituted for the East End Connett Y): _An eggs-ellent plan has been adopted by the East End Connett Y, to eggs-haust the eggs-pence of sending a delegate to the State Convention. We shall hold an_ EGG SOCIAL. _The eggs-pence of admission is eggs-actly ten cents. We mean to have an eggs-ellent time. You are urged to eggs-ert yourself to come and eggs-amine for yourself. You can eggs-pect to have lots of fun at small eggs-pence. An eggs-ellent committee will wait upon you. Plenty of eggs will be served. Eggs-it at your pleasure. N. B.--Plenty of Easter Egg novelties will be sold._ A fruit-stand covered with moss and twigs, and arranged to represent a nest filled with eggs and placed upon a bed of moss should form the central decoration for the table. Around the nest four large rabbit bonbonnières should be placed, with pieces of baby ribbon of all colors fastened to their forepaws and running out to or below the edge of the table, each ribbon being strung with eggs. Between the four large rabbits four smaller ones should peer out from under the nest between the ribbons. Provide each person present with a dime, lead-pencil, and sheet of paper, upon which the following list is printed. Find upon the dime the following articles: 1. Fruit of a tropical tree. (date) 2. What the Siamese twins were. (United) 3. What a lazy man seldom gets. (ahead) 4. The division of a country. (states) 5. The cradle of liberty. (America) 6. Something a schoolboy makes. (figures) 7. An instrument to catch sound. (ear) 8. The number a miser takes care of. (one) 9. What makes the forest green. (foliage) 10. Something a bootblack likes to give. (shine) Of course the answers are not printed, but are kept by the committee for reference. A prize of one dime can be given the one with the most correct answers. Any kind of Easter novelties can be sold for a dime. For refreshments serve eggs in every form, with bread and butter and coffee, for one dime. FAIRIES' GARDEN A clever scheme for a church fair is the "Fairies' Garden," which is nothing more than the old grab-bag in a new dress. One seen recently was set up near a booth trimmed with evergreens, with a fence made of "cat-tails," planted about four inches apart, enclosing it in front. To this the people who were present flocked, and were free, on the payment of a small sum, to pull a flower or vegetable as they should see fit. Within and at the back of the inclosure was a trellis made of wire netting with the largest holes procurable, covered with vines, among which nestled pink paper roses. In each rose a small present was hidden from view. Then there was a "pond," made of a tin boiler banked with stones and moss, and filled with water, on which floated water lilies and leaves. To each lily was tied a weighted present, such as the water could not injure. A bed of real goldenrod planted in a box of sawdust, with the presents tied to the stems of the flowers and buried in the sawdust, completed the flower garden. The vegetable bed fully repaid for all the time and trouble spent upon it. It was an enclosure of four boards, filled with sawdust, the vegetables being made of paper and filled with cotton and the presents. After the vegetables and flowers were planted the beds were covered with moss. A few signs added to the effect, such as "Great South-Sea Bubble" for the cabbage bed, and "Please do not pull the cats' tails. By order of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," for the cat-tail fence. Carrots, beets, onions and cabbages answered the purpose well, being of convenient shapes and very easily made. The carrots were made on a cornucopia of stiff brown paper, in which the present was put, and then the cornucopia was covered with plain carrot-colored tissue paper, closed at the top, painted to imitate the creases in a carrot, and ornamented with a small tuft of leaves cut from green tissue paper. The beets were stuffed with cotton, in which the present was concealed, and then covered with the proper colored tissue paper. The onion bulbs were covered with crinkled cream-white tissue paper, and the tops were made of stiff white paper spills, or lamp-lighters, covered with dark green tissue paper. The cabbages were of pale green and yellow--almost cream color--crinkled tissue paper, wound around the central ball of cotton; the paper was cut and pulled out in the shape of leaves, or twisted to form the stalk. There were four little girls dressed as "flower fairies," who kept the garden in order, and helped in many ways, looking very effective in their costumes of a "morning-glory," a "daffy-down-dilly," a yellow and white "daisy," and a "wild rose." FEAST OF SEVEN TABLES This feast if well planned and carried out is most pleasing in its results. There are seven tables. These tables are set in white, with centrepieces and other decorations to carry out the color scheme. Have first table near the door, and others arranged according to the menu, which can be changed to suit the seasons. It is necessary to have two sets of waiters, the first to clear away, and the second to furnish fresh supplies. All must dress to harmonize with the colors of their tables. Serve food in small quantities and in small dishes. At the ringing of a bell seven guests are seated at the first table. At the expiration of seven minutes, the bell again rings, and those at the first table pass to the second table, and seven other guests are permitted to enter the room, and to be seated at the first table. Here is where the waiters will have to hurry and reset the tables. At the close of every seven minutes the bell rings, signaling all to pass up one table. Seven persons pass out every seven minutes, and forty-nine are fed in as many minutes. A novel idea is to charge seven cents on entering the dining-room, seven cents when through at the last table, and seven cents as they pass out the door, making twenty-one cents for each guest. They will not object after they are through with the menu at the seven tables. WINIFRED M. SIMONDS. DECORATIONS AND MENU FOR SEVEN TABLES _Decorations_ _Menu_ _White Table_ White Centrepiece Shredded Potatoes White Dishes White Bread and Butter White Napkins Cold Roast Pork White Flowers Milk _Brown Table_ Brown Centrepiece Brown Bread and Butter Brown Dishes Brown Coffee Doilies Worked in Brown Boston Baked Beans Brown Leaves Pressed Brown Pickles _Green Table_ Green Bordered Centrepiece Wafers Tied With Green Ribbon Green Flowered Dishes Lettuce Green Paper Napkins Olives Green Foliage Green Tea Pickles _Red Table_ Old Fashioned Red Table Cloth Red Cake Cranberry Sauce Red Flowered Dishes Wafers Tied With Red Ribbon Red Napkins Red Flowers _Orange Table_ Orange Bordered Centrepiece Orange Wafers Orange Paper Napkins Sliced Oranges Orange Colored Flowers Orange Cake _Yellow Table_ Yellow Centrepiece Lemon Pie Yellow Figured Dishes Cheese Yellow Paper Napkins Lemonade Yellow Flowers _Pink Table_ Pink Bordered Centrepiece Pink Cakes Pink Flowered Dishes Pink Pop-corn Pink Paper Napkins Pink Candies Pink Flowers Pink Carnation for Each Guest FEAST OF NATIONS The following is a description of a church supper which was recently given with great success: The Japanese table was decorated with chrysanthemums. At each place was a Japanese tray on which a Japanese napkin was folded in a fanciful manner. Little dishes of rice, hard-boiled eggs, cabbage chopped fine, and small cups of tea comprised the first course. The second course was a turkey dinner. The waiters were in Japanese costume. The favors were small Japanese umbrellas tied with the Japanese colors, red and white. At the Chinese table the first course was rice prepared with curry, followed by chicken pie with the usual accompaniments. Chopsticks were in evidence, though the guests were not compelled to use them. The waiters were in Chinese dress. The table was adorned with curios, and the favors were ancestral tablets in tiny boxes, tied with yellow, the national color of China. The Hindustani table was resplendent with red and yellow tulips, the colors of India. Handsome bowls of beaten brass loaned by a returned missionary ornamented the table. Four young men in the costume peculiar to India waited upon this table. The special dish was chicken with curry, and the favors were genuine Indian bracelets. Some rare old Welsh china was used on the Welsh table, and the menu cards, written in Welsh, were in the shape of Welsh hats. A Welsh flag was given as a souvenir to each guest. The Irish table was served by lassies gowned in green. The menu cards were in the form of shamrocks. "Potatoes with their jackets on" and buttermilk were the dishes characteristic of this country. The tablecloth was of bright green denim and the decorations were all of green leaves. The table representing bonnie Scotland had menu cards decorated with the thistle. Jam tarts were among the delicacies. The English table was decorated in the English colors, with the English standard as a centrepiece. Roast beef, of course, was an essential part of the dinner, supplemented by plum pudding, caraway cakes and tea. The favors were red and white roses. White-capped waitresses served at the French table which was bright with candelabra, asparagus ferns and pink ribbons. The menu cards bore the fleur-de-lis. Peas, olives and candied walnuts were distinctive dishes. The color scheme was pink and green. At the table representing Holland the girls wore Dutch peasant costumes and served coffee and chocolate, carrots with cream sauce, so commonly used among the Hollanders, sausage, rye bread and pickles, cake and gingerbread baked in fancy shapes. The German table was gay with flowers. Noodle soup, German cheese and anise cakes were added to a generous dinner. The menu cards were in the form of corn-flowers and were written in German text. The favors were pretzels. At the Italian table macaroni and fruit were the dishes. The favors were menu cards with the Italian flag painted on each. The Mexican table was decorated with palms, and a dinner very similar to one a traveler would get in that country was served. The favors were menu cards written in Spanish, to which tiny Mexican _tamales_ were attached by red and green ribbons, the Mexican colors. Dainty arbutus graced the New England table and menu cards. The repast was a bounteous Thanksgiving dinner such as New Englanders know how to provide. Baked beans and brown bread were on the menu, as were also several kinds of pie and apple-sauce. The Western table was waited upon by a boy and girl dressed as Indians with the ornaments they admire. The table was ornamented with flowers. The dinner cards showed paintings of Indian heads and the favors were little paper canoes. The cakes, fruit, etc., were served in Indian baskets. The Southern table had a menu different from all the others. Among the good things were a whole roast pig, corn bread, warm biscuit and sweet potatoes. There were colored waiters in conventional white linen suits. The favors that stood by each plate were little Dinah dolls. FISH MARKET A rustic bridge was built out from one side of the platform forming a square space in one corner of the room that was used for a fish pond. Rocks and ferns were grouped along the edge of the platform, the floor was covered with green carpet, and a pretty meadow scene painted on coarse cotton was hung at the back, making a very picturesque setting for the pond. Steps led up to the bridge, and at the foot was a rustic lodge where, on payment of a fee, the prospective fisher was given a pole and a circle of cardboard, upon which was marked the number of times he was entitled to fish. Thus equipped, he went up on the bridge and fished in the pond. Additional fishing tickets were sold by the bridgekeepers. Articles of all description and varying values were fished forth from the pond, which made it all the more exciting. Refreshments were served in the hall and there were a candy and cake table and two stalls where fancy articles were sold. One of these stalls bore the sign, Fish Market. Here fish of many brilliant colors and quaint shapes were for sale; they were blotters, shaving cases, pincushions, sachet bags, needle-books, housewives, pen-wipers, spool and veil cases, emeries, court-plaster cases and kites. They were made of inexpensive materials, but their novelty caused them to sell rapidly. The fish market was well patronized. At the other stall, pillows and lamp-shades were sold. Red linen pillows shaped like Japanese fish and worked with black attracted a great deal of attention; other pillows had poster fish swimming across them, and still others were adorned with borders of fishes and anglers' maxims. Fish lamp-shades--scarlet, yellow and delicately tinted--found a ready sale among the young people, and caused much mirth. On the cake and candy table there were many toothsome fishes--chocolate and clear candy fish, boxes of candy decorated with fishing scenes in water-color and pen and ink, sandwiches cut out with fish-shaped tin cutters, also fish-shaped cookies and small iced cakes. The tops of the large cakes were ornamented with fish designs done with contrasting colors of icing. FLAGS OF NATIONS Secure as many cards as there are to be guests, and paint or paste on each of them some five or six small flags of different nations, numbering each flag. Sometimes one can obtain small buttons with these flags on them, and these answer quite as well. It is better to have each card different, and to assort the flags, so that every card may contain some not very generally known. The United States flag might be omitted, as every one would be familiar with that; but the flag of Liberia could be used on several cards, as its resemblance to our flag would be apt to deceive many. Plates showing the various national flags in colors may be found in the front of almost any unabridged dictionary. Hand a card and a pencil to each guest. The pencil may be made quite attractive by covering it with a strip of crepe paper in some bright color. This can be easily accomplished by cutting the paper into lengths a little longer than the pencil, pasting one side, and rolling the pencil in the paper, then tying with a bow of narrow ribbon. After the guests are supplied with cards and pencils let each one write opposite the flags the names of the countries whose emblems they are. This will be found no easy matter, unless the guest should be a sailor or a globe-trotter, and many amusing guesses will be recorded. The one who succeeds in guessing the countries correctly, or in guessing nearest, might be rewarded with a United States flag pin or a pretty silk flag. For making awards the hostess should have a list of the flags that are on each card, which should be numbered, and compare the list with the guesses handed in by the company. FLORAL LOVE STORY 1. The girl's name and the color of her hair (Marigold). 2. The color of her eyes (violet). 3. Her brother's name and an adjective that just describes her (Sweet William). 4. Her brother's favorite musical instrument (trumpet). 5. At what time did he awaken his father with it (four o'clock). 6. With what did his father punish him (goldenrod). 7. What did the boy do (balsam). 8. What office in the Presbyterian Church did her father fill (elder). 9. Being a farmer, what was his occupation in spring (plantain). 10. Her lover's name and what he wrote it with (jonquil). 11. What, being single, he often lost (bachelor's buttons). 12. What confectionery he took to her (peppermint). 13. What he did when he proposed (aster). 14. What ghastly trophy did he lay at her feet (bleeding heart). 15. What did she give him in return (heartsease). 16. What did she say to him (Johnny-jump-up). 17. What flower did he cultivate (tulips). 18. To whom did she refer him (poppy). 19. What minister married them (Jack-in-the-pulpit). 20. What was wished with regard to their happiness (live-forever). 21. When he went away, what did she say to him (forget-me-not). 22. With what did she punish her children (lady's-slipper). 23. What hallowed their last years (sweet peas). FLOWER BAZAAR Six booths, if properly planned, will mean a small but picturesque bazaar. Five of these booths may represent flowers, and many of the articles sold from them may be made at home by members of the society which the sale is designed to aid. Drape the Lily booth in white, decorate it with Easter lilies and light it with fairy lamps with white shades. Little novelties for Easter gifts may be sold here--the pretty trifles which are easily made. The Violet booth may be almost self-decorative if Easter cards and dainty booklets bearing the flower are displayed. Many choice bits of verse and short paragraphs of uplifting thought may be found in the religious publications of to-day, and if these are carefully mounted on white cards and tied with violet ribbon to a bunch of the fresh flowers they will make the most cheering of Easter messages. Provision should be made at the booth for the cards to be autographed with the names of the senders. The Tulip booth may be the gayest of the gay, and there the children should find Easter eggs in all colors of the rainbow. The booth should be lighted with gay lanterns. Those in charge should appear in Oriental costumes. The choice of decorations for the Pansy booth is a wide one. Light green would make a good background to set off the bowls of different colored blossoms adorning the table. At this booth flower seeds, bulbs and plants of all kinds might be on sale. Seedlings are always ready sellers. A booth which would prove very popular with housewives would be the one where Daffodils are in evidence, and there the egg delicacies for Easter menus might be on sale: stuffed eggs, pickled eggs, egg salad, custards, and angel and sponge cakes. Over this booth place a large yellow umbrella, fringed with daffodils. On a card fastened to the handle have the familiar quotation: "Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares." Butterflies fluttering over the Candy booth, as if attracted by the sweets there, will induce others to come for the same sweets. The butterflies may be made of crepe paper and suspended above the booth by invisible wires; the vibration of the air will make them appear very real. The little maid who presides should be gowned to represent a butterfly. Care should be taken that the attendants at the different booths are dressed in colors to harmonize with the decorative scheme. FLOWER GUESSING CONTEST 1. My first wears my second on her foot. (Lady's slipper) 2. A Roman numeral. (IV-Ivy) 3. The hour before my English cousin's tea. (Four-o'clock) 4. Good marketing. (Butter and eggs) 5. A gay young man and a ferocious animal. (Dandelion) 6. My first is often sought for my second. (Marigold) 7. A young man's farewell to his sweetheart. (Forget-me-not) 8. Her reply to him. (Sweet William) 9. The gentler sex of the Friend persuasion. (Quaker ladies) 10. Its own doctor. (Self-heal) 11. My first is as sharp as needles, my second is as soft as down. (Thistledown) 12. My first is a country in Asia, my second is the name of a prominent New York family. (China Aster) 13. My first is the name of a bird, my second is worn by cavalrymen. (Larkspur) 14. A church official. (Elder) 15. A very precise lady. (Primrose) 16. A tattered songster. (Ragged Robin) 17. My first is sly but cannot wear my second. (Foxglove) 18. The color of a horse. (Sorrel) 19. A craze in Holland in the seventeenth century. (Tulip) 20. My first is an implement of war, my second is a place where money is coined. (Spearmint) 21. A disrespectful name for a physician. (Dock) 22. Fragrant letters. (Sweet peas) 23. My first is a white wood, my second is the name of a yellow Rhenish wine. (Hollyhock) 24. What the father said to the son in the morning. (Johnny-jump-up) 25. My first is a facial expression of pleasure, my second a woodsman's means of livelihood. (Smilax) 26. An animal of the jungle is my first, my second is the name of a tall, fair lady. (Tiger Lily) 27. My first is made in a dairy but is seldom served in my second. (Buttercup) 28. My first wears my second on his head. (Coxcomb) 29. A close companion. (Stick-tight) 30. A fashionable shade for evening dresses. (Heliotrope) FLOWER LUNCHEONS DAISY LUNCHEON.--Just before luncheon the hostess may crown each guest with a wreath, which she has prepared by tying the blossoms on circles of fine wire. In the centre of the luncheon-table have a large bunch of blossoms and also a few scattered carelessly over the table. Trim the edge of the table with a chain of daisies, looped up here and there. At each corner have a large bow of ribbon, either white or of three colors, yellow, green and white. Serve only light refreshments. Yellow and white ices served together would be pretty. By all means have your cakes cooked in patty-pans. Ice the little cakes with chocolate, and on top of each have a life-size daisy. Any amateur can make this decoration successfully. Boil your icing thick and squeeze it through a small funnel made of thick writing-paper in order to make the long, narrow, white petals of a daisy. Reserve a small portion of the icing and tint it bright yellow for the centres. The effect will be quite pretty. After refreshments are served supply each guest with a sheet of paper and a tiny pencil with a ribbon bow at the end (these pencils can be purchased for a cent apiece). Announce that the guest who draws the most natural daisy will be awarded a prize. Distribute the blossoms for models. Pin all of the papers upon the wall and let the guests decide which is the most lifelike flower. Award a pretty book to the one who succeeds best and a booklet of pressed flowers to the second best. BUTTERCUP LUNCHEON.--A very effective arrangement of buttercups for a luncheon is here suggested. It must be remembered that this flower closes at night and therefore is not suitable for an evening decoration. In the centre of the table arrange a circle of large rock ferns, and in the circle thus made place an inverted round pudding-dish, surrounding it with a large wreath of buttercups. Place the wreath so that half of each fern leaf will project beyond the buttercups. On the pudding-dish, the sides of which are hidden by the wreath, place a fern-dish full of growing ferns, and almost hidden among them a green glass vase filled with buttercups and grasses. This same idea may be carried out with daisies. OX-EYED DAISIES may be used for a luncheon-table decoration very effectively. In the centre of a round table, arranged to seat eight people, place a mound of daisies and mountain ferns and have a rope of daisies running from each plate to the centre. The ends of the ropes may be hidden in the mound. VIOLET LUNCHEON.--In the centre of a table stand a large cut-glass bowl on a violet embroidered centrepiece. Fill this bowl with smilax and pink carnations. In the centre of the bowl place a tall green glass vase and make it secure by passing four lengths of ribbon crossed over the top of it, fastening the ends on the edge of the centrepiece with little bows. In the green vase place eight bunches of violets. From each bouquet run violet baby-ribbons ending in a little bow at each place. This will make a number of ribbons resembling a May-pole. After the luncheon each guest may unfasten the little bow at her place, give the ribbon a jerk, and draw a bunch of violets. The ribbons passing over the top of the vase will hold the vase firmly in place. APPLE-BLOSSOM LUNCHEON.--For this use blossoms which are but half blown. Place branches of them in glass bottles full of water and fasten with wires to the backs of the pictures in the dining-room. The sideboard should be covered with great branches put in tall cut-glass vases and low silver bowls; the mantel banked, and in the corners of the room tall Japanese jars filled with great spraying branches. In the centre of the table may be placed a vase filled with pure white cherry blossoms. The candlesticks should be shaded with white and silver. Back of a screen at each end of the room a lamp may be set to give a brilliant light to the flowers on the wall, without the glare of the lamp being visible. PANSY LUNCHEON.--A pretty and an original way to decorate a table with pansies when one has quantities of these flowers is to place in the centre of the table upon a glass salver an old-fashioned glass fruit-bowl on a pedestal. Fill the fruit-bowl and salver with white cornmeal which has been well soaked in cold water, and in this insert the pansy stems. They should be placed as thickly as possible. Around the outer edge of the salver have a border of maidenhair fern. An oblong glass dish arranged in a similar manner may be placed at each end of the table. If desired little dishes arranged in the same way may also be used. "RAINY-DAY LUNCHEON."--This is certainly an original idea. Place an old umbrella frame vertically in a fernery and twist smilax around the frame and down each spoke. At the base of the fernery make a bed of violets as large around in circumference as the umbrella. At the luncheon hour hide a small lump of ice in the smilax at the end of each spoke, allowing it to melt and drip on the violets. This makes a pretty decoration for a luncheon, particularly if wild violets can be procured. FLOWER PARTY When the guests have assembled, each one is given a tiny flower-pot. These are easily made out of red paper--a long strip and a round, with the aid of the mucilage pot. In these tiny pots the following list of flowers to be guessed is tucked away: MAKE THESE HIDDEN FLOWERS SPROUT 1. An amiable man. (Sweet William) 2. The pulse of the business world. (Stocks) 3. A title for the sun. (Morning-glory) 4. A bird and a riding accessory. (Larkspur) 5. A pillar of a building and a syllable that rhymes with dine. (Columbine) 6. A flower between mountains. (Lily of the valley) 7. A farewell sentiment. (Forget-me-not) 8. A dude and an animal. (Dandelion) 9. A part of the day. (Four-o'clock) 10. The result of Cupid's arrows. (Bleeding heart) 11. The place for a kiss. (Tulips) 12. A yellow stick. (Goldenrod) 13. A product of the dairy and a drinking utensil. (Buttercup) 14. One of the Four Hundred. (Aster) 15. What Cinderella should have advertised for. (Lady's slipper) 16. A wild animal and a bit of outdoor wearing apparel. (Foxglove) The list of answers is of course kept in hand by the hostess. When the first part of the game has been played and the answers verified, a continuation of the fun is a contest of all as to who can write the best verse containing in any way whatever all the above flowers. Judges must be appointed, and, of course, prizes awarded for the verse contest as well as for the guessing game. This last contest may be omitted, if wished, but it adds fun and calls forth much ingenuity and cleverness. The prizes might be little potted plants, so many of which grace the florists' windows at this time of year; these for the women, and scarf-pins in the shape of flowers for the men. To select partners for refreshments, give to each lady a flower of a different variety; if it is impossible to secure a sufficient quantity of natural blossoms, paper ones will do quite as well, and these may be made at home. To the gentlemen hand cards bearing quotations referring to some flower, but inserting a blank where the name occurs. Each gentleman may claim his partner when he finds the flower that fits his verse. The following are a few suggestive quotations: "A (violet) by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye." "As the (sunflower) turns on her god when he sets The same look which she turn'd when he rose." "Gather ye (rosebuds) while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying." "And there is (pansies); that's for thoughts." "Pale fear oppress'd the drooping maid-- And on her cheek the (rose) began to fade." "And the blue (gentian-flower), that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last." For the supper have a salad served in little paper boxes decorated with strips of pink tissue paper cut either in narrow slashes like the chrysanthemum petals, or in broader ones to represent the rose. Ices can be obtained in many flower forms, and if to these be added real stems and leaves, the service will be as dainty and attractive as possible. FLOWERS ILLUSTRATED 1. Buttercup. 2. Daisy. 3. Sunflower. 4. Trumpet vine. 5. Lily of the valley. 6. Morning-glory. 7. Violet. 8. Dandelion. 9. Lady's-slipper. 10. Bachelor's-button. 11. Aster. 12. Tulip. 13. Goldenrod. 14. Cat-tail. 15. Sweet William. 16. Sweet peas. 17. Ragged sailor. 18. Bleeding heart. 19. Poppy. 20. Black-eyed Susan. 21. Foxglove. 22. Queen's lace handkerchief. 23. Bluebell. 24. Everlasting. 25. Marshmallow. 26. Solomon's-seal. They are illustrated in this way: 1. A cup of butter. 2. The picture of a book, cut from a magazine, having the title blotted out, and showing only the words, "by Charlotte M. Yonge" (the author of "The Daisy Chain"). 3. A colored illustration of the solar spectrum. 4. A tin trumpet. 5. A picture of a valley. 6. A card upon which is printed "6 A. M." 7. A picture of a book upon which is written, "by Julia Magruder" (author of "The Violet"). 8. The picture of a lion, to which has been added, with pen and ink, a silk hat, collar and cane. 9. A pair of slippers. 10. A variety of buttons, poorly sewed upon a piece of cloth. 11. A card upon which is written, "A well-known hotel and library." 12. Photograph of a part of a face. 13. A slender stick, gilded. 14. A picture of cats. 15. A card with the words "Dear Will." 16. A few peas in a saucer of sugar. 17. A Brownie sailor, torn and dilapidated. 18. A red paper heart. 19. The written words, "Sleep, sweet sleep." 20. A picture of a girl, the eyes having been painted black. 21. A pair of gloves. 22. A dainty handkerchief. 23. A small bell, painted blue. 24. A leather advertisement under which are the words, "Never wear out." 25. A box of marshmallows. 26. A large seal with the letter S. To the one who succeeds in finding the greatest number of flowers can be given a beautiful basket of roses. FOURTH OF JULY MUSEUM The invitations, gay with the national colors, stated that Miss Blank, in order to encourage patriotism in her native town, had made a museum collection of curios connected with noted Americans, and bade a choice selection of her fellow-townsmen to meet and view the rare objects. The booklets passed around among the guests upon their arrival were attractive enough, a tiny flag being painted in one corner of the cover, which also contained the legend: The Fourth of July Museum At Miss Blank's July the Fourth Nineteen hundred and blank. A red, white and blue ribbon held the booklet together, and at the end of this was a small white pencil. We found it best to pair off the players, for two heads are so much better than one, and it is a great satisfaction to give help to one's neighbor without fear and without reproach. Each of the booklets contained a date or an event in United States history, and the man who drew the booklet containing "1492" became the partner of the girl who held "Discovery of America." The museum specimens were arranged on tables or mounted on cards, and each one was numbered conspicuously. The following list of twenty-two names was used. It can be lengthened, or the celebrities may be otherwise represented, according to the resources of the hostess. Magazine pictures of the articles may be substituted for the real thing, to simplify preparations. Here is the list, which may be greatly extended: Paul Revere--a toy horse with rider, labeled "The Horse Travels Best by Night." Abraham Lincoln--two small darkies, labeled "All Free." Washington--a bunch of cherries, labeled "Our National Fruit." Carrie Nation--a toy hatchet, labeled "You Think You Know. Guess Again." General Grant--a chocolate cigar. Theodore Roosevelt--a doll's Rough Rider hat. Richmond Hobson--a confectioner's "kiss." Barbara Frietchie--the national flag. Theodore Thomas--a bar of music and a street-car _conductor's_ cap. Benjamin Harrison--his grandfather's hat. Mark Twain--_Two_ pencil-_marks_. P. T. Barnum--a hippopotamus, labeled "The Greatest Show on Earth." Harriet Beecher Stowe--"Uncle Tom's Cabin," represented by a toy negro cabin. Priscilla Alden--a picture of a Puritan at a spinning-wheel. Jefferson Davis--a Confederate dollar bill. William J. Bryan--a silver dollar (number _sixteen_ in the collection). Miss Stone--the _stone_ figure of a woman, labeled "Kidnapped," or a copy of Stevenson's "Kidnapped." Joseph Jefferson--a little dog, labeled "My Dog Schneider." Nathaniel Hawthorne--"The Scarlet Letter," represented by a medium-size red envelope. Eli Whitney--a cotton-gin, represented by a branch of cotton, and a bottle, labeled "Pure Holland Gin." Robert Fulton--a toy steamboat. Benjamin Franklin--a kite and a key. The national colors may be used effectively in the decorations of the rooms or of the table, and the prizes for the winners may be silk flags, photographs of historic places or other souvenirs suggestive of the day. Appropriate place-cards for a Fourth of July luncheon or dinner may be made by covering small glass bottles about the size of a firecracker with red tissue paper, and filling them with little candies. By cutting the corks even with the bottles and drawing a small piece of twine through for a fuse, a clever imitation of a cracker is made. The names of the guests may be put vertically on the bottles. GAME OF NATIONS Provide each guest with a list of questions, with spaces left for the answers. The answers consist of words ending in "N-A-T-I-O-N." Here are the questions and the answers: 1. A popular flower. 1. Carnation. 2. Unruliness. 2. Insubordination. 3. A gift for charitable purposes. 3. Donation. 4. The installation of a king. 4. Coronation. 5. Resolution, or "grit." 5. Determination. 6. The murder of an eminent person. 6. Assassination. 7. Fancy, or mental representations. 7. Imagination. 8. Making anything clear. 8. Explanation. 9. A small surgical operation legally enforced. 9. Vaccination. 10. The giving up of an office. 10. Resignation. 11. A joining or putting together. 11. Combination. 12. The choosing of a candidate. 12. Nomination. The prizes should then be awarded. A pretty silk banner will be acceptable to a man, while a big bunch of red and white carnations tied with a blue ribbon, or a pound of confectionery in a box decorated with flags and other patriotic emblems will make a pretty gift for a lady. GEOGRAPHICAL GAME Seat the players in a ring. Let the first one say aloud the name of a city, mountain, river, lake, etc., located in any part of the world; the next player give a name beginning with the final letter of the previously said name, and the third supply one beginning with the final letter of the second, and so on around the ring. Thus: America, Athens, Santiago, Ohio. Each player is allowed thirty seconds in which to think. If, by the end of that time, he has failed to supply a name, he must drop out of the game. The one who keeps up longest is the champion. Any player, at any time, may be challenged to give the geographical location of the place he has named. If, on demand, he cannot do so he must pay a forfeit. GEORGE AND MARTHA TEA The walls should be hung with red, white and blue bunting, relieved at regular intervals with shields and small hatchets made of flowers in the national colors. Have George and Martha receive the guests, and there may be also a number of men and women attired in colonial costumes to introduce strangers and see that all have a good time. Behind a bower of foliage an orchestra might play the national airs, and as the object of the evening should be to promote sociability, it would be well to have a number of interesting games in which all can join. One of these might be a list of the presidents in anagram form, written on a large blackboard; the names in parentheses, of course, are not written out, thus: 1. L m jak pokes (James K. Polk) 2. Yatch lazy roar (Zachary Taylor) 3. Lord film rill a me (Millard Fillmore) 4. Knife lancer rip (Franklin Pierce) 5. Jamb haunce ans (James Buchanan) 6. Berth your she fad (Rutherford B. Hayes) 7. C H hurt a rare set (Chester A. Arthur) 8. Jasmine in horn bar (Benjamin Harrison) 9. Willie m mink clay (William McKinley) 10. O shogging rantwee (George Washington) 11. Jam nod has (John Adams) 12. Oft John fear mess (Thomas Jefferson) 13. Mard jess moan (James Madison) 14. Jo means more (James Monroe) 15. Jay chins Quon dam (John Quincy Adams) 16. Son rack and Jew (Andrew Jackson) 17. A rum Tannin verb (Martin Van Buren) 18. Harsh iron aim will (William H. Harrison) 19. If gales mead jar (James A. Garfield) 20. Carver delve long (Grover Cleveland) 21. Man in cab or hall (Abraham Lincoln) 22. Yes glass turns (Ulysses S. Grant) 23. Holy rent J (John Tyler) At the end of half an hour present to the most successful guesser a George Washington hat of violet candy, filled with red and white bonbons. But let the main feature of the evening be a small room fashioned into a portrait-drawing studio, the lads and lassies in charge and everything about the room having an old-time look. Above the door have printed in the quaint spelling of long ago that all who wish can have a silhouette picture of themselves for only five cents, and doubtless a goodly sum will be realized, as people are always interested, not only in their own, but in their friends' physiognomy, and much fun will follow in exchanging shadow pictures. Have ready a quantity of large sheets of paper, black on one side and white on the other, also white cardboard; a sheet of paper is to be fastened to the wall, white side out, and a lighted candle placed about three feet from the paper. Then the one having his picture taken is seated between the candle and wall, so that a strongly defined profile falls upon the paper; the shadow is to be traced with a steady hand, cut out, and then pasted on the cardboard, with the black side of the paper out. An old-fashioned candelabrum, surrounded by a wreath of blue violets and red and white carnations, might grace the centre of the dining-table, and at either end tall silver candlesticks with candles burning under shades of a rosy hue might be placed. Let the bonbons be held in boxes imitating the cocked hat of the Continental Army; have sandwiches of different kinds and sorts, with tiny silk flags bearing the name of the sandwich. Besides these the eatables might consist of good old-fashioned gingerbread, crullers, doughnuts, and coffee, followed by apples and nuts. GIRLS' NAMES CONTEST 1. What an army would do if it found a river too deep to ford. (Bridget) 2. An admirable quality in a young woman. (Grace) 3. The most prominent of Easter flowers. (Lily) 4. The time for violets. (May) 5. A gem. (Pearl) 6. What papa does with the baby. (Carrie) 7. How to write a postscript. (Adaline) 8. The flower of June. (Rose) 9. What a scissors-grinder and a locomotive have in common. (Belle) 10. A virtue. (Patience) 11. An article. (Ann) 12. First steps in music. (Dora [do-re]) 13. Two consecutive letters of the alphabet in transposed order. (Effie [F-E]) 14. The night before. (Eve) 15. A little valley. (Adelle) The slips are to be collected and the one having the greatest number of correct answers may be rewarded with some inexpensive souvenir. GOLF LUNCHEON When our golfing enthusiast desires to entertain her golfing friends, she cannot do better than bid them to a luncheon set to the keynote of their favorite sport. Naturally, the table decorations will be red and green--deep red roses or scarlet geraniums laid in flat bunches upon the "fair field" of snowy cloth and encircling the dishes, caught together by "links" of smilax. Perhaps, too, pale green candles, beneath ruby-hued shades, might still further carry out the scheme of color. The table may be arranged with a "putting green" in the centre made of a square of sponge cake frosted with pistachio. A little hole should be cut in the centre. Miniature caddy bags made of red satin and filled with red geraniums and ferns are pretty decorations. A little golf ball for the "putting green" can be made by covering a preserved cherry with white icing. "Bunkers" can be made across the corners of the table by using fine wire netting. At each place a small caddy bag can hold the knives, forks, and spoons of the service, and in the bottom of the bag can be placed a "Jackson ball"--one of those hard, striped red and white, old-fashioned candies. The bread sticks and cheese straws should be fashioned like golfing sticks, and the ices be in the form of balls, small and white. Lastly, with the coffee and bonbons, are passed souvenir cards on which are daintily painted bags of golfing implements, heads of pretty girls in outing hats, or bits of rural landscape. GOLF PLAYERS' GUESSING CONTEST 1. A coachman. (Driver) 2. An oriental herb. (Tee) 3. A receptacle for the herb. (Caddie) 4. What an impudent fellow is apt to be. (Brassie) 5. A rustic expression for aimless working. (Putter) 6. A bazaar, and a color. (Fair-green) 7. The point of a pen and a lap of the tongue. (Niblic) 8. To crush and two letters. (Mashie) 9. A chance. (Hazard) 10. A large social function. (Ball) 11. A definite and an indefinite number. (Foursome) 12. Parts of a chain. (Links) 13. A bed and to mistake. (Bunker) 14. Number twenty. (Score) 15. Little pits. (Holes) The two who, within a given time, answer the most of these fifteen questions should be rewarded with appropriate prizes, as one of the handy little score books to be slipped upon the belt, containing the official score; a picture of the typical golf girl; or some volume on the popular and fascinating game. GOOD LUCK PARTY This was given by a clever maiden to a departing girl friend, but the idea could be utilized in various ways. Each invitation took the form of a cordial note which was written on white note-paper bordered with pen-and-ink sketches of horseshoes, wishbones and four-leaf clovers. Enclosed with each invitation was a guest card with the name of the person receiving it written in gilt at the top. Below this was a row of horseshoes, also done in gilt. Each guest was requested to write on this card a toast, in rhyme, to the departing friend, and to bring it to the party on the appointed evening. The decorations of the rooms upon the evening of the party were appropriate to the occasion. Horseshoes gilded or covered with tin-foil hung over the folding doors and window-curtains, and depended from the chandeliers, which were draped with festoons of ribbon ornamented with wishbones and horseshoes of all sizes cut from gilt paper. A large screen standing in front of the dining-room doors was decorated with artificial clover blossoms. In the dining-room similar decorations prevailed. In the centre of the dining-table, upon a centrepiece embroidered with the emblems of good luck, stood a candelabra bearing green and white candles. Encircling the centrepiece was a large horseshoe of cardboard covered with green paper. Outside the horseshoe outlining it were small glasses resting on green paper clover leaves. At each corner of the table was placed a plate of delicious sugar cookies baked in the shape of four-leaf clovers; each one was topped with a gilded wish-bone. The chairs were arranged around the room in the form of a horseshoe. The main feature of the evening was the hunt for four-leaf clovers. These leaves, which were cut out of green glacé paper, had been hidden by the hostess in every nook and corner of the down-stairs rooms, and much amusement was afforded the young people as they eagerly sought them. At the conclusion of a given time the signal to stop hunting was given and each guest counted the leaves he or she had found. The one having the greatest number was presented with a dainty stick-pin in the shape of a four-leaf clover. The refreshments consisted only of ginger ale and cookies, and as her guests partook of them the hostess read aloud the toasts which had been handed to her. She presented them at the conclusion of the evening to the guest of honor. Each guest was next asked to tell "the biggest piece of good luck which ever came to you." The numerous recitals given created no end of fun. When the party broke up and the good-nights were said each guest carried away as a souvenir of the occasion a bright new penny for a "luck piece." GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLING Added to the charm and mystery of having one's fortune told is the great pleasure which may be derived from having it told by a gypsy, even though she may be an amateur. An hour of amusement may be passed very delightfully in this way, provided the hostess can make the necessary arrangements with some quick-witted, bright young girl, who will be willing to take the part of the gypsy. Several days before the evening's entertainment the hostess should give her friend a list of the expected guests, with a few notes concerning their traits of character, environment, etc., and these suggestions, in addition to the knowledge of the persons which she possesses, and her own inventiveness, will give her an excellent opportunity apparently to look back in the past, and forward to the future--especially if she happen to discover that any engaged couples are to be present. The gypsy should arrive at the house of the hostess a little early on the evening of the entertainment, and be shown to an up-stairs room to don her gypsy attire. She should then descend to the dimly-lighted parlor and seat herself in readiness for the guests when they shall arrive. As the guests arrive and remove their wraps they should be received and greeted in the library or reception-room, and the hostess should then announce that a gypsy is in the parlor. Having learned in some way that there was to be a large party there, she has begged the privilege of coming in to tell fortunes for the pretty ladies, so that she might earn a few pennies. The guests repair to the dimly-lighted parlor, where the gypsy is seated. As each guest advances and seats himself, the gypsy takes the extended right hand and reads the lines--improvising as she does so in broken English. HALLOWE'EN BOX CAKE The newest fashion in Hallowe'en supper-table decoration is a cake made of white pasteboard boxes, in shape like pieces of pie, which fit together and give the appearance of a large cake. Each one of the boxes is covered with a white paper which resembles frosting. At the close of the feast the pieces are distributed, each box containing some little souvenir suitable to Hallowe'en. One box, of course, contains a ring, another a thimble, a third a piece of silver, a fourth a mitten, a fifth a fool's cap, and so on. Much fun is created as the boxes are opened, and the person who secures the ring is heartily congratulated. The unlucky individual who gets the fool's cap must wear it for the evening. HALLOWE'EN GAMES Have a card and a candle for each guest, the candles in as many different colors as possible, and one corner of each card turned down and tied with baby ribbon--one color for ladies, and another for gentlemen. On the cards have couplets written foretelling future events, such as: Who gets the candle colored red Will have long life, but never wed. If you choose the candle green You'll have the prettiest wife e'er seen. For you the kind fates have a plan Whereby you sure _will_ get a man. Let each guest take a card and a candle (if the base of the candle is warmed it will stick to the card), read the couplet aloud, then light the candle, and holding it at arm's length blow it out. If it is blown out upon the first trial the person will be married within a year; if upon the second trial, within two years, etc. Write rhymes of four or six lines on thin paper, and place in chestnut shells. Tie together with ribbon, the ladies' in one color, the gentlemen's in another. If there are personal hits in the rhymes, tie the name of the person for whom each one is intended on the outside of the shell. Hide a ring, a thimble and a penny in the room. To the one who finds the ring speedy marriage is assured; the thimble denotes a life of single blessedness; the penny promises wealth. Have one of the young ladies who knows a little palmistry be the witch of the evening. A short, bright-hued skirt, a gay plaid shawl crossed over her shoulders, a scarf bound about her head, will make a very striking costume, and, with the aid of a little paint and powder, quite an effective disguise. If she is enough acquainted with the guests to give some personal history she can produce some very "telling" fortunes. After the witch has exhausted her ingenuity as palmist, let her offer to disclose the name of the future bride or groom of each one present, by means of the fairy mirror. The room she uses should be dimly lighted. She writes the name on a mirror with French chalk, rubs it off lightly with a silk handkerchief, and calls in the person for whom the name is written. Prepare a basket of rosy cheeked apples, each with the initials of a name pricked in the skin, which names must be used in counting the apple seeds. After the supper table has been cleared of all except the decorations and candles, have a large dish filled with burning alcohol and salt brought in and placed in the centre. Seated around this ghostly fire, all other lights except the candles having been extinguished, let the guests tell stirring stories rigmarole fashion; that is, some one starting the story and stopping short at its most exciting point and letting his neighbor continue it, etc., each one trying to make it as interesting as possible. HALLOWE'EN PARTY All formality must be dispensed with on Hallowe'en. Not only will quaint customs and mystic tricks be in order, but the decorations and refreshments, and even the place of meeting, must be as strange and mystifying as possible. For the country or suburban home a roomy barn is decidedly the best accommodation that can be provided. If this is not practicable, a large attic, running the entire length of the house, is the next choice; but if this also is denied the ambitious hostess, let the kitchen be the place of meeting and of mystery, with the dining-room, cleared of its usual furniture and decorated suitably for the occasion, reserved for the refreshments. The light should be supplied only by Jack-o'-lanterns hung here and there about the kitchen, with candles in the dining-room. The decorations need not be expensive to be charming, no matter how large the room. Large vases of ferns and chrysanthemums and umbrella stands of fluffy grasses will be desirable; but if these cannot be readily obtained, quantities of gayly tinted autumn leaves will be quite as appropriate. Festoons of nuts, bunches of wheat or oats, and strings of cranberries may also help to brighten the wall decorations, and the nuts and cranberries will be useful in many odd arrangements for ornamenting the refreshment table. Have the table long enough (even if it must be extended with boards the whole length of the barn or attic) to accommodate all the guests at once. Arrange huge platters of gingerbread at each corner, with dishes of plain candies and nuts here and there, and pyramids of fruit that will be quickly demolished when the guests are grouped about the table. No formal waiting will be desirable. HALLOWE'EN SUGGESTIONS Have mirrors everywhere: big mirrors, medium-sized mirrors, and little, wee mirrors, all reflecting and multiplying countless candles that burn in candlesticks of every description (most novel are those made from long-necked gourds and tiny squashes). Across the top and down the sides of each doorway hang festoons of yellow and white corn and turn the husks back to show the firm, glistening kernels. Each window can be garlanded in like manner as well as the tops of mantels and picture frames. Clusters of red ears may depend from the chandeliers. Here and there, in the most unexpected corners, can be placed Jack-o'-lanterns, smiling or gnashing their teeth, amid great shocks of corn. The great hall and stairway can be draped with fish-nets through the meshes of which are thrust many ears of corn. A stately Jack must point the guests up the stairs where two other individuals will usher them to the dressing-rooms. Drape one doorway with a portière of apples--apples strung on strings of varying lengths. As the guests pass through, the tallest stoop for those suspended on the longest strings and the shortest reach for those on the short strings. Those who succeed in throwing three tiny apples through the horseshoe, which is hung in the midst of these apples, are assured of phenomenal luck for the ensuing year. In another doorway hang a big pear-shaped pumpkin, on whose shining surface all the letters of the alphabet have been burned with a hot poker. Keep this rapidly twirling while the guests, in turn, try to stab some letter with long meat-skewers. The letter that is hit will establish beyond question the initial letter of one's fate. Place in a tub of water red, yellow and green apples. Provide each guest with a toy bow and arrow. The young man or maiden who succeeds in firing an arrow into a red apple will be assured of good health; plenty of money is in store for those shooting arrows into yellow ones; and good luck is in store for those hitting the green ones. Blindfold each girl present and, presenting her with a wand, lead her to a table on which have been placed flags of the different men's colleges. The flag her wand happens to touch will indicate the college of her future husband. Browning nuts, popping corn, roasting apples, and toasting marshmallows will add a great deal to the pleasure of the evening. The dining-table should be draped in pale green crepe paper, the lights above being shrouded in gorgeous orange. Pumpkins of various sizes should be scooped and scraped to a hollow shell and, lined with waxed paper and filled with good things to eat, should be placed in the centre of the table. Lighted candles and quaint oriental lanterns will add greatly to the decorations. The menu should include bannocks, scones, and other Scotch dainties. If desired, droning bagpipes might accompany the feast. After listening to ghostly tales related by white-draped figures, the guests may receive all sorts of amusing souvenirs from a large pumpkin placed on a table at the door. HANDKERCHIEF BAZAAR Of all our friends, both far and near, We beg the kind attention; So please to lend us now your ear, While we a subject mention. To carry on our C. E. work, In the country and the city, We need more money very bad, And hope you'll help us with it. The committee intend to hold On a day not distant far A sale for both the young and old,-- A handkerchief bazaar. So this, then, is our plea in brief: To aid our enterprise We beg of you a handkerchief, Of any kind or size. _Please send by mail before April 5th to_ The above invitation, which should be printed on a neat card, explains itself. The details of the bazaar may be arranged as desired. HATCHET PARTY If the Hatchet Party is given at home appropriate invitations can be issued in the form of a hatchet, bearing the words in quaint letters: "_Ye Young Women's Christian Temperance Union extends ye invitation to meete ye Hatchet Familie of ye anciente tyme at ye home of Miss May Caspel, 236 Bell Avenue, on Wednesday evening, ye 22d of Februarie of ye year of our Lorde 1905, at eight of ye clock._" The decorations should conform to the spirit of the evening. A large hatchet covered with white curled tissue paper may be hung in the hall. Plaques of little red, white and blue hatchets may take the place of flowers, and in the hall or reception room there should be a little table of "Souvenirs." These should be little bronze hatchets with the letters Y. W. C. T. U. on one side. Their handles should be tied with narrow ribbon--red, white and blue--and each guest should be allowed to select his color. Thus everybody has the opportunity offered to him of becoming a member by selecting the white ribbon, and in this way everybody is compelled to "show his colors." If simple refreshments are served, let the Japanese napkins have a big hatchet gilded on them, and let there be some plates of hatchet cookies, formed by the cutter that any tinsmith will make from a pattern. Have old-fashioned candy--peppermint, wintergreen, sassafras and molasses--instead of bonbons. Play the old games--hunt the slipper, blind man's buff, hide and seek. Names for the members of the Hatchet Family who are to receive the guests: Johanna Adams Hatchet, Tomazine Jefferson Hatchet, Jamesina Madison Hatchet, Jemima Monroe Hatchet, J. Quinciana Adams Hatchet, Andrewsia Jackson Hatchet, Wilhemina Henrietta Harrison Hatchet, Johnesetta Tyler Hatchet, Marty Van Buren Hatchet, Jinny Keturah Polk Hatchet, Zacherina Taylor Hatchet, Millarella Fillmore Hatchet. Ask the girls who impersonate these characters to come in Martha Washington dress, a flowered chintz or silk overdress, opening in front to show a silk or sateen skirt of a plain color, which may be quilted if desired. The waist is made to open over a white neckerchief and has elbow sleeves. A little round mob cap of muslin or lace, with a frill, a band of ribbon around it, and a coquettish bow complete the costume. ICE FESTIVAL To step from midsummer into winter was a surprise, when the admission ticket was dropped in the box at the door on the night of the festival and its erstwhile owner passed into the hall. Small tables stood by pine and cedar trees that were covered with alum icicles and sifted over with diamond dust. Here groups of friends ate their cream and cake together, served by snow spirits in white tarletan gowns that sparkled with diamond dust, or ice fays whose white costumes glittered with glass beads. On the stage, white canton flannel and diamond dust, heavy gray wrapping paper folded into rocks, trees and a rustic bridge made a realistic representation of a snowclad landscape. The pleasing program consisted of dainty dances by children dressed as snowflakes, a pretty ball game played with snowballs, recitations and songs appropriate to the winter season. Another novelty was a tree covered with raw cotton snowballs, with numbers attached. These were sold for twenty-five cents--each purchaser choosing a number--and contained the small fancy articles usually sold at fairs--pincushions, needle-books, cups and saucers, etc. The windows were all screened and electric fans hidden by evergreens kept the hall from getting overheated. In one corner was a large pond, made of a shallow wooden tank surrounded by more gray paper rocks and white cotton snow, in which real cakes of ice were floating, and from which any one was at liberty to dip as much ice water as he cared to drink. This festival was a great success. INAUGURATION DAY LUNCH The guests at this luncheon are to represent the Vice-President and the eight members of the Cabinet, but if the hostess wishes to entertain a larger number, she can introduce one or two of the foreign Ambassadors. Give to each guest, as she arrives, a card bearing the title of one of the Cabinet, as the Secretary of State, the Attorney-General, and, if necessary, the English Ambassador. While waiting for luncheon, each one must guess the name of the man she represents, in order to know her place at the table, where only the proper names, not the titles, will be used. It will be surprising to discover how few of the members of the Cabinet are known by name to the majority of persons. Pink carnations will be appropriate for all decorations. Have a large bowl of these in the centre of the table, and at each corner lay on the cloth as a doily a spread eagle cut from gilt paper, the pattern for which can be taken from a revenue flag or a ten dollar gold piece. Make the distance from tip to tip of the wings about twelve inches, and from the head to the tail seven inches. Place upon the eagles dishes of olives, nuts, and pink candies. From the chandelier to the corners of the table have sound money festoons, which are made by cutting out of gilt paper a number of disks the size of a twenty-five cent piece. Paste these together in pairs, first laying between them a long thread which connects them through the middle and forms a chain. For favors have cards of water-color paper painted around the edges with a festoon of pink ribbon, in which, at intervals, are knotted scrolls and documentary envelopes upon which are printed some of the principles of the Republican party, such as "The Monroe doctrine reaffirmed," "Reduction of war taxes," "Allegiance to the gold standard," etc. At the top of each card write the name of the person whom each guest is to represent. In the centre of the card will be the menu, which is as follows: Post Office Soup The Army The Navy Small Shot Agricultural Salad Cabinet Pudding Ices Philippine Cakes Coffee A clear soup, with noodles for letters, fills the requirements of the Post Office. The second course is creamed sweetbreads served in small paper boxes, which stand upon large pilot crackers, or, in army language, "hard tack." A sheet of paper folded double, like an army tent, rests upon the crackers, covering the box; wooden toothpicks stuck through the sides of the tent into the paper box will prevent the former from slipping out of place, and can easily be removed after serving. On the outside of the tents paint in large, clear letters U. S. A. The crackers are to be eaten with the sweetbreads. The navy is represented by having the chicken croquettes formed in the shape of a ship, flat, and having one end pointed, the other somewhat rounding. From a druggist get two or three straws, such as are used for soda water, cut them into short lengths, and just before serving, stand two or three in each croquette to represent smokestacks. If these straws cannot be obtained, toothpick masts with paper sails will be quite as effective. The croquettes should be served with green peas--small shot--and scalloped potatoes. Agricultural or vegetable salad, served in beets, makes a most attractive looking dish. Beets of medium and uniform size are first boiled until tender, then peeled and placed on the ice. When cold cut off a slice at the bottom, so they will stand firm, scoop out the insides, leaving only thin walls. For the filling use peas and apples, celery and beets, cut into small pieces, and mixed well with mayonnaise; fill the beets, serving them on lettuce leaves. The cabinet pudding is that which is to be found in any cook book, baked in individual forms, and served with foamy sauce. The ices are in the form of horseshoes for good luck, and with them are the Philippine cakes. These are small cakes having in the centre of each a tiny black china doll, two of which can be purchased for a cent at any toy shop. These are put in after the cake is baked and before icing, leaving them just far enough out to show the arms. The "coffee which makes the politician wise," may be served at the table or after returning to the parlor. INDEPENDENCE DAY NECESSITIES 1. A powerful submarine weapon of offense. 2. A destroying element, and an accompaniment to an oyster-stew. 3. An ancient civilization, and a feeble means of light. 4. A woman's toilet necessity, and part of a wagon. 5. A color, and the means of warmth. 6. The chief implement of warfare. 7. A two-wheeled vehicle, and the peak of a house. 8. Where Nature's wealth is stored. 9. A kind of stone used in paving. 10. Bardolph's companion in King Henry IV. 11. One kind of headgear. 12. What a wise mother does not do to her baby. 13. A carnation with u instead of i. 14. A musical organization, and a long lapse of time. 15. An Irishman's name, a disorderly uprising, and an intellectual fad. The answers are held by the hostess, of course, and are only divulged after all the guesses are in. They are as follows: ANSWERS 1. Torpedoes. 2. Fire-crackers. 3. Roman candles. 4. Pinwheels. 5. Red fire. 6. Guns. 7. Cart-ridge. 8. Mines. 9. Flag. 10. Pistol. 11. Caps. 12. Rock it (Rocket). 13. Pink P(u)nk. 14. Band-ages. 15. Pat-riot-ism. INDEPENDENCE DAY MENU Soup a la Americaine (Potato) Colonial Pot Roast Baked Tomatoes Stewed Corn Butter Beans Columbia Salad, with Star-shaped Wafers Virginia Corn Bread Independence Pudding, Hard Sauce Washington Pie Election Cake Nuts Fruit Coffee INDIAN DINNER PARTY Invitations may be printed or written on birch bark or paper imitations of same, or on paper cut into the shape of tomahawks, tepees, etc., and may be hand-painted if desired. Decorations should be Indian blankets (as portières, couch covers, and mantel draperies), Indian rugs, baskets, tomahawks, bows and arrows, war clubs, chromos, colored photographs, clay or papier-mâché Indian heads, plaques and busts, etc., any of which would make suitable favors. A miniature wigwam made of blankets in an out-of-the-way corner, adds effectiveness. Footman and maids may be dressed in Indian costumes made of burlap with bright colored trimmings and fringes; or the guests may be invited _en costume_. For table decoration a skin should be placed over table cloth through the centre of the table and upon it an Indian basket filled with any red or yellow common flowers, such as marigolds or nasturtiums (red and yellow), or better still with wild flowers, red or yellow. The menu cards and name cards, of stiff ecru paper, have Indian decorations in brilliant red, green and orange; the candles are also striped in the same vivid colors and the candle holders are made of corn husks. The canoe, designed for the entree, which is the chicken, is made of heavy brown paper. MENU FOR INDIAN DINNER Squaw Soup (Bouillon) Wigwam Croquettes (Fish) Chicken a la Canoe Saddle of Mutton Choctaw Peas Apache Gravy Arrowhead Potatoes Calumet Squabs Pappoose Rolls Wickiup Salad (Romain) Prune Sioux (Feather Cream) Hiawatha Cakes Indian Punch Grasshopper Cheese Tomahawk Coffee INDOOR LAWN PARTY Our social committee, of which I was then chairman, wanted very much to have a lawn party; but the season for such things was quite over, as the evenings were too cool. However, a bright idea occurred to one of our number, and we decided to have an indoor lawn party. The Saturday afternoon before it was to take place, four of the committee took a team, went out into the woods, and secured a lot of pine boughs, autumn leaves, etc., and Monday evening, which was the evening before it occurred, we increased our force of workers, and went to the vestry to turn it, as far as possible, into an outdoor scene. We trimmed the chandeliers, posts, and every available spot with boughs, strung Japanese lanterns all across the room, made a beautiful bower in one corner for the orchestra, for which we had three pieces, a piano, a violin, and a cornet. In the opposite corner of the room we had a canvas tent where fortunes were told at five cents each (by palmistry) by one of our young lady gypsies. Hammocks were swung from the large stone posts, and a standing double swing was placed on one side of the room, where the younger people enjoyed themselves hugely. Small tables were put into odd corners of the room, where ice cream and cake were served by ten young ladies in pretty summer costumes. Lemonade was served from an old well, which was a large square box or packing case, covered with canvas, painted to represent a stone wall. To this we attached a well-sweep made from a branch of a tree, tied on a large new tin pail, and served the lemonade in small glasses at two cents a glass. During the evening we had a male quartette gather around the well and sing "The Old Oaken Bucket," and other selections. The orchestra played the whole evening with very short intermissions. On one side of the room was arranged an artistic corner where peanuts were sold at the usual price of five cents a bag. INITIAL CHARACTERISTICS 1. Popular Bishop Phillips Brooks 2. Fought Every Wine Frances E. Willard 3. Serio-Comic Samuel Clemens 4. Fearless Navigator Fridtjof Nansen 5. Won England's Greatness W. E. Gladstone 6. Little Misses' Admiration Louisa M. Alcott 7. Military Suitor Miles Standish 8. Rollicking Bard Robert Burns 9. United States General U. S. Grant 10. Moral Light Martin Luther 11. Eulogizes Antipodes Edwin Arnold 12. Tamed Ambient Electricity Thomas A. Edison 13. A Cunning Delineator A. Conan Doyle 14. Handles Christians Hall Caine 15. Rabid Iconoclast Robert Ingersoll 16. Histrionic Interpreter Henry Irving 17. Serpentine Belle Sara Bernhardt 18. Equality Benefits Edward Bellamy 19. Just Mother's Boy James M. Barrie 20. Frames Many Chronicles F. Marion Crawford 21. Lord High Celestial Li Hung Chang 22. Original, Witty, Humorous Oliver Wendell Holmes 23. Nipped Bourbonism Napoleon Bonaparte 24. Surgeon, Writer, Metrician S. Weir Mitchell 25. Intelligent Zealot Israel Zangwill 26. Collected Delectable Writings C. D. Warner 27. Curiosity Depicter Charles Dickens 28. Cuba's Benefactor Clara Barton 29. Eminently Zealous Emile Zola 30. Character Revealed Charles Reade 31. Caused Revolutionary Discussion Charles R. Darwin 32. Joyous Lark Jenny Lind 33. Fearless Nurse Florence Nightingale 34. Conspicuous Senator Charles Sumner 35. Ever Frolicsome Eugene Field 36. Suffrage Brings Advantages Susan B. Anthony 37. Pens Lyrical Dialect Paul Laurence Dunbar 38. Always Loyal Abraham Lincoln 39. Great Deed George Dewey 40. Won Recent Surrender W. R. Shafter JACK-O'-LANTERN PARTY The little guests at this particular party were invited from three o'clock until seven, and when they arrived they found the rooms were darkened. The lamps had yellow shades, and as such an occasion would not be complete without pumpkin Jack-o'-lanterns, there were "Pumpkins large and pumpkins small, Pumpkins short and pumpkins tall, Pumpkins yellow and pumpkins green, Pumpkins dull and those with sheen." They hung in every nook and corner. Even the jardinières filled with flowers were made of them. Wood was crackling and blazing in the large fireplace, as if anxious to do its part to make every one happy, and hanging from the chandelier was a branch of evergreen, with nuts suspended in such a fashion that they readily fell to the floor when given a slight shake. Before this was done, however, each child was given a paper bag to hold the nuts, which tumbled in all directions. Then a huge pasteboard pumpkin covered with yellow crinkled paper was brought in. I do not know what else it was made of; I only know that it looked like a real pumpkin. Bright-colored ribbons hung over the sides, and when the small boys and girls took turns in pulling them, out came all sorts of comical little toys and pretty knickknacks. Before supper was announced the children were given French snappers in fringed paper, in which they found either a gay cap or apron. After putting them on they marched around the parlors, out into the hall and into the dining-room, while the mother of the little girl who had planned this delightful Hallowe'en party played a marching tune for them. The greatest surprise of all awaited them in the dining-room, for the walls were covered with large branches of evergreens, making it seem like "real woods"; not a chair was in the room; the little ones were invited to seat themselves on soft cushions placed on the floor, in true picnic style, and they had the jolliest time eating their picnic supper from the yellowest of yellow gourds, which had been hollowed out, lined with Japanese napkins, and filled with just the things children like best. On top of each one was an apple--or at least they thought it was, until taking it in their hands, when it proved to be a bonbon box filled with delicious nut candy. Then there were dainty sandwiches, pop corn balls and salad in orange baskets. But better than these were the gingerbread animals; these were so natural looking that the little ones knew right away which animals were represented. After supper they played games until seven, when they went home, laden with their bags of nuts and toys and souvenir lanterns. JAPANESE CARD PARTY Invitations may be written as the natives write--up and down, instead of across, on rice paper or paper napkins; or little Japanese dolls may be sent, each clasping a note of invitation. For decorations, use Japanese draperies, cushions, bead curtains, rugs, baskets, swords, scrolls, umbrellas, vases, fans, lanterns, screens, bamboo tables and chairs, Japanese fern balls, with tiny Japanese flags and fans stuck in here and there, red, or red and white Japanese lilies, ferns combined with red and yellow ribbons, etc.; or the walls of the rooms may be entirely covered with branches of trees profusely decorated with cherry blossoms made of pink paper, representing the beautiful gardens of Tokio. Burning Japanese incense will add to the effectiveness. The playing cards used should be lacquered designs in red and yellow--Starlight, Sunlight, Storm, Japanese Lady (Congress brand), and Japanese Garden, Japanese Scenery, and Sunset (Lenox brand). For the signals a Japanese gong should be used in place of a bell. The favors may be Japanese fans, toys and novelties. For keeping score, Japanese paper fans may be had in pairs (for finding partners), and punched with a conductor's punch for games won. Or Japanese dolls may be used, punching their paper kimonos. For prizes, select Japanese incense burners, vases, cloisonné, tablewares, white metal and bronze novelties, lacquer goods, handsome fans, or embroidered kimonos. The refreshments may be served from a buffet--the guests seated Japanese fashion on floor cushions--and may include rice cakes; tea punch; tea as a beverage; "Japanese" salad, made of all kinds of vegetables, served in inverted Japanese umbrellas; cherry sherbet; Japanese nuts, etc. JAPANESE SOCIABLE The invitations to a Japanese sociable should be written as the natives write, up and down, instead of across, and have a cherry blossom or a Japanese lady in water-colors in one corner of each. The guests should be informed beforehand that each one is to tell something or read something about Japan, any little item of interest that may have been heard or read, a pretty poem or a little story. The hostess and whoever assists her in receiving should wear kimonos and have tiny fans in their hair. Seats in a Japanese corner may easily be arranged of boxes with portières thrown over them. Numerous cushions may be piled on these improvised couches and on the floor. A Japanese parasol may be hung in the corner, tilting forward to form a canopy, and the walls be hung with bead curtains. The odor from burning joss sticks will contribute to the realness of the affair. Japanese lanterns should hang about the room. After the stories have been told tiny bits of paper and pencils may be passed and each one present should write down the name of the one who did best according to her opinion. A Japanese cup and saucer are presented to the one who receives the most votes. A pretty decorative idea for a Japanese sociable is to cover entirely the walls of the room with branches of trees, with cherry blossoms made of pink paper--their color in Japan--scattered profusely over them, the scene representing the beautiful gardens of Tokio. If musicians are to be present they may be screened by a lattice covered with gold paper, and vines intertwined, while tiny incandescent lights shine through. Souvenirs may be distributed from a jinrikisha covered with the cherry blossoms. The dining-room may be readily transformed into Oriental style with very little trouble. In place of the usual tea-table have several tabourettes, each holding a teapot, cups and saucers, lemon and sugar wafers, and Japanese napkins. A cushion made of matting should be placed on the floor before each tabourette. Those who serve should be in Japanese costume. Paper cherry blossoms, fastened to tree branches, and lanterns would make effective decorations. If it is desired to have a more elaborate menu, it may be served on Japanese plates, and should consist of sandwiches folded in Japanese napkins, vegetable salad, and rice in some form. For dessert serve sherbet, calling it "cherry blossom ice," and with it have wafers. Tea and Japanese nuts may be served last to complete the Japanese idea. LITERARY CONTEST Have small tables numbered and arranged to seat four or six persons. Select for each table a judge, who will distribute the cards and blanks. These judges hold the keys to the contests, so that they may be able to mark the players correctly. Give each player a card attached to a piece of baby ribbon that may be fastened in the buttonhole. Upon these cards the number of points gained may be written, punched with a ticket punch, or marked with fancy wafers of different colors. The cards must be numbered to correspond with the tables, and as many number one cards provided as there are players at table number one, and so on. When the players are seated at the tables which correspond in number with the number upon their cards, let the judges distribute blank paper and pencils, also copies of the questions comprised in the several contests, among the players at their respective tables. A different contest must be prepared for each one of the tables. When everything is ready the hostess of the evening should tap a bell for "silence," and announce that ten minutes will be given for each contest; that at the first tap of the bell all must begin to write their answers out, numbering them according to the numbers on the questions; at the second tap the judges are to collect the answers at their respective tables and mark on each player's card the number of points made. The system of marking is as follows: Each player is given as many marks as he has answered questions correctly, and the totals are summed up at the end of the game. During the progress of the game there must be no talking nor any questions asked. At the third tap of the bell the players at table number one go to table number two, and so on, those at the last table moving up to table number one. This progression continues until all the players have had their opportunity to answer all the questions in the contests. At each change blank paper is distributed, and a bell rung as in the first instance. When the round has been completed the points are counted and the prizes awarded. A popular book makes an excellent first prize; a box of candy in the shape of a book, a second; and a "Primer," a third. The following are the various contests: CONTEST NO. 1 The charming heroine, my friends, Was known as ---- ("Alice of Old Vincennes"). She lived when Indians were a power, And not ---- ("When Knighthood was in Flower"). And in those past times, quaint and olden, She fell in love with ---- ("Eben Holden"). Then, while her friends began to marvel A rival came, named ---- ("Richard Carvel"). Each rival his keen sword did draw, And heeded not ---- ("The Reign of Law"). They slew each other, alas! and then She married a man named ---- ("Crittenden"). The merry bells rang loud in the steeple And loudly cheered ---- ("The Voice of the People"). The two rode away on a double bike And lived in ---- ("Stringtown on the Pike"). They did not gossip with each neighbor, But each one did ---- ("The Portion of Labor"). CONTEST NO. 2 _Write out the following quotations correctly:_ 1. Beauty is always a thing of joy. 2. Let us therefore get up and go to work. 3. The man who steals my pocketbook gets very little. 4. Every one who knows you, loves you. 5. Do pretty and you'll be pretty. 6. God keeps the shorn lamb from the wind. KEY 1. A thing of beauty is a joy forever. 2. Let us then be up and doing. 3. Who steals my purse steals trash. 4. None knew thee but to love thee. 5. Handsome is that handsome does. 6. God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. CONTEST NO. 3 _Heroes and heroines--in what books do they figure?_ KEY 1. John Ridd. "Lorna Doone." 2. Agnes Wakefield. "David Copperfield." 3. Pomona. "Rudder Grange." 4. Dorothea Brooke. "Middlemarch." 5. Dorothy Manners. "Richard Carvel." 6. Glory Quayle. "The Christian." CONTEST NO. 4 _Fill blank spaces with titles of popular novels_ In the little village of S---- o-- t-- P----, F---- f-- t---- M---- C----, lived the H----. P---- S----. With him resided his lovely ward, J---- M----. She was A---- O----F---- G----, and knew little of T---- W----, W---- W----. She had, however, A P---- o---- B---- E---- and G---- E----. Among her admirers were R---- C----, J---- H----, and T---- L---- M----. KEY In the little village of "Stringtown on the Pike," "Far from the Madding Crowd," lived the "Hon. Peter Sterling." With him resided his lovely ward, "Janice Meredith." She was "An Old-Fashioned Girl," and knew little of "The Wide, Wide World." She had, however, "A Pair of Blue Eyes" and "Great Expectations." Among her admirers were "Richard Carvel," "John Halifax," and "The Little Minister." CONTEST NO. 5 _Synonyms for names of literary men_ KEY 1. Severe. Sterne. 2. Strong. Hardy. 3. Sombre. Black. 4. Jeweler. Goldsmith. 5. Crossing-place. Ford. 6. Rapid. Swift. CONTEST NO. 6 _The answers to these questions are the names of authors_ KEY 1. When we leave here we go to our what? Holmes. 2. What dies only with life? Hope. 3. What does a maiden's heart crave? Lover. 4. What does an angry person often raise? Caine. 5. What should all literary people do? Reade. 6. If a young man would win what should he do? Sue. CONTEST NO. 7 _Give the name of--_ KEY The most cheerful author. Samuel Smiles. The noisiest author. Howells. The tallest author. Longfellow. The most flowery author. Hawthorne. The holiest author. Pope. The happiest author. Gay. The most amusing author. Thomas Tickell. The most fiery author. Burns. The most talkative author. Chatterton. The most distressed author. Akenside. Again, the hostess may prepare a certain number of blank cards, with the heading on each one "Who and What?" On a second lot of cards she can have pasted the pictures of some noted writers--Thackeray, Dickens, Scott, Dumas, Balzac, Tolstoi, Browning, George Eliot, Carlyle, Longfellow, Cooper, Emerson, Bryant, Holmes. The pictures of more recent writers will answer her purpose just as well. These pictures can be obtained from illustrated catalogues of books. Of these cards there should be as many as there are guests if the company be a small one, or as many cards as the hostess may desire; a dozen is a very good number. Supply each guest with one of the blank cards and a pencil and then start into circulation the cards on which are pasted the pictures of the authors. Let the guests pass the cards from one to another, and write down, according to the number on the picture-card, and opposite the corresponding number on their own, the name of each author and some book he has written. This will be found a more difficult task than one imagines, and numerous guesses will doubtless go wide of the mark. The one whose card is filled out correctly, or the nearest to it, may be presented with a copy of some late popular book, and a toy book might be used as a booby prize. LITERARY EVENING In the note of invitation each one should be requested to wear something suggestive of a book title. Upon arrival, each guest should be furnished with a card bearing the names of the entire company. When one fancies he has discovered a title, he should say nothing about it, but write the title opposite the name of the impersonator. When as much time has been given to this part of the program as has been thought desirable, the hostess calls the company to order and reads aloud a correct list of names and titles, and each corrects his card accordingly; or, still better, let the cards be exchanged, so that each must correct that of his neighbor, which will relieve the victor of the necessity of announcing his own success. The guests may represent their titles in as inexpensive or as elaborate a way as they choose. She who represents "Rose in Bloom" need only wear a full-blown rose. "Sentimental Tommy" wears a Scotch cap bearing the words "From Thrums" on the front, and, when talking, finds many opportunities of informing his questioners, "I'll find a w'y!" "The Hidden Hand" may be represented by a gentleman who carries his hand in a sling concealed from view. "A Penniless Girl" is easily represented by a girl carrying an empty purse open and suspended at her belt. "The Woman in White," "Little Red Riding Hood," and "The Scarlet Letter" are all easily represented. Three small white wings tied together with a ribbon represents very well "White Wings" by William Black. It is not desirable that the costume speak too plainly of the title selected, for the guests are expected to question one another regarding their peculiarities, and so they must be well informed as to the books they represent. An appropriate menu for a literary evening follows: MENU "And like a lobster boiled."--_Butler._ (Lobster a la Newburg.) "What first I want is daily bread."--_John Quincy Adams._ (Bread and Butter.) "You are lovely leaves."--_Herrick._ (Lettuce Salad.) "I will use the olive."--_Shakespeare._ (Olives.) "My choice would be Vanilla Ice."--_Holmes._ (Ice Cream.) "Water with berries in it."--_Anon._ (Coffee.) "Oh, that I were an almond salted!"--_Merrill._ (Salted Almonds.) LITERARY PEOPLE Write the questions on red cards and the answers on white. Have each question and answer numbered in succession. Let the gentlemen select the red and the ladies the white cards, and when the gentlemen read the questions, let the ladies read the answers. This is also a good way to match partners for refreshments. 1. What flower did Alice Cary? Pansy. 2. What did Eugene Fitch Ware? John Godfrey Saxe. 3. What does Anthony Hope? To Marietta Holley. 4. What happens when John Kendrick Bangs? Samuel Smiles. 5. Why did Helen Hunt Jackson? Because she wanted him to Dr. O. W. Holmes. 6. What did Charles Dudley Warner? Not to go into a boat and let E. P. Roe. 7. Why was Rider Haggard? Because he let Rose Terry Cooke. 8. Why is Sarah Grand? To make Ik Marvel. 9. Why is George Canning? To teach Julia Ward Howe. 10. What ailed Harriet Beecher Stowe? Bunyan. 11. What is it William Macy? How Thomas Knox. 12. When did Mary Mapes Dodge? When George W. Cutter. 13. What will turn John Locke? Francis S. Key. 14. When is Marian Evans Cross? When William Dean Howells. 15. When did Thomas Buchanan Read? Just after Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 16. What did Julia McNair Wright? Judge Joseph Story. 17. What did Eugene J. Hall? Charles Carleton Coffin. 18. What is James Warden Owen? What ten pounds of Hezekiah Butterworth. 19. Where did Henry Cabot Lodge? In Mungo Park, on Thomas Hill. 20. How long will Samuel Lover? Until Justin Windsor. 21. What gives John Howard Payne? When Robert Burns Augustus Hare. MEASURING PARTY The giving of such a party is a pleasing way of raising money for some charitable object. The invitations should read somewhat like the following: _You are cordially invited to attend a Measuring Party to be given by the East End Connett Y. W. C. T. U. at the home of the President, Mrs. Herbert B. Linscott, Monday evening, October 29th, 1905._ Below, this verse should be printed: A measuring party we give for you, 'Tis something pleasant as well as new. The invitation carries a sack, For use in bringing or sending back Five cents for every foot you're tall, Measure yourself against the wall. An extra cent for each inch you'll give, And thereby show how high you live. Then with music and song, recitation and pleasure, We will meet one and all at our party of measure. With each invitation should be sent a tiny bag made of a bit of silk or ribbon. On the night of the entertainment, these bags with the money that has been placed in them are brought by the guests and deposited in a large bowl at the door. The party then proceeds in the usual manner. Care should be taken to carry out the program suggested in the last two lines of the above verse. Much amusement may be created by having some one appointed to take various measurements of the guests attending, such as the length of the nose, size of the head, size of the hand, etc. MEDICAL SOCIABLE Procure the small glass vials used by homoeopathic physicians. On the outside of each one paste a narrow slip, on which is written the name of some trouble for which the Bible offers a remedy. On another slip write the Bible verse which gives the cure. Roll it up, and run a thread through it which is fastened to the cork. Here are some suggestions: Discouragement, Ps. 42: 5; Sadness, Ps. 16: 11; Pain, Rev. 21: 4; Doubt, Despair, Anger, Impatience, Laziness, Unruly tongue, Loneliness, Sleeplessness, Weakness, Pride, Bitterness, Covetousness. The corresponding Bible references will easily be found by using a concordance. Have one corner of the room arranged for a drug-store. Each person will receive from the "store" one bottle and the cork belonging to a different bottle. He must hunt till he has discovered the "medicine" (cork and paper) belonging to his own bottle, and has delivered the cork he holds to the proper bottle. Have papers read on the care of the body and the care of the soul, and also Bible-readings on miracles of healing. Later have some one, who has looked up the subject beforehand, read a list of some of the most interesting Scripture references to various parts of the body. These can readily be hunted out with the help of a concordance. Some of the Old Testament references will be found to be very quaint indeed. Decorate the room with mottoes, such as: "Is there no balm in Israel, is there no physician there?" MEDICAL TRUNK "In my wonderful trunk I have two very tall tropical trees (palms); something used by an artist (palette [palate]); weapons of war (arms); many wild animals, and two domestic ones (hares [hairs], calves); something worn by a king (crown); a bright garden flower (tulips [two lips]); a musical instrument (drum); two fish and many shell fish (soles, muscles); branches of trees (limbs); a student (pupil); something used in ship-building (ribs); whips without handles (lashes). a product of a spruce-tree (gum); something used by carpenters (nails); a part of a clock (hands); a large wooden box (chest); part of a wagon (tongue); something grown on a cornstalk (ears); a part of a shoe (heel); ten Spanish gentlemen (ten dons [tendons]); part of a nail (head); weather cocks (vanes [veins]); two kitchen utensils (pans [knee]); part of a knife (blade [shoulder]); edge of a saw (teeth); terms used in voting (ayes and noes [eyes and nose]); covering of an apple (skin); a certain measure (feet); something seen in accidents (blood); a part of a house (roof [of the mouth]); covers to pails (lids); something used in upholstering (tow [toe]); part of a stove-pipe (elbow); a part of a table (legs); something served with ice cream (lady fingers); a kind of deer (hart [heart]); part of a river (mouth); something used by negro minstrels (bones); best part of a goose (back); part of a ship (side); a narrow strip of land (neck); hotel steps (inn steps [insteps])." MILITARY SOCIABLE This is a form of entertainment suitable for Independence Day. "Military Checkers," played at small tables, may furnish appropriate amusement. Each table is named for some fort: "Fort Ticonderoga," "Fort Duquesne," etc. Though the players "progress" from one table to another, all their honors are counted as belonging to the fort of their first allegiance, to which table they return each time they win. The prizes may be in any form suggestive of Independence Day. An enameled pencil in the shape of a firecracker, or flag-shaped cuff-links, would do for the man's prize, and a cracker-jar for the lady's prize. The piazza should be strung with colored lanterns, which can be lighted when the guests are in the dining-room at supper. The dining-room may be simply decorated with red roses and vines, and the dining-room table in the same way, a big blue-and-white bowl in the centre of the table holding the roses. These roses should be bright red in color. Small flags serve as doilies, and the china used should be blue-and-white. The candlesticks upon the table hold white candles; the shades should be red, and streamers of blue ribbons are tied about the base of the candles, falling with graceful effect over the brightly polished candlesticks. The bonbons are placed upon the table in two small raffia baskets. Each bonbon is tied about with a band of baby-ribbon. When the supper is nearly over the baskets of bonbons are passed, one to the men and the other to the ladies. Each guest takes one candy, and it is found that no two in one basket have the same colored ribbon. Each confection in the men's basket, however, has a mate in the ladies' basket, and in this way partners are found for the old-time Virginia reel, which is danced on the piazza. As a jolly ending to the fun the men of the party set off some fireworks. MORNING GLORY FAIR At a recent church fair the flower-booth attracted special notice. It was decorated with morning glories made of crepe paper, in different colors. The flowers were profusely twined among the spruce boughs that formed the top of the booth, and were extremely effective and very natural. The flower-girls wore large hats with morning glory trimming, and were in light summer dresses. All the other tables were similarly decorated, and those in charge wore morning glories in profusion, twined in the hair and falling in graceful festoons from skirt and bodice. Morning glory tea was served from a small table, over which stood a large Japanese umbrella covered with the flowers; the cups carried out the color scheme of the flowers. Each person purchasing a cup of tea was presented with a flower as a souvenir of the occasion. MOTHER GOOSE GAME During the evening a slip of paper is handed to each guest with the name of one of the Mother Goose characters upon it. The hostess retains a list of these, and calls each in turn to repeat within the space of one minute the familiar verse relative to this character. Failing to do this a forfeit must be paid. The one who is most prompt in responding correctly may receive as a prize a goose-quill pen; and the one who fails, a copy of "Mother Goose." Just before refreshments are served the "Goose Drill" may be participated in to the time of a march, and the couples proceed to the refreshment room, where they are served with the following: 1. Shared by the walrus and carpenter. (Oysters) 2. A King's dish. (Bird pie) 3. A Queen's lunch. (Bread and honey) 4. Taffy's spoils. (Beef sandwiches) 5. The golden eggs. (Egg sandwiches) 6. Old woman's broom. (Cheese-straws) 7. What the baker made. (Rolls) 8. Sample of the pieman's ware. (Washington cake-pie) 9. Jack-a-dandy's delight. (Plum cake) 10. What the ships brought. (Apples and comfits) The numbered list of refreshments should be printed upon small cards, which may be retained as souvenirs of the occasion. The guests order what they choose. The key is retained by the hostess. MUSICAL CARD PARTY A good color scheme for this affair is brown and yellow. Invitations may be in the form of a scroll, engraved with a selection from some favorite opera, or may represent the "G" clef in brown and yellow water colors. For decorations use yellow flowers, yellow shaded lights and yellow and brown hangings. Tally cards may be painted to represent different musical instruments, such as violins, guitars, mandolins, etc.; or miniature tambourines and banjos may be used for scoring, hung by long loops of ribbon over the shoulders, and becoming before the close of the evening gayly decked with ribbons--yellow for the winners and brown for the losers. Musical quotations in halves may designate partners. For prizes, musical pictures in brown coloring, burnt wood plaques of famous musicians, a Flemish musical stein in brown and yellow, a brown leather music roll tied for the occasion with yellow streamers, musical novels, an upright piano candy box with the key board movable to show the candy inside, etc., may be used. Toy music boxes and grotesque musical instruments make amusing booby prizes. A triangle, like those for orchestral playing, may indicate progressions, instead of a bell. For a brown and yellow menu: Brown Croquettes Potato Balls Brown Breadsticks Chicken Salad, yellow Mayonnaise Orange Ice Cream, served in orange-peel baskets Chocolate Cake Chocolate Icing Chocolate and Lemon Bonbons Yellow Cheese Balls Coffee, with yellow whipped Cream MUSICAL EVENING The invitations should be sent in small imitation music rolls, and headed with a line of appropriate music. As each guest enters he receives a long, narrow strip of pasteboard, bearing a portion of some familiar song, both words and music. Each card bears a number, and the eight whose cards are numbered alike are instructed to get together and practice to sing a verse formed by the union of their eight cards. A bell calls them to order, judges are appointed, and each group sings its song, a pianist accompanying them. While the judges are preparing their verdict, a short musical program may be rendered. A bouquet of flowers may be presented to the group whose musical effort is considered the best. The bouquet may consist of eight small buttonhole bouquets, one for each member of the group. Make a list, numbering from one to twenty, of tunes that are perfectly familiar to every one. "Yankee Doodle," "America," "Annie Rooney," or any of the later popular songs, are some of the airs that are known everywhere. Number as many cards as there are guests, with twenty numbers on consecutive lines. These, with pencils, are distributed to the people as they arrive. An accomplished pianist then plays snatches of each tune, in the order that the list calls for. Just enough of the piece is played to let the melody be indicated. Each person, as the air is played, puts down against the number on the card what he thinks the tune is. At the end the cards are collected, and prizes given to the most successful. To match partners, write the notes of a bar or two of some well-known melody on the lady's card, and the balance on the gentleman's card. MUSICAL GUESSING CONTEST 1. Used on a bundle. (Chord [cord]) 2. A place of residence. (Flat) 3. A reflection on character. (Slur) 4. Bottom of a statue. (Bass [base]) 5. An unaffected person. (Natural) 6. Used in driving horses. (Lines) 7. What makes a check valid. (Signature) 8. What we breathe every day. (Air) 9. Seen on the ocean. (Swells) 10. What betrays nationality. (Accent) 11. An association of lawyers. (Bar) 12. Used in climbing. (Staff) 13. Part of a sentence. (Phrase) 14. Belonging to a fish. (Scales) 15. Used in wheeling. (Pedals) 16. A girl's name. (Grace) 17. Used in flavoring soup. (Time [Thyme]) 18. Often passed in school. (Notes) 19. Used in a store. (Counters) 20. An instrument not blunt. (Sharp) MUSICAL ROMANCE The young hostess announced that a love story of the Civil War would be related in musical numbers, and to the one who should best interpret them a prize would be awarded. All were provided with cards and pencils and a young woman seated herself at the piano. The hostess then asked "What was the heroine called?" Whereupon the familiar notes of "Sweet Marie" were heard, and it began to be understood that the names of popular airs--given with much spirit by the pianist--would furnish the answers to the questions propounded, to be recorded upon the cards. The story progressed thus: What was the hero's name? "Robin Adair." Where was he born? "Dixie." Where was she born? "On the Suwanee River." Where did they meet? "Comin' thro' the rye." At what time of day was it? "Just as the sun went down." When did he propose? "After the ball was over." What did he say? "Only one girl in this world for me." What did she say? "I'll leave my happy home for you." What did he then bid her? "A soldier's farewell." What did the band play? "The girl I left behind me." Where did he go? "Georgia." Where did he spend that night? "Tenting on the old camp ground." What did the band play when he came home? "When Johnny comes marching home." Where were they married? "Old Kentucky home." Who were the bridesmaids? "Two little girls in blue." Who furnished the music? "Whistling Rufus." Who furnished the wedding feast? "Rosie O'Grady." Where did they make their home? "On the banks of the Wabash." What was their motto? "Home, sweet home." Where did they always remain? "America." The music was a new feature, and the fact that the airs were so well known made it the more enjoyable. The advantage of the winner being so slight, the pleasure of success was the more general. * * * * * After supper the hostess said that if they were not tired of guessing she had another game to propose--a sort of fortune-telling game which would give each man present the name that his future wife should bear. It was for him to discover it. The first name was told to make the subject clear--which was that a chemist's wife should be named "Ann Eliza." Then they were told to guess the name of a civil engineer's wife (Bridget); a gambler's (Betty); a humorist's (Sally); a clergyman's (Marie); a shoemaker's (Peggy); a sexton's (Belle); a porter's (Carrie); a dancing-master's (Grace); a milliner's (Hattie); a gardener's (Flora); a judge's (Justine); a pugilist's (Mamie); a pianist's (Octavia); a life-saver's (Caroline); an upholsterer's (Sophy); an astronomer's (Stella); a doctor's (Patience); a fisherman's (Netty); a gasman's (Meta); a marksman's (Amy). Each man could judge, from his occupation, the name of his future wife. MUSICAL TERMS ILLUSTRATED Have some one play these songs: "Star Spangled Banner," "Marching through Georgia," "Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean," "Battle Hymn of the Republic," "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp," "Hail Columbia," "Home, Sweet Home," "Yankee Doodle," "When Johnnie Comes Marching Home Again," "Auld Lang Syne," "America." No titles are announced, but the guests are asked to guess the names and write them in order upon slips of paper. Following each piece of music some musical term is illustrated. These terms, with the means employed to illustrate them, are as follows: "time," some one hold up a small clock; "measure," a yardstick; "key," a door-key; "flats," two flatirons; "lines," a pair of nursery lines; "sharps," a carving set; "tie," a gentleman's tie; "bars," small clothes-bars; "staff," a cane; "a whole note," a dollar; "a half note," a half dollar; "a quarter note," a silver quarter. MUSICIANS BURIED 1. There were verd isles and tender blue of summer skies. 2. Maud Muller raked the hay, deny it not, O Judge. 3. The bell in ivy tower rings knell of passing day. 4. I arrive, King, most gracious sovereign. 5. She still wears her old smile--the sweet, modest maiden. 6. The mother of Charlie Ross in idle dreams still clasps him. 7. We berate our neighbors soundly, but excuse ourselves. 8. How famous the cherub in ideal art. 9. There will be no confab to-night. 10. If he asks your hand, Eliza, do not say nay. 11. Be brief; lo, toward life's setting sun, man hastens. 12. You've dropped a beet--ho, vender, heigh. 13. The dog spies a cat, and it makes his tail wag nervously. 14. A beau, berrying, needs a basket and a sweetheart. 15. My chop I never eat with peas. 16. You have found an egg, lucky boy. 17. Liz still improves from day to day. 18. Whoever else leaves, the Co. stays in most firms. 19. Cattle enjoy herbal feeding grounds. 20. I do not care a sou, Sarah, whether you will, or not. KEY TO MUSICIANS BURIED 1. Verdi. 2. Hayden. 3. Bellini. 4. Rive King. 5. Herold. 6. Rossini. 7. Weber. 8. Cherubini. 9. Abt. 10. Handel. 11. Flotow. 12. Beethoven. 13. Wagner. 14. Auber. 15. Chopin. 16. Gluck. 17. Lizst. 18. Costa. 19. Balfe. 20. Sousa. _Note:_--The letters composing the names of the sought-for musicians come successively together but the name may begin and end in different words. MYSTICAL DINNER MENU _Menu_ _Key_ SOUPS 1. Capital of Portugal 1. Pea 2. An imitation reptile 2. Mock Turtle FISH 3. The largest part of Sambo's feet 3. Sole 4. An express label 4. Cod GAME 5. A universal crown 5. Hare 6. Portion of a mountain range 6. Partridge 7. A tailor's tool 7. Goose 8. To shrink from danger 8. Quail ROAST MEAT 9. A genial English author 9. Lamb 10. A country of the Crescent 10. Turkey BOILED MEAT 11. One of Noah's sons 11. Ham 12. Woman's best weapon 12. Tongue VEGETABLES 13. To steal mildly 13. Cabbage 14. Complete upsets 14. Turnips 15. What successful candidates do 15. Beet 16. Two kinds of toes not found on man or beast 16. Potatoes and Tomatoes RELISHES 17. Pertaining to regions underground 17. Celery 18. Comical performances 18. Capers 19. Elevated felines 19. Catsup PUDDINGS 20. What we say to impertinent agents 20. Say go 21. Exactly perpendicular 21. Plumb 22. The mantle of winter 22. Snow 23. What the lawyer says to his clients 23. Suet PIES 24. To walk in an affected manner 24. Mince 25. A relative of the dairyman 25. Pumpkin FRUIT 26. The historian's delight 26. Dates 27. Water in motion 27. Currants 28. Small shot (plural) 28. Grapes MYSTICAL PARTY _The Y. W. C. T. U. Has cordially invited you To the Mystery Reception, Strange and weird beyond conception. At seven-thirty o'clock night fall We will welcome one and all; With solemn rites and grewsome sights, We'll meet you all on Monday night. Street and number._ All those who take part in this should arrive early and have everything in shape when the guests appear. First, each one should wrap a white sheet over her and wear a small white mask. Have all the lights turned low or have candles, and on the gas jets or candles have red paper shades to cast a red, gloomy light over everything. Have each one who takes part stand like a statue, and dispose these statues about the house in corners and in dark places. As the guests arrive have one of the white clothed figures meet them at the door, and without a word, motion them to take off their wraps, and then to enter the next room. If possible get some bones from a medical college and have skulls and cross bones all about the room. In one dark room should be skulls and pumpkins with faces cut in them and candles inside. Do not have any other light in this room. When the guests go into this room have some small pieces of ice wrapped in muslin presented to them to be felt of in the dark. All this time the statues should be quiet and remain so until all the company has arrived. Then seat all the statues at a large table with a small candle or a dish of burning alcohol in the centre and have each one tell a weird story. Have a witch in a dark room with a dish of burning alcohol and have the guests, one at a time, go in to have their fortunes told. Tricks of different kinds can be played upon the guests. The program for the mysterious company consists of a number of contests in which eyesight gives place to the sense of touch. First of all the hostess produces a book printed in the raised lettering for the blind and suggests that each guest read ten lines from it. This is no easy matter. To the contestant reading the ten lines correctly in the shortest time a prize is awarded. For the second trial of skill the guests may gather around a circular table. Beneath the table place a covered box or basket containing the most variously assorted small articles that it is possible to secure upon the spur of the moment, the more unexpected the better. No player must see the articles placed in the basket. When all is in readiness the objects are taken from the basket and passed rapidly from hand to hand below the table, ending in the hands of the hostess, and by her are placed in an empty bag provided for the purpose. Distribute pencils and ask the guests to write down as many of the objects passed under the table as they can remember. A prize should be provided for the person who hands in the fullest list of the objects. Next blindfold each guest in turn and place in his hands, one at a time, various objects, the names of which are to be guessed aloud. If curious and unfamiliar objects are selected, this will prove very amusing. NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY This is a favorite occasion for a party among young people. It should be a small party, not over twenty-four guests, and it will be the more enjoyable if informal and among those who are well acquainted with each other. There are as varied entertainments for such parties as for those at other seasons. A pretty idea is to confine the list to twelve young gentlemen and twelve young ladies. The hostess requests each couple to dress so as to represent a particular month, which she assigns them. Duck trousers, cotton neckties, and white vests are as distinctive of summer for the young men, as shirt-waists, duck skirts, and lawn are for young women, but it will take some ingenuity to devise an effect that will mark a particular month. The guests should not assemble until nine o'clock. There should be a large clock conspicuously placed in the room, and if possible an open fireplace, with a bright fire on the hearth. The first part of the time should be taken up in guessing the months, the company gathering before the open fire in a circle. As fast as one month is decided upon, the one who impersonates it rises, makes his or her bow to the company, and recites at least four original lines pertaining to that month. The more ridiculous or witty they are, the better they will be appreciated. After this comes the supper, which may be as elaborate or as simple as desired, and then a promiscuous mixing of the months will cause some merriment. Just as the clock is striking twelve, there is a knock at the door. Upon opening it, there is revealed a young man dressed as a baby, in a long white dress tied about with a sash on which is printed January 1, 19--. If properly planned, the appearance of this New Year baby will cause shouts of merriment. Hand shakings and New Year's greetings follow, and the party is over. NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS This game is played by providing each guest a paper and pencil, and having ten letters of the alphabet read to the company. These are to be copied, the guests are told to write a New Year's resolution of ten words, each beginning with one of the letters used, in the order in which they are given out. These importuned resolutions, when read, will afford much amusement. NEW YEAR'S SOCIABLE As the guests come in, each one is requested to sign his name in a note-book, and to write underneath it a New Year's resolution. An entire page should be allowed for each one, so that no one may know what his neighbor has written. Each guest should be given a card inscribed with an appropriate quotation, such as "Time and tide wait for no man." These cards are numbered. These are passed around among the company, with the explanation that each guest is to amuse the company for the length of time it takes for the sand to run in a minute glass from one end to the other (have a minute glass in room), using for the purpose of entertainment some thought suggested by the quotation on his card. One can recite a poem, another tell a story, another sing a song, and so on until every one has done his share for the amusement of the others, following in order according to the numbers on the cards. After each one has done his part the hostess announces that she will now do hers and proceeds to read each resolution that has been written in the book. The names of the writers being given, it will cause much merriment. Nut shells set sailing two by two in a basin of water may be named, one for a man, the other for a girl. If they keep together, it is an indication that the pair will be married before the year dies, but if they separate, the fate of the twain is sealed for one year. NINETEENTH CENTURY GAME In this game of guess the contestants are told that each question can be replied to with the name of a celebrity who has lived in, or whose life has extended into, the nineteenth century. Each guest is given a little tablet with his name written on every one of the pages. Two minutes are allowed to each question. The questioner sits with a big bowl before her, into which, when she calls time, each player drops a slip upon which he has written his answer. This is the list that the questioner reads, omitting, of course, the answers: Why did England so often lose her way in South Africa? (Mr. Rhodes) What did the Emperor of China do when the Empress usurped the throne? (Custer) What did Isaac watch while his father was forging a chain? (Abraham Lincoln) What is Li Hung Chang credited with being? (Schley) The lane that has no turning is a what? (Longstreet) What does a Chinese lover say when he proposes? (Dewey) What does Aguinaldo keep between himself and the Americans? (Miles) What happens when the wind blows in spiders' houses? (Webster) What did Buller unfortunately do? (Bragg) What do the waves do to a vessel wrecked near shore? (Beecher) What does a ship do to a seasick man? (Rockefeller) What did Uncle Sam do when he wanted to know whether England would let him mediate? (Astor) What is the chair-boy likely to do to the old lady he has to push on a hot day? (Wheeler) What is a novel military name for a cook? (Kitchener) What do you do when you drive a slow horse? (Polk) When do you get up to see a sunrise? (Early) When Max O'Rell gets on a platform what does he do? (Speaker Reed) What does a waiter do after he has filled half of the glasses at a table? (Fillmore) In the settlement of disputes, do the European nations quarrel? (General Lee) The towns taken by the British generally lacked the what? (Garrison) What did the Jews say when the mother of Samuel passed? (Mark Hanna) In Cairo purchases are made at a what? (Booth) NOSE AND GOGGLE PARTY To fun-loving people who enjoy the grotesque, great sport will be found in giving a Nose and Goggle Party. Here two objects will be gained: merriment and disguise. As the guests arrive, disguised as explained below, each is given a card, perforated, with ribbon run through, in order to wear the card around the neck, so that everybody can see it. The cards must have, on one side, a number by which each guest is known; on the other side, a list of figures, 1, 2, 3, etc. (as many figures as there are guests), leaving space opposite each figure for a name. In social conversation each guest is to guess who his or her entertainer is. With intimate friends, this may be done readily by familiarity with the voice; but in most cases the identification will not be easy. Each guest wears a false nose and goggles. The nose may be purchased, or made by clever fingers, of heavy cardboard covered with chamois. The noses and goggles must not be removed till after refreshments, which may be simple or elaborate as the hostess may wish. As you make your guess, place the name opposite the number on your card corresponding to the number of the person with whom you are talking; for instance, if you think you know No. 4, turn your card and write the name opposite No. 4, etc. NOTED PEOPLE Cut out pictures of noted men and women from newspapers and magazines, paste on white paper, and number each one. Provide each guest with paper and pencil, having the paper contain a list of numbers corresponding to those on the pictures. The guests are then requested to write opposite the correct number the name of the person whom each picture represents. A good idea is to have pictures pinned upon the wall, curtains, and in every convenient place about the rooms, as the guests will then be obliged to move about, and there will be no danger of wallflowers. After each one has been given plenty of time for guessing, the correct list can be read aloud by one person, each guest passing his paper to his neighbor for correction. A prize may be given to the one who has the most correct answers. In connection with this, the game of noted people can be played. Have small slips of paper with the names of noted people written upon them, and pin one of these on back of each guest; he is to guess whom he represents by means of questions put to him by other guests. This is great fun, and causes much merriment among the young people. As soon as a player guesses whom he represents a new slip can be put on his back. A prize may be given the one who guesses the most names. NUT CONUNDRUMS Before the guests arrive hide nuts all over the rooms in every nook and corner. At a given signal have the guests search for them and the one finding the most can be given a small prize. Take English walnuts, split and take out the kernel; write quotations on small slips of paper, cut in half, put one-half paper in one nut shell, the other half in another shell, gluing each shell together. During the evening give one set of half quotations to the girls, the other set to the boys and then have them hunt for their partners; when found, each pair have refreshments together. Have the following nut conundrums guessed, after which serve all kinds of mixed nuts. CONUNDRUMS 1. What nut grows nearest the sea? (Beechnut) 2. What nut grows the lowest? (Groundnut) 3. What nut is the color of a pretty girl's eyes? (Hazelnut) 4. What nut is good for naughty boys? (Hickory) 5. What nut is like an oft told tale? (Chestnut) 6. What nut grows on the Amazon? (Brazil nut) 7. What nut is like a naughty boy when sister has a beau? (Pecan) 8. What nut is like a Chinaman's eyes? (Almond) 9. What is the favorite nut in Ohio? (Buckeye) 10. What nut is like a good Jersey cow? (Butternut) 11. What is the mason's favorite nut? (Walnut) 12. What nut cannot the farmer go to town without? (Wagon nut) NUT PARTY Invitations may be slipped inside peanut or English walnut shells, glued together, and sent in a small box. The shops are showing big English walnuts, Parisian almonds and Spanish peanuts, filled with confections in imitation of the genuine nut meats, which make attractive prizes or favors. A novelty in silver represents an English walnut (exact size), "All in a nutshell," which contains powder, puff, mirror, miniature scent bottle, and pincushion; a silver peanut contains a "magic" pencil or small vinaigrette; thimble cases, bangles, tape measures, etc., come in nut designs; a small lace-trimmed handkerchief may be folded and slipped inside an English walnut shell. The diminutiveness of the prizes is emphasized if they are wrapped in a series of boxes, each one larger than the next. For finding partners, English walnuts painted and dressed in crimped tissue paper to represent different nationalities may be used, a lady and gentleman being given the same nationality. The menu served may be made up of nuts: chicken and nut salad, peanut sandwiches, salted nuts, nut candies, bisque of almonds, pecan cake, walnut wafers, coffee. OBSERVATION PARTY Place these objects tastefully on the dining-room table, each guest on entering the room being furnished with a catalogue of the subjects, supposed to be different paintings, made out so that blank spaces will be left to the right for the answers. From fifteen to twenty minutes are allowed to guess and write down the answers as fast as they are discovered. Comparing notes is hardly fair. At the end of the stated time the guests leave the room. Some one then calls out the correct answers, and the persons whose lists are the nearest correct, receive the first, second, third, and fourth prizes, the number of prizes varying according to the number of guests present. A booby prize for the one who was the least successful adds to the fun. Below is given the list of forty subjects, and also the answers. From the latter you will know what objects to collect and place upon the table. It is better not to arrange them in exact order. SUBJECTS ANSWERS Out for the Night Candle in Candlestick Departed Days Last Year's Calendar Scene in Bermuda Onions We Part to Meet Again Scissors The Reigning Favorite Umbrella Home of Burns Flatiron The Greatest Bet Ever Made Alphabet A Line from Home Clothes Line The House the Colonel Lived in Corn Cob without the Corn Cause of the American Revolution Tacks on a Letter T A Heavenly Body Dipper The Little Peacemaker Chopping-knife Spring Offering Glass of Water Bound to Rise Yeast Cake Family Jars Two Glass Jars Things that End in Smoke Cigars A Place for Reflection Hand Mirror Deer in Winter Eggs Scene in a Base Ball Game Pitcher A Drive Through the Wood Block of Wood with Nail Driven Through A Mute Choir Quire of Paper A Trophy of the Chase Brush A Rejected Beau Old Ribbon Bow A Skylight A Star Our Colored Waiter Black Tray Sweet Sixteen Sixteen Lumps of Sugar Consolation Pipe Common Sense Pennies The Black Friar Black Frying Pan Cole's Memorials of the Great Cinders The Four Seasons Mustard, Vinegar, Salt and Pepper A Morning Caller A Bell Assorted Liquors Whip, Switch and Slipper The Skipper's Home Cheese An Absorbing Subject Blotting Pad A Dancing Entertainment A Ball Bound to Shine Bottle of Shoe Blacking The Spoony Couple Two Spoons Old Fashioned Flowers Lady's Slippers Nothing But Leaves Block of Blank Writing Paper OLD-FASHIONED DINNER 1. A country in Asia Turkey 2. A color and a letter Gravy 3. Cape Cod fruit and impudence Cranberry Sauce 4. A river in Italy, an Irish woman's beverage, and "the five little pigs that went to market" Potatoes 5. A parent and cuttings Parsnips 6. Reverse and small bites Turnips 7. Time measures Beets 8. An Indian's wife and an interjection of silence Squash 9. Well or badly brought up Bread 10. A goat Butter 11. A letter Tea 12. A crowd of people in a small place Jam 13. Mixed-up type Pie 14. Two of a kind Pears 15. A receptacle for fluids and a letter Candy 16. A crow's call and a doctor's payment Coffee 17. Ancient tales Chestnuts 18. What I do to be heard Ice cream OLD-TIME COUNTRY SCHOOL (Can be used as a play.) "_The Red Schoolhouse will open for the fall term on September fifteenth. As a goodly number of pupils is desired, all receiving this are urged to search the highways and byways for others who may wish to attend. School will begin promptly at eight. As there will be a recess, all pupils should bring their dinners._ "_SOLOMON WISEACRES, Pedagogue._" The coming of school-days, usually so much dreaded by young folks, was hailed with much delight by recipients of the above notice. On the appointed evening not only were there present the members of the society, but each one, heeding the injunction regarding the highways and byways, brought with him a friend. As the teacher had also found an extra pupil, there were just twenty-four in the party. The boys wore knee-trousers and the girls short skirts and pinafores, with their hair hanging down their backs in long braids or curls. All brought with them their dinners, packed in tin pails, in imitation of their country cousins. The schoolhouse was a large new barn, the schoolroom being up-stairs in the hay-loft. Here were arranged two rows of benches, one for the girls and one for the boys; blackboards hung on the walls, and there was a plain wooden table in front for the teacher's desk. Standing behind this, the schoolmaster, birch rod in hand, and looking very wise in a pair of huge spectacles, received his pupils and registered their names in a large book before him. Among those enrolled were Alvira Sophronia Simmons, Malvina Jane Leggett, Serena Ann Wilkins, Patience Charity Gray, Nathan Bartholomew Brown, Ichabod Thompson and Abijah Larkins. Each pupil before being assigned a seat was interrogated by the teacher somewhat as follows: In what state and country were you born? Do you know your letters? How far can you count? Who was the first man? Who built the ark? And so on until the teacher had acquainted himself with the limits of his pupils' ignorance. When all were seated Teacher Wiseacres announced that school would open with singing. The pupils were thereupon thoroughly drilled in the scales and other exercises, the master severely reprimanding any who sang out of tune. The lesson concluded with songs usually sung at the club gatherings, after which a knot of blue ribbon was given the one who had sung best, and a red bow to the pupil considered second best. During the course of this lesson, and also of those that followed, there were frequent interruptions caused by the refractory behavior of some of the pupils. Serena Ann Wilkins was caught eating an apple, and was made to stand up in front with a book on her head. Malvina Jane Leggett had to stand in the corner facing the wall for giggling; while, direst disgrace of all, Abijah Larkins was obliged to sit on the girls' side for drawing a caricature of the master on the blackboard. After the singing-lesson small wooden slates (the old-fashioned kind bound in red cloth) were passed around and the following exercise in orthography given out: "It is an agreeable sight to witness the unparalleled embarrassment of a harassed peddler attempting to gauge the symmetry of a peeled onion which a sibyl has stabbed with a poniard." This task was accomplished with much puckering of eyebrows, and no one, it may be said, succeeded in writing all the words correctly. The next lesson announced was reading, for which primers were distributed. These were small books with brown-paper covers, the lessons being tongue-twisters, beginning with such familiar ones as "She sells sea-shells," "Peter Piper," etc., and ending with this one of more recent date, taken from the _Youth's Companion_: A bitter biting bittern Bit a better brother-bittern; And the bitten better bittern bit the bitter biter back. And the bitter bittern, bitten By the better bitten bittern, Said, "I'm a bitter bittern-biter bit, alack!" The class stood up in front and were made to toe the line drawn in chalk on the floor. The pupil at the head was called upon first, and read until a mistake sent him to the foot, when the one next to him took his place. The master not only continually urged his pupils to greater speed, but at the same time kept a sharp lookout, and gave many words of warning to any whose feet were out of order; and the frantic efforts of the pupils to obey instructions made the lesson one of the most laughable contests of the evening. It was continued until recess, the hour for refreshments. The dinner-pails had been given for safekeeping into the hands of the teacher. Now, when they were returned, it was discovered that the boys had received those belonging to the girls and the girls those of the boys. There was a happy correspondence in this exchange; Ichabod Thompson receiving the pail of Patience Charity Gray and she receiving his, and so on. The pupils thus paired off were to share their dinners with each other. The master, who also brought his dinner, reserved for himself the pail of the girl pupil supposed to be his favorite. There was great fun and laughter over the opening of the pails, for the aim had been not so much to bring a dainty luncheon as one that should be typical of the old-time district school. The following may be taken as a sample of the contents of one of the buckets: Bread and butter, doughnuts, apple turnover, spice-cake, cheese and one very large cucumber pickle. Apples were contributed by the teacher. Dinner over, the remainder of recess was spent in playing games. Skipping the rope was one of the pastimes, and hop-scotch, tag, and hide-and-go-seek were others. School was resumed with a geography lesson, really a game played as follows: The teacher requested one of the pupils to give a geographical name, that of a country, city, river, etc. Others were then called upon at random to give names, each of which had to begin with the last letter of the one preceding it. Thus, if the first name given were Egypt, the next one must begin with the letter T, as Texas, while the one following this would begin with S, as St. Louis. Any one who failed to respond in the time allowed--half a minute--was dropped out of the class and the question passed on. The lesson was continued until there was but one left, who received the usual decoration. The session closed with an old-fashioned spell-down, but before the class was dismissed the wearers of the ribbons were presented with prizes, these being small, daintily bound books. The others, that all might have a suitable reminder of the occasion, received book-shaped boxes of candy. This done, the bell was rung and school was closed. This school party can be played in hall or church. OLD-TIME SPELLING BEE The fact that a spelling bee is to form a part of the evening's entertainment need not be indicated upon the invitation, it being a part of the fun to catch people unawares. After the arrival of the guests the choice of a "teacher" and two leaders is effected by ballot. The two leaders then stand out at the end of the room opposite each other, and each chooses alternately one of the company at a time, to represent his side, until all have been chosen and stand in their places in two lines. The teacher, who is supplied with a book, then gives out a word to the person at the end of the line to her right. If the word is correctly spelled the next word is given out to the person at the end of the opposite side at her left. If this person fails to spell this word correctly she must immediately leave the line, and the same word is put to number two on the opposite side. If the word is correctly spelled she is privileged to choose one person from the opposite line to step over to the foot of her own line. Another word is then given to the opposite opponent, and so on down the lines. It often happens that two equally proficient spellers are pitted against each other for some time, when the contest becomes very exciting. LIMIT THE TIME OF THE BEST SPELLER It is a good plan, lest the contest become wearisome, to limit the time for the last participant. If at the end of six minutes the winner has not failed on any word given, he or she becomes director of the revels that follow, and must be implicitly obeyed for the rest of the evening. The first duty is to announce a "recess," and having been previously instructed he or she leads the way to an adjoining room, where upon a table is a pile of boxes of various shapes and kinds, neatly tied, which are distributed among the young women. After which it is announced that each box contains a small school luncheon, and that a young man accompanies each. She then proceeds to distribute the young men as she has the boxes. Each young woman then shares her luncheon with her partner. Should the box contain an apple, a sandwich and a cake these must be halved. After "recess" follow games, or music, or recitations, as the winner of the contest wills. ORANGE PARTY To emphasize the color scheme, the young hostess wore a becoming empire gown of orange-colored silk, and on her left shoulder was fastened a large rosette of orange-colored chiffon. Each guest, upon arriving, was presented with a similar rosette to wear as a compliment to the occasion. The dining-room was decorated with potted plants. Although it was an afternoon party, the blinds were drawn and the room lighted artificially. The electric lights were muffled in orange-colored cheese cloth, and produced a very charming effect. Over the centre of the table was spread a large square of orange satin overlaid with a Battenberg lunch cloth. On this stood the birthday cake, which had been baked in a fluted mold, then covered thickly with yellow icing, and was a very clever imitation of the luscious fruit it was intended to represent. The cake was surrounded by twelve small brass candlesticks, in which burned orange-colored tapers. At each end of the table was a smaller Battenberg square over satin. On each of these, resting in a bed of green leaves, was an orange of abnormal size, fashioned of papier-mâché, made in two sections, though so exactly united that the orange seemed intact. In these were the favors--small yellow bonbon boxes filled with orange conserves and tied with baby ribbon. Small glass dishes, standing on yellow tissue paper doilies that were fringed on the edges, and filled with orange puffs, orange kisses and other home-made sweets, were placed here and there on the table, and gave it a very festive air. The refreshments proper consisted of: Frozen Custard in Orange Cups Orange Jelly Whipped Cream Small Cakes Orange Icing Orangeade The birthday cake was cut by the hostess, and each maiden served to a slice. In the cake had been baked an orange seed. She who was so fortunate as to find this seed in her slice was presented with an orange spoon on which was graven the hostess's monogram, the date and year. Before leaving the table each guest was shown a small glass filled with orange seeds, and was allowed one guess as to the number it contained. The lucky guesser received a papier-mâché jewel box fashioned to represent an orange. The "booby" prize was the tiniest orange to be found in the market. ORANGE SOCIABLE In planning for an Orange Sociable use plenty of orange colored paper, and make the decorations very attractive. Make orange colored shades for gas or lamp globes, use orange colored paper napkins, make orange butterflies, and let those who serve on committee wear orange paper caps and orange colored ties. If possible use orange crepe paper for doilies and mats. Refreshments should consist of oranges, wafers tied with orange ribbon, and orangeade. For entertainment the old nursery rhymes should be used. Have slips of paper containing one line each of a rhyme such as "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe." Pass these slips to the guests and have each hunt up the ones whose rhymes match that he holds. There will be four for each group, and they will then proceed to draw a picture of what their rhyme represents. A prize may be given the group drawing the best picture, consisting of four very small colored babies lying on a bed of cotton in an orange shell, the orange shell cut in half and tied with orange ribbon. As there will be four persons in the group, one baby can be given to each of the four. PATRIOTIC PARTY Drape the room for the occasion with red, white and blue bunting. Fill tall vases with red and white carnations and deep blue larkspur. Decorate the room with banners, streamers, red, white, and blue lamp shades, large copies of the State seals, and the like. Uncle Sam and Miss Columbia should stand in the centre of the room and receive the guests as they arrive. Members of the social committee, representing in some way Cuba, Porto Rico, the Philippines, and Hawaii, should act as ushers to present each newcomer to Uncle Sam and Miss Columbia. Ask each guest to come bearing upon his garments somewhere a symbol that will hint at the name of one of the Presidents. For instance, the picture of a canoe out of which persons are tumbling may suggest "Tippecanoe" Harrison; a link of sausage or of a chain, strung on a string and hung from the neck, will hint at Lincoln. To indicate Washington a washing-board may be borne in front, while on the back is a piece of pasteboard painted to resemble a weight and marked "1 Ton." A "G. A. R." pin fastened to the picture of a meadow may represent Garfield. Give to each guest as he arrives a list of all the guests invited, and let him bestir himself to meet everybody, so as to ascertain if possible the various presidents represented, whose names when discovered he writes opposite the proper names on the list given him. These lists will be handed to an examining board, and, later in the evening, the one whose list is most complete and accurate will be adorned with a laurel wreath placed upon his head by some comic orator. This laurel wreath may be made of green paper, if you lack the real article. Questions about past ladies of the White House may also prove interesting and enjoyable. A few such follow, but many others may be formulated. What first lady of the land fled from Washington to escape the British? (Dolly Madison) What was Mrs. Lincoln's name before marriage? (Miss Mary Todd) Name three early Presidents who married widows? (Washington, Jefferson, and Madison) What early President married a New York girl? (Monroe) Whom did John Q. Adams marry? (Louisa K. Johnson, of Maryland) What President had a troubled love affair and marriage? (Jackson) What early President besides Washington married a widow called Martha? (Jefferson) PEDDLERS' PARADE One recently given by the young people of a church to raise funds for charity work was extremely well managed. Invitations were issued to members of the congregation to attend a Peddlers' Parade at eight o'clock on a certain evening, a small sum being asked for admission. The movable seats in the chapel were placed so that a wide space was left between them down the centre of the hall. At eight o'clock a march was played, and through the door at the rear came a motley procession, greeted with peals of laughter, as one after another of the figures seen on the streets and in the market, selling their wares, was recognized. A little boy, seven or eight years old, with a red felt hat, a calico shirt, and gray overalls, carried under his arm a number of newspapers; a youth, wearing on his head a cook's white paper cap, had a tray filled with crisp brown doughnuts; two little girls held baskets filled with bags of candy, and a third a tray, on which lay small bunches of flowers. A young lady dressed as a market woman wore a calico gown and a plaid woolen shawl pinned over her head; on her arm was a basket filled with bunches of celery. A young man stalked up the aisle behind her, whose costume aroused a great deal of amusement. Huge pasteboard placards hung over his shoulders, one in front and one behind; the former bore the inscription: WILLIAM THE CORN-CURER, each word occupying a line; the back: MY SALVE CURES CORNS. His head was covered by a silk hat, the crown of which was hidden under a piece of pasteboard like the placards. Then came a lad drawing a cart in which was an ice cream freezer, labeled: HOKEY POKEY, FIVE CENTS A GLASS. An Indian woman, whose wares were Indian baskets, now appeared, and a lady selling druggists' specialties came next. She held a tray containing brushes, combs, tooth brushes, sponges, hand mirrors, and various toilet accessories, and her dress was trimmed with a border of sponges. A slender girl of seventeen years impersonated a jewelry peddler and gold watches, chains, bracelets, rings and jewels of all descriptions were fastened securely to her dress and on the edge silver teaspoons were crossed as a trimming. Much amusement was created by a necktie vender, whose costume consisted of a black shirt, black cutaway coat and a gorgeous tie. On a hardware merchant's tray plebeian tin girdles shone with as undaunted a lustre as silver, while brass, steel, copper and wire kitchen utensils made a brave display. Then followed a young girl wearing round her neck a broad band of ribbon, which hung nearly to her waist, and on which, fastened so closely that they looked like a garland, were bows for the hair made of ribbons of various colors. A gypsy in brilliant apparel, and a French seller of perfumes, also gayly attired, were conspicuous in the procession, and venders of popcorn balls and peanuts lent variety to the scene. Marching through the lane left between the seats to the other end of the long room, they grouped themselves in a semicircle, and then one after another, stepping forward, offered for sale the various articles, naming their prices. PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS Find the following on a penny: 1. A messenger One cent 2. Ancient mode of punishment Stripes 3. Means of inflicting it Lash 4. Piece of armor Shield 5. Devoted young man Bow 6. South American fruit Date 7. Place of worship Temple 8. Portion of a hill Brow 9. Three weapons Arrows 10. First American settler Indian 11. Emblem of victory Wreath 12. Emblem of royalty Crown 13. One way of expressing matrimony United 14. Part of a river Mouth 15. Implements of writing Quills PHOTOGRAPH PARTY This is especially adapted for the opening or closing party of the season given by a club or society. Souvenir booklets, containing small circular snapshot photos of each member of the club,--each one mounted in the centre of a page--are given the club members. A title page, with name, date and history of the club may be added, leaving blank pages for various memoranda. The cover may be of cardboard, paper, silk or satin, in the club colors, with the club name in gold. The place cards may be miniature photographs showing pretty bits of scenery, etc., or a corner of the room in which the club meetings are usually held. A flashlight photograph of the club may be taken, which will make a pleasing memento of the occasion. PICTORIAL GEOGRAPHY You can help make an hour at a social fly so quickly that the most bashful person present will say it was only ten minutes long, by the help of cards bearing small pictures which have been cut from newspaper advertisements. For instance, Arkansas may be formed by a capital R, a sprinkling-can, and a saw; Iowa, a large I, and a picture of a grocer's scales--I-weigh; Sacramento, by a sack, "ra," a group of men, and the toe of a slipper; Belgium, by a bell and a stick-pin (Bell-gem); and so on with a host of such names as Ohio, Red Sea, Arizona, Orange, Wheeling, Waterbury, Catskill, Delaware, Montana, Potomac, Charleston, etc. PICTURE READING Picture reading is a novel amusement which is adapted to a small party only. Provide as many envelopes and short pencils as there are guests. On the outside of each envelope write the name of a guest. Place a lead-pencil and a folded sheet of unruled paper inside of each envelope. When the guests are seated, present each one with the envelope bearing his or her name. The hostess, or some other person appointed by her, then explains to the company that each one is expected to draw a picture upon the paper found within the envelope. No matter how crudely executed, each person must at least attempt to draw a picture of something, and then replace the sheet of paper in the envelope. A prophet or prophetess must be appointed, also an assistant, care being taken, however, that the former is pretty well acquainted with the different guests. The assistant collects the envelopes, keeping the names thereon carefully concealed from the prophet. He then takes from an envelope the drawing and presents it to the prophet. The latter proceeds to foretell the future life of the maker of the picture in his hand, revealing as much or as little as he pleases of the details of the picture. When he has exhausted the resources of the picture, he returns it to the assistant, who reads aloud the name on the envelope and restores both it and the picture to their owner. If properly carried out, this is a most entertaining form of amusement. PICTURES OF PROMINENT MEN If the company be musical, the pictures of celebrated musicians could be appropriately used, and in writing down the names of these it could also be required of the guests to cite some noted composition of each; or should the company be general, the pictures of men prominent in different professions--divines, orators, actors, statesmen--could be utilized in almost exactly the same manner. Should the entertainment be given in July or in March, it would be quite appropriate to have on the cards pictures of the different presidents, to be named by the guests, the dates of their respective terms in offices to be given by them. While almost any one could readily recognize a picture of Washington, Lincoln or Grant, there are other presidents whose portraits are not so familiar, and it would take a pretty good student in United States history to correctly recognize likenesses of them all, or even a dozen of the less familiar pictures of the group, much less to give the dates of their terms of office. A framed picture of one of the greatest of the presidents might be given as first prize to the person whose card is filled out correctly with all the names and dates, or comes nearest to being correctly filled. PIE PARTY The invitation to this party should be written on three-cornered papers, shaped and painted to look like pieces of pie. Have each lady bring a different kind of pie, thus securing great variety. The refreshments should consist entirely of pies and hot coffee. Have each gentleman present write a recipe for the kind of pie eaten by him, also telling how long it takes to bake it. A suitable prize can be given for the best recipe. A large pie filled with bran may contain a favor for each guest, any little articles that will not be injured in the baking being suitable. PILGRIM LUNCHEON A Pilgrim luncheon is a most delightful affair when properly carried out. The guests should be requested to dress in quaint old costumes suitable to the occasion. If the floors are scrubbed and sanded in keeping with the old-time Pilgrim interiors, so much the better. Candles in old-fashioned brass sticks will furnish sufficient light. A cheerful fire in the grate, with a kettle hanging on a crane, will add to the festivities. All the old heirlooms--spinning wheels of various sizes, andirons, candlesticks, etc.--that can be resurrected or borrowed, will be needed. Decorations consisting of strings of dried apples and bunches of field corn, can be used with good effect. Old blue and white coverlids can be used as hangings or couch covers. Homespun tablecloths and old-fashioned china will be needed in the dining-room. Only old-time dishes should enter into the menu. Below is given one: Fried Chicken Hot Rolls Boston Baked Beans Brown Bread Coffee Cucumber Pickles Plum Preserves Pumpkin Pie Cheese Doughnuts Banbury Tarts PING-PONG LUNCHEON This ping-pong luncheon deserves mention for the novelty of the idea as well as for the cleverness of the hostess in planning her menu. The table decorations consisted of two ping-pong nets stretched diagonally across the table. In the centre where the nets crossed, four racquets of white parchment with scarlet edges were placed. From these rose a bunch of asparagus ferns, and stuck amid the ferns, like big roses, were a dozen rosettes of taffeta ribbon of six different shades of red and pink. The name cards were of white cardboard cut in the shape of racquets with red edges. The menu included creamed white fish made into balls, each laid on a miniature racquet cut from thin slices of buttered bread; French chops trimmed into circular shape with the bone of each twisted with white frilled paper (forming little racquets) served with potatoes cut into little balls; balls of cream cheese served on racquets of toasted bread, with lettuce leaves; and vanilla ice-cream balls served on racquets of drop cake. At the close of the luncheon each girl took one of the rosettes and found in it a tiny silver pin in the shape of a racquet to pin upon her gown. The two who chose the same color had to meet each other in the tournament which occupied the rest of the afternoon. PING-PONG PARTY The invitations, which were written on pink paper, ran as follows: _Ping-Pong Party!_ _Polite and pretty people pressed to pleasantly play ping-pong for prizes: pens, pictures, purses or pencils._ _Patent leather pumps and pinafores positively prohibited._ _Party puts in at 8 P. M.--pulls out at pleasure._ _Program_ _1. Ping-pong partners. 2. Playing ping-pong. 3. Partaking of prepared provender. 4. Presentation of prizes. R. s. v. p. pretty promptly to Miss Ethel Thompson,_ _179 Chestnut Street._ The tournament began with mixed doubles. A pretty boutonnière was given to each guest. The men selected for their partners the girls who had flowers corresponding to theirs. After doubles were played off the singles were on, and the prizes were given at the supper-table. A charming Japanese fan, labeled "Pretty present to prevent prickly heat," was the ladies' prize; a potted plant, the men's; while some slight consolation was given the fortunate being who almost won by a wriggly paper snake, bearing on its harmless fangs the legend, "The perilous python pitilessly puts a period to pleasure." A rather unusual supper of sandwiches of thin pumpernickel, potato salad, pumpkin pie, fruit punch and popcorn was enjoyed. PIN PARTY The invitations to this were written on large sheets of paper, and the sheet was then folded up small, and pinned with a large black pin. Each guest was requested to bring a fancy stick-pin which he or she was willing to have disposed of as the hostess saw fit. On entering, these were given to the hostess, who thrust each into a small card bearing the name of the person bringing it. While her guests were removing wraps in the guest-chamber, she put these by twos (one brought by a girl and one by a man) into small jeweler's boxes. The name of the girl who brought the one pin was put into the box, but no man's name was enclosed. When the time came for supper these boxes were passed to the gentlemen, who each selected one. The name inside indicated which lady he was to take out to supper. One stick-pin went to each of the pair, and these served as souvenirs. It so happened that no man had the pin that he had brought to the entertainment, and of course no girl had hers, for she would insist that the man take the pin she had provided. As many of these pins were the quaintest ones to be found by the persons bringing them, they created not a little amusement. But we are getting ahead of our story, for before supper the time was filled in with various games. The first of these was an entertainment in which all the guests took part. A fancy tray contained as many slips of cardboard as there were guests. This was placed on the centre-table, and the hostess called upon one of the men to pick up one of these slips at random, and read what it contained. He did so and read: "The tale of a pin." The hostess then informed him that he must tell the story of a pin, and do it in two minutes. The surprise was so great that he scarcely recovered enough to begin his story before his time was up. Then he had to call on some girl, and she must take a slip, and do whatever it bade her, for the period of two minutes. And so on until all had taken part. Some of the slips read thus: Speak a piece with something in it about a pin. Name twenty-five kinds of pins. Tell a story about a girl and a pin. Give an oration on points. Give a talk on pinfeathers. Improvise a poem on "The boy and the pin." Point out the various pins you can see in this room. Tell twenty uses for a hairpin. Sew with a pin. With this was given a piece of cheese-cloth and a pin with a long thread tied to the head. Count the pins in a heap. (All sizes and kinds.) Make a pin stand on its head. Draw a picture of a pin. (Breastpin of huge pattern.) Play a game of "ring pins." This was a variation of the game of quoits or ring toss. Into a foot square piece of soft pine had been stuck twenty pins about an inch apart. The victim was given ten small brass rings, and made to stand two feet from the edge of the table, and see how many rings he could make catch over a pin. P.O.D. DINNER PARTY On the twenty-second day of February the guests were bidden to a P.O.D. (Post-Office Department) dinner party, but none guessed the meaning of the mysterious letters till they were seated at the table and found that the place-cards were unsealed envelopes stamped and directed, each one containing a tin label similar to the ones upon the sacks used in the Railway Mail Service. These had been made by a tinsmith and were only strips of tin three inches long and an inch and a half wide. The sides had been bent over slightly to form a slot to hold a narrow piece of cardboard, and a blue or a pink ribbon was drawn through a small hole punched in one end. The ladies' slips bore the names of small towns near by, while those of the gentlemen had the titles of the railroads on which the towns were situated. The table was decorated with toy trains and stagecoaches and men on horseback, all loaded with tiny mail-sacks filled with salted nuts, candies, and even little cakes. The guests had great fun guiding the various conveyances around the table and peering into the small sacks. After dinner the host stood in the dining-room door and would allow no couple to pass who were not able to show perfectly matched slides. In the parlor cards on which were written names and addresses were passed around and two minutes allowed to decipher and write them on tablets provided for the purpose, and numbered from one to twenty-five. At the tap of a bell each person passed his or her card to the one on the right, and in this way the cards made the circuit of the room in the given time. There were enough difficult ones to give an idea of the troubles which beset Uncle Sam's faithful servants when handling the mails. The first prize was a silver stamp-box, and the consolation one a small United States atlas. A boy with a mail-sack distributed packages of bonbons, the old-fashioned game of "post office" was played. POP-CORN PARTY I was much surprised and amused at a little corn-colored envelope which came with my morning mail the other day. It contained, written upon corn-colored paper, an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. Blank to be present at "A Pop-corn Party" on the following Thursday evening at eight o'clock. In the lower left-hand corner was written, "To meet Mr. C. Cobb very informally." In the dressing-room each girl was presented with an addition to her toilet in the shape of a necklace of popcorn sewed upon satin ribbon, each necklace having a distinct color. Upon entering the parlors we found all the men adorned with watch-chains to correspond. We were speedily invited into the dining-room, where a bright open fire was burning, and were told that this time the girls were to do "the popping." And they did, while ghost stories were told, songs were sung and conundrums given and guessed. As the corn was popped it was given to the hostess, who, in a corn-colored crepon gown, presently invited all the men to take partners. This they did by selecting the girls whose necklaces matched their watch-chains in color. Then we sat down to a veritable feast of popcorn at a table which had been entirely arranged in corn color, and upon which were served salted, sugared and buttered popcorn, popcorn balls, lemon jelly-cake, lemon sponge-cake, lemonade, hot and cold, lemon ice cream, lemon water ice and lemon jelly. After our delicious supper we returned to the parlor and were handed cards with pencils attached. Our hostess then rang a bell and called for order, and when order reigned she requested us to write eight nouns beginning with corn, and the name of a general beginning in the same way. In ten minutes she rang the bell again and collected the lists. The best one read, "Cornflower, cornstarch, cornice, cornet, cornea, corner, corncake, cornucopia, General Cornwallis." The maker of this list received a pretty corn-colored paper lamp shade as a prize, and the girl who only had two words on her list received the booby prize--a corn-colored paper dunce cap, which she was compelled to wear the rest of the evening. PORTRAIT GAME In this new and clever game a name card, with the numbers from one to six written upon it, a small pad of paper, and a pencil, are handed to each guest. The gentlemen are then asked to select partners for each number upon their cards, and when this is done the hostess may give the signal for the game to begin, and announce that "partners" may proceed to draw each other's faces upon the pads of paper, each gentleman depicting the charms of his _vis-à-vis_, and each lady doing likewise. At the end of five minutes a bell gives the signal for the gentlemen to seek their next partners, and again the portraiture goes on. When all the partners have been taken and all the portraits drawn, each portrait being marked with the artist's initials and a number corresponding to the number the model occupies on each card, the collection is pinned to a sheet or portière, and the guests are invited to guess whose likeness each drawing is meant to represent. The one guessing the largest number of portraits correctly is given a prize of a photograph, and the one who has made the best portrait also receives one. POVERTY PARTY The committee should take especial pains to have every one enter into this party to make it a success. When it was held at the home of the writer, the house was all torn up ready to move out the next day, so the floors were bare, the curtains were all down and everything looked very much poverty stricken. All the good furniture was moved out of the rooms, and store boxes with long boards across made the seats. Mush and milk was served in tin cups with tin spoons (borrowed for the party). A flashlight photograph was taken and every one had a thoroughly good time. YEW AIR AST TO A POVERTY PARTTY! that us fokes of thee Trinity C. E. air a-goin tu hav at the hous whare Mr. Linscott livs with his wife. It is on Alanson Strete. If yer cante finde it go to No. 36. _MONDAY NITE, MARTCH THEE TWENTY ATE_ RULS AND REGELASHUNS. Chap. One. Evry womman who kums must ware a kaliko dres and apern, ore somethin ekally apropriate. Chap. Tew. All men must ware there ole close and flannill shurts. Biled shurts and stanup dickys air prohibbitted onles there ole and rinkled. _These Ruls Will Bee Inforced to thee Leter._ ONE--A kompetunt core uf mannagers and ades will be in attendance. TEW--The hull sasiety wil interduce strangirs and luk after bashfil fellers. THREE--There is a-goin to bee lots of phun fore every boddy. FORE--Phun wil begin tu commance at haf pas seven. FIVE--Tu git into thee house yew wil have tew pay tu (2) cents. SIX--Tu git anny thing tu ete yew will haf tu pay thre (3) cents. SEVEN--Yew beter bring lots uv pennies tu pay phines with. _Kum Irly and Git a Gude Sete._ POVERTY SOCIABLE YOU ARE ASKED TO THE PARLORS OF GEN. & MRS. SILAS T. JONES _Wednesday Evening, April Twelfth._ "Come in your rags, come in your tags," but not in velvet gowns, or you will be fined the usual some, 25 sents. Read the program and all kum. REWLS AND REGERLASHUNS First. Every womin what kums must ware a Poverty dres and apern, er somethin ekelly erpropriate, an leave her poodle dorg to hum. Second. Know gent with biled shirt and dood koller will be aloud to kum onless he pays a fine of 5 sents. Third. A kompitent komitty will intruduse strangers an look after bashful fellers. VITTLES Koffy, 5 sents Ginger Kake, 5 sents KUM AT KANDLE LIGHTIN AN STAY TIL BEDTIME NO OBSTREPROUS ER BAD BOYS PERMITTED PRESIDENTIAL COUPLETS 1. Who first at Washington did pledge The nation's weal to guard and hedge? 2. Which President, most grave and wary, Was called "Old Public Functionary"? 3. Whose phaeton, made from ship of state, Conveyed him to inaugural fête? 4. What President, renowned for spleen, Joined the Continentals when fourteen? 5. Who in his New York home did take The oath which doth a President make? 6. Who to his inaugural hied His good and faithful horse astride? 7. When death first made vacant a President's chair, What Vice-President succeeded there? 8. Who to his inaugural came disguised, For fear of mischief ill-advised? 9. Who was wounded in Trenton town When Washington put the Hessians down? 10. Who President again became Just four year after resigning the name? 11. What President served but thirty days Ere death dissolved his term of praise? 12. What President, son of a President, Was known as "The Old Man Eloquent"? 13. Because March fourth on Sunday came, Who, for one day, deferred their claim? 14. Who, when his oath of office he took, Was known as "The Wizard of Kinderhook"? 15. Who, after his inaugural vow, Turned round to kiss his mother's brow? 16. The initials of what President's name Stand for a phrase which made his fame? 17. Who in the Quaker City neat Their oaths of office did repeat? 18. Which Chief Magistrate was styled "The American Fabius" of the wild? 19. "Novanglus" was the pen-name signed By what President of cultured mind? 20. Who only as President and Commander-in-Chief Has stood on the battle-field planning relief? 1. Thomas Jefferson. 2. James Buchanan. 3. Martin Van Buren. 4. Andrew Jackson. 5. Chester A. Arthur. 6. Thomas Jefferson. 7. John Tyler. 8. Abraham Lincoln. 9. James Monroe. 10. Grover Cleveland, 11. William Henry Harrison. 12. John Quincy Adams. 13. James Monroe, Rutherford B. Hayes, Zachary Taylor. 14. Martin Van Buren. 15. James A. Garfield. 16. U. S. (Unconditional Surrender) Grant. 17. John Adams, George Washington. 18. George Washington. 19. John Adams. 20. Abraham Lincoln. PRESIDENTIAL QUESTIONS What President had a son who became President? John Adams. What President died with the now famous words: "This is the last of earth. I am content"? John Q. Adams. Who was the fifteenth President of the United States? Buchanan. What Vice-President became President by the death of Taylor? Fillmore. By the death of Garfield? Arthur. What President fought the last battle of the War of 1812? Jackson. During the administration of what President did the Louisiana purchase and Burr's treason occur? Jefferson's. Under what President was the War of 1812 begun? Madison. What President outlined a famous foreign policy? Monroe. What two Presidents died the same day? Adams and Jefferson. What three Presidents were assassinated? Lincoln, Garfield, and McKinley. What Presidents served as generals in the Mexican war? Taylor and Pierce. During what administration did the annexation of Texas and the Mexican war take place? Polk's. PRESIDENTS' NICKNAMES Let the nicknames of our Presidents form the subject of a guessing contest. These should be written one at a time upon a blackboard and numbered. One minute is allowed in which to guess and write down the name of the Executive to whom the title was applied. The list of nicknames is as follows: Rail-splitter of the West? (Lincoln) Hero of New Orleans? (Jackson) Old Man Eloquent? (J. Q. Adams) Canal Boy? (Garfield) Northern Man with Southern Principles? (Buchanan) Tippecanoe? (W. H. Harrison) Honest Abe? (Lincoln) Rough and Ready? (Taylor) Let the best list of answers be awarded a prize. PUSSY WILLOW PARTY Especially appropriate ideas for an evening's entertainment to be given the last of March or the first of April are suggested by the pussy willow. The invitations sent out to the invited friends can be written on cards brown-tinted like the bark of the trees, and can be very artistically decorated with the furry blooms, or with paintings of them. Trim the parlor with pussy willows by filling vases, pitchers, and bowls. Place the catkins about the room and suspend branches of them from gas jets and about the windows. The hostess can adorn herself very prettily with these blooms by making wreaths for the neck and hair, and by pinning branches of them on the skirt in some design. For entertainment, pin against the wall at one end of the room a sheet upon which is sketched a large pussy willow stalk. Distribute paper catkins among the guests, who, blindfolded, try in turn, to pin them on the stalk. This affords a great deal of amusement. Those who succeed in pinning their catkins upon the stalk receive prizes, given according to the success of the contestants. These prizes are in the shape of favors appropriately fashioned from the fluffy little pussies. For further amusement, have cards distributed on which each person is asked to write favorite quotations or original rhymes beginning with each letter contained in the compound word "pussy-willow." These are read in turn, and many gems are brought fresh to each one's mind. One could also introduce a pussy willow hunt, as another pastime. For the dining-room decoration use more pussy willows. A pussy willow centrepiece would carry out the idea nicely, and add to the attractiveness of the table. Brown and silvery green are suggestive colors for further decorations, and may be used on the menu cards, making them simple but appropriate souvenirs. RED, WHITE AND BLUE LUNCHEON The entire color scheme of this Fourth of July luncheon must be worked out in the national colors; as far as possible the doilies used should be designed in star-shaped patterns, with a border in wash silks of interwoven red carnations and blue corn-flowers. Suspended directly over the centre of the table, a huge liberty bell should be hung, composed of red and white carnations and blue corn-flowers. Depending therefrom should be ropes of red, white and blue ribbon, terminating at the four corners of the table. The luncheon to be served should be as far as possible in the prevailing colors, the ices might be in firecracker form, and the starry banner should appear wherever it can be introduced. Draperies and pictures indicative of the occasion should be placed in conspicuous places, and do not forget a goodly supply of pyrotechnics to conclude the day. Such a luncheon will certainly commend itself to all, and most particularly to the younger element. Write the following verses on cards and pass around among the guests after they have left the table. Have each verse read aloud previous to the performance: 1. Though puzzles do our minds distress, We'd like two good ones now to guess. 2. We'd like to hear you tell to-day, Some funny things that children say. 3. Describe some woman in the town, Her nose and hair, her dress and gown; But do not give us her address, Nor tell her name, and we will guess. 4. We'd like a story full of fun; You're gifted, Lyman, tell us one 5. Misery likes company, they say; We'd like to hear you tell to-day (Don't hesitate, but now begin) Of the worst scrape you e'er were in. 6. Your talent gives as much delight; We wish that you would please recite. 7. Your part in this program to help us along Will give us much pleasure; please sing us a song. 8. If music hath charms, we wish that to-day You'd prove it, and something quite charming would play. 9. Tell some joke on yourself, your wife, or your friend. But we hope that you'll have it pleasantly end. 10. Describe some trip you've taken far, To Mexico, Europe, or Zanzibar. 11. Give a tale of old time when settlers were few, Of what they had then and what they did do. 12. Describe some famous picture, Whether dark or fair. Please tell us all about it, And the artist rare. 13. Without a bit of gossip sweet, This program would not be complete. Be sure that while the seasons roll, This crowd will _never tell_ a soul. "RILEY" ENTERTAINMENT A "Riley" party was recently held by one of our church charity organizations. It proved a decidedly unique affair and quite a profitable one also. The decorations of the church parlors consisted mainly of paper, which was most artistically entwined about pillar, post and picture. A large picture of James Whitcomb Riley was placed upon the wall facing the entrance, and over it in pasteboard letters, "When the frost is on the pumpkin, And the fodder's in the shock." Almost all the young people who had gotten up the entertainment were dressed to represent Riley's characters, and several of the most important presided over the booths. At one, which was literally covered with paper flowers, "'Lizabeth Ann, she can cook best things to eat," sold cakes and pies. At another Riley's poems and photographs were sold, and at still another "The raggedy man! He works for pa," knocked down apples from an improvised apple-tree as fast as he could sell them. And among the purchasers were "Little Orphant Annie," "Max and Jim," "Pa and ma and me, all three," and many others. While all were busy buying and tasting the good things, "the old band" marched in. "Somehow--anyway I want to hear the old band play Sich tunes as 'John Brown's body,' and 'Sweet Alice,' don't you know? And 'The camels is a-comin'' and 'John Anderson, my Jo.'" And the impromptu band played them. Later in the evening some of the Riley poems were recited. SELF-PORTRAITS "Actions speak louder than words." So runs the old saw; nevertheless, a single phrase has often served to make a man famous, and many well-known personages are readily remembered through especially striking or appropriate utterances. How many readers will be able to credit the following to the proper sources? 1. "I am the greatest historian that ever lived." 2. "All that I am, or ever hope to be, I owe to my mother." 3. "I would rather men should ask why my statue is not set up than why it is." 4. "My infant son rules his mother; his mother rules me; I rule the Athenians; the Athenians rule the Greeks; the Greeks rule Europe, and Europe rules the world." 5. "Though I have the arm of a woman, I have the heart of a King, and am ready to pour out my blood." 6. "Here lies one whose name is writ in water." 7. "Where liberty is _not_, there is my country." 8. "Circumstances! I make circumstances!" 9. "As yet a child, not yet a fool to fame, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came." 10. "The world is my parish." 11. "With my sword by my side and Homer in my pocket, I hope to carve my way through the world." 12. "My country is the world: my countrymen are mankind." 13. "I am called the richest monarch in the Christian world; the sun in my dominion never sets." 14. "I am the State." 15. "Life is a jest, and all things show it; I thought so once, but now I know it." 16. "If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop landed in my country, I never would lay down my arms--never! never! never!" 17. "I came, I saw, I conquered." 18. "I could lie down like a tired child and weep away the life of care which I have borne, and yet must bear." 19. "I awoke one morning and found myself famous." 20. "Tell your master that if there were as many devils at Worms as tiles on its roofs, I would enter." 1. Edward Gibbon. 2. Abraham Lincoln. 3. Cato. 4. Themistocles. 5. Queen Elizabeth. 6. John Keats. 7. Thomas Paine. 8. Napoleon Bonaparte. 9. Alexander Pope. 10. Wesley. 11. Napoleon Bonaparte. 12. Wm. Lloyd Garrison. 13. Charles V. 14. Louis XIV. 15. John Gay. 16. Wm. Pitt, Earl of Chatham. 17. Julius Cæsar. 18. Percy B. Shelley. 19. Lord Byron. 20. Martin Luther. SEVEN DAYS IN ONE This fair can be planned by any society that wishes to raise money and is willing to work to earn it. MONDAY Have a booth with everything pertaining to wash-day--wash aprons, clothes-pin aprons, clothes-pin bags, wash-tubs, boilers, wash-boards, clothes-lines, clothes-pins, soaps, washing-powder, bluing, clothes-baskets, etc. TUESDAY Have everything a housewife wants for ironing day--ironing-boards, irons, stands, holders, home-made holders, fine starch, bees' wax, ironing-board slips, polishing irons, etc. WEDNESDAY Wednesday's booth should have everything for mending day, such as needle-books, stocking-bags, buttons, button-bags, pincushions, papers of pins, needles, thread, darning needles, darning-cotton, darning-balls, etc. THURSDAY Make Thursday the reception day, arranging this booth as a reception hall, with a good, live committee in attendance. Have a book for the guests to register their names and addresses (for future use). Serve ice cream, cake, lemonade and candy. Introduce strangers and appoint a special committee to look after the backward ones. FRIDAY Let this booth be suggestive of sweeping day. Have plenty of dust caps, dust bags, dusting cloths, brushes, brooms, dust-pans, dusters, large colored aprons (which sell readily), etc. SATURDAY Let this booth be a regular bakery. Have your friends bake various things for you to sell, and have on sale all such articles as will sell readily, such as pies, cakes, cookies, doughnuts, bread, baked beans, etc. SUNDAY Have Sunday the crowning day of all. Arrange to have a piano or organ at this booth, and secure a full choir or quartet to sing the sacred songs; have solos, duets, instrumental music and an orchestra if possible. Have sacred readings and make the time spent here an hour of sacred enjoyment. If something extra is wanted let the singers dress in old time costumes and sing the old sacred songs with an organ accompaniment. SHAMROCK LUNCHEON AN IDEA FOR ST. PATRICK'S DAY The invitations were written upon pale green note-paper, with a shamrock leaf painted in water-color in one corner. The exquisitely blended shades of this leaf make it an easy and effective decoration. In truth, we encountered some difficulty in finding a leaf to copy; but a volume of Moore's poems, incased by a considerate binder in a shamrock-sprinkled cover, solved the problem! The event was called a "Shamrock Luncheon," the hours were from two until six, and the word "whist" explained our intentions. The score-cards were cut from green cardboard, in the shape of a large shamrock; and across the back of each was written a line of a humorous St. Patrick's Day poem, which we had discovered in a newspaper. The verses will be found complete at the end of this article. It is adapted to twenty-four guests, but it is easy to insert more lines if more guests are invited. Each lady selected her partner for the game by finding the holder of the line which rhymed with her own. The score-cards were tied with streamers of narrow white or green ribbon, which served both to attach the cards to the gown and to indicate partners in "changing tables"--the green always playing with a white ribbon. (Care must be taken to tie rhyming cards, one with green and one with white.) When partners had been found, the entire poem, sufficiently humorous to break up all formality, was read. As each line was read, the owner of the card bearing that line took her seat as indicated, until all the guests were easily and laughingly seated. The six small luncheon tables were set with green and white china, and had for centrepieces pots of blossoming shamrock. Any florist will sell or rent these. The menu was as follows: Fruit Salad Boiled Salmon Caper Sauce Potato au Gratin Chicken Salad in Lettuce Nests Olives Wafers Pistachio Cream Fancy Cakes Iced in Pale Green Coffee Bonbons This repast, served by three pretty waitresses in white gowns and green ribbons, was eminently satisfactory. Green and white bonbons are easy to obtain. Care must be taken, however, not to carry the color scheme too far into the menu, as green is not an appetizing color in all kinds of food. ST. PATRICK'S BIRTHDAY "'Twas the eighth day of March, so some people say, St. Patrick at midnight, he first saw the day! While others contend 'twas the ninth he was born, An' 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn. But mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock, And some blamed the baby, and some blamed the clock. So that with all the talk there was, no one could know If the child was too fast, or the clock was too slow! "Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say, Was all on account of St. Patrick's birthday. Some fought for the eighth, for the ninth more would die; And who wouldn't see right, why, they blackened his eye. "At last each faction so positive grew That each kept a birthday, and Patrick had two! Until good Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins, Said no one could have two birthdays, but twins! Said he: 'Bhoys, don't be fightin' fur eight or fur nine; Don't be always dividin', but sometimes combine. Unite eight and nine--seventeen is the mark. Let that be his birthday.' 'Amen,' said the clark. "'If he wasn't a twin, sure his histhory will show That he's worth at least any two saints that we know.' Then they all 'tuk a dhrop,' which completed their bliss; And they keep up the practice from that day to this." SNOWDRIFT PARTY An ingenious hostess provided no little amusement for her guests by what she called her "snowdrift party." This is how it is arranged: First of all select from a good book of quotations or proverbs twenty sentences applicable to snow. Write these twenty verses on twenty cards, one verse to each card, and number them with the numbers from one to twenty. Now get together a half dozen pasteboard or wooden boxes, and fill these with flakes of cotton, wool or white paper torn into small pieces. Hide the quotation cards away in the snow thus formed. Each guest receives a wooden teaspoon, tied with ribbon, a note-book and pencil. The boxes are distinguished by letters or numbers painted upon them, and lots are drawn to determine in which "snowdrift" each guest shall dig. The digging is, of course, done with the spoons. Each player digs in the snow, turning it up spoonful by spoonful, until he discovers a card. When a card is found the quotation upon it must be read and the name of the author, if recognized, written down. Each author's name should be placed in the note-book opposite the proper number of the card, in order to facilitate the work of the person who reads the lists to decide the prize. The cards, whether the author is known or not, are always returned to the box and hidden away in the snow. At the end of fifteen minutes, work ceases and the diggers begin on new drifts. This changing is done every fifteen minutes, a player digging always in a new snow bank until the number of boxes is exhausted. When the game reaches this stage all note-books or tablets are collected by the mistress of the ceremonies. She compares the answers in the note-books with her own list, previously prepared. Incorrect guesses are pruned away with a blue pencil and the correct ones counted. It is, of course, the player who has most of these last who carries off the trophy. The prize should be in some way suggestive of the occasion. SOCK SOCIABLE This little sock we give to you Is not for you to wear; Please multiply your size by two And place therein with care, In pennies or in cents, Just twice the number that you wear, (We hope it is immense). So if you wear a number 10 You owe us 20, see? Which, dropped into our little sock, Will fill our hearts with glee. 'Tis all we ask; it isn't much, And hardly any trouble, But if you only have one foot, We'll surely charge you double. Now, if you have a friend quite dear, You'd like to bring with you, Or if you know some one who'd come, We'll gladly give you two. So don't forget the place and date-- We'll answer when you knock, And welcome you with open arms, But DON'T FORGET YOUR SOCK. This little verse should be sent with every invitation to the sociable, accompanied by a tiny sock made of silk or lawn. On the night of the entertainment, these socks with the money that has been placed in them are brought by the guests and deposited in a large bowl at the door. The sociable then proceeds in the usual manner. This is an excellent way of raising money for some charitable object. SPINNING PARTY "Will you walk into my parlor?" On the upper left-hand corner there was a picture of a spider spinning his web, and a fly struggling to escape from its meshes. When the guests arrived they saw an old-fashioned spinning wheel in the centre of the room, with flax near by, all ready for spinning. They were told that all must try for the prizes that were to be awarded to the lady and gentleman who spun the best thread, after five minutes' trial. The mother of the hostess, who had done such work when a girl, stood near to give instruction, and to time the contestants. Those who have no knowledge of spinning can have no idea how much fun there is in trying to make an even thread, more especially when surrounded by interested young people of no greater experience. As the different threads were finished they were fastened to a tag bearing the name of the worker and then pinned to a square of black cloth that had been pinned to the wall for that purpose. When all had tried, a committee was appointed to help the hostess decide to whom prizes should be awarded. While the spinning was going on the guests whose turn at the wheel had not arrived and those who had already tried were set to following the threads of what looked like an immense spider web wound around the rooms. It was composed of black and white threads, the black threads being intended for gentlemen and the white ones for ladies. They were instructed that when they found an end of one of these threads they were to begin winding it into a ball; but that they must do so very gently, or the whole web would be knotted so badly that it could not be undone. When they came to a knot it must be untied. These threads were so ingeniously twisted together and wound around pictures, bric-à brac, table legs, etc., that it took some time to reach the farther end, and every one had plenty of opportunity to talk with every one else. A card was fastened to the farther end of each thread, and all the cards had been so well concealed from view that some time elapsed before the guests knew what they were to find. On each card were written the words, "You will take supper with the one who holds the mate to your card." Then the cards must be compared. Each contained a spider web, some with four circles, some with more; some with eight divisions, others with more or less; but there were always two of each kind, and through the peculiarities of these webs the partners discovered each other. The difference in webs was sometimes so slight as not to be detected without close observation; but it was always plain after having once been pointed out. It is surprising how many different designs can be worked out in these webs. The work is really quite fascinating when once begun, so the thought of it must not frighten any one from giving a spinning party. When the prizes had been awarded to the best spinners, several tables were brought in and set about the room. On the top of each there was fastened a heavy sheet of drawing paper, upon which five circles had been drawn. The outside circle was as large as the table would allow. The inner one was only two inches in diameter. The other three circles were drawn at equal distances between these two. In the inner space on one table were the figures 25; the next 20; then came 15, 10 and 5. On the next table the inner space was marked 30, and each of the other spaces 5 less. On the third and last table the inner circle was marked 50, and each of the others 5 less. Each player was given a top, made from a spool, and all the guests took turns spinning the tops on the table having the lowest figures. When the top ceased spinning the player was credited with the number on which the point of the top rested. As soon as a player had twenty-five to his credit he advanced to the next higher table. There he must win fifty points before he could pass on to the highest table. When he had won a hundred points at the third table he was obliged to begin again at the foot table. The top must not be touched while spinning. Should it drop to the floor the player must make ten before he could begin to count again. Should he make 25 at the next trial he only counted 15; but he had a second trial when his top had dropped to the floor, before the next player spun his top. Each player had a credit card tied in his buttonhole upon which numbers something like the meal tickets issued at restaurants were closely written. When added these numbers should make 500. The hostess had a punch with which she cut out the numbers to correspond with those won by the player. When any player had no more numbers on his card he was declared winner and the game was ended. SPINSTER TEA Where a party of girls wish to have an evening all to themselves the "Spinster Tea" will furnish them with much merriment. As this sort of tea should be quite informal the invitations may be written on plain white note-paper, as follows: "_Being a spinster in good standing in this community you are cordially invited to a 'Spinster Tea' on Tuesday evening, November twentieth, at seven o'clock, at 415 Madison Street. You are requested to dress in character, and to bring with you an old-fashioned picture of a man supposed to have been refused by you. Be prepared to tell the story of his wooing and to state what he lacked to make him pleasing to you. The narrator of the most improbable story will be given a heart._" When the evening of the tea comes, and the guests have all been introduced one to another, they may be ushered into the dining-room and the supper be served. The dining-table should be arranged in as old-fashioned a style as possible. At the four corners place candlesticks with wax candles, and for a centrepiece have a large bouquet of artificial bachelors' buttons. Use old-fashioned china and silver if you happen to have any. At each place put a few bachelors' buttons, to which attach a menu card by a narrow white taffeta ribbon. The refreshments should be numbered upon the menu cards, and each guest be allowed to choose one number each time the waitress passes around. The key to the menu given should be held by the hostess and the waitress. The following menu was recently used at a "Spinster Tea" and created much merriment: MENU KEY TO THE MENU 1. Always in pairs. 1. Cup and saucer. 2. Would they were here. 2. Jolly boys. 3. Front curls. 3. Curled molasses chips. 4. Objects of envy. 4. Preserved pears (pairs). 5. Warranted to pop. 5. Bottle of ginger ale. 6. A solace. 6. Tea. 7. Sadly missed. 7. Kisses. 8. High-backed comb. 8. Honey in comb. 9. Cause of woe. 9. Spiced tongue. 10. Courtship. 10. Mush. 11. A lover. 11. A spoon. 12. A small deceit. 12. A plate. 13. Our tears. 13. Salt. 14. Left over. 14. Heart (baked). After all have partaken of refreshments the guests should adjourn to the parlor where a circle may be formed, and, beginning at the left, each spinster in turn may exhibit the picture of her wooer, and relate her story. Two judges may be chosen by lot to decide which is the prize story, and a large frosted gingerbread heart may constitute the prize. STATE ABBREVIATIONS 1. Which is the most religious state? (Mass.) 2. The most egotistical? (Me.) 3. Not a state for the untidy? (Wash.) 4. The most Asiatic? (Ind.) 5. The father of states? (Pa.) 6. The most maidenly? (Miss.) 7. The most useful in haying time? (Mo.) 8. The best state in time of flood? (Ark.) 9. Decimal state? (Tenn.) 10. State of astonishment? (La.) 11. State of exclamation? (O.) 12. State to cure the sick? (Md.) 13. Where there is no such word as fail? (Kan.) 14. The most unhealthy state? (Ill.) STATE FLOWERS In case it is desired to represent the various states of the Union by floral decorations, the following list is given: Alabama--Goldenrod. Arkansas--Aster. California--Columbine. Delaware--Peach blossom. Idaho--Syringa. Iowa--Wild rose. Maine--[1]Pine cone and tassel. Michigan--[1]Apple blossom. Minnesota--Moccasin flower. Missouri--Goldenrod. Montana--Bitter root. Nebraska--Goldenrod. New Jersey--State tree, sugar maple. New York--Rose; State tree, maple. Oklahoma Territory--[1]Mistletoe. Oregon--Oregon grape. Rhode Island--Violet; State tree, maple. Vermont--Red clover. Washington--Rhododendron. [Footnote 1: Adopted by State Legislature.] STATE NICKNAMES Which is the Hoosier State? (Indiana) The Nutmeg State? (Connecticut) The Keystone State? (Pennsylvania) The Buckeye State? (Ohio) The Palmetto State? (South Carolina) The Pine Tree State? (Maine) The Prairie State? (Illinois) The Sucker State? (Illinois) The Lone Star State? (Texas) The Lumber State? (Maine) The Mother of States? (Virginia) The Mother of Presidents? (Virginia) The Old Dominion? (Virginia) The Old North State? (North Carolina) The Hawkeye State? (Iowa) The Green Mountain State? (Vermont) The Granite State? (Vermont) The Freestone State? (Connecticut) The Empire State? (New York) The Diamond State? (Delaware) The Creole State? (Louisiana) The Corn Cracker State? (Kentucky) The Blue Hen State? (Delaware) The Bay State? (Massachusetts) STATE SOCIABLE Each guest on arriving should be presented with a white card on which has been pasted a picture of General Washington. These need not all be alike--in fact, it will increase the interest in the cards if they are not; any picture of our first President may be used. Small ones cut from magazines will answer the purpose admirably. Beneath the picture have the date, and through perforations at the top of the cards run red, white and blue ribbon hangers. On the reverse of each of the first thirteen cards given out write the name of one of the thirteen original States; on the next thirteen the capital of each of these States, and on the next thirteen one of the principal cities in the States. If the company is to be a large one the forty-five States of the Union may be used instead of the original thirteen. The company then forms into State groups--those holding cards bearing the name of the State itself, its capital and principal city--and each group agrees which product of its State is most beneficial to the greatest number of people. When a report is called for, a vote is taken from all present as to which product is most essential to the welfare of the nation as a whole. Three small bouquets of red and white carnations tied with blue ribbon will make appropriate rewards for the three supporters of the State which wins distinction. ST. PATRICK'S DAY PARTY Invitations to be sent out as follows: _You are invited to attend a gathering of the Sons and Daughters of Erin at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick O'Rafferty, (Mr. and Mrs. Herbert B. Linscott), 105 Southern Avenue, Cleveland, on St. Patrick's Day in the evening._ _You will please come masked and representing some Irish lady or gentleman. Each guest is asked to furnish an Irish story, song or recitation._ When the guests arrive their assumed names are written on cards and pinned on each one, and they are introduced to the company under these names; for instance, Mr. and Mrs. Dennis McFadden, or Mr. Martin Dooly and Miss Maggie Murphy. Michael O'Toole might go as a bricklayer. There can be an old apple woman with a basket of apples (which could be sold for a penny a piece for the treasury). Mike McGinnis of the police force might go as an Irish policeman. Widdy Malony and her daughter Nora, the priest, Father McCrary, and several sisters of charity could also be represented. Let every one enter into the fun with spirit. Have the decorations of the house all green and have each one wear as much green as possible. Tin spoons tied with green ribbon can be given as souvenirs. Have an Irish potato race. Prizes of stick pins in Shamrock designs can be given the winners, or potato pincushions tied with green ribbons. Have green paper napkins which can be made from green tissue paper. Animals can be made from potatoes, using toothpicks for legs and tails. Have each guest help in the entertainment of the evening by an Irish song, story or recitation. REFRESHMENTS FOR IRISH PARTY Wafers tied with green ribbon Olives Pickles Irish potato chips served on lettuce leaves Green tea Lady fingers tied with green ribbon Green ribbon candy ST. PATRICK'S GUESSING CONTEST (Something green.) 1. Name of a celebrated poet. (John Greenleaf Whittier) 2. Name of a celebrated authoress. (Grace Greenwood) 3. Child's artist. (Kate Greenaway) 4. Revolutionary officer. (General Greene) 5. Pennsylvania city. (Greensburg) 6. Cold country. (Greenland) 7. Western bay. (Green Bay) 8. Emigrant. (Green horn) 9. Domestic fruit. (Green gage plum) 10. Large burial place. (Greenwood cemetery) 11. Legal tender. (Greenback) 12. A variety of apples. (Greening) 13. A place for growing plants. (Green house) 14. A part of a theatre. (Green room) 15. A harmless stimulant. (Green tea) 16. A famous town in Kentucky. (Bowling Green) 17. Children's game. (Green gravel) 18. Another name for jealousy. (Green eyed monster) 19. A country place near Pittsburg. (Green Tree) 20. A nourishing tree in the Bible. (Green bay) 21. Title of an Irish song. (Wearing of the Green) 22. Another name for verdure. (Greenery) 23. An article of dessert. (Grenoble walnuts) 24. A beautiful hamlet near Allegheny. (Evergreen) TELEGRAM PARTY To interest guests who have a sense of humor and thoroughly enjoy a little quick thinking you can easily invent new games or adapt and add novel accessories to some older idea, such as, for instance, "A Telegram Party." For this party write your invitations on telegram blanks, and let your refreshments be served not by a maid (who never enjoys extra work), but by one or more boys dressed as telegraph messengers. They will delight in their responsibility and will help you in many ways. Let the boys also pass to each person a pencil and a telegram blank, on which are to be written ten letters, dictated at random by ten guests in turn. These letters each player must manage to use as the initials of ten words following in such order as to form an intelligible telegram. None of these initials can be used for address or signature, but otherwise no limit is placed upon the ingenuity of the writer. Then let the messengers collect the blanks, and after the hostess has read all the amusing results let a vote be taken for the cleverest message and a prize be awarded to the sender. Of course, the entertainment can be extended by writing any number of telegrams or varied by requiring that each set of telegrams refer to some assigned subject. TENNIS SOCIABLE Write invitations on small white cardboard racquets. Decorate the walls with tennis racquets and nets. Have tennis racquets hung from each chandelier, and stretch a large net across the room. Place in this net red and white racquets of pasteboard, each tied to several yards of red and white ribbon, and have them all tangled up. The object is to wind up the string on the racquets, and secure as many as possible without breaking the ribbon. The committee should wear red belts with seven red streamers, each containing a letter, and spelling the word "welcome." Place welcome mottoes about the room and pinned upon the racquets and nets. Red and white flowers of all kinds can be used for decorations. Take small pasteboard racquets, write quotations on, cut in half and give one-half to the ladies and the other half to the gentlemen, and have them match the quotations. Refreshments can be passed in regular tennis racquets; in summer, lemonade and wafers, or in winter, hot coffee and cake. Red and white decorated racquets can be given the guests as they leave, for souvenirs. TEN VIRGINS (SACRED PLAY) Select ten young ladies who are good singers--six sopranos and four altos. Divide into two groups, three sopranos and two altos in each group. Have all dress in long white robes and each carry a candle. Five should have lighted candles and five not lighted. Have all behind a curtain and before they appear have the whole ten sing the hymn, "Be robed and ready when the bridegroom comes." This can be found in any sacred song book. Have a small room curtained off on one end of platform. While singing the last verse, "We'll all go forth to meet Him when He comes," the five with candles lighted will march forth from behind the curtain and pass across the platform into the small room. They go in and the door is shut. The other five virgins come forth with _no light_ and pass across the platform silently, and knock at the door, but they cannot get in. The five foolish virgins then sing, "Oh, let us in, the night is dark and chill," and the five wise virgins who have passed in will answer, using the chorus of the same hymn, "Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now." This is found in Methodist Hymnal, No. 375. The five foolish virgins ask the questions contained in each verse and the five wise ones answer with the "Too late." THANKSGIVING DAY DECORATIONS Great cornstalks, with the husk merely turned back to show the yellow ear, are extremely effective. A huge bunch of these on either side of the drawing-room door will take the place of palms. They may also be placed at the entrance to the dining-room, their sentinel-like appearance making them charming as a doorway decoration. Here and there great pumpkins, hollowed out to admit of the flower-pot with its growing green, make unique jardinières. A bunch of corn, where the ear is red, tied by means of a bow of yellow ribbon to the chandelier, admits of the same suggestion as the mistletoe of Christmas time, and makes a pretty spot of color, besides being the cause of much quiet fun. A pretty feature is to have a pumpkin table brought in during the refreshments and hold a guessing contest, which gives an opportunity for much merriment and for the giving of prizes to the lucky guessers. This table should be arranged as follows: Upon a small, highly polished table (mahogany is perhaps the richest in effect), place a dainty, embroidered centrepiece, and set upon this a large pumpkin, either on a silver dish or resting directly on the white linen. This pumpkin should be hollowed out, as the others, leaving only its yellow shell, the pumpkin holding an assortment of fruit, luscious and beautiful--highly polished red-cheeked apples, oranges, bananas and grapes; trailing here and there among them a few red leaves, or if they can be obtained, a spray of wild clematis, of bitter-sweet, or of smilax. The guests are told that underneath the fruit lies something suggestive of nature's ways, and therefore of the occasion and that they are to guess what it may be and how much of it there may be. The guesses will be many and varied. The fruit-dish may be passed, the fruit disposed of, and underneath will be found the pumpkin's seeds, which have been gathered together. The prize for the guest that guesses the nearest can be a little horn-of-plenty drinking glass. If one wishes to give souvenirs of the occasion, charming little pencils can be obtained that have the lead appearing from a miniature ear of corn. This feature, however, is quite unnecessary. THANKSGIVING FOOTBALL DINNER The following is a description of a novel dinner recently given a party of twelve football enthusiasts on Thanksgiving Day. While the ladies were up-stairs removing their wraps, a maid came in with a tray on which were six wishbones, each having tied to it a knot of ribbon of one of the different college colors. Of these they were to take their choice, according to the college or university they preferred. Meanwhile the gentlemen down-stairs had been presented with ribbon rosettes, and as these matched the ribbons on the wishbones they easily found the ladies whom they were to take in to dinner. When the company entered the dining-room they found that the decorations were in perfect harmony with the character of the game which they had just witnessed. Chrysanthemums, which are considered a necessary accompaniment of a football game, were everywhere. A yellow jardinière filled with ragged beauties in red and bronze stood in the centre of the table, while a single long-stemmed flower was laid beside each plate. There were also chrysanthemums in vases on the mantel and sideboard. The favors, or "mascots," of the dinner were small turkey-gobblers of papier-mâché containing the bonbons. A feature of the dinner enjoyed almost as much as the feast itself was the novel form of the menus. These were written on two opposite pages of dainty booklets, the outside covers of which were decorated with characteristic football sketches accompanied by appropriate quotations. These were so unique and apropos to the occasion that each guest carried his home as a souvenir when he left at the end of the evening's entertainment. Instead of being separated into the usual courses, the menu was divided, like a football game, into a first and second half, with an intermission between, and was arranged to read somewhat like a football program, giving in outline the particulars of a game, the various terms and expressions in which described the names of the viands. The following is an illustration, except that in the original the names of the different articles were omitted, a word in parenthesis giving a hint where the meaning seemed doubtful: FIRST HALF I. The spectators arrive and discuss the "points" (blue) of the game. Blue Points II. A tally-ho "bowls" in with the football team, said to be "superior." The players enter the field with great "celerity," the small boys enthusiastically declaring them to be "crackers." Celery Soup Crackers III. Play begins with "a fair catch taken on the fly." Fish IV. A "foul (fowl) tackle." Turkey "Pease" follows a "runner," but "Murphy" interferes and "beats" him off. Peas Squash Potatoes Beets V. The game at the end of the first half is distinguished by the fine playing of the "backs" (canvas). Canvasback Ducks INTERMISSION During the intermission the "heads" of several players, young and green, bruised in the mix-up, receive a "dressing" down. Lettuce Salad SECOND HALF I. The wedge, or V-shaped, play is tried. Pie--Mince and Pumpkin II. Followed by disastrous results, necessitating a call for "sponge" and "ice." Sponge Cake Ice Cream III. The "fruits" of faithful training are manifest, A "bunch of purples" go down before a single "orange." "Bartlett" and "Nellis," a fine pair (pear), become "candidates" for great honor, "raisin'" cheers of delight from the spectators by circling the ends, who are "nut" what they are "cracked" up to be. Fruit--Grapes Oranges Pears Candied Dates Raisins Nuts IV. The cup is presented. Coffee V. Everybody leaves the grounds. Although the above may seem a little far-fetched to an authority on football, the guests were not over-critical, and the novel menu proved a great source of entertainment, keeping them wondering and speculating between the courses as to what was coming next. Some of the guests supposed the "bruised heads" to be those of the cabbage, it having apparently escaped their minds that there was such a thing as head-lettuce. Others failed to see the connection between squash and "runner" until reminded of the fact that squash grows on a vine running along the ground, while a smile went around the table as one by one, after concluding that coffee was referred to in "The cup is presented," discovered, also, the double meaning in the final words of the menu, "Everybody leaves the grounds." A number of things served on the table, such as cranberries, jellies, olives, etc., were not named in the menu, owing to the difficulty of expressing them in football language. After dinner there was much fun and merriment over pulling the wishbones, the ladies having offered to break theirs with the gentlemen attending them at dinner. Later the guests gathered around the open fireplace, cracking nuts, telling stories, and having a good time generally. When the time came for them to depart they voted the Thanksgiving dinner of which they had just partaken the most unique to which they had ever sat down. THANKSGIVING SOCIABLE How surprised every one was at the changed appearance of the Sunday-school room! All the chairs had been removed and at various places stood great shocks of corn. Upon the wall were hung red berries and bright-hued autumn leaves, garlands of which may be easily made if the leaves are gathered as they fall, waxed, pressed, and strung on strong threads. In the centre of the room was arranged a large semicircular divan made of pew-cushions covered with dark, richly-colored draperies. There were a number of sofa-pillows heaped upon the divan. The room was dark save for the light which glimmered from hideous-faced pumpkin lanterns. The committee in charge welcomed the guests and invited them to be seated in the charmed circle. The first thing that met their gaze was an immense pile of corn on the cob. Over this, standing on three legs, was a goblin pumpkin with three pairs of glaring eyes, three noses and three large mouths. A hush fell upon the company, while here and there could be heard a suppressed giggle. Suddenly a chorus of girls' voices broke out in a bright autumn song to enliven the drooping spirits of the guests. No sooner had their fears been somewhat allayed than a spectral figure approached from behind a curtain and sat down by the heap of corn. All held their breath as it slowly reached out its hand and pulled an ear of corn from the pile, gazed at a tag which was fastened to it by a ribbon, read the name of some one who was present, and threw that person the ear of corn, demanding in a deep, thrilling voice, "A ghost story." It is needless to describe the quaking and shivering while the story was being told. The dashing piano solo which followed was fully appreciated. A second ghost story was demanded in like manner as the first, after which came singing, more stories, and music. Then one of the girls, who could recite well, stood facing the company, with a background of curtains, and gave Whittier's poem, "The Pumpkin" When she reached the last stanza the curtains back of her were drawn, as if by spirits, disclosing a long table covered with a snowy cloth, upon which were piles of doughnuts, pumpkin pies, cheese and cups of steaming coffee. Every one gave an exclamation of surprise at the sight, and refreshments were served amidst much fun and laughter. The sociable closed with gifts of a pie apiece to each person contributing to the entertainment, and an ear of corn, tied with bright ribbon, to each guest. In order to have the ghost stories a success the committee arranging the program had selected them beforehand. A great deal of the success of the entertainment was due to the fact that its nature had been kept secret, and, curiosity having been aroused, an unusually large number of people attended. TRANSPLANTING TREES Pass slips of paper around with the names of different trees, all in capital letters, but not spelled in order; for instance, Y-H-O-K-R-I-C, which when transplanted will spell the name Hickory. A suitable prize can be given the one who succeeds in transplanting the greatest number of trees. TREE GUESSING CONTEST 1. A solid, tenacious, easily-moulded substance, and a part of the hand. 2. A ruminant quadruped of the feminine gender. 3. To show grief, and a machine in which cotton, wool, or flax is opened and cleansed. 4. Neat, without elegance or dignity. 5. Ill, ill, ill. 6. A nickname, a vowel and an external covering. 7. Used for puddings and a part of the hand. 8. A near and dear relative. 9. A vegetable and a Scottish word denoting possession. 10. A partner, came together, and a part of the human body. 11. A green muskmelon pickled. 12. A drink, and a lineal measure. 13. A coat or covering. 1. Wax palm. 2. Yew. 3. Weeping willow. 4. Spruce. 5. Sycamore. 6. Tamarind. 7. Sago palm. 8. Paw-paw. 9. Plantain. 10. Palmetto. 11. Mango. 12. Cocoa palm. 13. Fir. TREE PARTY For a June entertainment nothing could be more suitable than a tree party, for at this season the new leaves are all out and everything looks fresh and green. Trim the house with branches and blossoms, having as many varieties of trees represented as possible. When all the guests have arrived, give to each one a strip of cardboard (having a pencil tied to it with a bit of green ribbon) upon which are written the following questions for them to answer: 1. What's the social tree, 1. Pear. Tea. 2. And the dancing tree, 2. Hop. 3. And the tree that is nearest the sea? 3. Beech. 4. The daintiest tree, 4. Spruce. 5. And the kissable tree, 5. Tulip. Yew. 6. And the tree where ships may be? 6. Bay. 7. What's the telltale tree, 7. Peach. 8. And the traitor's tree, 8. Judas. 9. And the tree that's the warmest clad? 9. Fir. 10. The languishing tree, 10. Pine. 11. The chronologist's tree, 11. Date. 12. And the tree that makes one sad? 12. Weeping Willow. 13. What's the emulous tree, 13. Ivy. 14. The industrious tree, 14. Spindle-tree. 15. And the tree that will never stand still? 15. Caper. 16. The unhealthiest tree, 16. Sycamore. 17. The Egyptian-plague tree, 17. Locust. 18. And the tree neither up nor down hill? 18. Plane. 19. The contemptible tree, 19. Medlar. 20. The most yielding tree, 20. India-rubber. 21. And the tree that bears a curse? 21. Fig. Damson. 22. The reddish brown tree, 22. Chestnut. 23. The reddish blue tree, 23. Lilac. 24. And the tree like an Irish nurse? 24. Honeysuckle. 25. What is the tree That makes each townsman flee? 25. Citron. 26. And what round itself doth entwine? 26. Woodbine. 27. What's the housewife's tree, 27. Broom. 28. And the fisherman's tree, 28. Basswood. 29. What by cockneys is turned into wine? 29. Vine. 30. What's the tree that got up, 30. Rose. 31. And the tree that was lazy, 31. Satin. Aloe. 32. And the tree that guides ships to go forth? 32. (H)elm. 33. The tree that's immortal, 33. Arbor-vitæ. 34. The trees that are not, 34. Dyewoods. 35. And the tree whose wood faces the north? 35. Southernwood. 36. The tree in a bottle, 36. Cork. [Hazel. 37. The tree in a fog, 37. Smoketree. 38. And what each must become ere he's old? 38. Elder. 39. The tree of the people, 39. Poplar. 40. The traveler's tree, 40. Wayfaring tree 41. And the sad tree when schoolmasters hold? 41. Birch. 42. What's the tree that has passed through the fiery heat, 42. Ash. 43. That half-given to doctors when ill? 43. Coffee. 44. The tree that we offer to friends when we meet? 44. Palm. 45. And the tree we may use as a quill? 45. Aspen. 46. What's the tree that in death will benight you? 46. Deadly nightshade. 47. And the tree that your wants will 47. Breadfruit. supply? 48. And the tree that to travel invites you, 48. Orange. 49. And the tree that forbids you to die? 49. Olive. Then the following game may be played: Pin a slip, containing the name of some tree, on the back of each person present. Questions may be asked concerning it, which will give a clue to the wearer, who is to guess the tree he is supposed to represent. As fast as each one is guessed, the slip is taken off the back and pinned on the breast. Allow fifteen minutes for each person to write an original poem on the tree he represents. Judges are appointed to select the best poem, and a suitable prize can be awarded. TREE POOL That the guests may choose partners, give out cards of red, green, yellow, and brown cardboard cut in the shape of leaves,--maple, elm, oak, etc. There should, of course, be but two leaves of the same shape and color, one of each being passed to the ladies, the corresponding ones to the men. The game is played in the usual way where there is a pool of letters, except that the words made must be only the names of trees or shrubs. For those who may not be altogether familiar with the game, the rules are that each one in turn draws a letter from the pool, then tries by transposing one of his opponent's words to use this letter, and so make a new word for himself. Plurals are not considered new words. If one cannot use the letter to draw from his opponent's, or in his own list, it is thrown back, and the turn passes to the next. If, however, the letter is used, the player has another turn. When either couple at the head table have made ten words, the bell is rung and the guests score and progress as in any other game. When supper is served, have the table decorated with a plant standing in the centre, and from this to each corner of the table have a row of Noah's Ark trees, which can be purchased at any toy shop. Stand one of these on each of the plates as they are passed to the guests. They will make very attractive souvenirs of the occasion. TROLLEY PARTY The guests invited to our trolley party were twenty in number. When all had assembled, cards with pencils attached were given them, after which the hostess announced that the trip would take half an hour, that the conductor would ring his bell for start and finish, but that the guests must prove their familiarity with the names of the streets, which were represented on cards scattered through the rooms--pinned to curtains, table-covers, pincushions, etc. Carnations were given to the one guessing correctly the greatest number of streets, a tiny bank and a new penny to the one having the least. The cards were as follows: A TROLLEY RIDE--ST. LOUIS TO KIRKWOOD 1. Abraham's wife. 2. What idols' feet are often made of. 3. Stop here when hungry. 4. Always owns a goose. 5. Dear to our hearts though sometimes a "Rip." 6. Brought lightning from the clouds. 7. A part of a door and what doors are usually made of. 8. A sombre color. 9. Of cherry-tree fame. 10. A direction of the compass and a preacher. 11. The side of a tiny stream. 12. One of the discoverers of Pike's Peak. 13. A great turn. 14. Associated with the lower regions. 15. The highest point. 16. What most housewives do on Monday. 17. A famous summer resort. 18. What the preacher who lisped said to the sinner. 19. Green, and dear to girlish hearts. 20. Makes a quick fire. The names of the streets represented were: 1. Sarah. 2. Clay. 3. Berry Road. 4. Taylor. 5. Jefferson. 6. Franklin. 7. Lockwood. 8. Gray. 9. Washington. 10. Westminster. 11. Edgebrook. 12. Clark. 13. Big Bend. 14. Sulphur. 15. Summit. 16. Wash. 17. Newport. 18. Prather. 19. Olive. 20. Pine. This same idea could be carried out in connection with the streets of any other town. UNIQUE VALENTINE PARTY The invitations requested that each guest appear in costume and masked. This was the keynote of the affair. An early lunch was planned, as they were to choose partners while still masked, and naturally they would wish to remove their masks after that form of the entertainment had flagged a little. The rooms were decorated with valentines which had accumulated in the household through fourteen years and others prepared for the purpose. After the choice of partners, masks were removed, and all marched to the dining-room, keeping time to a pretty march. It being a birthday party, the ever new feature, the birthday cake, with its candles, graced the centre of the table, the cake being white decorated with red hearts and red candles. Three kinds of small cakes and wafers (all heart-shaped), a plate of each at either end of the table, made up that part of the refreshments. Cocoa in small cups and ice cream in heart-shaped molds completed the repast. Confectionery in the predominating color and shape was also on the table. The table decorations consisted of red carnations, ferns and smilax, and were added to by the souvenirs which were laid at the left of each plate. These were prepared by our family artist for the occasion, and were red, heart-shaped affairs with gold borders, in the centre a small sketch in oil, below a line of poetry, and each one numbered. These were connected by ribbon (running to the centre of the table) to buttonhole bouquets, carnations and smilax, which with ferns formed the flat centrepiece. At the ends as many as were convenient were arranged around the end dishes. Much merriment was created by some reading the lines on their souvenirs. Upon leaving the table each guest adjusted the ribbon about her neck, which brought the bouquet to its proper place "across the heart." After returning to the parlors the guests were requested to read the lines which they had found upon their souvenirs, and of which some had been wondering the meaning; by beginning with No. 1 and reading in rotation a well-known poem was completed. As you will see, this form of amusement, with the character representations, goes far toward an evening's entertainment. Young people consider a party incomplete without a prize winning contest of some sort. The one I will describe was adopted. Pencils and slips of paper were distributed, each bearing the name of a book or song, and numbered; then pieces of drawing paper were handed around, the first slips being collected, and each person was requested to make a drawing representing the book or song, and putting his number on it. These were gathered and pinned up for exhibition. The best drawing won a prize. Then the person that, upon inspecting the drawings, could give correctly the names of the most books or songs they represented (more paper being passed for this purpose) received a prize. The remainder of the evening was filled in by music, singing and games of the guests' own choosing. When the time of departure came, all wished they might enjoy it "all over again." UNIVERSITY LUNCHEON A Yale luncheon given last Christmastide was a brilliant success. The ideas may be utilized for the entertainment of students from any college, merely changing the colors. Our decision was to have no flowers, not even a palm, and to keep the entire house in harmony of coloring. Fortunately for our scheme, every room had a quiet gray or bluish paper, and in carpets, furniture and hangings there was not a touch of color that would clash with the blue of Yale. Our first bit of luck was the loan of a huge bundle of Yale flags and bunting from the College Men's club. A flag, with a great white "Yale" on it, we stretched across one end of the sitting-room, another, as immense as a campaigning banner, draped the west wall of the dining-room. The stairs were garlanded with blue bunting, and all over the house fluttered little class flags bearing dates that ran from '80 to '05. We allowed bunches of mistletoe tucked cunningly under gas fixtures. Holly was out of the question: it would have suggested Harvard. Serving luncheon at one was an innovation, but an excellent one. When the dishes were cleared away the anxiety was over, and the hostess moved about among her guests without a thought of a meal to be served at the end of the games. We set ten small tables, three in the dining-room, four in the sitting-room, two in the parlor and one in the hall. The tables were snowily linened, there were doilies in blue and white, and the centrepiece on each table was a glass dish filled with small bunches of splendid blue and white grapes. There was nothing blue to be found in the fruit or flower kingdom except these, and the coloring was superb. All the dishes we used were handsome old-fashioned willow ware, solid dark blue, or mottled blue china. VALENTINE ENTERTAINMENT Two dozen couples make a very goodly company of young folks for a pleasant little evening; therefore, send out invitations to that number. The cards of invitation might have on them, either in India ink or water-colors, an arrow-pierced heart, a whole heart or a broken one; even a cluster of them, like fishes on a string, according to the pleasure of the hostess. For each of the twelve young ladies invited, select a rôle that she will impersonate; for instance, we will say that the twelve characters to be represented are: 1. Queen of Hearts. 2. Gypsy. 3. Nun. 4. Bicycle Girl. 5. Summer Girl. 6. Colonial Girl. 7. Poster Girl. 8. Widow. 9. Old Maid. 10. Trained Nurse. 11. Columbia. 12. Valentine. Number twelve can be either a sentimental or a comic character. If the latter, a good deal of amusement may be derived by getting a younger brother or some mischievous boy to represent this character. Have the young ladies gather at the home of the hostess somewhat earlier than the men present themselves, and when the latter have assembled in the parlors pass a tray around to them containing a dozen cards, on each of which is written a couplet. These couplets are suggestive of the rôles the young ladies play, and each gentleman may select such a couplet as he sees fit. When all the cards have been taken, the young men in rotation read aloud the couplet each has chosen, and after the reading of the couplet the one representing it is brought into the parlor by the hostess and introduced to the reader, who has thus chosen her as his valentine. Among the pleasant features of the supper a "Valentine cake" may be introduced with good effect. A nicely iced cake, decorated with candy hearts having sentimental mottoes on them, should be divided into twenty-four slices before it is brought to the table. In the slices for the young girls to draw make a small slit with the sharp blade of a knife, and insert into the opening a slip of paper on which is written the name of some young man who is present. In those slices the men are to draw are such small articles as denote the sort of wife Fate has chosen to be each one's partner for life. Thus, a silver coin signifies wealth; a scrap of silk, a fashionable wife; a penny, poverty; a tiny spoon, a good housekeeper; a pen, a literary woman; a small silver heart, a marriage for love; a small brush, an artistic wife; a tiny mirror, a vain woman; a piece of crape, a widow, etc. First a young lady chooses a slice of cake, then the man whose name she draws selects one and learns the kind of life-partner he is to have. Much merriment may be derived from such a cake. VALENTINE FUN This description of a Valentine entertainment will be welcomed by those who desire novel and original ideas. We were received in a room decorated with wreaths of green, hung in festoons caught up at regular intervals by ribbon streamers. From the centre of each wreath hung hearts of parchment paper, tinted in blue and lettered in gold, each bearing a number and a fate or fortune. Suspended from a portière rod between the hall and reception room were three hearts formed of heavy wire and carefully entwined with evergreen; above each one was a jingle. The first said: Blow your bubble right through here And you'll be married before another year. Above the second was: To be engaged this very week Number two is the one to take. And the third had: A sad, an awful fate awaits the one who seeks me, For he or she will ever a spinster or bachelor be. On a small table near by was an immense bowl filled with sparkling soapsuds, and also clay pipes decorated with little blue hearts. We first threw the bubbles off the pipes and then tried to blow them through the hearts with pretty little fans which were presented to us; none of us found this easy to do, but it was lots of fun, even if after all our efforts we saw our bubble float through number three instead of one or two, where we meant it to go. After this came a still merrier game. A low scrap-basket was placed in the centre of the room, and the company arranged into opposing parties, forming two half circles around the basket. Cardboard hearts in two different colors were given the sides, an equal number to each side. We were then requested to try to throw them in the basket, and all endeavored to do so, but found they had a tantalizing way of landing on the floor. When we had exhausted our cards those in the basket were counted, and the side having the most of its own color won the game. After this a small blackboard was placed on an easel at one end of the room, and we were each in turn blindfolded, and handed a piece of chalk with which to draw an outline of a heart, and to write our name in the centre; the one doing the best to have a prize of a large candy heart. The partners for supper were chosen in a novel manner, the men being numbered, and the names of the girls written on slips of paper, rolled in clay in little pellets, then dropped into a bowl of water; the one to rise first belonged to the young man numbered one, and so on until each had his Valentine. A "Good Luck" supper was served in an adjoining room. Directly over the table, suspended from the chandelier, hung a floral horseshoe. In the centre of the table and at each end were fairy lamps surrounded by smaller horseshoes. The guest-cards were square envelopes, at one side a painted horseshoe, and below, "When Good Luck knocks at the door let him in and keep him there." The souvenirs were clover-leaf stick pins, and everything connected with the supper bore a symbol of good luck, the bonbons, cakes, and sandwiches taking the forms of either a clover-leaf or a horseshoe. On opening the envelopes, we found an amusing valentine illustrated by a pen-and-ink sketch, showing the artistic skill of one of the members of the family. After supper a tray, containing as many numbers as there were guests, was passed, and we each took a heart with a corresponding number from the decorations on the wall and read aloud the fortune found there. These were very clever, and some surprisingly appropriate. VALENTINE PARTY--DANISH The "Town Club" was surprised by receiving white cards decorated with cherry-colored ribbon and Danish Flag inviting them to a "Danish Valentine Party." The predominating colors were cherry color and white, being the Danish National Colors. Decorations of the house were of cherry-colored and white hearts and vinter-gjaek (snowdrops), the first Danish flower of the season. The hearts were strung in the parlor, reception-room and dining-room. The archway between parlor and reception-room was draped with the American and Danish Flags. In the centre of each room hung four large-sized hearts, cherry-colored and white, with a gilt arrow thrust through. In the dining-room the hearts were strung in the same way, the lamp shade being of cherry-colored crepe paper. The table was decorated with vinter-gjaek. The girls wore short skirts and bodices of cherry-colored cambric and white flannel blouses with full sleeves. The hair was worn in two braids, crossed and tucked into the fronts of the bodices with knots of vinter-gjaek fastened into each braid just where it came over the shoulder. The boys wore dark coats and trousers, with white vests. At the door was placed a box for valentines; as each guest came he dropped his valentine into the box with the name of the person who was to receive it. First for amusement was "Shadow Pictures," the guessing of each boy's and girl's profile. White cards with numbers in cherry ink and small cherry-colored pencils were passed to each. As the shadow was thrown upon the sheet the name was written after the number on the card. Prizes were given for the most correct guesses. The girls' prize was a cherry-colored satin pin cushion in the shape of a heart; the boys', an earthen pig. Then small white cards were passed tied with cherry-colored ribbon and vinter-gjaek, each card containing a verse and below this the initials of a name pricked out with a pin. By guessing the names they stood for, each knew his or her valentine for the evening. It was great fun. Lots were gjaeket (fooled). The verse on the cards read: "Sir Knight, would'st know thy lady's name, These pin pricks tell thee whence I came." Then all were asked to the dining-room, where they found the following supper awaiting them served in Danish style: Coffee Water Bummernickle (Black Rye Bread) White Bread With grated cheese, tied with cherry-colored ribbon Bakte Bomner (Baked Beans) Pickles Bakte Avola (Baked Apples) Pop-Corn Avele-Skiever (Doughnuts) Head-Cheese Souvenirs--Three white candy hearts containing verses, tied with cherry-colored ribbon. After supper the valentines brought by the guests were distributed. Music and a flashlight picture of the "Town Club" completed the entertainment. Then all departed with light hearts. VALENTINE SOCIABLE Invitations should be sent out for the 14th of February. Each guest is requested to bring a valentine, and as they enter the room, they should drop them into a basket which should be ready to receive them. These can be sent later to some poor school or mission to be given out to poor children, who otherwise would get none. A small room can be fitted up for a studio, and as the guests arrive, they are invited into this room to have their pictures taken. A committee should be appointed to do this work. This can be done by having the shadow of the head in profile thrown on a sheet of paper tacked to the wall. The artist then sketches it with pencil and cuts it out. After all have arrived and have had their pictures taken, paper and pencil are passed around, and the guests are asked to guess the identity of each picture. The pictures are then given to the owners as keepsakes. A nice idea is for the gentlemen to write a valentine verse on the portraits of the ladies, or make up some comic poetry. A sale of hearts is also a cute idea. Buy small hearts with a valentine couplet on each; these being read aloud, each heart is to be sold to the person who first completes its couplet; for instance, "'Tis better to have loved and lost," the person finishing it as "than never to have loved at all." The one guessing the greatest number of couplets can be given a small box of heart-shaped candies. Partners can be chosen for supper by having each lady write her name on a slip of paper, and putting all the slips into a hat; each gentleman will take to supper the one whose name he draws from the hat. A pretty souvenir can be given each guest in the form of a small heart-shaped valentine. Refreshments can be suggestive of the day also. They can consist of sandwiches cut in heart-shape, tied with red baby ribbon, bright-red apples, cherry ice, lady fingers, kisses and small heart-shaped candies. A card on each dish could carry out the idea in the following manner: Sandwiches--"Heart bread." Apples--"Love apples." Cherry Ice--"Frozen heart's blood." Lady Fingers--"Love's caresses." Kisses--"Lovers' sweets." Candies--"Love's sweet compound." VARIETY OF LITTLE MISSES 1. What Miss causes in turn amusements and quarrels? (Mis-chief) 2. What Miss is distrustful of human nature? (Mis-anthrope) 3. What Miss undervalues her opportunities? (Mis-appreciate) 4. What Miss is not always honest? (Mis-appropriate) 5. What Miss is provoking and a blunderer? (Mis-take) 6. What Miss can destroy the peace of home, school and nation? (Mis-rule) 7. What Miss is responsible for gross errors? (Mis-doing) 8. What Miss wastes times and money? (Mis-spend) 9. What Miss causes her mother sorrow? (Mis-conduct) 10. What Miss proves an uncertain correspondent? (Mis-direct) 11. What Miss should the traveler shun? (Mis-guide) 12. What Miss is unhappy? (Mis-fortune) 13. What Miss is distinguished as uncivil and ill-bred? (Mis-behave) 14. What Miss gives unreliable information? (Mis-call) 15. What Miss meets with ill-luck and delay? (Mis-adventure) 16. What Miss is untruthful? (Mis-represent) VEGETABLE PARTY Over the table was an Italian green-grocer's sign, and the smiling attendants were dressed to represent Italian women. The table was loaded with fruits and vegetables, all made of tissue paper. The stock included pumpkins, squashes, cabbages, cauliflower, curly lettuce, beets, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, radishes, oranges, and grapes. The vegetables sold for five or ten cents, according to size and contents, for each contained a prize. The radishes and grapes were candies covered with the proper shade of paper and tied in bunches. There was enough mystery about the contents of these artificial vegetables and fruits to make them sell. One person might open a cucumber and find a child's handkerchief rolled within, but if a neighbor bought one, hoping to secure a handkerchief, he would be quite as likely to find a china doll. The proceeds of this sale were donated to charity. A slip of paper entitled "Vegetables in Disguise" was passed to each guest, and twenty-five minutes allotted for puzzling out the answers. The following is the list the paper contained: A pronoun preceded and followed by a preposition. (Onion) A painful projection. (Corn) Hard to get out of. (Maize [maze]) What vegetables should see a great deal, and why? (Potatoes. They have so many eyes) A basement and a question. (Celery [cellar-why]) Every good Chinaman has my first. My second is to overload. (Cucumber [queue-cumber]) A bivalve and a vegetable growth. (Oyster plant) Normal, and a very small piece. (Parsnip) A small waste. (Leek [leak]) A letter. (Pea [p]) A boy, a letter, and a part of the body? (Tomato [Tom-a-toe]) Yielding water, and connections? (Pumpkin) To crush. (Squash) A purple part of the year, and sick. (Lentil [Lent-ill]) A tour on your wheel, and years. (Spinach [spin-age]) Hot stuff. (Pepper) An English dignity, and a platter. (Radish [R. A. dish]) A hen. (Egg plant) Tramps. (Beets) The supper, as one would expect at a vegetable party, consisted of vegetarian dishes only, but it was surprising to find how attractive and how palatable these were. WEDDING ANNIVERSARIES In planning for anniversaries there are many and unique ways in which they may be carried out. Everything that accompanies the anniversary being celebrated should be used. Always use a decided color and try to carry out the color scheme in the refreshments, the decorations, and the costumes. There are many suitable suggestions in the book from which to choose, in the way of both decoration and entertainment, besides the following. FIRST ANNIVERSARY--COTTON WEDDING The invitations for the cotton wedding may be written in ink on well-starched cotton cloth. Cut the pieces to fit regular-sized envelopes. You may request the guests to wear cotton costumes, if you wish, to add to the effect. Decorate the rooms with cheese-cloth of several colors gracefully festooned about the walls, and with the Southern cotton-balls if you can get them. The married couple may stand under a canopy made of wire covered with cotton wadding to represent snow, and wear cotton costumes, and the wife may carry a bouquet of cotton flowers. Artificial flowers made of cotton may be used, too, for decoration. Cover the refreshment table with cheese-cloth, and have place-cards written on prettily decorated pieces of starched muslin. You could have a Spider Hunt for an appropriate entertainment. For this, as you probably know, you provide balls of cotton twine, and wind the twine all over the house. The guests have to untangle their respective balls, and wind them up until they come to the end of the string, where a gift is discovered. The gifts should be pretty conceits made of cotton--shoe-bags or work bags of pretty cretonne for the women, and picture frames of cretonne for the men, etc. SECOND ANNIVERSARY--PAPER WEDDING The second year is celebrated as a paper wedding. There are many ways a house can be decorated with paper. Pretty colored paper shades can be made for all the gas jets (or lamp chimneys), flower-pots can be trimmed with fancy crepe paper, butterflies can be made from stiff colored paper, doilies can be designed from fancy paper, and paper napkins can be used in many ways. Whatever is used for refreshments paper napkins can be placed on each dish under the food; tumblers can be wrapped around with paper and tied with a dainty little ribbon. Plenty of paper flowers can be used for decoration. The tablecloth may be of paper, edged with paper lace, the centrepiece of paper roses, the candle-shades composed of their petals, while the ices may be served in boxes held in the hearts of paper roses. For entertainment, large mottoes containing paper caps may be distributed. These should be put on, and with their assumption a character impersonated by each wearer appropriate to the headgear. The guesses are recorded in paper booklets and the person most successful may receive a prize--a book or any paper trifle. FOURTH ANNIVERSARY--LEATHER WEDDING The fourth year is observed as a leather wedding. Invitations sent out for this anniversary can have a small piece of leather enclosed in envelope. A unique idea is to have a leather saddle hung in the centre of the room, with a leather whip and riding gloves. As souvenirs small pieces of leather with the date of the wedding, also the date of the anniversary, stamped or written upon them, and tied with white baby ribbon, may be distributed. Small leather calendars can be made, also heart-shaped leather pen-wipers with small paintings on them. Appropriate presents for the married couple would be leather purses, hand-bags, shoes, satchels, pocketbooks, lunch boxes, traveling cases, etc., and do not forget a leather smoking case for the host. A burnt-leather box or basket filled with yellow flowers or growing ferns would not be ill-adapted for a centrepiece for the refreshment table, and leatherette receptacles, if made in sections tied together with ribbons matching the flowers, would be pretty for the bonbons, cakes and salted nuts. The place-cards may be of leather with the names in heavy gilt lettering. A game or contest is usually enjoyed, and the award of a trifling prize to the victor makes a pleasant climax to the evening's fun. In this case the article should, of course, be of leather. FIFTH ANNIVERSARY--WOODEN WEDDING A description is given of an actual wooden wedding anniversary celebrated recently. The invitations were printed on paper that looked like wood. In fact it looked so much like it that it could hardly be told from wood. For decorations as much real wood was utilized as possible. In one large archway were hung twelve wooden plates, each with a painting on, and joined with white ribbon. Twelve young ladies served on the reception committee and the twelve plates were given them as souvenirs before they departed. In another archway there was a toothpick curtain which attracted much attention. This was made on silk cord with the toothpicks tied about two inches apart, crossways, with a small loop in the cord. They were draped back and tied with a bunch of silk cord. In the small doorways were clothes-pin curtains. A large wire bell, covered with shavings and goldenrod, hung from a canopy of the same, under which the bride and groom stood to receive their guests. A large wooden flower-stand was placed in the reception hall and it was banked with goldenrod and cut flowers, with a large palm on top shelf. Several wooden bowls and baskets of goldenrod and cut flowers were scattered about the house. On the mantels, stands, table, sideboard, and piano, were large palms and goldenrod. All the chairs had been moved out of the house, except in the dining-room, where they were arranged around the wall. In the centre of the room was the polished table, with neat doilies, and for a centrepiece was a large yellow cake with the figure "5" in wood. This cake stood on a high cake-stand and around the edge of the stand were a row of clothes-pins, the kind with a spring, and a row of toothpicks sticking all around the edge of the cake. On two corners of the table were little wooden shoes filled with cut flowers, and on the two diagonally opposite corners were large apples stuck full of toothpicks. The guests were seated in the dining-room for refreshments and as soon as it was filled, the reception committee closed it with a large rope of goldenrod across the doorway. For refreshments ice cream and cake were served on wooden plates with wooden spoons. The ice cream was made to look like wood, the caterer using a mixture of vanilla, chocolate, bisque and lemon flavors. The different kinds of cake were also made to look like different kinds of wood, such as walnut, oak, cherry, and so forth. The souvenirs were large wooden butter moulds on which were printed the year of marriage and the year of celebration. An orchestra of eight pieces played all through the evening, under a canopy of white cloth on the porch, the porch being carpeted and curtained like a room. SEVENTH ANNIVERSARY--WOOLEN WEDDING The woolen wedding comes with the seventh anniversary. The material is not effective, but the invitations may be worked in crewels on perforated Bristol-board. The "cobweb party" might be revived, using colored yarns instead of cords, and placing a "fortune" as well as a favor at the end of each. Some unfortunate swain might, perhaps, find a huge worsted mitten, guided in his choice of yarn by one in the secret to insure its selection by a man. On the refreshment table a large wedding-cake crowned by a "Bo-peep" doll with her flock of toy sheep would suggest the "woolly" idea. TENTH ANNIVERSARY--TIN WEDDING These wedding invitations can be written or printed, and sent out ten days beforehand, either enclosing a piece of tin, or wrapped in tin foil. The bride and groom should receive their guests, the bride carrying her bouquet in a tin funnel. The groom can wear a small tin horn in his buttonhole with a small bouquet. The author intends to celebrate her tin wedding this fall, and this is what she intends to have. For refreshments, will serve coffee in tin cups, with tin spoons, and dainty sandwiches on tin plates; will pass water in a tin pail, using a tin dipper. All refreshments will be passed in tin pans, the waiters will use tin coffee pots to refill the coffee cups. For a centrepiece for the table, will use a large tin cake pan, with an opening in the centre, in which a small fish horn can be placed, the cake pan and fish horn both being filled with flowers. Shall decorate the rooms with tin as far as possible. In one archway shall use tin plates tied together with ribbon, a small hole being punched in the plates for the purpose. This will form a curtain for one archway. In another archway shall use tin cups for the same purpose. Tin candlesticks can be used, if one is fortunate enough to have them. Wire toasters tied with ribbon can be hung on the walls to hold photographs. Small tin spoons tied with ribbons can be given as souvenirs, being passed around by the waiters, in a tin dust pan. Potted plants can be set in tin pails, and tin cans can be used for bouquets. A tin wash basin can be passed for a finger bowl. Tin foil can also be used with which to decorate. TWELFTH ANNIVERSARY--LINEN WEDDING The invitations are written on squares of linen in indelible ink, and the name cards are also of linen. Linen is used freely about the rooms, linen lace working into decorative schemes most effectively. The flax flower is, of course, conspicuous whenever it can be obtained. The artificial flower may be used in many places, as well as the natural blossoms. The centrepiece, doilies, etc., used on the table should be embroidered with flax flowers in natural colors. While the guests are at supper an old-fashioned spinning wheel should be brought into the parlors in readiness for a spinning contest, which may be conducted as described in the entertainment, "A Spinning Party." FIFTEENTH ANNIVERSARY--CRYSTAL WEDDING The invitations may be decorated with drawings of small hand-mirrors, tumblers, etc., and for the ornamentation of the house every conceivable kind of glass vessel and mirror may be used. In the table decorations cut or pressed glass should be prominent. In the centre of the table a small mirror might be placed, with a large glass bowl upon it filled with flowers. Red carnations with red candle-shades make a very effective color scheme for the crystal background. Little cakes with red icing, red bonbons, and red place cards may also be used. The refreshments should be served on glass dishes, the waiters using glass trays if possible. Tiny glass bottles each containing a red carnation and a sprig of smilax make very appropriate souvenirs. Should the bride desire an appropriate gown for the occasion, it may be trimmed with quantities of glass beads or the glass drops from a chandelier. Those who assist in receiving might also be similarly garbed. TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY--CHINA WEDDING A good idea for a china wedding would be to have a course dinner and display all one's china. Use china wherever it can be used instead of silver, glass, or other dishes. Have plants and flowers displayed in china. A unique idea would be to give each guest a tiny china cup and saucer as a souvenir. Any of the parlor entertainments or contests described in this volume may be used to pass the time pleasantly either before or after the dinner. TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY--SILVER WEDDING The invitations to a silver wedding should be headed by the two eventful dates printed in silver. For the decorations, use any flowers which may be in season, surrounding the mirrors and pictures as far as possible with a framework of green spangled with silver. Cover all the lamps and gas shades with white crepe paper flecked here and there with silver, and suspend balls covered with silver paper from the chandeliers. Let the daughters in the family, and the granddaughters if there be any, wear gowns of simplest white, with draperies of silver tinsel. If there happen to be any grandchildren it would be well to have them distribute the favors, which may be bouquets of flowers tied with white ribbons. The refreshments should be served shortly after the guests arrive. A suitable way to announce that supper is served will be to have the wedding march played, when the bride and groom of the evening may be requested to lead the way to the dining-room. The supper-table should be lighted with white candles in silver candelabra, and the snowy tablecloth be crossed diagonally with white satin ribbon edged with silver. Upon a pretty centrepiece of silver-spangled tulle may be placed a silver or glass bowl containing twenty-five white roses. Dishes of white cakes and candies, and old-fashioned mottoes covered with silver paper may be scattered plentifully about the table. The large cake should be decorated in white and silver, and placed upon a silver dish in front of the bride of twenty-five years ago, who alone should be permitted to cut it. There is no limit to the presents which may be sent in honor of a silver wedding, but no guest need be deterred from appearing because of her inability to send a present; her good wishes will please the host and hostess quite as well as an elaborate gift. Pretty souvenirs of a silver wedding are bookmarks of white satin ribbon, upon each one of which is printed in silver the name of the guest and the dates of the anniversary he or she has been helping to celebrate. FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY--GOLDEN WEDDING Invitations to a golden wedding should be written or printed on golden hued cards. Let the bride wear a dress of golden hue, or, if she dislikes such bright colors, let her use plenty of yellow flowers in her hair and on her dress. The groom should also wear yellow flowers. Two armchairs decorated with straw might be used for the seats of honor. Have the home decorated with goldenrod if in season, if not, any yellow flower can be used; if the season for sunflowers, they are very pretty for decoration. Let those who help serve wear yellow dresses or plenty of yellow flowers. A large yellow cake could be used for a centrepiece, banked with yellow flowers; use brass candlesticks with yellow candles. Plenty of flowers or yellow paper should be used for the gas jets, lamp shades and picture frames. Refreshments might consist of yellow cake, lemonade, and yellow candy. Pretty souvenirs would be a yellow carnation for each guest. WEDDING OF THE OPERAS Each guest was given a double card or booklet with pencil attached, the cover representing a miniature sheet of music. Upon one page was a list of numbered questions, the answers to be written upon the opposite page, suggested by selections from well-known operas and operettas played upon the piano or other instrument. The names of the operas from which the selections were taken answered the questions. The following were the questions: 1. Who were the bride and groom? 2. What was the bride called--from the circumstances of her wedding? 3. At what sort of party did they meet? 4. He went as a minstrel. What was he called? 5. She went as an Austrian peasant. What was she called? 6. At the wedding what Spanish girl was maid of honor? 7. What noted Swiss was best man? 8. What two ladies (friends of Donizetti's) were bridesmaids? 9. What four Germans were the ushers? 10. What mythological personage presided over the music? 11. Who sang at the ceremony? 12. What noted person from Japan was present? 13. What noted bells were rung in honor of the wedding? 14. What ship did they take for their wedding trip? 15. When on the voyage who captured them? 16. What virtue sustained them in captivity? 17. What gentleman of dark complexion rescued them? 18. What historical people entertained them in France? 19. In Northeast Italy what grand affair did they attend? 20. Who showed them the sights of Venice? And the music gave answer, as follows: 1. Romeo and Juliet. 2. The Runaway Girl. 3. Masked Ball. 4. Trovatore. 5. The Bohemian Girl. 6. Carmen. 7. William Tell. 8. Lucia di Lammermoor and Linda di Chamouni. 9. Lohengrin, Faust, Tannhäuser and Siegfried. 10. Orpheus. 11. The Meistersinger. 12. The Mikado. 13. The Chimes of Normandy. 14. H. M. S. Pinafore. 15. The Pirates of Penzance. 16. Patience. 17. Othello. 18. The Huguenots. 19. The Carnival of Venice. 20. The Gondoliers. WHICH IS YOUR AGE What is the best age for a girl or boy? (Espionage) To what age will people arrive if they live long enough? (Dotage) To what age do most women look forward with anxiety? (Marriage) What age has the soldier often to find? (Courage) What age is required on the high seas? (Tonnage) What age are we forbidden to worship? (Image) What age is not less or more? (Average) What is the age people are stuck on? (Mucilage) What age is both profane and destructive? (Damage) At what age are vessels to ride safe? (Anchorage) What age is necessary to the clergyman? (Parsonage) What age is one of communication? (Postage) What age is most important to travelers by rail? (Mileage) What is the age now popular for charity? (Coinage) What age is shared by the doctor and the thief? (Pillage) What age do we all wish for? (Homage) What age is slavery? (Hostage) What age is most enjoyed at the morning meal? (Beverage) What is the most indigestible age? (Sausage) WHICH IS YOUR AUNT (ANT) 1. What is the oldest ant? (Adam-ant) 2. What ant hires his home? (Tenant) 3. What ant is joyful? (Jubilant) 4. What ant is learned? (Savant) 5. What ant is well-informed? (Conversant) 6. What ant is trustworthy? (Confidant) 7. What ant is proud? (Arrogant) 8. What ant sees things? (Observant) 9. What ant is angry? (Indignant) 10. What ant tells things? (Informant) 11. What ant is successful? (Triumphant) 12. What ant is an officer? (Commandant) 13. What ant is a beggar? (Mendicant) 14. What ant is obstinate? (Defiant) 15. What ant is youngest? (Infant) 16. What is the ruling ant? (Dominant) 17. What is the wandering ant? (Errant) 18. What ant lives in a house? (Occupant) 19. What ant points out things? (Significant) 20. What ant is prayerful? (Supplicant) WHICH IS YOUR CITY 1. What city is for few people? (Scarcity) 2. For happy people? (Felicity) 3. For hypocrites? (Duplicity) 4. For chauffeurs? (Velocity) 5. For truthful people? (Veracity) 6. For athletes? (Elasticity) 7. For greedy people? (Voracity) 8. For wild beasts? (Ferocity) 9. For home lovers? (Domesticity) 10. For actors? (Publicity) 11. For reporters? (Audacity) 12. For wise people? (Sagacity) 13. For hungry people? (Capacity) 14. For telegraph operators? (Electricity) 15. For crowds? (Multiplicity) 16. For nations? (Reciprocity) 17. For odd people? (Eccentricity) 18. For beggars? (Mendicity) 19. For unhappy people? (Infelicity) 20. For office seekers? (Pertinacity) The names of cities and their nicknames may also be used, thus: Boston, "The Hub"; Philadelphia, "The City of Homes"; Detroit, "City of the Straits"; Cincinnati, "Queen City of the West"; Chicago, "Windy City," or "Garden City"; Buffalo, "Queen City"; Cleveland, "Forest City"; Pittsburg, "Smoky City"; Washington, "City of Magnificent Distances"; Milwaukee, "Cream City"; New York, "Gotham"; Minneapolis, "Falls City"; St. Louis, "Mound City"; San Francisco, "Golden Gate"; New Orleans, "Crescent City." WHITE RIBBON SOCIABLE Invitations should be similar to the following: _Yourself and friends are cordially invited to attend a White Ribbon Sociable given by the Y. W. C. T. U. at the home of the President, Miss Blank, Monday evening, September 10, 19--._ Have a small white ribbon bow tied on the corner of the card. Of course all members of the society should wear their white ribbons. All who serve on the reception committee should wear a large white ribbon rosette. Also have a white ribbon quartet for the musical part of the program, and have each one wear a large white ribbon bow on the left breast. Have plenty of white flowers for decoration, also use anything white that can be used in any way to help decorate. Have a large bowl or white dish in centre of dining-table with small white baby ribbons hanging over the edge, one for each guest you expect. Tie to the end of each ribbon a small slip of paper bearing instructions as to what each one is to do. Each guest is to pull out a slip, see what he is to do, and then proceed to do it at once. Cover the top of the dish neatly with white tissue paper. Wafers can be served tied with narrow white ribbon, also coffee or cocoa, or if in summer serve lemonade. The following suggestions may be used for the slips of paper: 1. Act in pantomime a doctor's visit. 2. Make a dunce cap and put on head of dignified person. 3. Deliver an oration on George Washington. 4. Sing "Mary had a little lamb," in operatic style. 5. Draw a correct picture of a cow. 6. Tell a funny story. 7. Sing a lullaby to a sofa cushion. 8. Sing a comic song. 9. Compose a rhyme with four lines. 10. Tell a pathetic story. 11. Make a shadow picture of a man's head on the wall with the hands. 12. Show how a small boy cries when a hornet stings him. 13. Sneeze in five different ways. 14. Shake hands with ten different persons in ten different styles. 15. Recite "The boy stood on the burning deck," in dramatic style. 16. Laugh ten varieties of laugh. 17. Imitate the sounds made by two cats fighting. 18. Show how a man acts when he is lost in Boston. 19. Smile ten different smiles. 20. Tip your hat in ten different ways to ten different people. 21. Show how a dude walks. 22. Auction off an overcoat. 23. Try to sell a book as if you were a book agent. 24. Show how a boy writes his first letter. 25. Name ten things you could do with a million dollars. WHY WE NEVER MARRIED AN EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT TO BE GIVEN BY SEVEN MAIDS AND SEVEN BACHELORS (Copyright, 1899, by the Curtis Publishing Company and republished by courtesy of the _Ladies' Home Journal_) Although this entertainment is here planned to include fourteen people, the number of those who take part in it may, of course, be reduced to as few or increased to as many as desired, either by omitting one or more of the couples already provided for, or by including more couples and composing additional verses for them. The characters appear seated in a semicircle, a young man first, then a young woman, and so on alternately, beginning at the right as one faces the audience. Each one is dressed in a fashion appropriate to the character represented. Starting with the first young man at the right, each advances in turn to the front and recites. Number one says: "Of all the girls that ever I knew, I never saw one that I thought would do. I wanted a wife that was nice and neat, That was up to date, and that had small feet; I wanted a wife that was loving and kind, And that hadn't too much original mind; I wanted a wife that could cook and sew, And that wasn't eternally on the go; I wanted a wife that just loved to keep house, And that wasn't too timid to milk the cows; I wanted a wife that was strikingly beautiful, Intelligent, rich, and exceedingly dutiful. That isn't so much to demand in a wife, But still she's not found, though I've looked all my life." Number two next recites: "The only reason why I've never wed Is as clear as the day, and as easily said: Two lovers I had who'd have made me a bride, But the trouble was just that I couldn't decide; Whenever John came I was sure it was he That I cared for most; but with Charlie by me, My hands clasped in his, and his eyes fixed on mine, 'Twas as easy as could be to say, 'I'll be thine.' Now tell me what was a poor maiden to do, Who couldn't, to save her, make choice 'tween the two? I dillied and dallied, and couldn't decide, Till John, he got married, and Charlie, he died; And that is the reason why I've never wed; For how could I help it, as every one said, When John, he was married, and Charlie was dead." Number three now speaks: "I have never proposed to any girl. Was I to be caught in the snare of a curl, And dangle through life in a dizzy whirl? "Humph! I know too much for that by half! I may look young, but I'm not a calf; You can't catch a bird like me with chaff. "I know their tricks, I know their arts, I know how they scheme to capture hearts; I know they can play a dozen parts. "How do I know so much, you ask? To reply to that isn't much of a task; For if you must know, O madams and misters, I'm the only brother of fourteen sisters." Number four advances and says: "My lovers came from near and far, And sued before my feet; They told me I was like a star; They said that I was sweet; And each one swore if I'd accept His heart and eke his hand, That he would be the happiest man Throughout the whole broad land. But one proud youth remained aloof, And stood untouched, unmoved; Oh, bitter fate! he was the one, The only one I loved! I tried on him each winning charm, I put forth every art, But all in vain; he turned away, And took with him my heart. This is the reason I am left Alone upon the tree, Like withered fruit, though not a pear; Oh, would that I might be!" Number five recites these lines: "The only reason why I've never married Is because all my plans for proposing miscarried; I wouldn't propose till all was propitious, Till I felt pretty sure that the signs were auspicious. More than once I've been moved to propound the fond query, 'Won't you tell me you love me, my beautiful dearie?' When just at that moment came something or other, A ring at the bell, or a call from her mother, Or the sudden approach of her infantile brother, My words to arrest, my intentions to smother; And once, when a few leading questions I'd asked, She laughed as if jokes in my questions were masked; I couldn't conceive what had caused her commotion, But 'twas so disconcerting I gave up the notion; Although I felt certain as certain could be, That whatever she laughed at, it was not at me." Number six then says: "From my earliest years I've had an intuition That I was intended To carry out a mission. Whatever it might be I hadn't the least notion, But I searched for it faithfully From ocean to ocean. For a while I kept thinking That I was surely meant To preach to the heathen, But I never was sent. Then the surging thoughts and feelings That upon me seemed to press Surely proved beyond all question That I was a poetess; But the editors were cruel, They were stonily unkind; And their inappreciation Drove the notion from my mind. Now I'm sure that I'm a speaker; 'Tis my latest great impression; And I'd like to prove it to you, If I might without digression; But whatever is my mission, I've been certain all my life, That 'tis something higher, nobler, Than to be a slaving wife." Number seven speaks thus: "I used to call on Mary Jane When I was seventeen; And Mary Jane was fond of me, Though I was rather green. One day I told her why I came, And what was my intent; And then she said that I must go And get her pa's consent. Her pa, he was a mason rude, Well used to handling bricks, And when I came to talk with him My courage went to sticks. 'K-kind sir, may I have M-Mary Jane?' I asked with gasp and stutter; Then came an earthquake, then a blank-- I went home on a shutter. I never married Mary Jane, The maid whom I'd selected; The reason was because her pa-- Well, so to speak--objected." Number eight next advances: "I fully intended a bride to be, But Richard and I could never agree; He fussed at me daily in fault-finding mood, And I picked at him though I knew it was rude; He thought that a woman ought always to do Just what her husband wanted her to, And I was as set and decided as he, That that way of life would never suit me; And so we kept wrangling all summer and fall, And at last we agreed not to marry at all; And that is the reason you now find me here, Feeling cheap, I admit, and I once was so dear." Number nine speaks as follows: "Could I give up all the pleasures That a single man may claim? Could I see my bachelor treasures Sniffed at by a scornful dame? Could I have my choice Havanas Bandied all about the place, Strewn around like cheap bananas, Looked upon as a disgrace? Could I bear to find a hairpin Sticking in my shaving-mug? Or a pair of high-heeled slippers Lying on my Persian rug? Would I want my meditations Broken up by cries of fright At a mouse or daddy-long-legs, Or some other fearful sight? No, I couldn't, and I wouldn't, And I didn't, as you see; Of every life, the bachelor's life Is just the life for me." Number ten says: "My lovers were plenty As plenty could be; But of the whole number Not one suited me; John was too fat, Joe was too thin, And George, who'd have done, Was without any 'tin'; Dick was a sinner, And James was a saint, Who, whenever I shocked him, Looked ready to faint; Charles was quite handsome, The likeliest yet, But he always was smoking A vile cigarette; That I'm very particular 'Tis easy to see, Which all should remember Who come to court me." Number eleven now advances: "First it was Carrie who claimed my heart, And I thought from her I never would part; Then it was Rose, with her winsome eyes Of an azure as deep as the tropic skies; And next it was Alice, so mild and meek; I loved her fondly for nearly a week; Then came Elizabeth's fickle reign, And after her Mary and Kate and Jane; A dozen more for a time held sway, Sometimes for a month, sometimes for a day; And yet I'm not married; for, truth to tell, I could make no choice, I loved all so well." Number twelve speaks thus: "I never would marry The best of men; Though they've tried to persuade me Again and again; I know too well What's good for me To wed any man, Whoever he be; If he tells you he loves you, He means to deceive you; If he says he'll be faithful, He's planning to leave you; You may think him as meek As ever was Moses; You may think him as sweet As a garden of roses; You may think him as good As good can be; But just remember One word from me; Whatever they seem To be or have been, You just can't tell One thing about men." Number thirteen and number fourteen advance together, and the former speaks first as follows: "I've been in love with lots of girls, A bachelor's life I hate; I've all the time that I could want To find and win a mate; I've never come in contact with A brick-objecting pa, Or been deterred by brothers small Or loudly calling ma; I've never found it hard to choose With whom I would be mated; Oh, no, 'tis quite another cause-- I'm not appreciated; I've popped the question o'er and o'er, But if you will believe me, There wasn't one of all of them That I could get to have me. And that is why I'm left alone, Now love's young dream is gone, To darn my hose and mend my clo'es And sew my buttons on." Then number fourteen says: "My friends have all told you the reason why they Keep on in a lonesome, old-maidenly way, Without any husband to lighten their loads, Without any helper to smooth the rough roads; I, too, am unmarried, but not for the causes That they have all stated in rhythmical clauses: My lover didn't die, And he never went away; My father didn't stand A moment in my way; I've never quarreled once, Nor been bothered to decide, But I've got a first-class reason Why I've never been a bride; At any kind of mission I wouldn't even glance; The simple truth is this-- I've never had a chance; Other folks, I s'pose, have had 'em, But they've never come to me; Though I don't see why they shouldn't, For I'm willing as can be; And all I've got to say is, And I say it frank and free, If you think I won't get married, Just you question me and see." At the close of number fourteen's recitation, all rise and stand in two rows, facing each other, the ladies in one row and the gentlemen in the other. The gentlemen then recite in concert as follows: "Since we all are yet unmated, And are getting on in years, Why not now decide the matter By dividing up in pairs? If I ask you to accept me, And my lonely life to bless, Will you? Will you? Will you?" Ladies in chorus: "Yes!" Each lady takes the arm of the gentleman facing her, and all walk off to the music of the wedding march. WIFE OF SANTA CLAUS AN ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL The Sunday-school, school or club is assembled; the stage is concealed by a curtain, and the Christmas tree, which is near the stage, by another curtain or screen. The tree is decorated in the usual manner, minus the gifts, which are concealed near the stage ready to be delivered when the right time comes. The tree need not be lighted until the closing of any preliminary exercises that have been arranged. After lighting, the tree should be exposed to the view of all. When the children have gazed at it for a few moments, the superintendent or some other suitable person should come forward, as if to distribute the gifts as usual. He should survey the tree attentively and from different standpoints, and finally, with great astonishment, exclaim: "Why, what in the world does this mean? What strange thing is this? What is the matter with my eyes? [_Rubbing his eyes to see better._] I can't see! As true as I live, I cannot see a single Christmas gift upon this tree! Think of it, a Christmas tree with no presents! Am I growing blind? [_Rubbing his eyes again._] "Do you see any? [_Turning to any child near._] Well, I thought so! It is too true, children, that although we have a Christmas tree, and a fine one, too, there is not a single gift upon it; no, not even a little one for a little bit of a girl! Now, this is altogether too bad of Santa Claus to forget this Sunday-school--when we've gotten all ready for him, too, lighted the tree and decorated it so beautifully! It isn't a bit like him, either. He never did such a thing before. He can't have forgotten us. The blessed old Saint wouldn't do that! Maybe his reindeer are lame and he is slow in getting here. No! He would have sent Jack Frost on ahead to tell us to wait. Let me think a moment. It can't be that any of you children have been so naughty that he thinks we don't deserve a visit from him, can it? No, no, that cannot be; it is a mistake, somehow. It is very mysterious; I never heard of the like before--no, never---- "Well, what are we going to do about it, anyway? Can't some one speak up and explain this mystery, or at least tell us what to do to celebrate Christmas?" At this juncture the sound of sleigh-bells is heard at the back or side of the stage, and a loud "Whoa!" and a shrill whistle. There is an instant of bustling, crunching of ice, stamping and pawing of feet, then the door bursts open suddenly, as if by a gust of wind, and a nimble little fellow bounces in, clad all in red and flecked with tufts of cotton on cap and shoulders to look like snow. He wears a high, peaked cap of red with a bobbing tassel on the peak, and carries a long thong whip, which he flourishes in time to the rhyme he chants: "Ho for us! hey for us! Please clear the way for us! I'm Jack Frost from Icicle-land, Driver of Santa's four-in-hand; Though late you will ask no excuse." With a flourish he draws back the curtain, announcing "Mrs. Santa Claus!" There, with a mammoth pumpkin standing by her side, is seen a beaming-faced little fat woman. She is dressed in a fur cloak, or fur-lined circular turned wrong side out, an ermine poke bonnet, made of white cotton-wool, with black worsted tails, and an immense muff of the same. She steps forward, and in a dramatic style delivers this address: MRS. SANTA CLAUS'S ADDRESS "Good-evening to you, children dear; I know you cannot guess The reason I am here to-night, And so I'll just confess That I am Mrs. Santa Claus-- Old Santa Claus's wife; You've never seen me here before, I'm sure, in all your life. "So if you'll listen patiently, I'll tell the reason why Old Santa could not come to-night, And why instead came I; He is so very busy now, Has so many schools--you see He can't find time to visit all, And deck each Christmas tree. "And so he said unto his wife: 'My faithful partner dear, That Sunday-school's expecting me To help keep Christmas cheer; As I can't possibly reach there, I'm disappointed quite; I know that they will look for me With shining eyes so bright!' "I, Mrs. Santa, thus replied: 'Please let your better-half Go visit that nice Sunday-school; 'Twill make the children laugh.' This plan just suited Santa Claus; He sent Jack Frost to drive; He knew what fun 'twould be for me Among you thus to arrive! "And so, lest him you should forget, That blessed, dear old fellow The queerest Christmas gift sends you, This pumpkin, big and yellow; He hopes that when you cut it up You'll quite delighted be, To find the inside quite different From what you're used to see. "Now if the shell is not too hard I'll cut it open wide, That you may see with your own eyes This curious inside. [_She cuts it open._] Ah, yes! we've found the inside now, And so present to view This fairy, who, from Wonderland, Has come to visit you." The fairy, a little girl dressed in white, with a wand, and wings, if possible, skips out of the pumpkin and sings: FAIRY'S SONG (Tune, "Little Buttercup") "Yes I am a fairy, a genuine fairy, And if you cannot tell why I've come in this pumpkin, this big yellow pumpkin, The reason to guess you may try. "I bring you sweet tokens, yes, many fond tokens, Of love and sweet friendship true; From sisters and brothers, fathers and mothers, And many dear friends who love you. "So here are your presents, your own Christmas presents, With which you may now deck your tree, So please to remember the bright Christmas fairy, The bright Christmas fairy you see. "I wish you 'Merry Christmas,' a real merry Christmas, And also a 'Happy New-Year;' If you love one another, each sister and brother, No harm from the fairies you'll fear." The gifts are then distributed by the fairy, who appears to take them from the inside of the pumpkin. Unless the children are too small, and likely to be timid, they should go forward to receive their gifts when their names are called by the fairy, who apparently knows them all by name, but who is prompted by some one reading from a list standing behind the curtain close by her side. Jack Frost whisks about helping the fairy hand out the gifts and assisting the wee ones to get down off the stage with their bundles. During Mrs. Santa's address he might carelessly perch himself upon the pumpkin. The pumpkin is made with a strong wire frame (can be made at any hardware store), and covered with a deep yellow cambric with an occasional green smutch painted upon it. It is in two hemispheres and is tied together strongly at the bottom and loosely at the top, so that the fairy inside can easily loosen the top string and step out when Mrs. Santa cuts open the pumpkin with a large carving-knife. In case it is not practicable to have a pumpkin-frame made, substitute for it a gigantic snowball made of cotton-wool, covered with diamond-dust to sparkle like snow-crystals. Two large old-fashioned umbrellas that are dome-shaped will serve very nicely for the frame of a spherical ball, if the tips of the ribs are wired together. It should then be covered inside and outside with white cloth on which the cotton batting can be basted. With such an arrangement it would be necessary to dispense with the fairy, but the little folks might have the surprise of seeing the snowball slowly open at a snap from Jack Frost's whip, disclosing a nest of smaller snowballs. These Jack Frost might toss to the children and, when opened, they might be found to contain candy and nuts. Index PAGE Acting Proverbs 3 Advertisement Items 4 All About Kate 4 Apple Social 6 April Fool Dinner 6 April Fool Party 7 Authors' Contest 9 Authors' Guessing Game 9 Authors' Verbal Game 10 "B" Sociable 11 Barn Party 12 Baseball Party 13 Bean Bags 14 Bean Sociable 15 Berry Guessing Contest 15 Bible Contest 16 Bible Evening 17 Bible Names 18 Bible Readings 18 Bird Carnival 19 Bird Guessing Contest 20 Birthday Party 23 Bishop's Riddle 23 Box Party 24 Cake Sale 25 Cake Walk (Novel kind) 26 Calico Carnival 27 Can Factory 28 Cat Guessing Contest 30 Chestnut Sociable 30 Children's Birthday Flowers 32 Children's Birthday Parties 32 Children's Christmas Party 34 Children's Christmas Tableaux 35 Children's Easter Party 37 Children's Souvenirs 40 Children's Sweet Pea Tea 41 Children's Tom Thumb Entertainment 42 Children's Valentine Party 43 Chinese Party 44 Christmas Costume Party 45 Christmas Menu and Table Decorations 47 Christmas Umbrella Game 48 Church Bazaar Suggestions 49 Cobweb Sociable 50 Conundrum Tea 51 Cook Book Sale 51 Cooky Sociable 53 Corn Husking Bee 53 Dutch Party 54 Easter Egg Hunt 55 Easter Luncheon 55 Easter Sociable 57 Fairies' Garden 58 Feast of Seven Tables 60 Feast of Nations 62 Fish Market 64 Flags of Nations 65 Floral Love Story 66 Flower Bazaar 67 Flower Guessing Contest 68 Flower Luncheons 70 Flower Party 73 Flowers Illustrated 75 Fourth of July Museum 76 Game of Nations 78 Geographical Game 79 George and Martha Tea 79 Girls' Names Contest 81 Golf Luncheon 82 Golf Players' Guessing Contest 83 Good Luck Party 83 Gypsy Fortune-Telling 85 Hallowe'en Box Cake 86 Hallowe'en Games 86 Hallowe'en Party 88 Hallowe'en Suggestions 89 Handkerchief Bazaar 91 Hatchet Party 91 Ice Festival 93 Inauguration Day Lunch 94 Independence Day Necessities 96 Indian Dinner Party 97 Indoor Lawn Party 98 Initial Characteristics 99 Jack-O'-Lantern Party 100 Japanese Card Party 102 Japanese Sociable 103 Literary Contest 104 Literary Evening 109 Literary People 111 Measuring Party 112 Medical Sociable 113 Medical Trunk 114 Military Sociable 115 Morning Glory Fair 116 Mother Goose Game 116 Musical Card Party 117 Musical Evening 118 Musical Guessing Contest 119 Musical Romance 119 Musical Terms Illustrated 121 Musicians Buried 122 Mystical Dinner Menu 123 Mystical Party 124 New Year's Eve Party 126 New Year's Resolutions 127 New Year's Sociable 127 Nineteenth Century Game 128 Nose and Goggle Party 129 Noted People 130 Nut Conundrums 130 Nut Party 131 Observation Party 132 Old-Fashioned Dinner 134 Old-Time Country School 134 Old-Time Spelling Bee 138 Orange Party 139 Orange Sociable 141 Patriotic Party 141 Peddlers' Parade 143 Penny for Your Thoughts 144 Photograph Party 145 Pictorial Geography 145 Picture Reading 146 Pictures of Prominent Men 147 Pie Party 147 Pilgrim Luncheon 148 Ping-Pong Luncheon 148 Ping-Pong Party 149 Pin Party 150 P. O. D. Dinner Party 152 Pop-Corn Party 153 Portrait Game 154 Poverty Party 154 Poverty Sociable 156 Presidential Couplets 156 Presidential Questions 158 Presidents' Nicknames 159 Pussy Willow Party 159 Red White and Blue Luncheon 160 "Riley" Entertainment 162 Self-Portraits 163 Seven Days in One 165 Shamrock Luncheon 166 Snowdrift Party 168 Sock Sociable 169 Spinning Party 170 Spinster Tea 173 State Abbreviations 174 State Flowers 175 State Nicknames 175 State Sociable 176 St. Patrick's Day Party 177 St. Patrick's Guessing Contest 178 Telegram Party 179 Tennis Sociable 180 Ten Virgins (Sacred play) 180 Thanksgiving Day Decorations 181 Thanksgiving Football Dinner 182 Thanksgiving Sociable 185 Transplanting Trees 187 Tree Guessing Contest 187 Tree Party 188 Tree Pool 190 Trolley Party 191 Unique Valentine Party 192 University Luncheon 194 Valentine Entertainment 195 Valentine Fun 196 Valentine Party--Danish 198 Valentine Sociable 200 Variety of Little Misses 201 Vegetable Party 202 Wedding Anniversaries 203 Wedding of the Operas 211 Which is Your Age 213 Which is Your Aunt (Ant) 214 Which is Your City 214 White Ribbon Sociable 215 Why We Never Married 217 Wife of Santa Claus 225 
41632	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). THE ART OF ENTERTAINING by M. E. W. SHERWOOD This night Beneath my roof my dearest friends I entertain HOMER New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1893 Copyright, 1892, by Dodd, Mead and Company. All rights reserved. University Press: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. _With a grateful recognition of his services to_ "The Art of Entertaining," _Both at home and abroad, and with a profound respect for his wit, eloquence, and learning, this book is dedicated_ TO THE HON. CHAUNCEY M. DEPEW, BY HIS FRIEND, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. In America the art of entertaining as compared with the same art in England, in France, in Italy and in Germany may be said to be in its infancy. But if it is, it is a very vigorous infant, perhaps a little overfed. There is no such prodigality of food anywhere nor a more genuinely hospitable people in the world than those descendants of the Pilgrims and the Cavaliers who peopled the North and South of what we are privileged to call the United States. Exiles from Fatherland taught the Indians the words "Welcome!" and "What Cheer?"--a beautiful and a noble prophecy. Well might it be the motto for our national shield. We, who welcome to our broad garden-lands the hungry and the needy of an overcrowded old world, can well appropriate the legend. No stories of that old Biblical world of the patriarchs who lived in tents have been forgotten in the New World. The Western settler who placed before his hungry guest the last morsel of jerked meat, or whose pale, overworked wife broiled the fish or the bird which had just fallen before his unerring gun,--these people had mastered in their way the first principle in the art of entertaining. They have the hospitality of the heart. From that meal to a Newport dinner what an infinite series of gradations! Perhaps we may help those on the lower rungs of the ladder to mount from one to the other. Perhaps we may hint at the poetry, the romance, the history, the literature of entertaining; perhaps with practical hints of how to feed our guests we may suggest where meat faileth to feed the soul, and where intellect, wit, and taste come in. American dinners are pronounced by foreign critics as overdone. The great _too much_ is urged against us. We are a wasteful people as to food; we should learn an elegant and a wise economy. In a French family, eggs and lumps of sugar are counted. Economy is a part of the art of entertaining; if judiciously studied it is far from niggardliness. Such economy leads to judicious selection. One has but to read the Odes of Horace to learn how much of the mind can be appropriately devoted to the art of entertaining. Milton does not disdain, in Paradise Lost, to give us the _menu_ of Eve's dinner to the Angel. We find in all great poets and historians stories of great feasts. And with us in the nineteenth century, dinner is not alone a thing of twelve courses, it is the bright consummate flower of the day, which brings us all together from our various fields of work. It is the open sesame of the soul, the hour of repose, of amusement, of innocent hilarity,--the hour which knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. The body is carefully apparelled, the mind swept and garnished, the brain prepared for fresh impress. It is said that no important political movement was ever inaugurated without a dinner, and we may fancifully state that no great poem, no novel, no philosophical treatise, but has been made or marred by a dinner. There is much entertaining, however, which is not eating. We do not gorge ourselves, as in the days of Dr. Johnson, until the veins in the forehead swell to bursting, but perhaps we are just as far from those banquets which Horace describes,--a glass of Falernian, a kid roasted, a bunch of grapes, and a rose, with good talk afterward. We have not mingled enough of the honey of Hymettus with our cookery. Lady Morgan described years ago a dinner at Baron Rothschild's in Paris where the fineness of the napery, the beauty of the porcelain and china, the light, digestible French dishes, seemed to her a great improvement on the heaviness of an English dinner. That one paper is said to have altered the whole fabric of English dinner-giving. English dinners of to-day are superlatively good and agreeable in the best houses, and although national English cookery is not equal to that on the other side of the Channel, perhaps we could not have a better model to follow. We can compass an "all round" mastery of the art of entertaining if we choose. It is not alone the wealth of America which can assist us, although wealth is a good thing. It is our boundless resource, and the capability, spirit, and generosity of our people. Venice alone at one imperial moment of her success had such a chance as we have; she was free, she was industrious, she was commercial, she was rich, she was artistic. All the world paid her tribute. And we see on her walls to-day, fixed there by the pencils of Tintoretto and Titian, what was her idea of the art of entertaining. Poetry, painting, and music were the hand-maidens of plenty; they wait upon those Godlike men and those beautiful women. It is a saturnalia of colour, an apotheosis of plenty with no vulgar excess, with no slumberous repletion. "'Tis but the fool who loves excess," says our American Horace in his "Ode to an Old Punch Bowl." When we read Charles Lamb's "Essay on Roast Pig," Brillat Savarin's grave and witty "Physiologie du Gout," Thackeray's "Fitz Boodle's Professions," Sydney Smith's poetical recipe for a salad; when we read Disraeli's description of dinners, or the immortal recipes for good cheer which Dickens has scattered through his books, we learn how much the better part of dinner is that which we do not eat, but only think about. What a liberal education to hear the late Samuel Ward talk about good dinners! Variety not vegetables, manners not meat, was his motto. He invested the whole subject with a sort of classic elegance and a humorous sense of responsibility. Anacreon and Charles Delmonico seemed to mingle in his brain, and one would gladly now be able to dine with him and Longfellow at their yearly Christmas dinner. Cookery books, receipts, and _menus_ are apt to be of little use to young housekeepers before they have mastered the great art of entertaining. Then they are like the system of logarithms to the mariner. Almost all young housekeepers are at sea without a chart. A great, turbulent ocean of butchers, bakers and Irish servants swim before their eyes. How grapple with that important question, "How shall I give a dinner?" Who can help them? Shall we try? CONTENTS. PAGE OUR AMERICAN RESOURCES AND FOREIGN ALLIES 13 THE HOSTESS 22 BREAKFAST 35 THE LUNCH 49 AFTERNOON TEA 59 THE INTELLECTUAL COMPONENTS OF A DINNER 68 CONSCIENTIOUS DINERS 79 VARIOUS MODES OF GASTRONOMICAL GRATIFICATION 94 SOUPS 105 FISH 113 SALAD 124 DESSERTS 134 GERMAN EATING AND DRINKING 143 THE INFLUENCE OF GOOD CHEER ON AUTHORS AND GENIUSES 152 BONBONS 162 FAMOUS MENUS AND RECEIPTS 176 COOKERIES AND WINES OF SOUTHERN EUROPE 185 SOME ODDITIES IN THE ART OF ENTERTAINING 197 THE SERVANT QUESTION 206 SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS 221 FURNISHING A COUNTRY HOUSE 233 ENTERTAINING IN A COUNTRY HOUSE 241 A PICNIC 253 PASTIMES OF LADIES 260 PRIVATE THEATRICALS 271 HUNTING AND SHOOTING 280 GOLF 288 GAMES 299 ARCHERY 313 THE SEASON--BALLS AND RECEPTIONS 321 WEDDINGS 331 HOW ROYALTY ENTERTAINS 340 ENTERTAINING AT EASTER 353 HOW TO ENTERTAIN CHILDREN 361 CHRISTMAS AND CHILDREN 371 CERTAIN PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS 381 THE COMPARATIVE MERITS OF AMERICAN AND FOREIGN MODES OF ENTERTAINING 389 THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. OUR AMERICAN RESOURCES, AND FOREIGN ALLIES. "Let observation, with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru." The amount of game and fish which our great country and extent of sea-coast give us, the variety of climate from Florida to Maine, from San Francisco to Boston, which the remarkable net-work of our railway communication allows us to enjoy,--all this makes the American market in any great city almost fabulously profuse. Then our steamships bring us fresh artichokes from Algiers in mid-winter, and figs from the Mediterranean, while the remarkable climate of California gives us four crops of delicate fruits a year. There are those, however, who find the fruits of California less finely flavoured than those of the Eastern States. The peaches of the past are almost a lost flavour, even at the North. The peach of Europe is a different and far inferior fruit. It lacks that essential flavour which to the American palate tells of the best of fruits. It may be well, for the purposes of gastronomical history, to narrate the variety of the larder in the height of the season, of a certain sea-side club-house, a few years ago: "The season lasted one hundred and eighty days, during which time from eighty thousand to ninety thousand game-birds, and eighteen thousand pounds of fish were consumed, exclusive of domestic poultry, steaks and chops. On busy days twenty-four kinds of fish, all fit for epicures, embracing turbot, Spanish mackerel, sea trout; the various kinds of bass, including that gamest of fish the black bass, bonito from the Gulf of Mexico, the purple mullet, the weakfish, chicken halibut, sole, plaice, the frog, the soft crab from the Chesapeake, were served. Here, packed tier upon tier in glistening ice, were some thirty kinds of birds in the very ecstasy of prime condition, and all ready prepared for the cook. Let us enumerate 'this royal fellowship of game.' There were owls from the North (we might call them by some more enticing name), chicken grouse from Illinois, chicken partridge, Lake Erie black and summer ducks and teal, woodcock, upland plover (by many esteemed as the choicest of morsels), dough-birds, brant, New Jersey millet, godwit, jack curlew, jacksnipe, sandsnipe, rocksnipe, humming-birds daintily served in nut-shells, golden plover, beetle-headed plover, redbreast plover, chicken plover, seckle-bill curlew, summer and winter yellow-legs, reed-birds and rail from Delaware (the latter most highly esteemed in Europe, where it is known as the ortolan), ring-neck snipe, brown backs, grass-bird, and peeps." Is not this a list to make "the rash gazer wipe his eye"? And to show our riches and their poverty in the matter of game, let us give the game statistics of France for one September. There are thirty thousand communes in France, and in each commune there were killed on the average on September 1, ten hares,--total, three hundred thousand; seventeen partridges,--total, five hundred and ten thousand; fourteen quail,--total, four hundred and twenty thousand; one rail in each commune,--thirty thousand total as to rails. That was all France could do for the furnishing of the larder; of course she imports game from Savoy, Germany, Norway, and England. And oh, how she can cook them! Woodcock, it is said, should be cooked the day it is shot, or certainly when fresh. Birds that feed on or near the water should be eaten fresh; so should snipe and some kinds of duck. The canvasback alone bears keeping, the others get fishy. Snipe should be picked by hand, on no account drawn; that is a practice worthy of an Esquimaux. Nor should any condiment be cooked with woodcock, save butter or pork. A piece of toast under him, to catch his fragrant gravy, and the delicious trail should alone be eaten with the snipe; but a bottle of Chambertin may be drunk to wash him down. The plover should be roasted quickly before a hot fire; nor should even a pork jacket be applied if one wishes the delicious juices of the bird alone. This bird should be served with water-cresses. Red wine should be drunk with game,--Chambertin, Clos de Vougeot, or a sound Lafitte or La Tour claret. Champagne is not the wine to serve with game; that belongs to the filet. With beef _braisé_ a glass of good golden sherry is allowable, but not champagne. The deep purple, full-bodied, velvety wines of the Côte d'Or,--the generous vintages of Burgundy,--are in order. Indeed these wines always have been in high renown. They are passed as presents from one royal personage to another, like a _cordon d'honneur_. Burgundy was the wine of nobles and churchmen, who always have had enviable palates. Chambertin is a lighter kind of Volnay and the _vin velouté par excellence_ of the Côte d'Or. It was a great favourite with Napoleon I. To considerable body it unites a fine flavour and a _suave bouquet_ of great _finesse_, and does not become thin with age like other Burgundies. As for the Clos de Vougeot, its characteristics are a rich ruby colour, velvety softness, a delicate bouquet, which has a slight suggestion of the raspberry. It is a strong wine, less refined in flavour than the Chambertin, and with a suggestion of bitterness. It was so much admired by a certain military commander that while marching his regiment to the Rhine he commanded his men to halt before the vineyard and salute it. They presented arms in its honour. Château Lafitte, renowned for its magnificent colour, exquisite softness, delicate flavour, and fragrant bouquet, recalling almonds and violets, is one of the wines of the Gironde, and is supposed of late to have deteriorated in quality; but it is quite good enough to command a high price and the attention of _connoisseurs_. Château La Tour, a grand Médoc claret, derives its name from an existing ancient, massive, round tower, which the English assailed and defended by turns during the wars in Guienne. It has a pronounced flavour, and a powerful bouquet, common to all wines of the Gironde. It reminds one of the odour of almonds, and of Noyau cordials. These vineyards were in great repute five centuries ago; and it would be delightful to pursue the history of the various _crûs_, did time permit. The Cos d'Estoumet of the famous St. Estephe _crûs_ is still made by the peasants treading out the grapes, _foule à pied_, to the accompaniment of pipes and fiddles as in the days of Louis XIV. We will mention the two _premiers grands crûs_ of the Gironde, the growth of the ancient vineyards of Leoville and the St. Julian wines, distinguished by their odour of violets. Thackeray praises Chambertin in verse more than once:-- "'Oui, oui, Monsieur,' 's the waiter's answer; 'Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?' 'Tell me a good one.'--'That I can, sir: The Chambertin, with yellow seal.'" Then again he speaks of dipping his gray beard in the Gascon wine 'ere Time catches him at it and Death knocks the crimson goblet from his lips. In countries where wine is grown there is little or no drunkenness. It is to be feared that drunkenness is increased by impure wines. It is shocking to read of the adulterations which first-class wines are subjected to, or rather the adulterations which are called first-class wines. Wilkie Collins has a hit at this in his "No Name," where he makes the famous Captain Wragge say, "We were engaged at the time in making, in a small back parlour in Brompton, a fine first-class sherry, sound in the mouth, tonic in character, and a great favourite with the Court of Spain." Our golden sherry, our Chambertin, our Château Lafitte is said often to come from the vineyards of Jersey City and the generous hillsides of Brooklyn; and we might perhaps quote from the famous song of "The Canal":-- "The tradesmen who in liquor deal, Of our Canal good use can make; And when they mean their casks to fill, They oft its water freely take. By this device they render less The ills that spring from drunkenness; For harmless is the wine, you'll own, From vines that in canals is grown." A large proportion of the so-called foreign wines sold in America are of American manufacture. The medium grade clarets and so-called Sauternes are made in California, in great quantities. Our Senator, Leland Stanford, makes excellent wines. On the islands of Lake Erie, the lake region of Central New York, and along the banks of the Ohio and Missouri Rivers, are vineyards producing excellent wines. An honest American wine is an excellent thing to drink; and yet it disgusted Commodore McVicker, who was entertained in London as President of our Yacht Club, to be asked to drink American wines. Yet the Catawbas, "dulcet, delicious and creamy," are not to be despised; neither are the sweet and dry California growths. The indigenous wines which come from Ohio, Iowa, Missouri and Mississippi are likely to be musty and foxy, and are not pleasant to an American taste. The Catawbas are pleasant, and are of three colours,--rose colour, straw colour, and colourless, if that be a colour. In taste they are like sparkling Moselle, but fuller to the palate. The wine produced from the Isabella grape is of a decided raspberry flavour. The finest American wines are those produced from the vines known as Norton's Virginia and the Cynthiana. The former produces a well-blended, full-bodied, deep-coloured, aromatic, and almost astringent wine; the second,--probably the finer of the two,--is a darker, less astringent, and more delicate product. Among the American red wines may be mentioned the product of the Schuylkill Muscadel, which was the only esteemed growth in the country previous to the cultivation of the Catawba grape, being in fact ambitiously compared to the _crûs_ of the Gironde. It was a bitter, acidulous wine, little suited to the American palate, and invariably requiring an addition of either sugar or alcohol. Longfellow sings of the wine of the Mustang grape of Texas and New Mexico:-- "The fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado." The Carolina Scuppernong is detestable, reminding us of the sweet and bitter medicines of childhood. The Herbemont, a rose-tinted wine is very like Spanish Manganilla. Longfellow says of sparkling Catawba, that it "fills the room with a benison on the giver." It has, indeed, a charming bouquet, as says the poet. The name of Nicholas Longworth is intimately connected with the subject of American wines. To him will ever be given all honour, as being the father of this industry in the New World; but the superior excellence of the California wines has driven the New York and Ohio wines, it is said, to a second place in the market. In the expositions of 1889 at Paris, and in Melbourne, silver medals were awarded to the Inglenook wines, which are of the red claret, burgundy and Médoc type; also white wines,--Sauterne Chasselas, and Hock, Chablis, Riesling, etc. The right soil for the cultivation of the grape is a hard thing to find; but Captain Niebaum, a rich California grower, has hit the key-note, when he says, "I have no wish to make any money out of my vineyard by producing a large quantity of wine at a cheap or moderate price. I am going to make a California wine which, if it can be made, will be worthily sought for by _connoisseurs_; and I am prepared to spend all the money needed to accomplish that result." He says frankly that he has not yet produced the best wine of which California is capable, but that he has succeeded in producing a better wine than many of the foreign wines sold in America. He might have added that hogsheads of California grape-juice are sent annually to Bordeaux to be doctored, and returned to America as French claret. The misfortunes of the vine-grower in Europe, the ruin of acres of grape-producing country by the phyloxera, should be the opportunity for these new vine-growers in the United States. It is only by travel, experiment, and by a close study of the methods of the foreign wine-growers that a Californian can possibly make himself a vineyard which shall be successful. He must induce Nature to sweeten his wines, and he can then laugh at the chemist. Of vegetables we have not only all that Europe can boast, excepting perhaps the artichoke, but we have some in constant use and of great excellence which they have not. For instance, sweet corn boiled or roasted and eaten from the cob with butter and salt is unknown in Europe. They have not the sweet potato, so delicious when baked. They have not the pumpkin-pie although they have the pumpkin. They have egg-plant and cauliflower and beans and peas, but so have we. They have bananas, but never fried, which is a negro dish, and excellent. They have not the plantain, good baked, nor the avocado or alligator pear, which fried in butter or oil is so admirable. They have not the ochra, of which the negro cooks make such excellent gumbo soup. They have all the salads, and use sorrel much more than we do. They do not cook summer squash as we do, nor have they anything to equal it. They use vegetables always as an _entrée_, not served with the meat, unless the vegetable is cooked with the meat, like beef stewed in carrots, turnips, and onions, veal and green peas, veal with spinach, and so on. The peas are passed as an _entrée_, so is the cauliflower, the beet-root, and the turnips. They treat all vegetables as we do corn and asparagus, as a separate course. For asparagus we must give the French the palm, particularly when they serve it with Hollandaise sauce; and the Italians cook cauliflower with cheese, _à ravir_. THE HOSTESS. "A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrow, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles." The "house-mother,"--the mistress of servants, the wife, the mother, the hostess,--is the first person in the art of entertaining; and considering how busy, how hard worked, how occupied, are American men, she is generally the first person singular. In nine cases out of ten, American men neither know nor care much about the conduct of the house if the wife will assume it; they only like to be made comfortable, and to find a warm, clean home, with a good dinner awaiting them. It is the wife who must struggle with the problems of domestic defeat or victory. When Washington Irving was presented at the Court of Dresden his Saxon Majesty remarked, "Mr. Irving, with a republic so liberal, you can have no servants in America." "Yes, Sire, we have servants, such as they are," said the amiable author of the "Sketchbook;" "but we do not call them servants, we call them help." "I cannot understand that," said the king. The king's mental position was not illogical; for, with his experience of the servile position of the domestic in Europe, he could not reconcile to his mind the declaration of social equality in America. The American hostess must, it would seem, for many centuries if not forever, have to struggle against this difficulty. As some writer said twenty years ago, of this question: "Rich as we are in money, profuse in spending it to heighten the enjoyment of life, the good servant, that essential of comfort and luxury, seems beyond our reach. Superfine houses we have, and superfine furniture, and superfine ladies, and all the other superfineties to excess, but the skilful cook, the handy maid, and the trusty nurse we rarely possess." Thus, afar from the great cities and even in them, we must forge the instruments with which we work, instead of finding them ready to hand, as in other countries. That is to say, the mistress of a household must teach her cook to cook, her waiter to wait, her laundress to get up fine linen. She is happy if she can get honest people and willing hands, but trained servants she durst not expect away from the great centres of life. Considering what has been expected of the American woman, has she not done rather well? That she must be first servant-trainer, then housekeeper, wife, mother, and conversationist, that she must keep up with the always advancing spirit of the times, read, write, and cipher, be beautifully dressed, play the piano, make the wilderness to blossom as the rose, be charitable, thoughtful, and good, put the mind at its ease, strive to learn how to do all things in the best way, be a student of good taste and good manners, make a house luxurious, ornamental, cheerful, and restful, have an inspired sense of the fitness of things, dress and entertain in perfect accord with her station, her means, and her husband's ambition, master, unassisted, all the ins and outs of the noble art of entertaining,--has not this been something of the nature of a large contract? She must go to the cooking-lecture, come home and visit the kitchen, go to the intelligence office, keeping her hand on all three. She must be the mind, while the Maggies and Bridgets furnish the hands. She must never be fussy, never grotesque; she must steer her ship through stormy seas, and she must also learn to enjoy Wagner's music. There is proverbially no sea so dangerous to swim in as that tumultuous one of a new and illy regulated prosperity; and in the changeful, uncertain nature of American fortunes an American woman must be ready to meet any fate. Judging from many specimens which we have seen, may we not claim that the American woman must be stamped with an especial distinction? Has she not conquered her fate? Curiously enough, fashion and good taste seem to lackey to the American woman, no matter where she was born or where educated. In spite of all drawbacks, and the counter-currents of destiny, she is a well bred and tasteful woman. No matter what the American woman has to fight against, poverty or lack of opportunities, she is likely, if she is called upon to do so, to administer gracefully the hospitalities of the White House or to fill the difficult _rôle_ of an ambassadress. Some of them have bad taste perhaps. "What is good taste but an instantaneous, ready appreciation of the fitness of things?" To most of us who observe it in others, it seems to be an instinct. We envy those few who are always well dressed, who never buy unbecoming stuffs, who have the gift to make their clothes look as if they had simply blossomed out of their inner consciousness, as a rose blossoms out of its calyx. Some women always dress their hair becomingly; others, even if handsome, look like beautiful frights. Some wear their clothes as if they had been hurled at them by a tornado, and remind one of the poor husband's remark, "I feel as if I had married a hurricane." The same exceptions, which only prove the rule, because you notice them, may extend to the housewives who aim at more than they can accomplish, who make their house an anguish to look at, pretentious without beauty, overloaded or incorrect, who have not tact, who say the awkward thing. Such people exist sometimes, sinning from ignorance, but they are decidedly in the minority. The American woman is generally a success. She has fought a hard battle, but she has won. She has had her defeats, however. Who does not remember the failure of that first dinner-party?--when the baby began to cry so loud; when the hostess was not dressed when the bell rang; when the cook spilled the soup all over the range and filled the house with a bad odour; when the waitress, usually so cool, lost all her presence of mind and fell on the basement stairs, breaking all the plates; when one failure succeeded another until the husband looked reproachfully at his wife, who, poor creature, had been working day and night to get up this dinner, who was responsible for none of the failures, and who had an attack of neuralgia afterward which lasted all winter. Who has not read Thackeray's witty descriptions of the dinners, poor and pretentious, ordered in from the green-grocer's, and uneatable,--in London? "If they would have a leg of mutton and an apple pudding and a glass of sherry, they could do well; but they must shine, they must outdo their neighbours." And that is the first mistake. People with three thousand a year should not try to emulate those who have fifty thousand a year. And Thackeray says again: "But there is no harm done, not as regards the dinner-givers, though the dinner-eaters may have to suffer. It only shows that the former are hospitably inclined, and wish to do the very best in their power. If they do badly, how can they help it? They know no better." The first thing at which a young housekeeper must aim is to live well every day. Her tablecloth must be fresh, her glass and silver clean; a few flowers must be on her table to make it dainty, a few dishes well cooked,--such a table as will be well for her children and acceptable to her husband; and then she has but to add a little more and it is fit for any guest, and any guest will be glad to join such a dinner-party. But here I am met by the almost unanswerable argument that the simplest dinner is the most difficult to find. Who knows how to cook a beefsteak, to roast a piece of mutton so that its natural juices are retained,--to roast it so that the blood shall follow the knife; to mash potatoes and brown them; to make a perfect rice-pudding that is said to "deserve that _cordon bleu_ which Vatel, Ude, and Bechamel craved"? The young housekeeper of to-day with very modest means has, however, now to meet a condition of prosperity which even twenty-five years ago was unknown. All extremes of luxury and every element of profusion is now fashionable,--one may say expected. But agreeable young people will be entertained by the man who is worth fifty thousand dollars a day, and they will wish to return the civility. Herein lie the difficulties in the art of entertaining; but let them remember that there is one simple dinner which covers the whole ground, which the poor gentleman may aspire to give, and to which he might invite a prince. The essentials of a comfortable dinner are but few. The beauty of a Grecian vase without ornament is perfect. You may add cameo and intaglio, vine, acanthus leaf, satyrs, and fauns, handles of ram's horns and circlet of gems to your vase if you wish, and are rich enough, but unless the outline is perfect the splendour and the arabesque but render the vase vulgar. So with the simple dinner; it is the Grecian vase unadorned. Remember that rich people, stifled with luxury at home, like to be asked to these dinners. A lady in England, very much admired for her witty conversation, said she intended to devote herself to the amelioration of the condition of the upper classes, as she thought them the most bored and altogether the least attended to of any people; and we have heard of the rich man in New York who complained that he was no longer asked to the little dinners. There is too much worship and fear of money in our country. In England and on the Continent there is no shame in acknowledging, "I cannot afford it." I have been asked to a luncheon in England where a cold joint of mutton, a few potatoes, and a plate of peaches constituted the whole repast; and I have heard more delightful conversation and have met more agreeable people than at more expensive feasts. Who in America would dare to give such a lunch? The simple dinner might be characterized, giving the essentials, as a soup, a fish, a roast, one _entrée_, and a salad, an ice and fruit (simply the fruit in season), a cup of coffee afterward, with a glass of sherry, claret, or champagne. Such a dinner is good enough for anybody, and is possible to the person of moderate means. From this up to the splendid dinners of millionnaires, served on gold and silver and priceless Sèvres, Dresden, Japanese, and Chinese porcelain, with flagons of ruby glass bound in gold, with Benvenuto Cellini vases, and silver candelabra, the ascent may be gradual. In the one the tablecloth is of spotless damask; in the other it may be of duchesse lace over red. The very mats are mirrors, the crystal drops of the epergne flash like diamonds. It may be served in a picture-gallery. Each lady has a bouquet, a fan, a ribbon painted with her name, a basket or _bonbonnière_ to take home with her. The courses are often sixteen in number, the wines are of fabulous value, antiquity, and age. Each drop is like the River Pactolus, whose sands were of gold. The viands may come from Algiers or St. Petersburg; strawberries and peaches in January, the roses of June in February, fruit from the Pacific, from the Gulf, artichokes from Marseilles, oranges and strawberries from Florida, game from Arizona and Chesapeake Bay, mutton and pheasants from Scotland, luxury from everywhere. The primal condition of this banquet is, that everything should be unusual. But remember that, after all, it is only the Grecian vase heavily ornamented. No one person can taste half the dishes; it takes a long time, and the room may be too hot. The limitations of a dinner should be considered. It is a splendid picture, no doubt, but it need not appall the young hostess who desires to return the civility. A vase of flowers or a basket of growing plants can replace the epergne. Some pretty dinner-cards may be etched by herself, with a Shakspearean quotation showing a personal thought of each guest. Her spotless glass and silver, her good soup, her fresh fish, the haunch of venison roasted before a wood fire, the salad mixed by her own fair hands, perhaps a dessert over which she has lingered, a bit of cheese, a cup of coffee, a smiling host, a composed hostess, a congenial company, and wit withal,--who shall say that the little dinner is not as amusing as the big dinner? To be composed: yes, that is the first thing to be remembered on the part of a young hostess. She may be essentially nervous and anxious, particularly if she is just beginning to entertain, but here she must resolutely put on a mask of composure, and assume a virtue if she have it not. Nothing is of much importance, excepting her own demeanor. A fussy hostess who scolds the servants, wrinkles her brow, or even forgets to listen to the man who is talking to her is the ruin of a dinner. The author of "Cecil" tells his niece that if stewed puppy-dog is brought to the table she must not notice it. Few hostesses are subjected to so severe an ordeal as this, but the remark contains a goodly hint. As, however, it is a great intellectual feat to achieve a perfect little dinner with a small household and small means, perhaps that form of entertaining may be postponed a few years. Never attempt anything which cannot be well done. There is the afternoon tea, the musical evening, the reception, the luncheon; they are all easier to give than the dinner. The young hostess ambitious to excel in the art of entertaining can choose a thousand ways. Let her alone avoid attempting the impossible; and let her remember that no success which is not honestly gained is worth a pin. If it is money, it stings; if it is place and position, it becomes the shirt of Nessus. But for the well mannered and well behaved American woman what a noble success, what a perfect present, what a delightful future there is! She is the founder of the American nobility. All men bow down to her. She is the queen of the man who loves her; he treats her with every respect. She is to teach the future citizen honour, loyalty, duty, respect, politeness, kindness, the law of love. Such a man could read his Philip Sidney and yet not blush to find himself a follower. An American woman wields the only rod of empire to which American men will bow. She should try to be an empress in the best sense of the word; and to a young woman entering society we should recommend a certain exclusiveness. Not snobbish exclusiveness; but it is always well to choose one's friends slowly and with due consideration. We are not the most perfect beings in all the world; we do not wish to be intimate with too much imperfection. A broken friendship is a very painful thing. We should think twice before we give an intimate friendship to any one. No woman who essays to entertain should ask everybody to her house. The respect she owes to herself should prevent this; her house becomes a camp unless she has herself the power of putting a coarse sieve outside the door. We have no such inviolable virtue that we can as yet rate Dives and Lazarus before they are dead. Very rich people are apt to be very good people; and in the realms of the highest fashion we find the simplest, best, and purest of characters. It is therefore of no consequence as to the shade of fashion and the amount of the rent-roll. It must not be supposed because some leaders of fashion are insolent that all are. A young hostess must try to find the good, true, honourable, generous, well bred, well educated member of society, no matter in what conditions of life. Read character first, and hesitate before drawing general deductions. A hostess is the slave of her guests after she has invited them; she must be all attention, and all suavity. If she has nothing to offer them but a small house, a cup of tea, and a smile, she is just as much a hostess as if she were a queen. If she offers them every luxury and is not polite, she is a snob and a vulgarian. There is no such detestable use of one's privileges as to be rude on one's ground. "The man who eats your salt is sacred." To patronize is a great necessity to some natures. There is little opportunity for it in free, brave America, but some mistaken hostesses have gone that way. Every one feels pleasantly toward the woman who invites one to her house; there is something gracious in the act. But if, after opening her doors, the hostess refuses the welcome, or treats her guests with various degrees of cordiality, why did she ask at all? Every young American can become a model hostess; she can master etiquette, and create for herself a polite and cordial manner. She should be as serene as a summer's day; she should keep all her domestic troubles out of sight. If she entertains, let her do it in her own individual way,--a small way if necessary. There was much in Touchstone's philosophy,--"a poor thing, but mine own." She must have the instinct of hospitality, which is to give pleasure to all one's guests; and it seems unnecessary to say to any young American hostess, _Noblesse oblige_. She should be more polite to the shy, ill-dressed visitor from the country--if indeed there is such a thing left in America, where, as Bret Harte says, "The fashions travel by telegraph"--than to the sweeping city dame, that can take care of herself. A kindly greeting to a gawky youth will never be forgotten; and it is to the humblest that a hostess should address her kindest attentions. There are born hostesses, like poets, but a hostess can also be made, in which she has the advantage of the poets; and to the very wealthy hostess we should quote this inestimable advice:-- Si tibi deficiant medici, medici tibi fiant Hæc tria: mens hilaris, requies, moderata diæta. HORACE. Do not over-feed people. Who is it that says, "If simplicity is admirable in manners and in literary style, in the matter of dinners it becomes exalted into one of the cardinal virtues"? The ambitious housewife would do well to remember this when she cumbers herself, and thinks too much about her forthcoming banquet. If she ignores this principle of simplicity and falls into the opposite extreme of ostentation and pretentiousness, she may bore her guests rather than entertain them. It is an incontestable fact that dinners are made elaborate only at a considerable risk; as they increase in size and importance, their character is likely to deteriorate. This is true not only with regard to the number of guests, but with reference to the number of dishes that go to make up a bill-of-fare. In fact we, as Americans, generally err on the side of having too much rather than too little. The terror of running short is agony to the mind of the conscientious housewife. How much will be enough and no more? It stands to reason that the fewer the dishes, the more the cook can concentrate her attention upon them; and here is reason for reducing the _menu_ to its lowest terms. Then to consult the proper gradation. Brillat Savarin recounts a rather cruel joke perpetrated on a man who was a well-known gourmand. The idea was that he should be induced to satisfy himself with the more ordinary viands, and that then the choicest dishes should be presented in vain before his jaded appetite. This treacherous feast began with a sirloin of beef, a fricandeau of veal, and a stewed carp with stuffing. Then came a magnificent turkey, a pike, six _entremets_, and an ample dish of macaroni and Parmesan cheese. Nor was this all. Another course appeared, composed of sweetbread, surrounded with shrimps in jelly, soft roes, and partridge wings, with a thick sauce or _purée_ of mushrooms. Last of all came the delicacies,--snipes by the dozen, a pheasant in perfect order, and with them a slice of tunny fish, quite fresh. Naturally, the gourmand was _hors du combat_. As a joke, it was successful; as an act of hospitality, it was a cruelty; as pointing a moral and adorning a tale, it may be useful. This anecdote has its historical value as showing us that the present procession of soup, fish, roast, _entrée_, game, and dessert was not observed one hundred years ago, as a fish was served after beef and after turkey. Dr. Johnson describes a dinner at Mrs. Thrales which shows us what was considered luxurious a hundred years ago. "The dinner was excellent. First course: soups at head and foot, removed by fish and a saddle of mutton. Second course: a fowl they call galenan at head, a capon larger than our Irish turkeys at foot. Third course: four different ices,--pineapple, grape, raspberry, and a fourth. In each remove four dishes; the first two courses served on massive plate." These "gentlemen of England who live at home at ease," these earls by the king's grace, viceroys of India, clerks and rich commoners, would laugh at this dinner to-day; so would our clubmen, our diners at Delmonico's, our millionnaires. Imagine the feelings of that _chef_ who received ten thousand a year, with absolute power of life or death, with a wine-cellar which is a fortress of which he alone knows the weakest spot,--what would he say to such a dinner? But there are dinners where the gradation is perfect, where luxury stimulates the brain as Château Yquem bathes the throat. It would seem as if the Golden Age, the age of Leo X. had come back; and our nineteenth century shows all the virtues of the art of entertaining since the days of Lucullus, purified of the enormities, including dining at eleven in the morning, of the intermediate ages. It must not be forgotten that this simplicity which is so commended can only be obtained by the most studied, artful care. As Gray's Elegy reads as the most consummately easy and plain poetry in the world, so that we feel that we have but to sit down at the writing-desk and indite one exactly like it, we learn in giving a little, simple, perfect dinner that its combinations must be faultless. Gray wrote every verse of his immortal poem over many times. The hostess who learns enough art to conceal art in her simple dinner has achieved that perfection in her art which Gray reached. Perfect and simple cookery are, like perfect beauty, very rare. However, if the art of entertaining makes hostesses, hostesses must make the art of entertaining. It is for them to decide the _juste milieu_ between the _not enough_ and the great _too much_. BREAKFAST. Before breakfast a man feels but queasily, And a sinking at the lower abdomen Begins the day with indifferent omen. BROWNING.--_The Flight of the Duchess._ And then to breakfast with what appetite you have. SHAKSPEARE. Breakfast is a hard thing to manage in America, particularly in a country-house, as people have different ideas about eating a hearty meal at nine o'clock or earlier. All who have lived much in Europe are apt to prefer the Continental fashion of a cup of tea or coffee in one's room, with perhaps an egg and a roll; then to do one's work or pleasure, as the case may be, and to take the _déjeûner à la fourchette_ at eleven or twelve. To most brain-workers this is a blessed boon, for the heavy American breakfast of chops, steaks, eggs, forcemeat balls, sausages, broiled chicken, stewed potatoes, baked beans, and hot cakes, good as it is, is apt to render a person stupid. It would be better if this meal could be rendered less heavy, and that a visitor should always be given the alternative of taking a cup of tea in her room, and not appearing until luncheon. The breakfast dishes most to be commended may begin with the omelet. This the French make to perfection. Indeed, Gustav Droz wrote a story once for the purpose of giving its recipe. The story is of a young couple lost in a forest, who take refuge in a wood-cutter's hut. They ask for food, and are told that they can have an omelet: "The old woman had gone to fetch a frying-pan, and was then throwing a handful of shavings on the fire. "In the midst of this strange and rude interior Louise seemed to me so fine and delicate, so elegant, with her long _gants de Suède_, her little boots, and her tucked-up skirts. With her two hands stretched out she sheltered her face from the flames, and from the corner of her eye, while I was talking with the splitters, she watched the butter that began to sing in the frying-pan. "Suddenly she rose, and taking the handle of the frying-pan from the old woman's hand, 'Let me help you make the omelet,' she said. The good woman let go the pan with a smile, and Louise found herself alone in the position of a fisherman at the moment when his float begins to bob. The fire hardly threw any light; her eyes were fixed on the liquid butter, her arms outstretched, and she was biting her lips a little, doubtless to increase her strength. "'It is a bit heavy for Madame's little hands,' said the old man. 'I bet that it is the first time you ever made an omelet in a wood-cutter's hut, is it not, my little lady?' "Louise made a sign of assent without removing her eyes from the frying-pan. "'The eggs! the eggs!' she cried all at once, with such an expression of alarm that we all burst out laughing. 'The eggs! the butter is bubbling! quick, quick!' "The old woman was beating the eggs with animation. 'And the herbs!' cried the old man. 'And the bacon, and the salt,' said the young man. Then we all set to work, chopping the herbs and cutting the bacon, while Louise cried, 'Quick! quick!' "At last there was a big splash in the frying-pan, and the great act began. We all stood around the fire watching anxiously, for each having had a finger in the pie, the result interested us all. The good old woman, kneeling down by the dish, lifted up with her knife the corners of the omelet, which was beginning to brown. "'Now Madame has only to turn it,' said the old woman. "'A little sharp jerk,' said the old man. "'Not too strong,' said the young man. "'One jerk! houp! my dear,' said I. "'If you all speak at once I shall never dare; besides, it is very heavy, you know--' "'One little sharp jerk--' "'But I cannot--it will all go into the fire--oh!' "In the heat of the action her hood had fallen; she was red as a peach, her eyes glistened, and in spite of her anxiety, she burst out laughing. At last, after a supreme effort, the frying-pan executed a rapid movement and the omelette rolled, a little heavily I must confess, on the large plate which the old woman held. "Never was there a finer-looking omelet." This is an excellent description of the dish which is made for you at every little _cabaret_ in France, as well as at the best hotels. That dexterous turn of the wrist by which the omelet is turned over is, however, hard to reach. Let any lady try it. I have been taken into the kitchen in a hotel in the Riviera to see a cook who was so dexterous as to turn the frying-pan over entirely, without spilling the omelet. However, they are innumerable, the omelet family, plain, and with parsley, the fancy omelet, and the creamy omelet. Learn to make every sort from any cooking-book, and your family will never starve. Conquer the art of toasting bacon with a fork; it is a fine relish for your egg, no matter how cooked. To fry good English bacon in a pan until it is hard, is to disfigure one of Fortune's best gifts. Study above all things to learn how to produce good toast; not all the cooks in the great kingdom or empire or republic of France (whatever it may be at this minute) can produce a good slice of toast. They call it _pain rôti_, and well they may; for after the poor bread has been burned they put it in the oven and roast it. No human being can eat it. It is taken away and grated up for sawdust. They make delicious toast in England, and in a few houses in America. The bread should be a little stale, the slice cut thin, the fire perfect, a toasting-fork should hold it before coals, which are as bright as Juno's eyes. It should be a delicate brown, dropped on a hot plate, fresh butter put on at once, and then, ah! 't would tempt the dying anchorite to eat. Then conquer cream toast; and there is an exalted substance called Boston brown bread which is delicious, toasted and boiled in milk. Muffins are generally failures in these United States. Why, after conquering the English, we cannot conquer their muffins, I do not know. They are well worth repeated efforts. We make up on our hot biscuits and rolls; and as for our waffles, griddle-cakes, and Sally Lunns, we distance competition. Do not believe that they are unhealthy! Nothing that is well cooked is unhealthy to everybody; and all things which are good are unhealthy to somebody. Every one must determine for himself what is healthy and unhealthy. A foreign breakfast in France consists of eggs in some form,--frequently _au beurre noir_, which is butter melted in a little vinegar and allowed to brown,--a stew of vegetables and meat, a little cold meat (tongue, ham, or cold roast beef,) a very good salad, a small dish of stewed fruit or a little pastry, cheese, fruit, and coffee, and always red wine. Or perhaps an omelet or egg _au plat_ (simply dropped on a hot plate), mutton cutlets, and fried potatoes, perhaps stewed pigeons, with spinach or green peas, or trout from the lake, followed by a beefsteak, with highly flavoured Alpine strawberries or fresh apricots or figs, then all eating is done for the day, until seven o'clock dinner. This is of course the mid-day _déjeûner à la fourchette_. At the earlier breakfast a Swiss hotel offers only coffee, rolls, butter, and honey. All sorts of stews--kidney, liver, chicken, veal, and beef--are good, and every sort of little pan-fish. In our happy country we can add the oyster stew, or the lobster in cream, the familiar sausage, and the hereditary hash; if any one knows how to make good corned-beef hash she need not fear to entertain the king. There are those who know how to broil a chicken, but they are few,--"Amongst the few, the immortal names which are not born to die." There are others, also few, who know how to broil ham so that it will not be hard, and on it to drop the egg so that it be like Saturn,--a golden ball in a ring of silver. Amongst the good dishes and cheap dishes which I have seen served in France for a breakfast I recommend lambs' feet in a white sauce, with a suspicion of onion. All sorts of fricassees and warmed over things can be made most deliciously for breakfast. Many people like a salt mackerel or a broiled herring for breakfast; these are good _avant goûts_, stimulating the appetite. The Danes and Swedes have every form of dried fish, and even some strange fowl served in this way. Dried beef served up with eggs is comforting to some stomachs. Smoked salmon appeals to others; and people with an ostrich digestion like toasted cheese or Welsh rarebits. The fishball of our forefathers is a supreme delicacy if well made, as is creamed codfish; but warmed over pie, or warmed over mutton or beef, are detestable. The appetite is in a parlous state at nine o'clock and needs to be tempted; a bit of breakfast bacon, a bit of toast, an egg, and a fresh slice of melon or a cold sliced tomato in summer, _voilà tout!_ as the French say. Begin with the melon or a plate of strawberries. These early breakfasts at nine o'clock may be followed by the hot cake, but later on the _déjeûner à la fourchette_, which with us becomes luncheon, demands another order of meal, as we have seen, more like a plain dinner. It is a great comfort to the housekeeper, or to the lady who has been imprisoned behind the tea and coffee pot that she may serve thence a large family, to sometimes escape and have both tea and coffee served from the side tables. Of course, for a small and intimate breakfast there is nothing like the "steaming urn," and the tea made by the lady at the table; and the Hon. Thomas H. Benton declared that he "liked to drink his tea from a cup which had been washed by a lady." Woman is the genius of the tea-kettle. To make a good cup of coffee is a rare accomplishment. Perhaps the old method is as good as any: a small cupful of roasted and ground coffee, one third Mocha and two thirds Java, a small egg, shell and all, broken into the pot with the dry coffee. Stir well with a spoon and then pour on three pints of boiling water; let it boil from five to ten minutes, counting from the time it begins to boil. Then pour in a cupful of cold water, and turn a little of the coffee into a cup to see that the nozzle of the pot is not filled with grounds. Turn this back, and let the coffee stand a few minutes to settle, taking care that it does not boil again. The advantages of boiled egg with coffee is, that the yolk gives a rich flavour and good colour; also the shells and the white keep the grounds in order, settling them at the bottom of the pot. But the most economical and the easiest way of making coffee is by filtering. The French coffee biggin should be used. It consists of two cylindrical tin vessels, one fitting into the other, the bottom of the upper being a fine strainer. Another coarser strainer, with a rod coming from the centre, is placed on this. Then the coffee, which must be finely ground, is put in, and another strainer is placed on the top of the rod. The boiling water is poured on, and the pot set where it will keep hot, but not boil, until the water has gone through. This will make a clear, strong coffee with a rich, smooth flavour. The advantage of the two strainers is, that the one coming next to the fine strainer prevents the grounds from filling up the fine holes, and so the coffee is clear,--a grand desideratum. Boiled milk should be served with coffee for an early breakfast. Clear coffee, _café noir_, is served after dinner, and in France, always after the twelve o'clock breakfast. For a nine o'clock breakfast the hostess should also serve tea, and perhaps chocolate, if she has a large family of guests, as all cannot drink coffee for breakfast. Pigs' feet _à la poulette_ find favour in Paris, and are delicious as prepared there; also calf's liver _à l'Alsacienne_. Chicken livers are very nice, and cod's tongues with black butter cannot be surpassed. Mutton kidneys with bacon are desirable, and all the livers and kidneys _en brochette_ with bacon, empaled on a spit, are excellent. Hashed lamb _à la Zingara_ is highly peppered and very good. Broiled fish, broiled chicken, broiled ham, broiled steak and chops are always good for breakfast. The gridiron made Saint Lawrence fit for heaven, and its qualities have been elevating and refining ever since. The summer breakfast can be very nice. Crab, clam, lobster,--all are admirable. Fresh fish should be served whenever one can get it. Devilled kidneys and broiled bones do for supper, but fresh fish and easily digested food should replace these heavier dainties for breakfast. Stewed fruit is much used on the Continent at an early breakfast. It is thought to avert dyspepsia. Americans prefer to eat fruit fresh, and therefore have not learned to stew it. Stewing is, however, a branch of cookery well worth the attention of a first-class housekeeper. It makes canned fruit much better to stew it with sugar. Stewed cherries are delicious and very healthy; and all the berries, even if a little stale, can be stewed into a good dish, as can the dried fruits, like prunes, etc. Stewed pears make an elegant dessert served with whipped cream; but this is too rich for breakfast. Baked pears with cream are sometimes offered, and eggs in every form,--scrambled, dropped, boiled, stuffed, and even boiled hard, sliced and dressed as a salad. "What is so good as an egg salad for a hungry person?" asked a hostess in the Adirondacks who had nothing else to offer! Eggs are the staple for breakfast. Ham omelet with a little parsley, lamb chops with green peas, tripe _à la Bourdelaise_, hashed turkey, hashed chicken with cream, and breaded veal with tomato sauce, calf's brains with a black butter, stewed veal _à la Chasseur_, broiled shad's roe, broiled soft-shell clams, minced tenderloin with Lyonnaise potatoes, blue-fish _au gratin_, broiled steak with water-cress, picked-up codfish, and smoked beef in cream are of the thousand and one delicacies for the early breakfast,--if one can eat them. It is better to eat a saucer of oatmeal and cream at nine o'clock, take a cup of tea, and do one's work; then at twelve to sit down to as good a breakfast as possible,--a regular _déjeuner à la fourchette_. The digestion is then active; the brain after several hours work needs repose, and at one or two o'clock can go to work again like a giant refreshed. An early breakfast with meat is thought by foreign doctors not to be good for children. But in France they give children wine at a very early age, which is rarely done in this country. At all boarding-schools and hospitals wine is given to young children. Certainly there are fewer drunkards and fewer dyspeptics in France than in America. Brillat Savarin says of coffee, "It is beyond doubt that coffee acts upon the functions of the brain as an excitant." Voltaire and Buffon drank a great deal of coffee. If it deprives persons of sleep it should never be taken. It is to many a poison; and hospitals are full of men made cripples by the immoderate stimulus of coffee. The Spanish people live and flourish on chocolate; introduced into Spain during the seventeenth century, it crossed the Pyrenees with Anne of Austria, daughter of Philip II. and wife of Louis XIII., and at the commencement of the Regency was more in vogue than coffee. Many modern writers advise a good cup of chocolate at breakfast as wholesome and easily digested, and it is good for clergymen, lawyers, and travellers. In America it is considered heavy and headachy; and doubtless the climate has something to do with this. Cocoa and the lighter preparations of chocolate are good at sea, and very comforting to those who find their nerves too much on the alert to stand coffee or tea. Every one must consult his own health and taste in this as in all matters. The boldest attempts to increase the enjoyments of the palate, or to tell people what they shall eat or drink, are constantly overthrown by some subtile enemy in the stomach; and breakfasts should especially be so light that they can tickle the palate without disturbing the brain. A red herring is a good appetizer. "Meet me at breakfast alone, And then I will give you a dish Which really deserves to be known, Though 'tis not the genteelest of fish. You must promise to come, for I said A splendid red herring I'd buy. Nay, turn not aside your proud head; You'll like it, I know, when you try. "If moisture the herring betray, Drain till from the moisture 'tis free. Warm it through in the usual way, Then serve it for you and for me. A piece of cold butter prepare, To rub it when ready it lies; Egg sauce and potatoes don't spare, And the flavour will cause you surprise." It is not only the man who has eaten a heavy supper the night before; it is not only the heavy drinker, although brandy and soda are not the best of appetite provokers, so they say; but it is also the brainworker who finds it impossible to eat in the morning. For sleep has the effect of eating. Who sleeps, eats, says the French proverb; and we often find healthy children unwilling to eat an early breakfast. Appetites vary both in individuals and at various seasons of the year. Nothing can be more unwise than to make children eat when they do not wish to do so. During the summer months we are all of us less inclined for food than when sharp set by hard exercise in the frosty air; and we loathe in July what we like in winter. The heavy domestic breakfast of steak and mutton-chops in summer is often repellent to a delicate child. The perfection of good living is to have what you want exactly when you want it. A slice of fresh melon, a plate of strawberries, a thin slice of bread and butter may be much better for breakfast in summer than the baked beans and stewed codfish of a later season. Do not force a child to eat even a baked potato if he does not like it. It is maintained by some that a strong will can keep off sea-sickness or any other malady. This is a fallacy. No strong will can make a delicate stomach digest a heavy breakfast at nine o'clock. Therefore we begin and end with the same idea,--breakfast is a hard thing to manage in America. In England, however, it is a very happy-go-lucky meal; and although the essentials are on the table, people are privileged to rise and help themselves from the sideboard. I may say that I have never seen a fashionable English hostess at a nine o'clock breakfast, although the meal is always ready for those who wish it. For sending breakfasts to rooms, trays are prepared with teapot, sugar, and cream, a plate of toast, eggs boiled, with cup, spoon, salt and pepper, a little pat of butter, and if desired a plate of chops or chicken, plates, knives, forks, and napkins. For an English country-house the supply of breakfast trays is like that of a hotel. The pretty little Satsuma sets of small teapot, cream jug, and sugar-bowl, are favourites. When breakfast is served in the dining-room, a white cloth is generally laid, although some ladies prefer variously coloured linen, with napkins to match. A vase of flowers or a dish of fruit should be placed in the centre. The table is then set as for dinner, with smaller plates and all sorts of pretty china, like an egg dish with a hen sitting contentedly, a butter plate with a recumbent cow, a sardine dish with fishes in Majolica,--in fact, any suggestive fancy. Hot plates for a winter breakfast in a plate-warmer near the table add much to the comfort. Finger bowls with napkins under them should be placed on the sideboard and handed to the guest with the fruit. It is a matter of taste as to whether fruit precedes or finishes the breakfast; and the servant must watch the decision of the guest. A grand breakfast to a distinguished foreigner, or some great home celebrity at Delmonico's for instance, would be,-- A table loaded with flowers. Oysters on the half-shell. Chablis. Eggs stuffed. Eggs in black butter, (_au beurre noir_). Chops and green peas. Champagne. Lyonnaise potatoes. Sweetbreads. Spinach. Woodcock. Partridges. Salad of lettuce. Claret. Cheese _fondu_. DESSERT: Charlotte Russe. Fruit Jelly. Ices. Liqueurs. Grapes. Peaches. Pears. Coffee. A breakfast even at twelve o'clock is thus made noticeably lighter than the meal called lunch. It may be introduced by clam juice in cups, or bouillon, but is often served without either. These breakfasts are generally prefaced by a short reception, where all the guests are presented to the foreigner of distinction. There is no formality about leaving. Indeed, these breakfasts are given in order to avoid that. For an ordinary breakfast at nine o'clock in a family of ten, we should say that the _menu_ should be something as follows: The host and hostess being present, the lady makes the tea. Oatmeal and cream would then be offered; after that a broiled chicken would be placed before the host, which he carves if he can. An omelet is placed before the lady or passed; stewed potatoes are passed, and toast or muffins. Hot cakes finish this breakfast, unless fruit is also added. It is considered a very healthful thing to eat an orange before breakfast. But who can eat an orange well? One must go to Spain to see that done. The señorita cuts off the rind with her silver knife. Then putting her fork into the peeled fruit, she gently detaches small slices from the pulp, leaving the core and seeds untouched; passing the fork upward, she detaches every morsel with her pearly teeth, looking very pretty the while, and contrives to eat the whole orange without losing a drop of the juice, and lays down the core with the fork still in it. It seems hardly necessary to say to an American lady that she should be neatly dressed at breakfast. The pretty white morning dresses which are worn in America are rarely seen in Europe, perhaps because of the difference of climate. In England elderly ladies and young married women sometimes appear in very smart tea gowns of dark silk over a colour; but almost always the young ladies come in the yachting or tennis dresses which they will wear until dinner-time, and almost always in summer, in hats. In America the variety of morning dresses is endless, of which the dark jacket over a white vest, the serviceable merino, the flannel, the dark foulards, are favourites. In summer, thin lawns, percales, Marseilles suits, calicos, and ginghams can be so prettily made as to rival all the other costumes for coquetry and grace. "Still to be neat, still to be drest As she were going to a feast," such should be the breakfast dress of the young matron. It need not be fine; it need not be expensive; but it should be neat and becoming. The hair should be carefully arranged, and the feet either in good, stout shoes for the subsequent walk, or in the natty stocking and well fitting slipper, which has moved the poet to such feeling verses. THE LUNCH. "A Gothic window, where a damask curtain Made the blank daylight shadowy and uncertain; A slab of agate on four eagle-talons Held trimly up and neatly taught to balance; A porcelain dish, o'er which in many a cluster Plump grapes hung down, dead ripe, and without lustre; A melon cut in thin, delicious slices, A cake, that seemed mosaic-work in spices; Two china cups, with golden tulips sunny, And rich inside, with chocolate like honey; And she and I the banquet scene completing With dreamy words, and very pleasant eating." If all lunches could be as poetic and as simple and as luxurious as this, the hostess would have little trouble in giving a lunch. But, alas! from the slice of cold ham, or chicken, and bread and butter, has grown the grand hunt breakfast, and the ladies' lunch, most delicious of luxurious time-killers. The lunch, therefore, has become in the house of the opulent as elaborate as the dinner. Twenty years ago in England I had the pleasure of lunching with Lord Houghton, and I well remember the simplicity of that meal. A cup of bouillon, a joint of mutton, roasted, and carved by the host, a tart, some peaches, very fine hot-house fruit, and a glass of sherry was all that was served on a very plain table to twenty guests. But what a company of wits, belles, and beauties we had to eat it! I once lunched with Browning on a much simpler bill of fare. I have lunched at the beautiful house of Sir John Millais on what might have been a good family dinner with us. And I have lunched in Hampton Court, in the apartments of Mr. Beresford, now dead, who was a friend of George the Fourth and an old Tory whipper-in, on a slice of cold meat, a cutlet, a gooseberry tart, and some strawberries as large as tomatoes from the garden which was once Anne Boleyn's. What a great difference between these lunches and a ladies' lunch in New York, which, laid for twenty-eight people, offers every kind of wine, every luxury of fish, flesh, and fowl, flowers which exhibit the most overwhelming luxury of an extravagant period, fruits and bonbons and _bonbonnières_, painted fans to carry home, with ribbons on which is painted one's monogram, etc. I have seen summer wild-flowers in winter at a ladies' lunch, as the last concession to a fancy for what is unusual. The order having been given in September, the facile gardener raised these flowers for this especial lunch. Far more expensive than roses at a dollar apiece is this bringing of May into January. It is impossible to say where luxury should stop; and, if people can afford it, there is no necessity for its stopping. It is only to be regretted that luxury frightens those who might like to give simple lunches. A lunch-party of ladies should not be crowded, as handsome gowns take up a great deal of room; and therefore a lunch for ten ladies in a moderate house is better than a larger number. As ladies always wear their bonnets the room should not be too hot. The menu is very much the same as a dinner, excepting the soup. In its place cups of bouillon or of clam juice, boiled with cream and a bit of sherry, are placed before each plate. There follows presumably a plate of lobster croquettes with a rich sauce, _filet de boeuf_ with truffles and mushrooms, sweetbread and green peas, perhaps asparagus or cauliflower. Then comes _sorbet_, or Roman punch, much needed to cool the palate and to invigorate the appetite for further delicacies. The Roman punch is now often served in very fanciful frozen shapes of ice, resembling roses, or fruit of various kinds. If a lady is not near a confectioner she should learn to make this herself. It is very easy, if one only compounds it at first with care, Maraschino cordial or fine old Jamaica rum being mixed with water and sugar as for a punch, and well frozen. The game follows, and the salad. These two are often served together. After that the ices and fruit. Cheese is rarely offered at a lady's lunch, excepting in the form of cheese straws. Château Yquem, champagne, and claret are the favourite wines. Cordial is offered afterward with the coffee. A lady's lunch-party is supposed to begin at one o'clock and end at three. It is a delightful way of showing all one's pretty things. At a luncheon in New York I have seen a tablecloth of linen into which has been inserted duchesse lace worth, doubtless, several hundred dollars, the napkins all trimmed with duchesse, worth at least twenty dollars apiece. This elegant drapery was thrown over a woollen broadcloth underpiece of a pale lilac. In the middle of the table was a grand epergne of the time of Louis Seize; the glass and china were superb. At the proper angle stood silver and gold cups, ornamental pitchers, and claret jugs. At every lady's plate stood a splendid bouquet tied with a long satin ribbon, and various small favours, as fans and fanciful _menus_ were given. As the lunch went on we were treated to new surprises of napery and of Sèvres plates. The napkins became Russian, embroidered with gold thread, as the spoons and forks were also of Russian silver and gold, beautifully enamelled. Then came those embroidered with heraldic animals,--the lion and the two-headed eagle and griffin,--the monogram gracefully intertwined. Plates were used, apparently of solid gold and beautiful workmanship. The Roman punch was hidden in the heart of a water lily, which looked uncommonly innocent with its heart of fire. The service of this lunch was so perfect that we did not see how we were served; it all moved as if to music. Pleasant chat was the only addition which our hostess left for us to add to her hospitality. I have lunched at many great houses all over the world, but I have never seen so luxurious a picture as this lunch was. It has been a question whether oysters on the half-shell should be served at a lady's lunch. For my part I think that they should, although many ladies prefer to begin with the bouillon. All sorts of _hors d'oeuvres_, like olives, anchovies, and other relishes, are in order. In summer, ladies sometimes serve a cold luncheon, beginning with iced bouillon, salmon covered with a green sauce, cold birds and salads, ices and strawberries, or peaches frozen in cream. Cold asparagus dressed as a salad is very good at this meal. In English country-houses the luncheon is a very solid meal, beginning with a stout roast with hot vegetables, while chicken salad, a cold ham, and various meat pies stand on the sideboard. The gentlemen get up and help the ladies; the servants, after going about once or twice, often leave the room that conversation may be more free. It might well improve the young housekeeper to study the question of potted meats, the preparation of Melton veal, the various egg salads, as well as those of potato, of lobster and chicken, so that she may be prepared with dishes for an improvised lunch. Particularly in the country should this be done. The etiquette of invitations for a ladies' lunch is the same as that of a dinner. They are sent out a fortnight before; they are carefully engraved, or they are written on note paper. MRS. SOMERVILLE Requests the pleasure of MRS. MONTGOMERY'S Company at lunch on Thursday, 15th, at 1 o'clock. R. S. V. P. This should be answered at once, and the whole engagement treated with the gravity of a dinner engagement. These lunch-parties are very convenient for ladies who, from illness or indisposition to society, cannot go out in the evening. It is also very convenient if the lady of the house has a husband who does not like society and who finds a dinner-party a bore. The usual custom is for ladies to dress in dark street dresses, and their very best. That with an American lady means much, for an American husband stops at no expense. Worth says that American women are the best customers he has,--far better than queens. The latter ask the price, and occasionally haggle; American women may ask the price, but the order is, the very best you can do. Luncheons are very fashionable in England, especially on Sunday. These lunches, although luxurious, are by no means the costly spreads which American women indulge in. They are attended by gentlemen as well as ladies, for in a land where a man does not go to the House of Commons until five in the afternoon he may well lunch with his family. What time did our forefathers lunch? In the reign of Francis the First the polite French rose at five, dined at nine, supped at five, and went to bed at nine. Froissart speaks of "waiting upon the Duke of Lancaster at five in the afternoon after he had supped." If our ancestors dined at nine, when did they lunch? After some centuries the dinner hour grew to be ten in the morning, by which time they had besieged a town and burned up a dozen heretics, probably to give them a good appetite, a sort of _avant goût_. The later hours now in vogue did not prevail until after the Restoration. Lunch has remained fastened at one o'clock, for a number of years at least. In England, curiously enough, they give you no napkins at this meal, which certainly requires them. A hunt breakfast in America is, of course, a hearty meal, to which the men and women are asked who have an idea of riding to hounds. It is usually served at little tables, and the meal begins with hot bouillon. It is a heartier meal than a lady's lunch, and as luxurious as the hostess pleases; but it does not wind up with ices and fruits, although it may begin with an orange. Much more wine is drunk than at a lady's lunch, and yet some hunters prefer to begin the day with tea only. Everything should be offered, and what is not liked can be refused. "What is hit, is History, And what is missed is Mystery." There are famous breakfasts in London which are not the early morning meal, neither are they called luncheons. It is the constant habit of the literary world of London to have reunions of scientific and agreeable people early in the day, and what would be called a party in the evening, is called a breakfast. We should call it a reception, except that one is asked at eleven o'clock. But the greatest misnomer of all is the habit in London of giving a dinner, a ball, and a supper out of doors at five o'clock, and calling that a "breakfast." Except that the gentlemen are in morning dress and the ladies in bonnets this has no resemblance to what we call breakfast. Breakfast at nine, or earlier, is a solemn process. It has no great meaning for us, who have our children to send to school, our husbands to prepare for business, ourselves for a busy day or a long journey. For the very luxurious it no longer exists. Luncheon on the contrary is apt to be a lively and exhilarating occasion. It is the best moment in the day to some people. A thousand dollars is not an unusual sum to expend on a lady's lunch in New York for eighteen or twenty-five guests, counting the favours, the flowers, the wines, and the viands, and even then we have not entered into the cost of the china, the glass, porcelain, _cloisonné_, Dresden, Sèvres, and silver, which make the table a picture. The jewelled goblets from Carlsbad, the knives and forks with crystal handles, set in silver, from Bohemia, and the endless succession of beautiful plates,--who shall estimate the cost of all this? As to the precedence of plates, it is meet that China, oldest of nations, should suffice for the soup. The oysters have already been served on shell-like Majolica. England, a maritime nation surrounded by ocean, must furnish the plates for the fish. For the roast, too, what plates so good as Doulton, real English, substantial _faïence_? For the _Bouchers à la Reine_ and all the _entrées_ we must have Sèvres again. Japanese will do for the _filet aux champignons_, the venison, the _pièces de resistance_, as well as English. Japanese plates are strong. But here we are running into dinner; indeed, these two feasts do run into each other. One should not have a roast at ladies' lunch, unless it be a roast pheasant. Dresden china plates painted with fruits and flowers should be used for the dessert. On these choice plates, with perforated edges marked "A R" on the back, should lie the ices frozen as natural fruits. We can scarcely tell the frozen banana or peach before us, from the painted banana on our plate. For the candied fruit, we must again have Sèvres. Then a gold dish filled with rose-water must be passed. We dip a bit of the napkin in it, for in this country we do have napkins with our luncheon, and wipe our lips and fingers. This is called a _trempoir_. The cordials at the end of the dinner must be served in cups of Russian gold filagree supporting glass. There is an analogy between the rival, luscious richness of the cordial and the cup. The coffee-cups must be thin as egg-shells, of the most delicate French or American china. We make most delicate china and porcelain cups ourselves nowadays, at Newark, Trenton, and a dozen other places. There is a vast deal of waste in offering so much wine at a ladies' lunch. American women cannot drink much wine; the climate forbids it. We have not been brought up on beer, or on anything more stimulating than ice-water. Foreign physicians say that this is the cause of all our woes, our dyspepsia, our nervous exhaustion, our rheumatism and hysteria. I believe that climate and constitution decide these things for us. We are not prone to over-eat ourselves, to drink too much wine; and if the absence of these grosser tastes is visible in pale cheeks and thin arms, is not that better than the other extreme? All entertaining can go on perfectly well without wine, if people so decide. It would be impossible, however, to make many poetical quotations without an allusion to the "ruby," as Dick Swiveller called it. Since Cleopatra dissolved the pearl, the wine-cup has held the gems of human fancy. _Champagne Cup_: One pint bottle of soda water, one quart dry champagne, one wine-glass of brandy, a few fresh strawberries, a peach quartered, sugar to taste; cracked ice. _Another recipe_: One quart dry champagne, one pint bottle of Rhine wine, fruit and ice as above; cracked ice. Mix in a large pitcher. _Claret Cup_: One bottle of claret, one pint bottle of soda water, one wine-glass brandy, half a wine-glass of lemon-juice, half a pound of lump sugar, a few slices of fresh cucumber; mix in cracked ice. _Mint Julep_: Fresh mint, a few drops of orange bitters and Maraschino, a small glass of liqueur, brandy or whiskey, put in a tumbler half full of broken ice; shake well, and serve with fruit on top with straws. _Another recipe for Mint Julep_: Half a glass of port wine, a few drops of Maraschino, mint, sugar, a thin slice of lemon, shake the cracked ice from glass to glass, add strawberry or pineapple. _Turkish Sherbets_: Extract by pressure or infusion the rich juice and fine perfume of any of the odouriferous flowers or fruits; mix them in any number or quantity to taste. When these essences, extracts, or infusions are prepared they may be immediately used by adding a proper proportion of sugar or syrup; and water. Some acid fruits, such as lemon or pomegranate, are used to raise the flavour, but not to overpower the chief perfume. Fill the cup with cracked ice and add what wine or spirit is preferred. _Claret Cobbler_: One bottle wine, one bottle Apollinaris or Seltzer, one lemon, half a pound of sugar; serve with ice. _Champagne Cobbler_: One bottle of champagne, one half bottle of white wine, much cracked ice, strawberries, peaches or sliced oranges. _Sherry Cobbler_: Full wine-glass of sherry, very little brandy, sugar, sliced lemon, cracked ice. This is but one tumblerful. _Kümmel_: This liqueur is very good served with shaved ice in small green claret-cups. _Punch_: One bottle Arrack, one bottle brandy, two quart bottles dry champagne, one tumblerful of orange curaçoa, one pound of cracked sugar, half a dozen lemons sliced, half a dozen oranges sliced. Fill the bowl with large lump of ice and add one quart of water. _Shandygaff_: London porter and ginger ale, half and half. AFTERNOON TEA. "And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in." Whatever objections can be urged against all other systems of entertaining, including the expense, the bore it is to a gentleman to have his house turned inside out, the fatigue to the lady, the disorganization of domestic service, nothing can be said against afternoon tea, unless that it may lead to a new disease, the _delirium teamens_. There is danger to nervous women in our climate in too great indulgence in this delicious beverage. It sometimes murders sleep and impairs digestion. We cannot claim that it is always safer than opium. It was very much abused in England in 1678, ten years after Lords Arlington and Ossory brought it over from the meditative Dutchman, who was the first European to appreciate it. It was then called a "black water with an acrid taste." It cost, however, in England sixty shillings a pound, so that it must have been fashionable. Pepys in his diary records that he sent for a cup of tea, a "China drink which he had not used before." He did not like it, but then he did not like the "Midsummer Night's Dream." "The most insipid, ridiculous play I ever saw in my life," he writes; so we do not care what he thought about a blessed cup of tea. In the middle of the sixteenth century, with pasties and ale for breakfast, with sugared cakes and spiced wines at various hours of the day, with solid "noonings," and suppers with strong potations of sack and such possets as were the ordinary refreshments, it is not probable that tea would have been appreciated. The Dutch were crafty, however; they saw that there was a common need of a hot, rather stimulating beverage, which had no intoxicating effects. They exported sage enough to pay for the tea, and got the better of even the wily Chinaman, who avowed some time after, in their trade with America, "That spent tea-leaves, dried again, were good enough for second-chop Englishmen." Jonas Haunay wrote a treatise against tea-drinking in Johnson's time, and that vast, insatiable, and shameless tea-drinker took up the cudgels for tea, settling it as a brain-inspirer for all time, and wrote Rasselas on the strength of it. Cobbett wrote against its use by the labouring classes, and the "Edinburgh Review" endorsed his arguments, stating that a "prohibition absolute and uncompromising of the noxious beverage was the first step toward insuring health and strength for the poor," and asserting that when a labourer fancied himself refreshed with a mess of this stuff, sweetened with the coarsest brown sugar and diluted by azure-blue milk, it was only the warmth of the water which consoled him for the moment. Cobbett claimed that the tea-table cost more to support than would keep two children at nurse. The "Quarterly Review" in an article written perhaps by the most famous chemist of the day, said, however, that "tea relieves the pains of hunger rather by mechanical distention than by supplying the waste of nature by adequate sustenance," but claimed for it the power of calm, placid, and benignant exhilaration, greatly stimulating the stomach, when fatigued by digestive exertion, and acting as an appropriate diluent of the chyle. More recent inquiries into the qualities of the peculiar power of tea have tended to raise it in popular esteem, although no one has satisfactorily explained _why_ it has become so universally necessary to the human race. An agreeable little book called "The Beverages We Indulge In," "The Herbs Which We Infuse," or some such title, had a great deal to do with the adoption of tea as a drink for young men who were training for a boat-race, or who desired to economize their strength for a mountain climb. But every one, from the tired washerwoman to the student, the wrestler, the fine lady, and the strong man, demands a cup of tea. To the invalid it is the dearest solace, dangerous though it may be. Tannin, the astringent element in tea, is bad for delicate stomachs and seems to ruin appetite. Tea, therefore, should never be allowed to stand. Hot water poured on the leaves and poured off into a cup can hardly afford the tannin time to get out. Some tea-drinkers even put the grounds in a silver ball, perforated, and swing this through a cup of boiling water, and in this way is produced the most delicate cup of tea. The famous Chinese lyric which is painted on almost all the teapots of the Empire is highly poetical. "On a slow fire set a tripod; fill it with clear rain-water. Boil it as long as it would be needed to turn fish white and lobsters red. Throw this upon the delicate leaves of choice tea; let it remain as long as the vapour rises in a cloud. At your ease drink the pure liquor, which will chase away the five causes of trouble." The "tea of the cells of the Dragons," the purest Pekoe from the leaf-buds of three-year-old plants, no one ever sees in Europe; but we have secured many brands of tea which are sufficiently good, and the famous Indian tea brought in by the great Exposition in Paris in 1889 is fast gaining an enviable reputation. It has a perfect bouquet and flavour. Green tea, beloved by our grandmothers and still a favourite with some connoisseurs, has proved to have so much theine, the element of intoxication in tea, that it is forbidden to nervous people. Tea saves food by its action in preventing various wastes to the system. It is thus peculiarly acceptable to elderly persons, and to the tired labouring-woman. Doubtless Mrs. Gamp's famous teapot with which she entertained Betsy Prig contained green tea. There is an unusually large amount of nitrogen in theine, and green tea possesses so large a proportion of it as to be positively dangerous. In the process of drying and roasting, this volatile oil is engendered. The Chinese dare not use it for a year after the leaf has been prepared, and the packer and unpacker of the tea suffer much from paralysis. The tasters of tea become frequently great invalids, unable to eat; therefore our favourite herb has its dangers. More consoling is the legend of the origin of the plant. A drowsy hermit, after long wrestling with sleep, cut off his eyelids and cast them on the ground. From them sprang a shrub whose leaves, shaped like eyelids and bordered with a fringe of lashes, possessed the power of warding off sleep. This was in the third century, and the plant was tea. But what has all this to do with that pleasant visage of a steaming kettle boiling over a blazing alcohol lamp, the silver tea-caddy, the padded cozy to keep the teapot warm, the basket of cake, the thin bread and butter, the pretty girl presiding over the cups, the delicate china, the more delicate infusion? All these elements go to make up the afternoon tea. From one or two ladies who stayed at home one day in the week and offered this refreshment, to the many who came to find that it was a very easy method of entertaining, grew the present party in the daytime. The original five o'clock tea arose in England from the fact that ladies and gentlemen after hunting required some slight refreshment before dressing for dinner, and liked to meet for a little chat. It now is used as the method of introducing a daughter, and an ordinary way of entertaining. The primal idea was a good one. People who had no money for grand spreads were enabled to show to their more opulent neighbours that they too had the spirit of hospitality. The doctors discovered that tea was healthy. English breakfast tea would keep nobody awake. The cup of tea and the sandwich at five would spoil nobody's dinner. The ladies who began these entertainments, receiving modestly in plain dresses, were not out of tone with their guests who came in walking-dress. But then the other side was this,--ladies had to go to nine teas of an afternoon, perhaps taste something everywhere. Hence the new disease, _delirium teamens_. It was uncomfortable to assist at a large party in a heavy winter garment of velvet and fur. The afternoon tea lost its primitive character and became an evening party in the daytime, with the hostess and her daughters in full dress, and her guests in walking-costume. The sipping of so much tea produces the nervous prostration, the sleeplessness, the nameless misery of our overwrought women; and thus a healthful, inexpensive and most agreeable adjunct to the art of entertaining grew into a thing without a name, and became the large, gas-lighted ball at five o'clock, where half the ladies were in _decolleté_ dresses, the others in fur tippets. It was pronounced a breeder of influenzas, and the high road to a headache. If a lady can be at home every Thursday during the season, and always at her position behind the blazing urn, and will have the firmness to continue this practice, she may create a _salon_ out of her teacups. In giving a large afternoon tea for which cards have been sent out, the hostess should stand by the drawing-room door and greet each guest, who, after a few words, passes on. In the adjoining room, usually the dining-room, a large table is spread with a white cloth; and at one end is a tea service with a kettle of water boiling over an alcohol lamp, while at the other end is a service for chocolate. There should be flowers on the table, and dishes containing bread and butter cut as thin as a shaving. Cake and strawberries are always permissible. One or two servants should be in attendance to carry away soiled cups and saucers, and to keep the table looking fresh; but for the pouring of the tea and chocolate there should always be a lady, who like the hostess should wear a gown closed to the throat; for nothing is worse form now-a-days than full dress before dinner. The ladies of the house should not wear bonnets. When tea is served every afternoon at five o'clock, whether or no there are visitors, as is often the case in many houses, the servant--who, if a woman, should always in the afternoon wear a plain black gown, with a white cap and apron--should place a small, low table before the lady of the house, and lay over it a pretty white cloth. She should then bring in a large tray, upon which are the tea service, and a plate of bread and butter, or cake, or both, place it upon the table, and retire,--remaining within call, though out of sight, in case she should be needed. The best rule for making tea is the old-fashioned one: "one teaspoonful for each person and one for the pot." The pot should first be rinsed with hot water, then the tea put in, and upon it should be poured enough water, actually boiling, to cover the leaves. This decoction should stand for five minutes, then fill up the pot with more boiling water, and pour it immediately. Some persons prefer lemon in their tea to cream, and it is a good plan to have some thin slices, cut for the purpose, placed in a pretty little dish on the tray. A bowl of cracked ice is also a pleasant addition in summer, iced tea being a most refreshing drink in hot weather. Neither plates nor napkins need appear at this informal and cosey meal. A guest arriving at this time in the afternoon should always be offered a cup of tea. Afternoon tea, in small cities or in the country, in villages and academic towns, can well be made a most agreeable and ideal entertainment, for the official presentation of a daughter or for the means of seeing one's friends. In the busy winter season of a large city it should not be made the excuse for giving up the evening party, or the dinner, lunch, or ball. It is not all these, it is simply itself, and it should be a refuge for those women who are tired of balls, of over dressing, dancing, visiting, and shopping. It is also very dear to the young who find the convenient tea-table a good arena for flirtation. It is a form of entertainment which allows one to dispense with etiquette and to save time. Five-o'clock teas should be true to their name, nor should any other refreshment be offered than tea, bread and butter, and little cakes. If other eatables are offered the tea becomes a reception. There is a high tea which takes the place of dinner on Sunday evenings in cities, which is a very pretty entertainment; in small rural cities, in the country, they take the place of dinners. They were formerly very fashionable in Philadelphia. It gave an opportunity to offer hot rolls and butter, escalloped oysters, fried chicken, delicately sliced cold ham, waffles and hot cakes, preserves--alas! since the days of canning, who offers the delicious preserves of the past? The hostess sits behind her silver urn and pours the hot tea or coffee or chocolate, and presses the guest to take another waffle. It is a delightful meal, and has no prototype in any country but our own. It is doubtful, however, whether the high tea will ever be popular in America, in large cities at least, where the custom of seven-o'clock dinners prevails. People find in them a violent change of living, which is always a challenge to indigestion. Some wit has said that he always liked to eat hot mince-pie just before he went to bed, for then he always knew what hurt him. If anyone wishes to know what hurts him, he can take high tea on Sunday evening, after having dined all the week at seven o'clock. A pain in his chest will tell him that the hot waffle, the cold tongue, the peach preserve, and that "last cup of tea" meant mischief. Oliver Cromwell is said to have been an early tea-drinker; so is Queen Elizabeth,--elaborate old teapots are sold in London with the cipher of both; but the report lacks confirmation. We cannot imagine Oliver drinking anything but verjuice, nor the lion woman as sipping anything less strong than brown stout. Literature owes much to tea. From Cowper to Austin Dobson, the poets have had their fling at it. And what could the modern English novelist do without it? It has been in politics, as all remember who have seen Boston Harbor, and it goes into all the battles, and climbs Mt. Blanc and the Matterhorn. The French, who despised it, are beginning to make a good cup of tea, and Russia bathes in it. The Samovar cheers the long journeys across those dreary steppes, and forms again the most luxurious ornament of the palace. On all the high roads of Europe one can get a cup of tea, except in Spain. There it is next to impossible; the universal chocolate supersedes it. If one gets a cup of tea in Spain, there is no cream to put in it; and to many tea drinkers, tea is ruined without milk or cream. In fact, the poor tea drinker is hard to please anywhere. There are to the critic only one or two houses of one's acquaintance where five o'clock tea is perfect. THE INTELLECTUAL COMPONENTS OF DINNER. "Lend me your ears." "It has often perplexed me to imagine," writes Nathaniel Hawthorne, "how an Englishman will be able to reconcile himself to any future state of existence from which the earthly institution of dinner is excluded. The idea of dinner has so imbedded itself among his highest and deepest characteristics, so illuminated itself with intellect, and softened itself with the kindest emotions of his heart, so linked itself with Church and State, and grown so majestic with long hereditary custom and ceremonies, that by taking it utterly away, Death, instead of putting the final touch to his perfection, would leave him infinitely less complete than we have already known him. He could not be roundly happy. Paradise among all its enjoyments would lack one daily felicity in greater measure than London in the season." No dinner would be worth the giving that had not one witty man or one witty woman to lift the conversation out of the commonplace. As many more agreeable people as one pleases, but one leader is absolutely necessary. Not alone the funny man whom the _enfant terrible_ silenced by asking, "Mamma would like to know when you are going to begin to be funny," but those men who have the rare art of being leaders without seeming to be, who amuse without your suspecting that you are being amused; for there never should be anything professional in dinner-table wit. The dinner giver has often to feel that something has been left out of the group about the table; they will not talk! She has furnished them with food and wine, but can she amuse them? Her witty man and her witty woman are both engaged elsewhere,--they are apt to be,--and her room is too warm, perhaps. She determines that at the next dinner she will have some mechanical adjuncts, even an empirical remedy against dulness. She tries a dinner card with poetical quotations, conundrums, and so on. The Shakspeare Club of Philadelphia inaugurated this custom, and some very witty results followed:-- "Enter Froth" (before champagne). "What is thine age?" (_Romeo and Juliet_) brings in the Madeira. LOBSTER SALAD. "Who hath created this indigest?" Pray you bid these unknown friends welcome, for it is a way to make us better friends.--_Winter's Tale._ ROAST TURKEY. See, here he comes swelling like a turkey cock.--_Henry IV._ YORK HAMS. Sweet stem from York's great stock.--_Henry VI._ TONGUE. Silence is only commendable in a neat's tongue dried-- _Merchant of Venice._ BRAISED LAMB AND BEEF. What say you to a piece of lamb and mustard?--a dish that I do love to feed upon.--_Taming of the Shrew._ LOBSTER SALAD. Sallat was born to do me good.--_Henry IV._ And so on. The Bible affords others, well worth quoting:-- OYSTERS. He brought them up out of the sea.--_Isaiah._ And his mouth was opened immediately.--_Luke_ i. 64. BEAN SOUP. "Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentils." FISH, STRIPED BASS. We remember the fish we did eat freely.--_Numbers._ These with many stripes.--_Deuteronomy._ STEINBERGER CABINET. Thou hast kept the good wine until now.--_John_ ii. 10. BOILED CAPON. Accept it always and in all places.--Acts xxiv. 3. PIGEON BRAISE. Pigeons such as he could get.--_Leviticus._ SUCCOTASH. They brought corn and beans.--_Samuel._ QUAIL LARDED. Even quail came.--_Exodus._ Abundantly moistened with fat.--_Isaiah._ LETTUCE SALAD. A pleasant plant, green before the sun.--_Isaiah._ Pour oil upon it, pure oil, olive.--_Leviticus._ Oil and salt, without prescribing how much.--_Ezra_ vii. 22. ICE CREAM. Ice like morsels.--_Psalms._ CHEESE. Carry these ten cheeses unto the captain.--_Samuel._ FRUITS. All kind of fruits.--_Eccles._ COFFEE. Last of all.--_Matthew_ xxi. 37. They had made an end of eating.--_Amos_ vii. 2. CIGARS. Am become like dust and ashes.--_Job_ xxx. 19. And so on. Written conundrums are good stimulants to conversation, and dinner cards might be greatly historical, not too learned. A legend of the day, as Lady Day, or Michaelmas, is not a bad promoter of talk. Or one might allude to the calendar of dead kings and queens, or other celebrities, or ask your preferences, or quote something from a memoir, to find out that it is a birthday of Rossini or Goethe. All these might be written on a dinner card, and will open the flood gates of a frozen conversation. Let each dinner giver weave a net out of the gossamer threads of her own thoughts. It will be the web of the Lady of Shalott, and will bid the shadows of pleasant memory to remain, not float "forever adown the river," even toward "towered Camelot" where they may be lost. Some opulent dinner giver once made the dinner card the vehicle of a present, but this became rather burdensome. It was trying and embarrassing to carry the gifts home, and the poorer entertainer hesitated at the expense. The outlay had better come out of one's brain, and the piquing of curiosity with a contradiction like this take its place:-- "A lady gave me a gift which she had not, And I received the gift, which I took not, And if she take it back I grieve not." But there is something more required to form the intellectual components of a dinner than these instruments to stimulate curiosity and give a fillip to thought. We must have variety. Mrs. Jameson, the accomplished author of the "Legends of the Madonna" gives the following description of an out-of-door dinner, which should embolden the young American hostess to go and do likewise:-- "Yesterday we dined _al fresco_ in the Pamfili Gardens, in Rome, and although our party was rather too large, it was well assorted, and the day went off admirably. The queen of our feast was in high good humour and irresistibly charming, Frattino very fascinating, T. caustic and witty, W. lively and clever, J. mild, intelligent and elegant, V. as usual quiet, sensible, and self-complacent, L. as absurd and assiduous as ever. "Everybody played their part well, each by a tacit convention sacrificing to the _amour propre_ of his neighbour, each individual really occupied with his own peculiar _rôle_, but all apparently happy and mutually pleased. Vanity and selfishness, indifference and _ennui_ were veiled under a general mask of good humour and good breeding, and the flowery bonds of politeness and gallantry held together those who knew no common tie of thought or interest. "Our luxurious dinner, washed down by a competent proportion of Malvoisie and champagne, was spread upon the grass, which was literally the flowery turf, being covered with violets, iris, and anemones of every dye. "For my own peculiar taste there were too many servants, too many luxuries, too much fuss; but considering the style and number of our party, it was all consistently and admirably managed. The grouping of the company, picturesque because unpremeditated, the scenery around, the arcades and bowers and columns and fountains had an air altogether poetical and romantic, and put me in mind of some of Watteau's beautiful garden pieces." Now in this exquisite description Mrs. Jameson seems to me to have given the intellectual components of a dinner. "The hostess, good-humoured and charming, Frattino very fascinating, T. caustic and witty, W. lively and clever, J. mild, intelligent, and elegant, V. as usual quiet, sensible, and self-complacent, L. as absurd and as assiduous as ever." There was variety for you, and the three last were undoubtedly listeners. In the next paragraph she covers more ground, and this is most important:-- "Each by a tacit convention sacrificing to the _amour propre_ of his neighbour." That is an immortal phrase, for there can be no pleasant dinner when this unselfishness is not shown. It was said by a witty Boston hostess that she could never invite two well-known diners-out to the same dinner, for each always silenced the other. You must not have too many good talkers. The listeners, the receptive listeners, should outnumber the talkers. In England, the land of dinners, they have, of course, no end of public, semi-official, and annual dinners,--as those of the Royal Literary Fund, the Old Rugbians, the Artists Benevolent Fund, the Regimental dinners, the banquets at the Liberal and the Cobden Club, and the nice little dinners at the Star and Garter, winding up with the annual fish dinner. Now of all these the most popular and sought after is the annual dinner of the Royal Academy. Few gratifications are more desired by mortals than an invitation to this dinner. The president, Sir Frederic Leighton, is handsome and popular. The dinner is representative in character; one or more members of the Royal Family are present; the Church, the Senate, the Bar, Medicine, Literature and Science, the Army, the Navy, the City,--all these have their representatives in the company. Who would not say that this would be the most amusing dinner in London? Intellect at its highest water mark is present. The _menu_ is splendid. But I have heard one distinguished guest say that the thing is over-freighted, the ship is too full, and the crowd of good things makes a surfeit. Dinners at the Lord Mayor's are said to be pleasant and fine specimens of civic cheer, but the grand nights at the Middle Temple and others of the Inns of Court are occasions of pleasant festivity. We have nothing to do with these, however, except to read of them, and to draw our conclusions. I know of no better use to which we can put them than the same rereading which we gave Mrs. Jameson's well-considered _menu_: "Each individual really occupied with his own _rôle_, but all apparently happy and mutually pleased. Variety and selfishness or indifference or _ennui_ well veiled under a general mask of good humour and good breeding, and the flowery bands of politeness and gallantry holding together those who knew no common tie of thought and interest." It requires very civilized people to veil their indifference and _ennui_ under a general mask of good humour. To have unity, one must first have units; and to make an agreeable dinner-party the hostess should invite agreeable people, and her husband should be a good host; and here we must again compliment England. An Englishman is churlish and distant, self-conscious and prejudiced everywhere else but at his own table. He is a model host, and a most agreeable guest. He is the most genial of creatures after the soup and sherry. Indeed the English dinner is the keynote to all that is best in the English character. An Englishman wishes to eat in company. How unlike the Spaniard, who never asks you to dinner. However courtly and hospitable he may be at other times and other hours of the day, he likes to drag his bone into a corner and gnaw it by himself. The Frenchman, elegant, _soigné_, and economical, invites you to the best-cooked dinner in the world, but there is not much of it. He prefers to entertain you at a café. Country life in France is delightful, but there is not that luxurious, open-handed entertaining which obtains in England. In Italy one is seldom admitted to the privacy of the family dinner. It is a patriarchal affair. But when one is admitted one finds much that is _simpatica_. The cookery is good, the service is perfect, the dinner is short, the conversation gay and easy. In making up a dinner with a view to its intellectual components, avoid those tedious talkers who, having a theme, a system, or a fad to air, always contrive to drag the conversation around to their view, with the intention of concentrating the whole attention upon themselves. One such man, called appropriately the Bore Constrictor of conversation in a certain city, really drove people away from every house to which he was invited; for they grew tired of hearing him talk of that particular science in which he was an expert. Such a talker could make the planet Jupiter a bore, and if the talker were of the feminine gender how one would shun her verbosity. "I called on Mrs. Marjoribanks yesterday," said a free lance once, "and we had a little gossip about Copernicus." We do not care to have anything quite so erudite, for if people are really very intimate with Copernicus they do not mention it at dinner. It is as impossible to say what makes the model diner-out as to describe the soil which shall grow the best grapes. We feel it and we enjoy it, but we can give no receipt for the production of the same. As history, with exemplary truthfulness, has always painted man as throwing off all the trouble of giving a dinner on his wife, why have not our clever women appreciated the power of dinner-giving in politics? Why are not our women greater politicians? Where is our Lady Jersey, our Lady Palmerston, our Princess Belgioso? The Princess Lieven, wife of the Russian Ambassador in London, was said to have held the peace of Europe in the conduct of her _entrées_; and a country-woman of our own is to-day supposed to influence the policy of Germany largely by her dinners. From the polished and versatile memoirs of the Grammonts, Walpoles, D'Azelios, Sydney Smith, and Lord Houghton, how many an anecdote hinges on the efficacy of a dinner in reconciling foes, and in the making of friends. How many a conspiracy was hatched, no doubt, behind an aspic of plover's eggs or a _vol au vent de volaille_. How many a budding ministry, according to Lord Lammington, was brought to full power over a well-ordered table-cloth. How many a war cloud dispelled by the proper temperature of the Burgundy. It is related of Lord Lyndhurst that when somebody asked him how to succeed in life, he answered, "Give good wine." A French statesman would have answered, "Give good dinners." Talleyrand kept the most renowned table of his day, quite as much for political as hygienic reasons. At eighty years of age he still spent an hour every morning with his _chef_, discussing the dishes to be served at dinner. The Emperor Napoleon, who was no epicure, nor even a connoisseur, was nevertheless pleased with Talleyrand's luxurious and refined hospitality, in consequence of the impression it made on those who were so fortunate as to partake of it. On the other hand, one hesitates to contemplate the indigestions and bad English cooking which must have hatched an Oliver Cromwell, or still earlier that decadence of Italian cookery which made a Borgia possible. Social leaders in all ages and countries have thus studied the tastes and the intellectual aptitudes and capabilities of those whom they have gathered about their boards; and Mythology would suggest that the _petits soupers_ on high Olympus, enlivened by the "inextinguishable laughter of the gods," had much to do with the politics of the Greek heaven under Jupiter. Reading the Northern Saga in the same connection, may not the vague and awful conceptions of cookery which seem to have filled the Northern mind have had something to do with the opera of Siegfried? Even the music of Wagner seems to have been inspired by a draught from the skull of his enemy. It has the fascination of clanging steel, and the mighty rustling of armour. The wind sighs through the forest, and the ice-blast freezes the hearer. The chasms of earth seem to open before us. But it has also the terror of an indigestion, and the brooding horror of a nightmare from drinking metheglia and eating half-roasted kid. The political aspect of a Scandinavian heaven was always stormy. Listen to the Trilogy. In America a hostess sure of her soups and her _entrées_, with such talkers as she could command, could influence American political movements--she might influence its music--by her dinners, and become an enviable Lady Palmerston. Old people are apt to say that there is a decay in the art of conversation, that it is one of the lost arts. No doubt this is in a measure true all over the world. A French _salon_ would be to-day an impossibility for that very reason. It is no longer the fashion to tell anecdotes, to try to be amusing. A person is considered a prig who sits up to amuse the company. All this is bad; it is reactionary after the drone of the Bore Constrictor. It is going on all over the world. It is part of that hurry which has made us talk slang, the jelly of speech, speech condensed and boiled down, easily transported, and warranted to keep in all climates. But there is a very pleasant _juste milieu_ between the stately, perhaps starchy, anecdotist of the past and the easy and witty talker of to-day, who may occasionally drop into slang, and what is more, may permit a certain slovenliness of speech. There are certain mistakes in English, made soberly, advisedly, and without fear of Lindley Murray, which make one sigh for the proprieties of the past. The trouble is we have no standard. Writers are always at work at the English language, and yet many people say that it is at present the most irregular and least understood of all languages. The intellectual components of a successful dinner, should, if we may quote Hawthorne, be illuminated with intellect, and softened by the kindest emotions of the heart. To quote Mrs. Jameson, they must combine the caustic and the witty, the lively and the clever, and even the absurd, and the assiduous above all. Everybody must be unselfish enough not to yawn, and never seem bored. They must be self-sacrificing, but all apparently well-pleased. The intellectual components of a dinner, like the condiments of a salad, must be of the best; and it is for the hostess to mix them with the unerring tact and fine discrimination of an American woman. CONSCIENTIOUS DINERS. It is chiefly men of intellect who hold good eating in honour. The head is not capable of a mental operation which consists in a long sequence of appreciations, and many severe decisions of the judgment, which has not a well-fed brain. BRILLAT SAVARIN. A good dinner and a pretty hostess,--for there are terms on which beauty and beef can meet much to the benefit of both,--one wit, several good talkers, and as many good listeners, or more of the latter, are said to make a combination which even our greatest statesmen do not despise. Man wants good dinners. It is woman's province to provide them; but nature and education must make the conscientious diner. It is to be feared that we are too much in a hurry to be truly conscientious diners. Our men have too many school-tasks yet,--politics, money-making, science, mental improvement, charities, psychical research, building railroads, steam monitors, colleges, and such like gauds,--too many such distractions to devote themselves as they ought to the question of _entrées_ and _entremets_. They should endeavour to give the dinner a fitting place. Just see how the noble language of France, which Racine dignified and Molière amplified, respectfully puts on its robes of state which are lined with ermine when it approaches the great subject of dinner! It is to be feared that we are far off from the fine art of dining, although many visits to Paris and much patronage of Le Doyon's, the Café Anglais, and the Café des Ambassadeurs, may have prepared us for the _entremet_ and the _pièce de résistance_. We are improving in this respect and no longer bolt our dinners. The improvement is already manifest in the better tempers and complexions of our people. But are we as conscientious as the gentleman in "Punch" who rebuked the giddy girl who would talk to him at dinner? "Do you remember, my dear, that you are in the house of the best _entrées_ in London? I wish to eat my dinner." That was a man to cook for! He had his appropriate calm reserve of appreciation, for the _suprême de volaille_. He knew how to watch and wait for the sweetbreads, and green peas. Not thrown away upon him was that last turn which makes the breast of the partridge become of a delicate Vandyck brown. How respectful was he to that immortal art for which the great French cook died, a suicide for a belated turbot. "Ah," said Parke Godwin once, when in one of his most brilliant Brillat Savarin moods, "how it ennobles a supper to think that all these oysters will become ideas!" But if a dinner is not a cookery book, neither is it a matter of expense alone, nor a payment of social debts. It is a question of temperature, of the selection of guests, of the fitness of things, of a proper variety, and of time. The French make their exquisite dinners light and short. The English make theirs a trifle long and heavy. The young hostess, to strike the _juste milieu_, must travel, reflect, and go to a cooking-school. She must buy and read a library of cooking-books. And when all is done and said, she must realize that a cookery-book is not a dinner. There are some natures which can absorb nothing from a cookery-book. As Lady Galway said that she had put all her wits into Bradshaw's "Railway Guide" and had never got them out again, so some amateur cook remarked that she had tested her recipes with the "cook-book in one hand and the cooking-stove in the other," yet the wit had stayed away. All young housekeepers must go through the discipline--in a land where cooks are as yet scarce--of trying and failing, of trying and at length succeeding. They must go to _La Belle France_ to learn how to make a soup, for instance. That is to say, they must study the best French authorities. The mere question of sustenance is easy of solution. We can stand by a cow and drink her milk, or we can put some bread in our pockets and nibble it as we go along; but dinner as represented by our complicated civilization is a matter of interest which must always stand high amongst the questions which belong to social life. It is a very strange attendant circumstance that having been a matter of profound concern to mankind for so many years, it is now almost as easy to find a bad dinner as a good one, even in Paris, that headquarters of cookery. There would be no sense in telling a young American housekeeper to learn to make sauces and to cook like a French _chef_, for it is a profession requiring years of study and great natural taste and aptitude. A French _chef_ commands a higher salary than a secretary of state or than a civil engineer. As well tell a young lady that she could suddenly be inspired with a knowledge of the art of war or of navigation. She would only perhaps learn to do very badly what they in ten years learn to do so well. She would say in her heart, "For my part I am surfeited with cookery. I cry, something _raw_ if you please for me,--something that has never been touched by hand except the one that pulled it off the blooming tree or uprooted it from the honest ground. Let me be a Timon if you will, and eat green radishes and cabbages, or a Beau Brummel, asphyxiated in the consumption of a green pea; but no _ragoût_, _côtelette_, _compote_, _crème_, or any hint or cooking till the remembrance of all that I have seen has faded and the smell of it has passed away!" Thus said one who attended a cooking-school, had gone through the mysteries of soup-making, had learned what _sauté_ means; had mastered _entremets_, and _entrées_, and _plats_, and _hors d'oeuvres_; had learned that _boudins de veau_ are simply veal puddings, something a little better than a veal croquette made into a little pie; and had found that all meats if badly cooked are much alike. There is a great deal of nonsense talked about making good dishes out of nothing. A French cook is very economical, he uses up odds and ends, but he must have something to cook with. Stone broth does not go down with a hungry man, nor bad food, however disguised with learned sauces. A little learning is a dangerous thing, and one who attempts too much will fail. But one can read, and reflect, and get the general outlines of cultivated cookery. As to cultivated cookery being necessarily extravagant, that is a mistake. A great, heavy, ill-considered dinner is no doubt costly. Almost all American housekeeping is wasteful in the extreme, but the modern vanities which depend on the skill of the cook and the arranging mind of the housekeeper, all these are the triumphs of the present age, and worthy of deep thought and consideration. Let the young housekeeper remember that the pretty _entrées_ made out of yesterday's roast chicken or turkey will be a great saving as well as a great luxury, and she will learn to make them. Amongst a busy people like ourselves, from poorest to the richest, dinners are intended to be recreations, and recreations of inestimable value. The delightful contrast which they offer to the labours of the day, the pleasant, innocent triumph they afford to the hostess, in which all may partake without jealousy, the holiday air of guests and of the dining-room, which should be fresh, well aired, filled with flowers, made bright with glass and silver,--all this refreshes the tired man of affairs and invigorates every creature. As far as possible, the discussion of all disagreeable subjects should be kept from the dinner-table. All that is unpleasant lowers the pulse and retards digestion. All that is cheerful invigorates the pulse and helps the human being to live a more brave and useful life. No one should bring an unbecoming grumpiness to the dinner-table. Be grumpy next day if you choose, when the terrapin may have disagreed with you, but not at the feast. Bring the best bit of news and gossip, not scandal, the choicest critique of the last novel, the cream of your correspondence. Be sympathetic, amiable, and agreeable at a feast, else it were better you had stayed away. The last lesson of luxury is the advice to contribute of our very best to the dinners of our friends, while we form our own dinners on the plane of the highest luxury which we can afford, and avoid the great _too much_. Remember that in all countries the American lavish prodigality of feasting, and the expensive garniture of hothouse flowers, are always spoken of as vulgar. How well it will be for us when our splendid array of fish, flesh, and fowl shall have reached the benediction of good cookery; when we know how to serve it, not with barbaric magnificence and repletion, but with a delicate sense of fitness. Mr. Webster, himself an admirable dinner giver, said of a codfish salad that it was "fit to eat." He afterwards remarked, more gravely,--and it made him unpopular,--that a certain nomination was "not fit to be made." That led to a discussion of the word "fit." The fitness of things, the right amount, the thing in the right place, whether it be the condiment of a salad or the nomination to the presidency,--this is the thing to consult, to think of in a dinner; let it be "fit to be made." An American dinner resolves itself into the following formula:-- The oyster is offered first. What can equal the American oyster in all his salt-sea freshness, raw, on the half-shell, a perpetual stimulant to appetite,--with a slice of lemon, and a bit of salt and pepper, added to his own luscious juices, his perfect flavor? The jaded palate, worn with much abuse, revives, and stands, like Oliver, asking for more. The soup follows. To this great subject we might devote a chapter. What visions of white and brown, clear and thick, fresh beef stock or the maritime delicacies of cray fish and prawn rise before us,--in every colour, from pink or cream to the heavy Venetian red of the mulligatawny or the deep smoke-tints of mock turtle and terrapin! The subject grows too large for mere mention; we must give a chapter to soup. When we speak of fish we realize that the ocean even is inadequate to hold them all. Have we not trout, salmon, the great fellows from the Great Lakes, and the exclusive ownership of the Spanish mackerel? Have we not the fee simple of terrapin and the exclusive excellence of shad? This subject, again, requires a volume. The roast! Ah! here we once bowed to our great Mother England, and thought her roast beef better than ours. There are others who think that we have caught up on the roasts. Our beef is very good, our mutton does not equal always the English Southdowns; but we are even improving in the blacknosed woolly brethren who conceal such delicious juices under their warm coats. A roast saddle of mutton with currant jelly--but let us not linger over this thrilling theme. Our venison is the best in the world. As for turkeys,--_we discovered them_, and it is fair to say that, after looking the world over, there is no better bird than a Rhode Island Turkey, particularly if it is sent to you as a present from a friend. Hang him a week, with a truffle in him, and stuff him with chestnuts. As for chickens--there France has us at a disadvantage. There seems to be a secret of fowl-feeding, or rearing, in France which we have not mastered. Still we can get good chickens in America, and noble capons, but they are very expensive. The _entrées_--here we must go again to those early missionaries to a savage shore, the Delmonicos. They were the high priests of the _entrée_. The salads--those daughters of luxury, those delicate expressions, in food, of the art of dress--deserve a separate chapter. And now the _sorbet_ cools our throats and leads us up to the game. The American desserts are particularly rich and profuse. Our pies have been laughed at, but they also are fit to eat, especially mince-pie, which is first cousin to an English plum-pudding. Our puddings are like our Western scenery, heavy but magnificent. Our ices have reached, under our foreign imported artists, the greatest perfection. Our fruit is abundant and highly flavoured. We have not yet perhaps known how to draw the line as to desserts. The great _too much_ prevails. Do we not make our dinners too long and too heavy? How great an artist would he be who should so graduate a dinner that there would be no to-morrow in it! We eat more like Heliogabalus than like that _gourmet_ who took the _beccafico_ out of the olive which had been hidden in the pigeon, which had in its turn been warmed in the chicken, which was cooked in the ox, which was roasted whole for the birthday of a king. The _gourmet_ discarded the rest, but ate the _beccafico_. The first duty of a guest who is asked to one of these dinners is to be punctual. Who wishes to sit next to Mr. Many-Courses, when he has been kept waiting for his dinner? Imagine the feelings of an amiable host and hostess who, after taking the trouble to get up an excellent dinner, feel that it is being spoiled by the tardiness of one guest! They are nervously watching Mr. Many-Courses, for hungry animals are frequently snappish, and sometimes dangerous. The hostess who knows how to invite her guests and to seat them afterwards is a power in the State. She helps to refine, elevate, and purify our great American conglomerate. She has not the Englishman's Bible, "The Peerage," to help her seat her guests; she must trust to her own intelligence to do that. Our great American conglomerate repels all idea of rank, or the precedence idea, which is so well understood in England. Hereditary distinction we have not, for although there are some families which can claim a grandfather, they are few. A grandfather is of little importance to the men who make themselves. Aristocracy in America is one of talent or money. Even those more choice intelligences, which in older countries are put on glass pedestals, are not so elevated here as to excite jealousy. We all adore the good diner-out, but somebody would be jealous if he had always the best seat. Therefore the hostess has to contend with much that is puzzling in the seating of her guests; but if she says to herself, "I will place those people near each other who are sympathetic," she will govern her festive board with the intelligence of Elizabeth, and the generosity of Queen Margharita. She must avoid too many highly scented flowers. People are sometimes weary of the "rapture of roses." Horace says: "Avoid, at an agreeable entertainment, discordant music, and muddy perfume, and poppies mixed with Sardinian honey; they give offence." Which is only another way of saying that some music may be too heavy, and the perfume of flowers too strong. Remember, young hostess, or old hostess, that your dinner is to be made up of people who have to sit two hours chatting with each other, and that this is of itself a severe ordeal of patience. Good breeding is said to be the apotheosis of self-restraint, and so is good feeding. Good breeding puts nature under restraint, controls the temper, and refines the speech. Good feeding, unless it is as well governed as it should be, inflames the nose and the temper, and enlarges the girth most unbecomingly. Good breeding is the guardian angel of a woman. Good feeding, that is, conscientious dining, must be the patron saint of a man! A truly well bred and well fed man is quiet in dress, does not talk slang, is not prosy, is never unbecomingly silent, nor is he too garrulous. He is always respectful to everybody, kind to the weak, helpful to the feeble. He may not be an especially lofty character, but good feeding inducts him into the character and duties of a gentleman. He simulates a virtue if he has it not, especially after dinner. _Noblesse oblige_ is his motto, and he feels what is due to himself. Can we be a thorough-bred, or a thorough-fed, all by ourselves? It is easy enough to learn when and where to leave a card, how to behave at a dinner, how to use a fork, how to receive and how to drop an acquaintance; but what a varied education is that which leads up to good feeding, to becoming a conscientious diner. It is not given to every one, this lofty grace. A dinner should be a good basis for a mutual understanding. They say that few great enterprises have been conducted without it. People are sure to like each other much better after dining together. It is better to go home from a dinner remembering how clever everybody was, than to go home merely to wonder at the opulence that could compass such a pageant. A dinner should put every one into his best talking condition. The quips and quirks of excited fancy should come gracefully, for society well arranged brings about the attrition of wits. If one is comfortable and well-fed--not gorged--he is in his best condition. The more civilized the world gets, the more difficult it is to amuse it. It is the common complaint of the children of luxury that dinners are dull and society stupid. How can the reformer make society more amusing and less dangerous? Eliminate scandal and back-biting. The danger and trials and difficulties of dinner-giving are manifold. First, whom shall we ask? Will they come? It is often the fate of the hostess, in the busy season, to invite forty people before she gets twelve. Having got the twelve, she then has perhaps a few days before the dinner to receive the unwelcome news that Jones has a cold, Mrs. Brown has lost a relative, and Miss Malcontent has gone to Washington. The dinner has to be reconstructed; deprived of its original intention it becomes a balloon which has lost ballast. It goes drifting about, and there is no health in it and no purpose. This is especially true also of those dinners which are conducted on debt-paying principles. How many hard-worked, rich men in America are bored to death by the gilded and over-burdened splendour of their wives' dinners and those to which they are to go. They sit looking at their hands during two or three courses, poor dyspeptics who cannot eat. To relieve them, to bring them into communion with their next neighbour, with whom they have nothing in common, what shall one do? Oh, that depressing cloud which settles over the jaded senses of even the conscientious diner, as he fails to make his neighbour on either side say anything but yes or no! We must, perhaps, before we give the perfect dinner, renounce the idea that dinner should be on a commercial basis. Of course our social debts must be paid. It is a large subject, like the lighting of a city, the cleaning of the streets, and must be approached carefully, so that the lesser evil may not swamp the greater good. Do not invite twelve people to bore them. The dinner hour differs in different cities,--from seven to half-past seven, to eight, and eight and a half; all these have their adherents. In London, many a party does not sit down until nine. Hence the necessity of a hearty meal at five o'clock tea. The royalties, all blessed with good appetites, eat eggs on toast, hot scones and other good things at five o'clock tea, and take often an _avant goût_ also at seven. In our country half-past seven is generally the most convenient hour, unless one is going to the play afterward, when seven is better. A dinner should not last more than an hour and a half. But it does last sometimes three hours. Ladies dress for a large dinner often in low neck and short sleeves, wear their jewels, and altogether their finest things. But now Pompadour waists are allowed. For a small dinner, the Pompadour dress, half-open at the throat, with a few jewels, is in better taste. Men should be always in full dress,--black coat, waistcoat, and trousers, and white cravat. There is no variation from this dress at a dinner, large or small. For ladies in delicate health who cannot expose throat or arms, there is always the largest liberty allowed; but the dinner dress must be handsome. In leaving the house and ordering the carriage, name the earliest hour rather than the latest; it is better to keep one's coachman waiting than to weary one's hostess. It is quite impossible to say when one will leave, as there may be music, recitations, and so on, after the dinner. It is now quite the fashion, as in London, to ask people in after the dinner. Everybody should go to a dinner intending to be agreeable. "E'en at a dinner some will be unblessed, However good the viands, and well dressed; They always come to table with a scowl, Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish, Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish, Curse cook, and wife, and loathing, eat and growl." Such men should never be asked twice; yet such were Dr. Johnson, and later on, Abraham Hayward, the English critic, who were invited out every night of their lives. It is a poor requital for hospitality, to allow any personal ill-temper to interfere with the pleasure of the feast. Some hostesses send around the champagne early to unloose the tongues; and this has generally a good effect if the party be dull. Excessive heat in a room is the most benumbing of all overweights. Let the hostess have plenty of oxygen to begin with. For a little dinner of eight we might suggest that the hostess write:-- DEAR MRS. SULLIVAN,--Will you and Mr. Sullivan dine with us on Thursday at half-past seven to meet Mr. and Mrs. Evarts, quite informally? Ever yours truly, MARY MONTGOMERY. This accepted, which it should be in the first person, cordially, as it is written, let us see what we would have for dinner-- Sherry. Soup. Sorrel, _à l'essence de veau_. Lobsters, _sauté à la Bonnefoy_. Chablis. Veal Cutlets, _à la Zingara_. Fried sweet potatoes. Champagne. Roast Red-Head Ducks. Currant jelly. Claret. Curled Celery in glasses. Olives. Cheese. Salad. Frozen Pudding. Grapes. Coffee. Liqueurs. Or, if you please, a brown soup, a white fish or bass, boiled, a saddle of mutton, a pair of prairie chickens and salad, a plate of broiled mushrooms, a _sorbet_ of Maraschino, cheese, ice-cream, fruit. It is not a bad "look-out," is it? How well the Italians understand the little dinner! They are frugal but conscientious diners until they get to the dessert. Their dishes have a relish of the forest and the field. First comes wild boar, stewed in a delicious condiment called sour-sweet sauce, composed of almonds, pistachio nuts, and plums. Quails, with a twang of aromatic herbs, are followed by macaroni flavoured with spiced livers, cocks' combs, and eggs called _risotto_, then golden _fritto_, cooked in the purest _cru_ of olive oil, and _quocchi_ cakes, of newly ground Indian corn, which is all that our roasted green corn is, without the trouble of gnawing it off the cob,--a process abhorrent to the conscientious diner unless he is alone. One should first take monastic vows of extreme austerity before he eats the forbidden fruit, onion, or the delicious corn. But when we can conquer Italian cooking, we can eat these two delicious things, nor fear to whisper to our best friend, nor fear to be seen eating. The triumphs of the _dolce_ belong also to the Italians. Their sugared fruits, ices, and pastry are all matchless; and their wines, Chianti, Broglio, and Vino Santo, a kind of Malaga, as "frankly luscious as the first grape can make it," are all delicious. VARIOUS MODES OF GASTRONOMIC GRATIFICATION. Phyllis, I have a cask full of Albanian wine upwards of nine years old; I have parsley in the garden for the weaving of chaplets. The house shines cheerfully with plate; all hands are busy. HORACE, _Ode XI_. Some old French wit spoke of an "idea which could be canonized." Perhaps yet we may have a Saint Table-Cloth. There have been worse saints than Saint Table-Cloth and clean linen, since the days of Louis XIII! We notice in the old pictures of feasting that the table-cloth was of itself a picture,--lace, in squares, blocks, and stripes, sometimes only lace over a colour, but generally mixed with linen. It was the highest ambition of the Dutch housewife to have much double damask of snowy whiteness in her table-linen chest. That is still the grand reliable table-linen. No one can go astray who uses it. Table-linen is now embroidered in coloured cottons, or half of its threads are drawn out and it is then sewed over into lace-work. It is then thrown over a colour, generally bright red. But pale lilac is more refined, and very becoming to the lace-work. Not a particle of coarse food must go on that table-cloth. Everything must be brought to each guest from the broad, magnificent buffet; all must be served _à la Russe_ from behind a grand, impenetrable screen, which should fence off every dining-room from the butler's pantry and the kitchen. All that goes on behind that screen is the butler's business, and not ours. The butler is a portly man, presumably, with a clean-shaven face, of English parentage. He has the key of the wine-cellar and of the silver-chest, two heavy responsibilities; for nowadays, not to go into the question of the wines, the silver-chest is getting weighty. Silver and silver-gilt dishes, banished for some years, are now reasserting their pre-eminent fitness for the dinner-table: The plates may be of solid silver; so are the high candlesticks and the salt-cellars, of various and beautiful designs after Benvenuto Cellini. Old silver is reappearing, and happy the hostess who has a real Queen Anne teapot. The soup-tureen of silver is again used, and so are the old beer-mugs. Our Dutch ancestors were much alive to good silver; he may rejoice who, joking apart, had a Dutch uncle. I, for one, do not like to eat off a metallic plate, be it of silver or gold. It is disagreeable to hear the knife scrape on it, even with the delicate business of cutting a morsel of red canvas-back. Gastronomic gratification should be so highly refined that it trembles at a crumpled rose-leaf. Porcelain plates seem to be perfect, if they have not on them the beautiful head of Lamballe. Nobody at a dinner desires to cut her head off again, or to be reminded of the French Revolution. Nor should we hurry. A master says, "I have arrived at such a point that if the calls of business or pleasure did not interpose, there would be no fixed date for finding what time might elapse between the first glass of sherry and the final Maraschino." However, the pleasures of a dinner may be too prolonged. Men like to sit longer eating and drinking than women; so when a dinner is of both sexes it should not continue more than one hour and a half. Horace, that prince of diners, objected to the long-drawn-out meal. "Then we drank, each as much as he felt the need," meant no orgy amongst the Greeks. But if the talk lingers after the biscuit and cheese the hostess need not interrupt it. Talleyrand is said to have introduced into France the custom of taking Parmesan with the soup, and the Madeira after it. There are many conflicting opinions about the proper place for the cheese in order of serving. The old fashion was to serve it last. It is now served with, or after, the salad. "A dessert without cheese is like a beautiful woman with one eye," says an old gourmet. "Eat cheese after fruit, to prepare the palate for fresh wine," says another. "After melon, wine is a felon." If it is true that "an American devours, an Englishman eats, and a Frenchman dines," then we must take the French fashion and give the cheese after the salad. Toasted cheese savouries are very nice. The Roman punch should be served just before the game. It is a very refreshing interlude. Some wit called it at Mrs. Hayes' dinners "the life-saving station." When the ices are removed a dessert-plate of glass, with a finger-bowl, is placed before each person, with two glasses, one for sherry, one for claret, or Burgundy; and the grapes, peaches, pears, and other fruits are then passed. The hostess makes the sign for retiring to a _salon_ perhaps rich with magnificent hangings of old gold, with pictures, with vases of Dresden, of Sèvres, of Kiota, with statuary, and specimens of Capo di Monti. There coffee may be brought and served by the footmen in cups which Catherine of Russia might have given to Potemkin. The gentlemen, in England and America, remain behind to smoke. There is much exquisite porcelain in use in the opulent houses of America. It is getting to be a famous fad with us, and nothing adds more to one's pleasure in a good dinner than to have it served on pretty plates. And let us learn to say "footman," and not "waiter;" the latter personage belongs to a club or a hotel. It would prevent disagreeable mistakes if we would make this correction in our ordinary conversation. In the arrangement of a splendid dinner let us see what should be the bill of fare. This is hard to answer, as the delicacies vary with the season. But we will venture on one:-- Oysters on the half-shell. Sherry. Soups: _Crème d'Asperges_, Julienne. Fish: Chablis. Fried Smelts, or Salmon. Fresh Cucumbers. Champagne. _Filet de Boeuf_, with Truffles Claret. and Mushrooms. Fried Potatoes. Entrées: _Poulet à la Maréchale_. _Petits Pois._ _Timbale de Macaroni_. Sweetbreads. Vegetables. Artichokes. Sorbet. Roman Punch. Steinberger. Game: Canvas-back or Wild Duck with Currant Jelly. Quail with Water-Cresses. Salad of Lettuce. Salad of Tomato. Rudesheimer. _Pâté de foie gras._ Hot dessert: Cabinet Pudding. Cold dessert: _Crème glacée aux tutti frutti._ _Marron glacés._ Cakes. Preserved ginger. Madeira. Cheese. Port. Café. Cordials. I apologize to my reader for mixing thus French and English. It is a vulgar habit, and should be avoided. But it is almost impossible to avoid it when speaking of a dinner; the cooks being French, the _menus_ are written in French, and the names of certain dishes are usually written in French. Now all people understand French, or should do so. If they do not, it is very easy to learn that the "_vol au vent de volaille_" is simply chicken pie, that potatoes are still potatoes under whatever alias they are served, and so on. No such dinner as this can be well served in a private house unless the cook is a _chef_, a _cordon bleu_,--here we must use French again,--and unless the service is perfect this dinner will be a failure. It is better to order such a dinner from Delmonico's or Sherry's or from the best man you can command. Do not attempt and fail. But the little dinners given by housekeepers whose service is perfect are apt to be more eatable and palatable than the best dinner from a restaurant, where all the food is cooked by gas, and tastes alike. The number of guests is determined by the size of the room. The etiquette of entering the dining-room is this: the host goes first, with the most distinguished lady. The hostess follows last, with the most distinguished gentleman. Great care and attention must be observed in seating the guests. This is the province of the hostess, who must consider the subject carefully. All this must be written out, and a diagram made of the table. The name of each lady is written on a card and enclosed in an envelope, on the outside of which is inscribed the name of the gentleman who has the honour to take her in. This envelope must be given each man by the servant in the dressing-room, or he must find it on the hall table. Then, with the dinner-card at each place, the guests find their own places. The lady of the house should be dressed and in the drawing-room at least five minutes before the guests are to arrive, which should be punctually. How long must a hostess wait for a tardy guest? Only fifteen minutes. It is well to say to the butler, "Dinner must be served at half-past seven," and the guests may be asked at seven. That generally ensures the arrival of all before the fish is spoiled. Let the company then go in to dinner, allowing the late-comer to follow. He must come in alone, blushing for his sins. These facts may help a hostess: No great dinner in Europe waits for any one; royalty is always punctual. In seating your guests do not put husband and wife, sisters or relatives together. An old courtesy book of 1290 says:-- "Consider about placing Each person in the post that befits him. Between relations it behooves To place others midway sometimes." We should respect the _superstitions_ of the dinner-table. No one should be helped twice to soup; it means an early death. Few are free from the feeling that thirteen is an unlucky number; so avoid that, as no one wishes to make a guest uncomfortable. As we have said, Gasthea is an irritable muse; she must be flattered and pampered. No one must put salt on another's plate. There is a strong prejudice against spilling the salt; but evil consequences can be avoided by throwing a pinch of salt over the left shoulder. These remarks may seem frivolous to those unhappy persons who have not the privilege of being superstitious. It gives great zest to life to have a few harmless superstitions. It is the cheese _fondu_ of the mental faculties; and we may add that a consideration of these maxims, handed down from a glorious past of gastronomes, contributes to the various modes of gastronomic gratification. We must remember that the tongue of man, by the delicacy of its structure, gives ample evidences of the high functions to which it is destined. The Roman epicures cultivated their taste so perfectly that they could tell if a fish were caught above or below a bridge. Organic perfection, epicureanism, or the art of good living, belongs to man alone. The pleasure of eating is the only one, taken in moderation, which is common to every time, age, and condition, which is enjoyed without fatigue or danger, which must be repeated two or three times a day. It can combine with our other pleasures, or console us for their loss. "_Un bon diner, c'est un consolation pour les illusions perdus._" And we have an especial satisfaction, when in the act of eating, that we are prolonging our existence, and enabling ourselves to become good citizens whilst enjoying ourselves. Thus the pleasures of the table, the act of dining, the various modes of gastronomic gratification should receive our most respectful consideration. "Let the soup be hot, and the wines cool. Let the coffee be perfect, and the liqueurs chosen with peculiar care. Let the guests be detained by the social enjoyment, and animated with the hope that before the evening is over there is still some pleasure in store." Our modern hostesses who understand the art of entertaining often have music, or some recitations, in the drawing-room after the dinner; and in England it is often made the occasion of an evening party. Thus gourmandize is that social love of good dinners which combines in one Athenian elegance, Roman luxury, and Parisian refinement. It implies discretion to arrange, skill to prepare, and taste to direct. It cannot be done superficially, and if done well it takes time, experience, and care. "To be a success, a dinner must be thought out." "By right divine, man is the king of nature, and all that the earth produces is for him. It is for him that the quail is fattened, the grape ripened. For him alone the Mocha possesses so agreeable an aroma, for him the sugar has such wholesome properties." He, and he alone, banquets in company, and so far from good living being hurtful to health, Brillat Savarin declares that the _gourmets_ have a larger dose of vitality than other men. But they have their sorrows, and the worst of them is a bad dinner,--an ill-considered, wretchedly composed, over-burdened repast, in which there is little enjoyment for the brain, and a constant disappointment to the palate. "Let the dishes be exceedingly choice and but few in number, and the wines of the best quality. Let the order of serving be from the more substantial to the lighter." Let the eating proceed without hurry or bustle, since the dinner is the last business of the day; and let the guests look upon themselves as travellers about to reach the same destination together. A dinner is not, as we see, a matter of butler or _chef_ alone. "It is the personal trouble which a host and hostess are willing to take; it is the intimate association of a cultivated nature with the practical business of entertaining, which makes the perfect dinner. "Conviviality concerns everything, hence it produces fruits of all flavours. All the ingenuity of man has been for centuries concentrated upon increasing and intensifying the pleasures of the table." The Greeks used flowers to adorn vases and to crown the guests. They ate under the vault of heaven, in gardens, in groves, in the presence of all the marvels of nature. To the pleasures of the table were joined the charms of music and the sound of instruments. Whilst the court of the king of the Phoenicians were feasting, Phenius, a minstrel, celebrated the deeds of the warriors of bygone times. Often, too, dancers and jugglers and comic actors, of both sexes and in every costume, came to engage the eye, without lessening the pleasures of the table. We eat in heated rooms, too much heated perhaps, and brilliantly lighted, as they should be. The present fancy for shaded lamps, and easily ignitible shades, leads to impromptu conflagrations which are apt to injure Saint Table-Cloth. That poor martyr is burned at the steak quite too often. Our dancers and jugglers are introduced after dinner, not during dinner; and we have our warriors at the table amongst the guests. Nor do we hire Phenius, a minstrel, to discourse of their great deeds. I copy from a recent paper the following remarks. Mr. Elbridge T. Gerry, says: "There are in society some newly admitted members who, with the best intentions imaginable, are never able to do things in just the proper style. They are persons of wealth, fairly good breeding and possessed of a desire to entertain. With all the good-humoured witticisms that the newspapers indulge in on this subject, it is nevertheless a fact that the art of entertaining requires deep and careful study, as well as natural aptitude." Some of the greatest authors have stated this in poetry and prose. "A typical member of this new class recently gave a dinner to a number of persons in society. It was a very dull affair. There was prodigality in everything, but no taste, and no refinement. The fellow amused me by telling us he had no trouble in getting up a fine dinner; he had only to tell his butler and _chef_ to get up a meal for so many persons, and the whole thing was done. There are few persons fortunate enough to possess _chefs_ and butlers of that kind; he certainly was not. Of the persons who attended his dinner, nine out of ten were displeased and will never attend another. It does not take long for the experienced member of society to know whether a host or hostess is qualified to entertain, and the climbers soon find it a hard piece of business to secure guests." But on the other hand, we can reason that so fond of the various modes of gastronomic gratification is the human race, that the dinner giver is a very popular variety of the _genus homo_; nor does the host or hostess generally find it a hard matter to secure guests. Indeed there is a vulgar proverb to the effect that if the Devil gives a ball, all the angels will go to it. "If you want an animal to love you, feed it." So that the host can stand a great deal of criticism. We should, however, take a hint from the Arabs, nor abuse the salt; it is almost worse than spilling it. Lady Morgan described the cookery of France as being "the standard and gauge of modern civilization;" and when, during the peace which followed Waterloo, Brillat Savarin turned his thoughts to the æsthetics of the dinner-table, he probably added more largely to the health and happiness of the human race than any other known philanthropist. We must not forget what had gone before in the developments and refinements of the reigns of Louis XIV., XV., and the Regent; we must not forget the honour done to gastronomy by such statesmen as Colbert, such soldiers as Condé, nor by such a wit and beauty as Madame de Sevigné. OF SOUPS. "Oh, a splendid soup is the true pea-green, I for it often call, And up it comes, in a smart tureen, When I dine in my banquet hall. When a leg of mutton at home is boiled, The liquor I always keep, And in that liquor, before 't is spoiled, A peck of peas I steep; When boiled till tender they have been I rub through a sieve the peas so green. "Though the trouble the indolent may shock, I rub with all my power, And having returned them to the stock, I stew them for an hour; Of younger peas I take some more, The mixture to improve, Thrown in a little time before The soup from the fire I move. Then seldom a better soup is seen Than the old familiar soup pea-green." The best of this poetical recipe is that it is not only funny, but a capital formula. "The giblet may tire, the gravy pall, And the truth may lose its charm; But the green pea triumphs over them all And does not the slightest harm." Some of us, however, prefer turtle. It would seem sometimes as if turtle soup were the synonym for a good dinner, and as if it dated back to the days of good Queen Bess. But fashion did not set its seal on turtle soup until about seventy years ago; as an entry in the "Gentleman's Magazine" mentions calipash and calipee as rarities. It is now inseparable from the Lord Mayor's dinner. When we notice ninety-nine recipes for soup in the latest French cookery book, and when we see the fate of a dinner made or marred by the first dish, we must concede that it will be a stumbling-block to the young housekeeper. Add to that the curious fact that no Irishwoman can make a good soup until she has been taught by years of experience, and we have the first problem in the dangerous process of dinner-giving staring us in the face. A greasy, watery, ill-considered soup will take away the appetite of even a hungry man; while a delicate white or brown soup, or the _purées_ of peas and asparagus, may well whet the appetite of the most pampered _gourmet_. The subject of soup-making may well be studied. A good soup is at once economical and healthful, and of the first importance in the construction of a dinner. Soup should be made the day before it is to be eaten, by boiling either a knuckle of veal for a white soup, three or four pounds of beef, with the bone well cracked, for a clear _consommé_, or by putting the bones of fish, chickens, and meat into water with salt and pepper, and thus making an economical soup, which may, however, be very good. The French put everything into the soup pot,--bones, scraps, pot liquor, the water in which onions have been boiled, in fact in which all vegetables including beans and potatoes have been boiled; even as a French writer says "rejected MSS. may be thrown into the soup pot;" and the result in France is always good. It is to be observed that every soup should be allowed to cool, and all the fat should be skimmed off, so that the residuum may be as clear as wine. Delicate soups, clear _consommé_, and white soups _à la Reine_, are great favourites in America, but in England they make a strong, savoury article, which they call gravy soup. It is well to know how to prepare this, as it makes a variety. Cut two pounds of beef from the neck into dice, and fry until brown. Break small two or three pounds of bones, and fry lightly. Bones from which streaked bacon has been cut make an excellent addition, but too many must not be used, lest the soup be salt. Slice and fry brown a pound of onions, put them with the meat and bones and three quarts of cold water into the soup pot; let it boil up, and having skimmed add two large turnips, a carrot cut in slices, a small bundle of sweet herbs, and a half a dozen pepper-corns. Let the soup boil gently for four or five hours, and about one hour before it is finished add a little piece of celery, or celery-seed tied in muslin. This is a most delicious flavour. When done, strain the soup and set it away for a night to get cold. Remove the fat and next day let it boil up, stirring in two spoonfuls of corn starch, moistened with cold water. Season with salt and pepper to taste, not too salt; add forcemeat balls to the soup, and you have a whole dinner in your soup. An oxtail soup is made like the above, only adding the tail, which is divided into joints, which are fried brown. Then these joints should be boiled until the meat comes easily off the bones. When the soup is ready put in two lumps of sugar, a glass of port wine, and pour all into the tureen. The Julienne soup, so delicious in summer, should be a nice clear stock, with the addition of prepared vegetables. Unless the cook can buy the excellent compressed vegetables which are to be had at the Italian warehouses, it is well to follow this order:-- Wash and scrape a large carrot, cut away all the yellow parts from the middle, and slice the red outside. Take an equal quantity of turnips and three small onions, cut in a similar manner. Put them in a stewpan with two ounces of butter and a pinch of powdered sugar, stir over the fire until a nice brown colour, then add a quart of clear, well-flavoured stock, and let all simmer together gently for three hours. When done, skim the fat off very carefully, and ten minutes before serving add a lettuce cut in shreds and blanched for a minute in boiling water. Simmer for five minutes and the soup will be ready. This is a most excellent soup if well made. Mock-turtle soup is easily made:-- Boil the bones of the head three hours, add a piece of gravy meat cut in dice and fried brown, three onions sliced and fried brown, a carrot, a turnip, celery, and a small bundle of sweet herbs; boil gently for three hours and take off the fat. When it is ready to be served add a glass of sherry and slices of lemon. The various parts of a calf's-head can be cooked and used as forcemeat balls, and made to look exactly like turtle. This soup is found canned and is almost as good as the real article. Dried-pea soup, _crème d'asperge_, and bean soup, in fact all the _purées_, are very healthful and elegant soups. The _purée_ is the mashed mass of pea or bean, which is added to the stock. Boil a pint of large peas in a quart of water with a sprig of parsley or mint, and a dozen or so of green onions. When the peas are done strain and rub them through a sieve, put the _purée_ back into the liquor the peas were boiled in, add a pint of good veal or beef broth, a lump of sugar, and pepper and salt to taste. Let the soup get thoroughly hot without boiling, stir in an ounce of good butter, and the soup is ready. A plain but quick and delicious soup may be made by using a can of corn, with a small piece of pork. This warmed up quickly, with a little milk added, is very good. As for a _crème d'asperge_, it is better to employ a _chef_ to teach the new cook. Mulligatawny soup is a visitor from India. It should not be too strong of curry powder for the average taste. The stock should be made of chicken or veal, or the liquor in which chickens have been boiled. Slice and fry in butter six large onions, add four sharp, sour apples, cored and quartered, but not peeled. Let them boil in a little of the stock until quite tender, then mix with them a quarter of a pound of flour, and a small teaspoonful of curry powder. Take a quart of the stock and when the soup has boiled skim it; let it simmer for half an hour, then carefully take off all the fat, strain the soup, and rub the onions through a sieve. When ready to heat the soup for the dinner-table add any pieces of meat or chicken cut into small, delicate shapes. When these have been boiled together for ten minutes the soup will be ready; salt to taste. Boiled rice should be sent in on a separate dish. Sorrel soup is a great favourite with the French people. We do not make enough of sorrel in this country; it adds an excellent flavour. Carefully wash a pound of sorrel, and having picked, cut it in shreds, put it into a stewpan with two ounces of fresh butter and stir it over the fire for ten minutes. Stir in an ounce of flour, mix well together and add a pint and a half of good white stock made as for veal broth. Let it simmer for half an hour. Having skimmed the soup, stir in the yolks of three eggs beaten up in half a pint of milk or cream. Stir in a little pat of butter, and when dissolved pour the whole over thin pieces of toasted bread into the tureen. With the large family of the broths every housewife should become acquainted. They are invaluable for the sick, especially broths of chicken and mutton. For veal broth the following is an elaborate, but excellent recipe: Get three or four pounds of scrag, or a knuckle of veal, chopped into small pieces, also a ham bone, or slice of ham, and cover with water; let it boil up, skim it until no more rises. Put in four or five onions, a turnip, and later a bit of celery or celery seed tied in muslin, a little salt, and white pepper. Let it boil gently for four hours; strain the gravy and having taken off all the fat return the residue to the pot and let it boil; then slightly thicken with corn flour, about one teaspoonful to a quart of soup; let it simmer before serving. Three pounds of veal should make two quarts of good soup. A sheep's-head soup is famous all over Scotland and is made as follows:-- Get the head of a sheep with the skin on, soak it in tepid water, take out the tongue and brains, break all the thin bones inside the cheek, and carefully wash it in several waters; put it on in a quart of water with a teaspoonful of salt and let it boil ten minutes. Pour away this water and put two quarts more with one pound of a scrag of mutton; add, cut up, six onions, two turnips, two carrots, a sprig of parsley, and season with pepper and salt. Let it boil gently for four or five hours, when the head and neck will not be too much cooked for the family dinner, and may be served either with parsley or onion sauce. It is a most savoury morsel. Strain the soup, and let it cool so as to remove every particle of fat. Rub the vegetables through a sieve to a fine _purée_. Mix a tablespoonful of flour in a quarter of a pint of milk; make the soup boil up and stir it in with the vegetables. Have the tongue boiled until it is very tender, skin and trim it, have the brains also well cooked, and chop and pound them very fine with the tongue, mix them with an equal weight of sifted bread-crumbs, a tablespoonful of chopped green parsley, pepper, salt, and egg, and if necessary a small quantity of flour to enable you to roll the mixture into little balls. Put an ounce of butter into a small frying-pan and fry the balls until a nice brown, lay them on paper before the fire to drain away all the fat, and put them into the soup after it is poured into the tureen. Scald and chop some green parsley and serve separately on a plate. Thackeray thought so much of a boiled sheep's head that he made it the point of one of his humorous poems. "By that grand vow that bound thee Forever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail or falter But bend thee to the task-- A boiled sheep's head on Sunday Is all the boon I ask!" In France, cabbage is much used in soup. "Ha, what is this that rises to my touch So like a cushion--can it be a cabbage? It is, it is, that deeply inspired flower Which boys do flout us with, but yet--I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these thy puny brethren, and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; And now thou seemst like a bankrupt beau Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments." The cabbage is without honour in America; and yet if boiled in water which is thrown away, having absorbed all its grosser essences, and then boiled again and chopped and dressed with butter and cream, it is an excellent vegetable. Its disagreeable odour has led to its expulsion from many a house, but corn-beef and cabbage are not to be despised. Cauliflower, which Thackeray calls the "apotheosis of cabbage," is the most delicate of vegetables; and a _purée_ of cauliflower shall close our chapter on soups. Boil in salted water, using a small piece of butter, two heads of cauliflower, drain and pass them through a colander, dilute with two quarts of sauce and a quart of chicken broth, season with salt, white pepper, and grated nutmeg. Add a teaspoonful of fine white sugar, then pass the whole forcibly with a wooden presser through a fine sieve,--the finer the sieve the better the _purée_. Put the residue in a stewpan, set it on the fire, stir all the while till it boils, let it boil for ten minutes, strain well, add a mixture made with the yolks of six eggs and half a pint of cream, finish with four ounces of table butter, and serve with small, fried, square _croûtons_. A _purée_ of celery is equally excellent; but all these soups require an intelligent cook. It is better to have one's cook taught to make soups by an expert, for it is the most difficult of all the dishes, if thoroughly good. The plain soup, free from grease and well flavoured, is easy enough after a little training, "but the chief ingredient of soup is brains," according to a London _chef_. It is, however, a good practice for an amateur cook to experiment and to try these various recipes, all of which are practicable. FISH. What is thy diet? Canst thou gulf a shoal Of herrings? Or hast thou gorge and room To bolt fat porpoises and dolphins whole By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume? PUNCH. The world's mine oyster, which I with sword will open. HOTSPUR. The Egyptians, strange to say, did not deify fish, that important article of their food. We read of the enormous yield of Lake Moeris, which was dammed up by the great Rameses, and whose draught of fishes brought him so enormous a revenue. One of the most fascinating of all the Egyptian Queens, Sonivaphra, received the revenues of one of these fisheries to keep her in shoe-strings,--probably another name for pin money. And yet the Egyptians, while mummying the cats and dogs and beetles, and such small deer, made no gods of the good carp or other fish which must have stocked the river Nile. They emblazoned the crocodile on their monuments, but never a fish. It is a singular foreshadowing of that great vice of the human race, ingratitude. The Romans were fond of fish, and the records of their gastronomy abound in fish stories. We read of Licinius Crassus, the orator, that he lived in a house of great elegance and beauty. This house was called the "Venus of the Palatine," and was remarkable for its size, the taste of the furniture, and the beauty of the grounds. It was adorned with pillars of Hymettian marbles, with expensive vases and _triclinia_ inlaid with brass; his gardens were provided with fish-ponds, and noble lotus-trees shaded his walks. Abenobarbus, his colleague in the censorship, found fault with such luxury, such "corruption of manners," and complained of his crying for the loss of a lamprey as if it had been a favourite daughter! This, however, was a tame lamprey, which used to come to the call of Crassus and feed out of his hand. Crassus retorted by a public speech against his colleague, and by his great power of ridicule turned him into derision, jested upon his name, and to the accusation of weeping for a lamprey, replied that it was more than Abenobarbus had done for the loss of any of his three wives! In the sixteenth century, that golden age of the Vatican, the splendid court of Leo X. was the centre of artistic and literary life, and the witty and pleasure-loving Pope made its gardens the scene of his banquets and concerts, where he listened to the recitations of the poets who sprung up under his protection. There beneath the shadow of the ilex and the lauristines, in a circle so refined that ladies were admitted, Leo himself leaned on the shoulder of the handsome Raphael, who was allowed to caress and admire the Medicean white hand of his noble patron. We read that this famous Pope was so fastidious as to the fish dinners of Lent, that he invented twenty different recipes for the chowder of that day! Walking in disguise with Raphael through the fish-market, he espied a boy who, on his knees, was presenting a fish to a pretty _contadina_. The scene took form and immortality in the famous _Vierge au Poisson_, in which, conducted by the Angel Gabriel, the youthful Saint John presents the fish to the Virgin and child,--a beautiful picture for the church whose patron saint was a fisherman. Indeed, that picture of the sea of Galilee, and the sacred meaning attached to the etymology of the word "fish," has given the finny wanderer of the seas a peculiar and valuable personality. All this, with the selection by our Lord of so many of his disciples from amongst the fishermen, the many poetical associations which form around this, the cheapest and most delicate form of food with which the Creator has stocked this world of ours, would, if followed out, afford a volume of suggestion, quotation, poetry, and romance with which to embellish the art of entertaining. Fish is now believed to produce aliment for the brain, and as such is recommended to all authors and editors, statesmen, poets and lawyers, clergymen and mathematicians,--all who draw on that finer fibre of the brain which is used for the production of poetry or prose. England is famed for its good fish, as why should it not be, with the ocean around it? The turbot is, _par excellence_, the fish for a Lord Mayor's dinner, and it is admirable _à la crème_ for anybody's dinner. Excellent is the whitebait of Richmond, that mysterious little dwarf. Eaten with slices of brown bread and butter it is a very delicious morsel, and the whiting, which always comes to the table with his tail in his mouth, beautifully browned outside, white as snow within, what so excellent as a whiting, except a _sole au gratin_ with sauce Tartare? Fresh herrings in Scotland are delicious, almost equal to the red mullets which Cæsar once ate at Marseilles. The fresh sardines at Nice, and all along the Mediterranean, are very delicate, as are the thousand shell-fish. The langoose, or large lobster of France and the Mediterranean, is a surprise to the American traveller. Not so delicate as our American lobster, it still is admirable for a salad. It is so large that the flesh--if a fish has flesh--can be sliced up and served like cold roast turkey. The salmon, king of fish, inspires in his capture, in Scotland rivers, in Labrador, in Canada, some of the best writing of the day. William Black, in Scotland, and Dr. Wier Mitchell, of Philadelphia, can tell stories of salmon-fishing which are as brilliant as Victor Hugo's description of Waterloo, or of that mysterious jelly-fish in his novel, "The Toilers of the Sea." The New York market boasts the red snapper, the sheepshead, the salmon, the salmon-trout, the Spanish mackerel, most toothsome of viands, the sea bass, cod, halibut, the shad, the greatest profusion of excellent oysters and clams, the cheap pan-fish, and endless eels. The French make many fine dishes of eels, as the Romans did. To be good, fish must be fresh. It is absolutely indispensable, to retain certain flavours, that the fish should go from one element to another, out of the water into the fire, and onto the gridiron or into the frying pan as soon as possible. Therefore, if the housewife has a fish seasonable and fresh, and a gridiron, she can make a good dish for a hungry man. We shall begin with the cheapest of the products of the water, and although they may squirm out of our hands, try to bring to the table the despised eels. An old proverb said that matrimony was a bag in which there were ninety-nine snakes and one eel, and the young lady who put her hand into this agreeable company had small chance at the eel. It would seem at first blush as if no one would care particularly for the eel. In old England, eels were exceedingly popular, and the monks dearly loved to feed upon them. The cellarist of Barking Abbey, Essex, in the ancient times of monastic foundations, was, amongst other eatables, to provide stewed eels in Lent and to bake eels on Shrove Tuesday. There were artificial receptacles made for eels. The cruel custom of salting eels alive is mentioned by some old writers. "When the old serpent appeared in the guise of a stewed eel it was impossible to resist him." Eels _en matelote_ should be cut in three-inch pieces, and salted; fry an onion brown in a little dripping, add half a pint of broth to the brown onion, part of a bay leaf, six broken pepper-corns, four whole cloves, and a gill of claret. Add the eels to this and simmer until thoroughly cooked. Remove the eels, put them on a hot dish, add a teaspoonful of brown flour to the sauce, strain and pour over the eels. Spatch-cooked eels are good. _Fricasseed eels_: Cut three pounds of eels into pieces of three inches in length, put them into a stewpan, and cover them with Rhine wine, or two thirds water and one third vinegar; add fifteen oysters, two pieces of lemon, a bouquet of herbs, one onion quartered, six cloves, three stalks of celery, a pinch of cayenne pepper, and salt to taste. Stew the eels one hour, remove them from the dish, strain the liquor. Put it back into the saucepan with a gill of cream and an ounce of butter rolled in flour, simmer gently a few minutes, pour over the fish, and you have a dish for a king. Stewed eels are great favourites with _gourmets_, cooked as follows:-- Cut into three-inch pieces two pounds of medium-sized cleaned eels. Rub the inside of each piece with salt. Let them stand half an hour, then parboil them. Boil an onion in a quart of milk and remove the onion. Drain the eels from the water and add them to the milk. Season with half a teaspoonful of chopped parsley, salt and pepper, and the smallest bit of mace. Simmer until the flesh falls from the bones. Fried eels should be slightly salted before cooking. Do not cover them with batter, but dredge them with just flour enough to absorb all moisture, then cover them with boiling lard. As for the thousand and one recipes for cooking an oyster, no one need tell an American hostess much on that subject. Raw, roasted, boiled, stewed, scalloped and baked in patties, what so savoury as the oyster? They should be bought alive, and opened with care by an expert, for the bits of shell are dangerous. If eaten raw, pieces of lemon should be served with them. Plates of majolica to hold five or seven oysters are now to be bought at all the best crockery stores. To stew oysters well, cream and butter should be added, and the whole mixture done in a silver dish over an alcohol lamp. Broiled oysters should be dipped first in melted butter, then in bread crumbs, then put in a very fine wire gridiron, and broiled over a bright bed of coals. Scalloped oysters should be carefully dried with a clean napkin, then laid in a deep dish on a bed of crumbs and fresh butter, all softened by the liquor of the oyster; a layer of oysters and a layer of crumbs should follow each other, with little walnuts of butter put between. The mixture should be put in a very hot oven and baked a delicate brown, but not dried. The plain fried oyster is very popular, but it should not be cooked in small houses just before an entertainment, as the odour is not appetizing. To dip them in egg batter, then in bread-crumbs, and fry them in drippings is a common and good fashion. A more elaborate fashion is to beat up the yolks of four eggs with three tablespoonfuls of sweet oil, and season them with a teaspoonful of salt, and a saltspoonful of cayenne pepper. Beat up thoroughly, dip each oyster in this mixture and then in bread crumbs, and fry in hot oil. The best and most elegant way of cooking an oyster is, however, "_à la poulette_." Scald the oysters in their own liquor, drain them, and add to the liquor, salt, half an ounce of butter, the juice of half a lemon, a gill of cream, and a teaspoonful of dissolved flour. Beat the yolk of one egg, and add to the sauce, stir until the sauce thickens; place the oysters on a hot dish, pour the sauce over them, add a little chopped parsley and serve. A simpler and more primitive but excellent way of cooking oysters is to clean the shells thoroughly, and place them in the coals in an open fireplace, or to roast them in hot ashes until the shells snap open. When the oyster departs then the clam takes his place, and is delicious as an _avant goût_ or an appetizer at a dinner. If clams are broiled they must be done quickly, else they become hard and indigestible. The soft-shell clam, scalloped, makes a good dish. Clean the shells well, then put two clams to each shell, with half a teaspoonful of minced celery. Cut a slice of fat bacon small, add a little to each shell, put bread crumbs on top and a little pat of butter, bake in the oven until brown. A clam broth is a delicious and healthful beverage for sick or well; add cream and a spoonful of sherry to it, and it becomes a fabulously fine thing. In this mixture the clams must be strained out before the cream and wine are added. But if the clam is good what shall we say of crabs. Hard-shell crabs must be boiled about twelve minutes, drained, and set away to cool. Eaten with sandwiches and a dressing they are considered a delicacy for supper. They can be more cooked with chopped eggs, or treated like a chicken pasty, and cooked in a paste shell they are very good. Take half an ounce of butter, half an onion minced, half a pound of minced raw veal, and a small carrot shredded, a chopped crab, a pint of boiling cream; simmer an hour, then strain into a saucepan, and what a sauce you have! The soft-shell crab is an invalid. He is caught when he is helpless, feverish, and not at all, one would say, healthy. He is killed by the jarring of the train, by thunder, by some passing noisy cart, and some say by a fall in stocks, or a sudden change in political circles. Such sensitive creatures must be cooked as soon as possible. It is only necessary to remove the feathery substance under the pointed sides of the shells, rinse them in cold water, drain, season with salt and pepper, dredge them in flour and fry in hot fat. Crab patties and crabs cooked in any other way than this fail to please the epicure. Nothing with so pronounced an individuality as a soft-shelled crab should be disguised. A devilled crab is considered good, but it should be cooked by a negro expert from Maryland. Scallops are essentially good in stews, or fried, and when, cut in small pieces, with a pint of milk, a little butter, and a little salt, they again return to their beautiful shells and are baked as a scallop, they are delicious. Put in pork fat, and fried, they are also very fine. The lobster is now considered very healthful, and as conveying more phosphorus into the human system than any other fish. Broiled, devilled, stewed, cooked in a fashion called _Bourdelaise_, it is the most delicious of dishes, and as a salad what can equal it? A baked whitefish with Bordeaux sauce is very fine. Clean and stuff the fish with bread-crumbs, onions, butter, and sweet marjoram. Put it in a baking pan, add a liberal quantity of butter previously rolled in flour, put in the pan a pint of claret, and bake for an hour. Remove the fish and strain the gravy, put in a teaspoonful of brown flour and a pinch of cayenne pepper. Halibut with an egg sauce and a border of parsley is a dish for a banquet, only the cook must know how to make egg sauce. Supposing we tell her? Put two ounces of butter in a stew-pan; when it melts, add one ounce of flour. Stir for one minute or more, but do not brown. Then add by degrees two gills of boiling water, stirring until smooth, and boiling about two minutes. If not perfectly smooth, pass it through a sieve; then add another ounce of butter cut in pieces. When the butter is melted, add three hard-boiled eggs, chopped not too fine, season with pepper and salt, and serve immediately. This sauce is admirable for cod, and for all boiled fish. But the "perfectest thing on earth" is a broiled fish, a shad for instance; and one of the best preventives against burning is to rub olive oil on the fish before putting it on the gridiron. Charcoal affords the best fire, and it must be free from all smoke and flame. A little sweet butter, half a teaspoonful of chopped parsley and the juice of a lemon should be melted together, and stand ready to be poured over the broiled fish. Mr. Lowell, in one of his delightful, witty papers in the Atlantic Monthly years ago, regretted that he could not find a gridiron near the St. Lawrence, although its patron saint suffered martyrdom on that excellent kitchen utensil. It is a lamentable fact that wood fires and gridirons are giving out. They contain within themselves the merits of all the kitchen ranges, all the lost juices of that early American cookery, which one who has tasted it can never forget. Where are the broils of our childhood? Codfish is a family stand-by, but a tasteless fish unless covered with oysters or something very good; but salt-codfish balls are a great luxury. Brook trout, boiled, baked, and broiled, are all inferior to the fry. The frying-pan has to answer for a multitude of sins, but nothing so base can be found as to deprive it of its great glory in sending us a fried brook-trout. "Clean and rinse a quarter-of-a-pound trout in cold water," says one recipe. Why not a pound-and-a-quarter trout? The recipe begins later on: after some pork has been fried in the pan, throw in your carefully cleaned fish, no matter what their weight may be, turn them three times most carefully. Send to table without adding or detracting from their flavour. This is for the sportsman who cooks his trout himself by a wood fire in the woods; and no other man ever arrives at just that perfect way of cooking a trout. When the trout has come down from cooling springs to the hot city, it requires a seasoning of salt, pepper, and lemon-juice. Frogs--frogs as cooked in France, _grenouilles à la poulette_--are a most luxurious delicacy. They are very expensive and are to be bought at the _marché St. Honoré_. As only the hind legs are eaten, and the price is fifteen francs a dozen, they are not often seen. We might have them in this country for the catching. Of their tenderness, succulence, and delicacy of flavour there can be no question. They are clean feeders, and undoubtedly wholesome. Sala, writing in "Breakfasts in Bed" does not praise _bouillabaisse_. He declares that the cooks plunge a rolling-pin in tallow and then with it stir that _pot pourri_ of red mullet, tomatoes, red pepper, red Burgundy, oil, and garlic to which Thackeray has written so delightful a lyric. "Against fish soups, turtle, terrapin, oyster, and bisque," he says, "I can offer no objection." The Italians again have their good _zuppa marinara_, which is not all like the _bouillabaisse_, and the Russians make a very appetizing fish pottage which is called _batwina_, the stock of which is composed of _kraus_, or half-brewed barley beer, and oil. Into this is put the fish known as the sterlet of the Volga, or the sassina of the Gulf of Finland, together with bay leaves, pepper, and lumps of ice. _Batwina_ is better than _bouillabaisse_. THE SALAD. "Epicurean cooks shall sharpen with cloyless sauce the appetite." Of all the vegetables of which a salad can be made, lettuce is the greatest favourite. That lettuce which is _panachée_, says the _Almanach des Gourmands_, that is, when it has streaked or variegated leaves, is truly _une salade de distinction_. We prefer in this country the fine, crisp, solid little heads, of which the leaves are bright green. The milky juices of the lettuce are soporific, like opium seeds, and predispose the eater to sleep, or to repose of temper and to philosophic thought. After, or before, lettuce comes the fragrant celery, always an appetizer. Then the tomato, a noble fruit as sweet in smell as Araby the blest, which makes an illustrious salad. Its medicinal virtue is as great as its gastronomical goodness. It is the friend of the well, for it keeps them well, and the friend of the sick, for it brings them back to the lost sheep-folds of hygeia. There are water-cress and dandelion, common mustard, boiled asparagus, and beet root, potato salad, beloved of the Germans, the cucumber, most fragrant and delicate of salads, a salad of eggs, of lobsters, of chickens, sausages, herrings, and sardines. Anything that is edible can be made into a salad, and a vegetable mixture of cold French beans, boiled peas, carrots and potato, onion, green peppers, and cucumber, covered with fresh mayonnaise dressing, is served ice cold in France, to admiration. To learn to make a salad is the most important of qualifications for one who would master the art of entertaining. Here is a good recipe for the dressing:-- Two yolks of eggs, a teaspoonful of salt, and three of mustard,--it should have been mixed with hot water before using,--a little cayenne pepper, a spoonful of vinegar; pound the eggs and mix well. Common vinegar is preferred by many, but some like tarragon vinegar better. Stir this gently for a minute, then add two full spoonfuls of best oil of Lucca. "A sage for the mustard, a miser for the vinegar, a spendthrift for the oil, and a madman to stir" is the old saw. Add a teaspoonful of brown sugar, half a dozen little spring onions cut fine, three or four slices of beet root, the white of the egg, not cut too small, and then the lettuce itself, which should be torn from the head stock by the fingers. Some French salad dressers say _fatiguez la salade_, which means, shake it, mix it, and bruise it; but the modern arrangement is to delicately cover the leaves with the dressing, and not to bruise them. This is an old-fashioned salad. An excellent salad of cold boiled potatoes cut into slices about an inch thick, may be made with thin slices of fresh beet root, and onions cut very thin, and very little of them, with the same dressing, minus the sugar. Francatelli speaks of a Russian salad with lobster, a German salad with herrings, and an Italian salad with potatoes; but these come more under the head of the mayonnaises than of the simpler salads. The cucumber comes next to lettuce, as a purely vegetable salad, and is most desirable with fish. Dr. Johnson declared that the best thing you could do with a cucumber, after you had prepared it with much care and thought, was to throw it out of the window; but Dr. Johnson, although he could write Rasselas and a dictionary, knew nothing about the art of entertaining. He was an eater, a glutton, a _gourmand_, not a _gourmet_. How should he dare to speak against a cucumber salad? Endive and chiccory should be added to the list of vegetable salads. Neither of them is good, however. An old-fashioned French salad is made thus: "Chop three anchovies, an onion, and some parsley small; put them in a bowl with two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, one of oil, a little mustard and salt. When well mixed, add some slices of cold roast beef not exceeding two or three inches long. Make three hours before eating. Garnish with parsley." This is by no means a bad way of serving up yesterday's roast beef. The etymology of salad is said to be "sal," or something salted. Shakspeare mentions the salad five or six times. In Henry VI., Jack Cade, in his extremity of peril when hiding from his pursuers in Ida's garden, says he has climbed over the wall to see if he could eat grass, or pick a salad, which he says "will not come amiss to cool a man's stomach in the hot weather." In Antony and Cleopatra, the passionate queen speaks of her "salad days" when she was "green in judgment, cool in blood." This means, however, something raw or unripe. Hamlet uses the word with the more ancient orthography of "sallet," and says in his speech to the players, "I remember when there were no sallets in these times to make them savoury." By this he meant there was nothing piquant in them, no Attic salt. One author, not so illustrious, claims that the noblest prerogative of man is that he is a cooking animal, and a salad eater. "The lion is generous as a hero, the rat artful as a lawyer, the dove gentle as a lover, the beaver is a good engineer, the monkey is a clever actor, but none of them can make a salad. The wisest sheep never thought of culling and testing his grasses, seasoning them with thyme or tarragon, softening them with oil, exasperating them with mustard, sharpening them with vinegar, spiritualizing them with a suspicion of onions, in that no sheep has made a salad. Their only sauce is hunger. "Salads," says this pleasant writer, "were invented by Adam and Eve,--probably made of pomegranates as to-day in Spain." Of all salads, lobster is the most picturesque and beautiful. Its very scarlet is a trumpet tone to appetite. It lies embedded in green leaves like a magnificent tropical cactus. A good dressing for lobster is essence of anchovy, mushroom ketchup, hard-boiled eggs, and a little cream. Mashed potatoes, rubbed down with cream, or simply mixed with vinegar, are no bad substitute for eggs, and impart to the salad a new and not unpleasing flavour. French beans, the most delicate of vegetables, give the salad eater a new sensation. A dressing can be mixed in the following proportions: "Four mustard ladles of mustard, four salt ladles of salt. Three spoonfuls of best Italian oil, twelve of vinegar, three unboiled eggs. All are to be carefully rubbed together." This is for those who like sours and not sweets. An old French _émigré_, who had to make his living in England during the time of the Regency, a man of taste and refinement, an epicurean Marquis, carried to noblemen's houses his mahogany box full of essences, spices, and condiments, and made his salad in this way: he chopped up three anchovies with a little shallot and some parsley; these he threw into a bowl with a little mustard and salt, two tablespoonfuls of oil, and one brimming over with vinegar. When thoroughly merged he added his lettuce, or celery, or potato, extremely thin, short slices of best Westphalia ham, or the finest roast beef, which he had steeped in the vinegar. He garnished with parsley and a few layers of bacon. This man was called _Le Roi de la salade_. A cod mayonnaise is a good dish:-- Boil a large cod in the morning. Let it cool; then remove the skin and bones. For sauce put some thick cream in a porcelain sauce-pan and thicken it with corn-flour which has been mixed with cold water. When it begins to boil stir in the beaten yolks of two eggs. As it cools beat it well to prevent it from being lumpy, and when nearly cold stir in the juice of two lemons, a little tarragon vinegar, a pinch of salt, and a _soupçon_ of cayenne pepper. Peel and slice some very ripe tomatoes or cold potatoes, steep them in vinegar with cayenne, pounded ginger, and plenty of salt. Lay these around the fish and cover with cream sauce. The tomatoes and potatoes should be carefully drained before they are placed around the fish. A salmon covered with a green sauce is a famous dish for a ball supper; indeed, there are thirty or forty salads with a cold fish foundation. This art of dressing cold vegetables with pepper, salt, oil, and vinegar, should be studied. In France they give you these salads to perfection at the _déjeuner à la fourchette_. Fillippini, of Delmonico's, in his admirable work, "The Table," adds Swedish salad, String Bean Salad, Russian Salad, Salad Macédoine, _Escarolle_, _Doucette_, _Dandelion à la coutoise_, _Baib de Capucine_, Cauliflower salad, and _Salad a l'Italian_. I advise any young housekeeper to buy this book of his, as suggestive. It is too elaborate and learned, however, for practical application to any household except one in which a French cook is kept. A mayonnaise dressing is a triumph of art when well made:-- A tablespoonful of mustard, one teaspoonful of salt, the yolk of three uncooked eggs, the juice of half a lemon, a quarter of a cupful of butter, a pint of oil, and a cupful of whipped cream. Beat the yolks and dry ingredients until they are very light, with a wooden spoon or with a wire beater. The bowl in which the dressing is being made should be set in a pan of ice water. Add oil, a few drops at a time, until the dressing becomes thick and rather hard. After it has reached this stage the oil can be added more rapidly. When it gets so thick as to be difficult to beat add a little vinegar, then add the juice of the lemon and the whipped cream, and place on ice until desired to be used. Another dressing can be made more quickly:-- The yolk of a raw egg, a tablespoonful of mixed mustard, one fourth of a teaspoonful of salt, six tablespoonfuls of oil. Stir the yolk, mustard, and salt together with a fork until they begin to thicken; add the oil gradually, stirring all the time. An excellent salad dressing is also made by using the yolk of hard-boiled eggs, some cold mashed potatoes well pressed together with a fork, oil, vinegar, mustard, and salt rubbed in, in the proportions of two of oil to one of vinegar. A salad must be fresh and freshly made, to be good. Never serve a salad the second day; and it is not well to cover a delicate salad with too much mayonnaise. The very heart of the celery or the delicate inner leaves of the lettuce are the best for dinners. The heavy chicken and lobster, cabbage and potato salads, are dishes for lunches and suppers. The chief employment of a kitchen maid, in France, where a man cook is kept, is to wash the vegetables; and you see her swinging the salad in a wire safe after washing it delicately in fresh water. The care bestowed on these minor morals of cookery, so often wholly neglected, adds the finishing touch to the excellence of a French dinner. For a green mayonnaise dressing, so much admired on salmon, use a little chopped spinach and finely chopped parsley. The juice from boiled beets can be used to make a fine red dressing. Two of these dishes will make a plain, country lunch-table very nice, and will have an appetizing effect, as has anything that betokens care, forethought, neatness, and taste. Some people cannot eat oil. Often the best oil cannot be bought in a retired and rural neighbourhood. But an excellent substitute is fresh butter or clarified chicken-fat, very carefully prepared, and icy cold. The yolks of four raw eggs, one tablespoonful of salt, one of mustard, the juice of a lemon, and a speck of cayenne pepper should be used. Two drops of onion juice, or a bit of onion sliced, will add great piquancy to salad dressing, if every one likes onion. I have never tried the following recipe,--I have tried all the others,--but I have heard that it was very good: Four tablespoonfuls of butter, one of flour, one tablespoonful of salt, one of sugar, one heaping teaspoonful of mustard, a speck of cayenne, one cupful of milk, half a cupful of vinegar, three eggs. Let the butter get hot in a saucepan. Add the flour and stir until smooth, being careful not to brown. Add the milk and boil up. Place the saucepan in another of hot water. Beat the eggs, salt, pepper, sugar, and mustard together, and add the vinegar. Stir this into the boiling mixture and stir until it thickens like soft custard, which will be about five minutes. Set away to cool, and when cold, bottle and place in the ice-chest. This will keep two weeks. If one wishes to use prepared mayonnaise it is better to buy that which is sold at the grocers. It has not the charm of a fresh dressing, however, but is rather like those elaborated impromptus which some studied talkers get off. A very pretty salad can be made of nasturtium-blossoms, buttercups, a head of lettuce, and a pint of water-cresses. It is to be covered with the French dressing and eaten immediately. Asparagus is so good in itself that it seems a shame to dress it as a salad; yet it is very good eaten with oil, vinegar, and salt. Cauliflower, cold, is delicious as a salad, and can be made very ornamental with a garniture of beet root, which is a good ingredient for a salad of salt codfish, boiled. Sardine salads are very appetizing for lunch. Arrange a cold salmon or codfish on a bed of lettuce. Split six sardines, remove the bones, and mix them into the dressing. Garnish the whole dish with sardines, and cover with the dressing. All kinds of cooked fish can be served with salads. Lettuce is the best green salad to serve with them; but all cooked and cold vegetables go well with fish. Add capers to the mayonnaise. A housekeeper who has conquered the salad question can always add to the plainest dinner a desirable dish. She can feed the hungry, and she can stimulate the most jaded fancy of the over-fastidious _gourmet_ by these delicate and consummate luxuries. Here is Sydney Smith's recipe for a salad:-- "To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give. Let onion atoms wink within the bowl, And half suspected, animate the whole; Of mordant mustard, add a single spoon, (Distrust the condiment that bites too soon), But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar, procured from town; And lastly, o'er the favoured compound toss A magic _soupçon_ of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat! Back to the world would turn his fleeting soul, To plunge his fingers in a salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, 'Fate cannot harm me,--I have dined to-day.'" LOBSTER SALAD. "Take, take lobsters and lettuces, Mind that they send you the fish that you order; Take, take a decent sized salad bowl, One that's sufficiently deep in the border; Cut into many a slice, All of the fish that's nice; Place in the bowl with due neatness and order; Then hard-boiled eggs you may Add in a neat array, All toward the bowl, just by way of a border. "Take from the cellar of salt a proportion, Take from the castors both pepper and oil, With vinegar too, but a moderate portion,-- Too much of acid your salad will spoil; Mix them together, You need not mind whether You blend them exactly in apple-pie order, But when you've stirred away, Mix up the whole you may, All but the eggs which are used as a border. "Take, take plenty of seasoning; A teaspoonful of parsley that's chopped in small pieces Though, though, the point will bear reasoning, A small taste of onion the flavour increases As the sauce curdle may, Should it, the process stay. Patiently do it again in good order; For if you chance to spoil Vinegar, eggs, and oil, Still to proceed would on lunacy border." A Spanish salad, _gaspacho_, is a favourite food of the Andalusian peasant. It is but bread soaked in oil and water, with a large Spanish onion peeled, and a fresh cucumber. Slice three tomatoes, take out the grain and cut up the fruit. Arrange carefully all these materials in a shallow earthen pan, tier upon tier, salting and peppering each to taste, pouring in oil plentifully, and vinegar. Last of all, let the salad lie in some cool spot for an hour or two, then sprinkle over it two handfuls of bread-crumbs. In Spanish peasant houses, the big wooden bowl hanging below the eaves to keep it cool is always ready for attack. The oil in Spain is not to our taste; but the salad made as above, with good oil, is delicious. It should have a sprinkling of red pepper. DESSERTS. There is not in the wide world so tempting a sweet As that trifle where custard and macaroons meet. Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart Ere the taste of that trifle shall not win my heart. Yet it is not the sugar that's thrown in between, Nor the peel of the lemon so candied and green, 'T is not the rich cream that's whipped up by a mill, Oh, no; it is something more exquisite still! The great meaning of dessert is to offer "something more exquisite still." And it is the province of the housekeeper, be she young or old, to study how this can be done. Nothing in European dinners can compare with the American custards, puddings, and pies. We are accused as a nation of having eaten too many sweets, and of having ruined our teeth thereby; but who that has languished in England over the insipid desserts at hotels, and the tooth-sharpeners called "sweets," meaning tarts as sour as an east wind, has not sighed for an American pie? In Paris the cakes are pretty to look at, but oh, how they break their promise when you eat them! Nothing but sweetened white of egg. One thing they surpass us in,--_omelette soufflé_; and a _gâteau St. Honoré_ is good, but with that word of praise we dismiss the great French nation. Just look at our grand list of fruit desserts: apple charlotte, apricots with rice, banana charlotte, banana fritters, blackberry short-cake, strawberry short-cake, velvet cream with strawberries, fresh pine-apples in jelly, frozen bananas, frozen peaches in cream, orange cocoanut salad, orange salad, peach fritters, peach meringue, peach short-cake, plum salad, salad of mixed fruits, sliced pears with whipped cream, stewed pears, plain, and pumpkin pie! But oh! there is "something more exquisite still," and that is an apple pie. "All new dishes fade, the newest oft the fleetest; Of all the pies ever made, the apple's still the sweetest. Cut and come again, the syrup upward springing, While life and taste remain, to thee my heart is clinging. Who a pie would make, first his apple slices, Then he ought to take some cloves and the best of spices, Grate some lemon rind, butter add discreetly, Then some sugar mix, but mind,--the pie not made too sweetly. If a cook of taste be competent to make it, In the finest paste will enclose and bake it." During years of foreign travel I have never met a dish so perfect as the American apple pie can be, with cream. Then look at our puddings; they are richer, sweeter, more varied than any in the world, the English plum-pudding excepted. That is a ponderous dainty, which few can eat. It looks well when dressed with holly and lighted up, but it is not to be eaten every day. Baked bread pudding, carrot pudding, exceedingly delicate, chocolate pudding, cold cabinet-pudding, boiled rice-pudding with custard sauce, poor man's rice-pudding, green-apple pudding, Indian pudding, minute pudding, tapioca pudding, and all the custards boiled and baked with infinite variety of flavour,--these are the every-day luxuries, and they are very great ones, of the American table. One charming thing about dessert and American dishes is that ladies can make them. They do not flush the face or derange the white apron. They are pleasant things to dally with,--milk and eggs, and spice and sugar. A model kitchen is every lady's delight. In these days of tiles, and marble pastry-boards, and modern improvements, what pretty things kitchens are. The model dairy, too, is a delight, with its upright milk-pans, in which the cream is marked off by a neat little thermometer, and its fire-brick floor. How cool and neat it is! Sometimes a stream of fresh water flows under the floor, as the river runs under the Château of Chenonceaux, where Diane de Poitiers dressed her golden hair. In the model kitchen is the exquisite range, with its polished _batterie de cuisine_. Every brilliant saucepan seems to say, "Come and cook in me;" every porcelain-lined pan urges upon one the necessity of stewing nectarines in white sugar; every bright can suggests the word "conserve," which always makes the mouth water; every clatter of the skewers says, "Dainty dishes, come and make me." All this is quite fascinating to an amateur. No pretty woman, if she did but know it, is ever so pretty as when she is playing cook, and doing it well. The clean white apron, the short, clean, cambric gown, the little cap, the white, bare arms,--the glorified creams and jellies, pies and Charlotte Russe, cakes and puddings, which fall from such fingers are ambrosial food. There is a great passion, in the properly regulated woman's heart, for the cleanly part of the household work. The love of a dairy is, with many a duchess, part of the business of her rank. In our country, where ladies are compelled to put a hand, once perhaps too often, owing to the insufficiency of servants, to the cooking, it is less a pastime, but a knowledge of it is indispensable. To cook a heavy dinner in hot weather, to wash the dishes afterward, this is sober prose, and by a very dull author; but to make the dessert, this is poetry. In the early morning the hostess should go into her neat dairy to skim the cream; it will be much thicker if she does. She will prepare all things for the desserts of the day. She will make her well-flavoured custard and set it in the ice-chest. She will place her compote of pears securely on a high shelf, away from that ubiquitous cat who has, in most families, so remarkable and so irrepressible an appetite. Then she should make a visit to the kitchen before dinner, to see to it that the roast birds are garnished with water-cress, that the vegetables are properly prepared, that the dishes are without a smear on their lower surface. All this attention makes good servants and very good dinners. In the matter of flavouring, the coloured race has us at a great disadvantage. Any old coloured cook can distance her white "Missus" there. This highly gifted race seem to have a sixth sense on the subject of flavours. The rich tropical nature breaks out in reminiscences of orange-blossoms, pineapple, guava, cocoanut, and mandarin orange. Never can the descendants of the poor, half-starved, frozen exiles of Plymouth Rock hope to achieve such custards and puddings as these Ethiops pour out. It is as if some luxurious and beneficent gift had left us when we were made poets, orators, philosophers, preachers, and authors, when we were given what we proudly term a higher intelligence. Who would not exchange all the cold, mathematical, intellectual supremacy of which we boast for that luscious gift of making pies and puddings _à ravir_? The making of pastry is so delicate and so varied a task that we can only say, approach it with cold hands, cold ice-water, roll it on a marble slab, then bake it in a very hot oven. Learn to stew well. Stew your fruit in a porcelain stewpan before putting it in your tarts. It is one of the most wholesome forms of cookery; a French novelist calls the stewpan the "favourite arm, the talisman of the cook." A celebrated physician said that the action of the stewpan was like that of the stomach, and it is a great gain if we can help that along. Stewing gooseberries, cherries, and even apples with sugar and lemon-peel before putting them in the tart, ensures a good pie. Whipped white of egg is an elegant addition to most dessert dishes, and every lady should provide herself with wire whisks. Whipped to a strong froth with sugar, and lemon or vanilla flavouring, this garnish makes an ordinary into a superior pudding. New-laid eggs are exceedingly difficult to beat up well. Take those which have been laid several days. Have a deep bowl with a circular bottom, and in beating the eggs keep the whisk as much as possible in an upright position, moving it very rapidly; a little boiling water, a tablespoonful to two eggs, and a teaspoonful of sifted sugar put to them before beating is commenced, facilitates the operation. For _omelette soufflé_ the white of eggs, beaten, should be firm enough to cut. An orange-custard pudding is so very good that we must give a time-honoured recipe:-- Boil a pint of new milk, pour it upon three eggs lightly beaten, mix in the grated peel of an orange, and two ounces of loaf sugar; beat all together for ten minutes, then pour the custard into a pie dish, set it into another containing a little water, and put it in a moderate oven. When the custard is set, which generally takes about half an hour, take it out and let it get cold. Then sprinkle over rather thickly some very fine sugar, and brown with a salamander. This should be eaten cold. Of rice and tapioca puddings the variety is endless, and they are most healthful. A wife who will give her dyspeptic husband a good pudding every day may perhaps save his life, his fortunes, and if he is an author, his literary reputation. An antiquary of the last century wrote, "Cookery was ever reckoned a branch of the art medical; the verb _curare_ signifies equally to dress vegetables and to cure a distemper, and everybody has heard of Dr. Diet, and kitchen physic." Indeed that most sacred part of a woman's duty, learning to cook for the sick, can be studied through desserts. A lady, very ill in Paris through a long winter, declared that she would have been cured had she once tasted cream-toast, or tapioca pudding; both were luxuries which she never encountered. Then come all the jellies; and it is better to make your own gelatine from the real calves'-feet than to use patent gelatine. The latter, however, is very good, and saves time. It also makes excellent foundation for all the so-called creams. Some ardent housekeepers put up all their jams, preserves, and currant jelly; some even make the cordials curaçoa, noyau, peach brandy, ginger cordial, and cherry brandy, but this is unnecessary. They can be bought cheaper and better than they can be made. The history of liqueurs is a curious one. Does any one ever think, as he tastes Chartreuse, of the gloomy monks who dig their own graves, and never speak save to say, "Mes frères, il faut mourir," who alone can make this sparkling and delicate liqueur which figures at every grand feast? I have made an expedition to their splendid mountain-bound convent. It is one of the most glorious drives in Europe, and rises into Alpine grandeur and solemnity. There, amid winter's cold and summer's heat, the Chartreuse lives in severe penance, making his hospitable liqueur which enchants the world, out of the chamomile and other herbs which grow around his convent. The best French liqueurs were made formerly at La Côte by the Visetandine nuns. Kirschwasser is made from the cherries which grow in the Alpine Tyrol, in one small province which produces nothing else. Liqueurs were invented for Louis XIV. in his old age. A cordial was made by mixing brandy with sugar and scents. In making a mince pie, do not forget the excellent brandy, and the dash of orange curaçoa, which should be put in by the lady herself. Else why is it that otherwise the mince pie seems to lack the inspiriting and hidden fire. We read that there is "many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." Perhaps the cook could tell, but one may be very sure she will not. The modern, elegant devices by which strawberries, violets, and roseleaves, orange blossoms, and indeed all berries can be candied fresh in sugar, afford a pretty pastime for amateur cooks. But if near a confectioner in the city these can be bought cheaper than they can be made. It may amuse an invalid to make them, and the art is easily learned. The cheese _fondu_ is a great favourite at foreign desserts. It is of Swiss origin. It is a healthful, savoury, and appetizing dish, quickly dressed and good to put at the end of a dinner for unexpected guests. Take as many eggs as there are guests, and then about a third as much by weight of the best Gruyères cheese, and the half of that of butter. Break and beat up well the eggs in a saucepan, then add the butter and the cheese, grated or cut in small pieces; place the saucepan on the fire, and stir with a wooden spoon till it is of a thick and soft consistence; put in salt according to the age of the cheese,--fresh cheese requires the most,--and a strong dose of pepper, then bake it like macaroni and send to table hot. One pie we have which is national; it is that made of the pumpkin, and it is notoriously good. Also we may claim the squash pie and the sweet-potato pie, both of which merit the highest encomiums. Our fruits are so plentiful and so good that few housekeepers can fail of having a good dessert of fruits alone. But do not force the seasons. Take them as they come. When fruits are cheapest then they are best. Our peaches have more flavour than those of Europe, and our grapes are unrivalled. Of plums and pears, France has better than we can boast, but our strawberries are as good and as plentiful as in England. In fact, all the wild berries which are now getting to be cultivated berries, like blackberries, blueberries, huckleberries, and raspberries, are better than similar fruits abroad. The wild strawberry of the Alps is, however, delicious in flavour and sweetness. A very grand dessert is furnished with ices of every flavour, jellies holding fruit and flavoured with maraschino, all sorts of bonbons, nuts in sugar, candied grapes and oranges, fresh fruits in season, and ending with liqueurs and black coffee. A simple pudding, or pie followed by grapes and peaches, with the cup of black coffee afterward, is the national dessert of our United States. In winter it may be enriched by a Newtown pippin or a King of Tompkins County apple, some boiled chestnuts and a few other nuts, some Florida oranges, or those delicious little mandarins, perhaps raised by the immortal Rip Van Winkle, our own Joe Jefferson, on his Louisiana estate. He seems to have infused them with the flavour of his own rare and cheerful genius. He has raised a laugh before this, as well as the best mandarin oranges. Some dyspeptics declare that to chew seven roasted almonds after dinner does them good. And the roasted almonds fitly close the chapter on desserts. GERMAN EATING AND DRINKING. "I wonder if Charlemagne ever drank A tankard of Assmanschausen. Nay! If he had, his empire never would rank As it does with the royalist realms to-day; For the goddess that laughs within the cup Had wiled and won him from blood and war, And shown, as he drained her long draughts up, There was something better worth living for Than kingcraft keeping his gruff brow sad. I wish from my very soul she had." The deep, dark, swiftly flowing Rhine, its legends, its forests of silver firs and pines, its mountains crowned with castles, and its hillsides blushing with the bending vine, the convent's ancient walls, the glistening spire, the maidens with their plaited hair, and "hands that offer early flowers," all the bright, beautiful, romantic landscape, the dancing waves which wash its historic shores, its donjon keeps and haunted Tenter Rock, its "Beetling walls with ivy grown, Frowning heights of mossy stone,"-- all this beauty is placed in the land of the sauer-kraut, the herring salad, the sweet stewed fruit with pork, pig and prune sauce, carp stewed in beer, raw goose-flesh or Göttingen sausages, potato sweetened, and cabbage soured,--in a land, in short, whose kitchen is an abomination to all other nations. Not that one does not get an excellent dinner at a German hotel in a great city. But all the cooks are French. The powerful young emperor has, however, given his orders that all _menus_ shall hereafter be written in German; the language of Ude, Soyer, Valet, and Francatelli, Brillat, Savarin, and Béchamel, is to be replaced by German. But if the viands are not good, the wines are highly praised by the _gourmet_; and as these wines are often exported, it is said that one gets a better German wine in New York than at a second-class hotel at Bonn or Cologne or Düsseldorf,--on the same principle that fish at Newport is less fresh than at New York, for it is all bought, sent to New York, and then sent back to Newport. In other words, the exporters are careful to keep up the reputation of their exported wines. Assmanschausen is a red Rhine wine of high degree; some _gourmets_ call it the Burgundy of the Rhine. This poetic beverage is found within the gorge of the Rhine. The bend which the noble river assumes at the Rheingau is said to have the effect of concentrating the sun's rays, reflected from the surface of the water as from a mirror, upon the vine-clad slopes; and it is to this circumstance, combined with the favourable nature of the soil, and to the vineyards being completely sheltered from the north winds by the Taunus range, that the marked superiority of the wines of the Rheingau is ordinarily attributed. "Bacharach has produced another fine wine. 'He never has been to Heaven and back Who has not drunken of Bacharach.'" And Longfellow says:-- "At Frankfort on the Maine, And at Würtzburg on the Stein, At Bacharach on the Rhine, Grow the three best kinds of wine." We know but little of the superior red wines of Walporzheimer, Ahrweiler, and Bodendorfer, which come from the valley of the Ahr. The Ahr falls into the Rhine near Sinzig, midway between Coblenz and Bonn. The wines from its beautiful vineyards are a fine deep red. The taste is astringent, somewhat like port. There is an agreeable red wine called Kreutzburger which comes from the neighbourhood of Ehrenbreitstein. Linz on the Rhine sends us a good red wine known as Dattenberger. These are all pure wines which know no doctoring. The Liebfrauenmilch is a Riesling wine with a fine bouquet. It owes its celebrity rather to its name than its merits. It comes from the vineyards adjoining the Liebfrauen Kirche near Worms, and was named by some pious churchman. No wines have as many poetical tributes as the Rhine wines. One of the English poets sings:-- "O for a kingdom rocky-throned, Above the brimming Rhine, With vassals who should pay their toll In many sorts of wine. Above me naught but the blue air, And all below, the vine, I'd plant my throne, where legends say In nights of harvest-time King Charlemagne, in golden robe,-- So runs the rustic rhyme,-- Doth come to bless the mellowing crops While bells of Heaven chime." The Steinbergers, the Hochheimers, Marcobrunners, and Rüdesheimers, sound like so many noble families. Indeed an American senator, hearing these fine names, remarked: "I have no doubt, sir, they are all very nice girls." There is a famous Hochheimer, no less than a hundred and sixty-seven years old, the vintage of that year when the Duke of Marlborough gained the Battle of Ramillies. Let us hope that he and Prince Eugene moistened their clay and labours with some of this famous wine. These wines do not last, however. The best age is ten years, and those which have been stored in the antique vaulted cellar of the Bernardine Abbey of Eberbach, world-renowned as the Grand-ducal Cabinet wine of the ruler of Nassau, are now completely run out. Even Rudesheimer of 1872 is no longer good. It must be remembered, however, that these wines are never fortified. To put extraneous alcohol into their beloved Rhine wine would rouse Rudolph of Hapsburg and Conrad of Hotstettin from the sleep of centuries. The Steinberger Cabinet of 1862 is the most superb. Of Rhine wines for bouquet, refined flavour, combined richness and delicacy. We do not except Schloss Johannisberger, because that is not in the market. A Marcobrunner and a Rüdesheimer are not to be despised. Prince Metternich sent to Jules Janin for his autograph, and the witty poet editor sent a receipt for twelve bottles of Imperial Schloss Johannisberger. The Prince took the hint and had a dozen of the very best cabinet wine forwarded, every bottle being sealed and every cork duly branded with the Prince's crest! The Johannisberger wine is excessively sweet, singularly soft, and gives forth a delicious perfume, a rich, limpid, amber-coloured wine, with a faint bitter flavour; it is as beautiful to look at as it is luscious to the taste, and it possesses a bouquet which the Empress Eugénie compared to that of heliotrope, violets, and geranium leaves combined. The refined pungent flavour of a good Hock, its slight racy sharpness, with an after almond flavour, make it an admirable appetizer. The staircase vineyards, in which the grapes grow on the Rhine, seem to catch all the revivifying influences of sunshine. Their splendid golden colour is caught from those first beams of the sun as he greets his bride, the Earth, after he has been separated from her for twelve dark hours. Some very good wine comes from the Rochusberg, immediately opposite Rüdesheim. Goethe heard a sermon here once in which the preacher glorified God in proportion to the number of bottles of good wine it was daily vouchsafed to him to stow away under his waistband. It was here that the rascal lived who drank wine out of a boot, immortalized by Longfellow. We can hardly, however, abuse the man, for he had an incurable thirst, and no crystal goblet would have held enough for him,--not indeed the biggest German beer mug. Longfellow, in the "Golden Legend," has a chapter devoted to wine. In this poem the old cellarer muses, as he goes to draw the fine wine for the fathers, who sit above the salt, and he utters this truth of those brothers who sit below the salt:-- "Who cannot tell bad wine from good, And are much better off than if they could." The superior wines of the Rhine, Walporzheimer, Ahrweiler and Bodendorfer, all deserve notice. The kind of wine to be served with a dinner must depend on the means of the host. It is to be feared that, ignorantly or otherwise, many wines with high-sounding names which are not good are offered to guests. Mr. Evarts made a witty remark on this subject. Some one said to him, "I hear that as a great diner-out you find yourself the worse for drinking so many different sorts of wine." "Oh no," said Mr. Evarts, "I do not object to the different wines, it is the indifferent wines which hurt me!" Savarin says, sententiously, "Nothing can exceed the treachery of asking people to dinner under the guise of friendship, and then giving them to eat or drink of that which may be injurious to health." We should think so. That was the pleasant hospitality of the Borgias. In the neighbourhood of Neuwied, the dealers are accused of much doctoring of wine. During the vintage, at night, when the moon has gone down, boats glide over the Rhine freighted with a soapy substance manufactured from potatoes, and called by its owners sugar. This stuff is thrown into the vats containing the must, water is introduced from pumps and wells, chemical ferments and artificial heat are applied. This noble fluid is sent everywhere by land and water, and labelled as first-class wine. It is not bad to the taste, but does not bear transportation. This adulteration chiefly affects the wines sold at German hotels. Heinrich Heine has left us this picture of a German dinner: "I dined at the Crown at Clausthal. My repast consisted of spring greens, parsley soup, violet blue cabbage, a pile of roast veal, which resembled Chimborazo in miniature, and a sort of smoked herring called buckings, from their inventor William Buckings, who died in 1447, and who on account of that invention was so greatly honoured by Charles V. that the great monarch in 1556 made a journey from Middelburg to Bierlied, in Zealand, for the express purpose of visiting the grave of the great fish-dryer. How exquisitely such dishes taste when we are familiar with their historical associations." It is impossible in translation to give Heine's intense ridicule and scorn. He was a Frenchman out of place in Germany. He revolted at things German, but endeared himself to his people by his wit, universality of talent, and sincerity. The world has thanked him for his "Reisebilder." Heine gives us new ideas of the horrors of German cookery when he talks of Göttingen sausages, Hamburg smoked beef, Pomeranian goose-breasts, ox-tongues, calf's brains in pastry, gudgeon cakes, and "a wretched pig's-head in a wretcheder sauce, which has neither a Grecian nor a Persian flavour, but which tasted like tea and soft soap." He cannot leave Göttingen without this description: "The town of Göttingen, celebrated for its sausages and its university, belongs to the King of Hanover, and contains nine hundred and ninety-nine dwellings, divers chambers, an observatory, a prison, a library, and a council chamber where the beer is excellent." German sausages are very good. Even the great Goethe, in dying, remembered to send a sausage to his æsthetic love of a lifetime, the Frau Von Stein. Thackeray, who was keenly alive to the horrors of German cookery, says that whatever is not sour is greasy, and whatever is not greasy is sour. The curious bill of fare of a middle-class German table is something like this: They begin with a pudding. They serve sweet preserved fruit with the meat, generally stewed cherries. They go on with dreadful dishes of cabbage and preparations of milk, curdled, soured, and cheesed. Dr. Lieber, the learned philologist, was eloquent on the subject of the coarseness of the German appetite. He had early corrected his by a visit to Italy, and he remarked, with his usual profundity, that it was "the more incomprehensible as nature had given Germany the finest wines with which to wash down the worst cookery." A favourite dish is potato pancakes. The raw potatoes are scraped fine, mixed with milk, and then treated like flour cakes, served with apple or plum sauce. Sauer-kraut is ridiculed, but it is only cabbage cut fine and pickled. There are two delicious dishes in which it plays an important part: one is roast pheasant cut fine and cooked with sauer-kraut and champagne; the other is sauer-kraut cooked in the _croûte_ of a Strasbourg _pâté de foie gras_. Favourite Austro-Hungarian dishes are _bachhendl_, baked spring-chicken,--the chicken rolled into a paste of egg flour and then baked. It is rather dry to eat, but just the thing with a bottle of Hungarian wine. Also a beefsteak with plenty of _paprika_, or Hungarian red pepper, Brinsa cheese, pot cheese, made in the Carpathian mountains and baked in a hot oven. Brook trout is never fried, but boiled in water, and then served surrounded by parsley in melted butter. In eastern Russia grows a pea, the gray pea, which is boiled and eaten like peanuts by peeling off the hard skin, or boiled with some sort of sour-sweet sauce, which softens the skin. This pea is such a favourite with the Lithuanians that it is made the subject of poetry. Venison, and hare soup, are deliciously gamey bouillons, which are made of the soup bone of the roast. The Polish soup _barscz_ is made of bouillon with the juice of red beets, little _saucissons_, and specially made pastry, with highly spiced forced-meat balls swimming in it. Lettuce salad is prepared in Germany with sour cream. A favourite drink is warm beer,--beer heated with the yolk of an egg in it. "Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. Those mute inglorious Miltons are divine; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill." Beer is the amber inspiration of the Germans, and plays its daily, hourly part in their science of entertaining. And the pea which can be skinned, which is such a favourite with the Lithuanians, has also been immortalized by Thackeray:-- "I give thee all! I can no more, Though poor the offering be; Stewed duck and peas are all the store That I can offer thee!-- A duck whose tender breast reveals Its early youth full well, And better still, a pea that peels From fresh transparent shell." But it must not be supposed that rich German citizens of the United States do not know how to give a good dinner. Cosmopolitan in everything else, these, the best colonists whom Europe has sent to us, make good soldiers, good statesmen, and good entertainers. They do not insist that we shall eat pig and prune sauce. No, they give us the most affluent bill of fare which the market affords. They give us a fine dining-room in which to eat it, and they offer as no other men can "a tankard of Assmanschausen." They give us, as a nation, a valuable present in mineral water. The Apollinaris bubbling up near the Rhine seems sent by Heaven to avert that gout and rheumatism which are the terrible after-dinner penalties of those who like too well the noble Rhine wines. THE INFLUENCE OF GOOD CHEER ON AUTHORS AND GENIUSES. "The ancient poets and their learned rhymes We still admire in these our later times, And celebrate their fames. Thus, though they die Their names can never taste mortality. These had their helps. They wrote of gods and kings, Of temples, battles, and such gallant things. And now we ask what noble meat and drink Can help to make man work, to make him think." "Pray, on what meat hath this our Cæsar fed?" We should have a higher estimate of the value of a knowledge of cookery and of all the arts of entertaining, did we sufficiently realize that the style of Carlyle was owing to dyspepsia! At the age of fifteen he entered Edinburgh University in order to fit himself for the pulpit. He studied for many months to that end, but his vocation refused to be clear. The ministry grew alien to his mind. Finally he shut himself up, and as he himself says, wrestled with the Lord and all the imps of darkness. Carlyle believed in a personal Devil, not tasting food or sleeping for three days and nights, and then terminated the struggle by resolving to pursue literature. What mental revolution he underwent, he says he never could understand; all that he knew was that he came out with that "dommed dyspepsia,"--his Scotch way of pronouncing a stronger word. Some writer says that this anecdote solves the problem of Carlyle. The force, earnestness, and eloquence of his writings were born of a fine, free intellect. Then came despondency, rage, and bitterness, springing from dyspepsia, which had been his haunting demon from the first, releasing him at intervals only to assail and torture him the "more for each surcease." Most of his works come under the head of the Literature of Dyspepsia, and can be as plainly traced to it as to the growth of his understanding or the sincerity of his convictions. Who does not recognize, in the oddities of the trials and spiritual agonies of Herr Teufelsdröckh, the author himself under a thin disguise, and the promotings and promptings, and phenomena of censuring indigestion? All through the "Sartor Resartus" it is evident that the gastric juices of the illustrious iconoclast are insufficient; that while he is railing at humanity he is suffering from gastritis, while he is prophesying that the race will come to naught but selfishness and stupidity he is undergoing gastrodynia, or, as it is commonly called, stomachic cramp. I do not know who wrote that masterly criticism, but evidently some man who had had a good dinner. But Carlyle gets better and writes his noble essay on Robert Burns, the life of John Sterling, Oliver Cromwell's letters and speeches. Then he is at his best; sees man as a brother, handicapped with circumstances, riveted to temperament perhaps, but in spite of all shortcomings and neglected opportunities, still a brother, demanding respect, deserving of help. How different Carlyle would have been, as a man and as a writer, with nutritive organs capable of continually and regularly performing their functions. Dyspepsia was his worst enemy, as it has been that of many of his readers. Every mouthful he ate must have been a gastric Nemesis for sins of opinion, and of heresies against humanity. His very style is the result of indigestion,--an excess of ill-chosen, ill-prepared German fare in a British stomach, affording a strange sustenance, which, like some diseases, keep a man alive, but which pain while they sustain. What a different genius was Prescott, who had a good dinner every day of his life, who was brought up from boyhood in a luxurious old Boston household where was the perfection of cookery! Sydney Smith sent word to Prescott after he wrote "Ferdinand and Isabella,"-- "Tell Prescott to come here and we will drown him in turtle soup." "Say that I can swim in those seas," was Prescott's witty rejoinder. Mr. Prescott was fifty-three years of age when he visited England; he was extremely handsome, courteous, and very much a man of the world. "We grow like what we eat. Bad food depresses, Good food exalts us like an inspiration." Mr. Prescott had been inspired by good food, as any one can see who reads that noble work "Ferdinand and Isabella." In England this accomplished man was received by Lady Lyell, to whom he was much attached. The account of English hospitality which he gives throws a rosy light on the history of the art of entertaining: "I returned last night from the Horners, Lady Lyell's parents and sisters, a very accomplished and happy family circle. They have a small house, with a pretty lawn stretching between it and the Thames, that forms a silver edging to the close-shaven green. The family gather under the old trees on the little shady carpet, which is sweet with the perfume of flowery shrubs. And you see sails gliding by and stately swans, of which there are hundreds on the river. The next Sunday, after dinner, which we took at four o'clock, we strolled through Hampton Court and its royal park. The next day we took our picnic at Box Hill. On Friday to dinner at Sir Robert Peel's and to an evening party at Lady S----'s. I went at eleven and found myself in a brilliant saloon filled with people amongst whom I did not recognize a familiar face. You may go to ten parties in London, be introduced to a score of persons in each, and on going to the eleventh not see a face that you have ever seen before, so large is the society of the great metropolis. I was soon put at my ease, however, by the cordial reception of Lord and Lady C----, who introduced me to a great number of persons." This alone would prove how great was Prescott's popularity, for in London, people, as a rule, are not introduced. "In the crowd I saw an old gentleman, nicely made up, stooping a good deal, covered with orders, and making his way easily along, as all, young and old, seemed to treat him with deference. It was the Duke of Wellington, the old Iron Duke. He likes the attention he receives in this social way. He wore round his neck the order of the Golden Fleece, on his coat the order of the Garter. He is, in truth, the lion of England, not to say of all Europe." This beautiful little _genre_ picture of the Iron Duke was written in the year 1850. Forty years later General Grant was received at Apsley House by the son of the great Duke of Wellington, the second Duke, who opened the famous Waterloo room and toasted the modest American as the greatest soldier of modern times. Mr. Prescott goes on to say,-- "We had a superb dinner at Sir Robert Peel's, four and twenty guests. It was served in the long picture-gallery. The windows of the gallery look out upon the Thames, its beautiful stone bridges with lofty arches, Westminster Abbey with its towers, and the living panorama on the water. The opposite windows look on the green gardens behind the Palace of Whitehall, which were laid out by Cardinal Wolsey, and near the spot where Charles I. lived, and lost his life on the scaffold. The gallery is full of masterpieces, especially Dutch and Flemish, amongst them the famous _Chapeau de Paille_, which cost Sir Robert over five thousand pounds. In his dining-room were also superb pictures, the famous one by Wilkie, of John Knox preaching, which did not come up to the idea I had formed of it from the engraving. There was a portrait of Dr. Johnson by Reynolds, the portrait owned by Mrs. Thrale and engraved for the Dictionary; what a bijou! "We sat at dinner looking out on the moving Thames. We dined at eight, but the twilight lingers here until half-past nine at this summer season. Sir Robert was exceedingly courteous to his guests, told some good stories, showed us his autographs, amongst which was the celebrated one written by Nelson, in which he says, 'If I die "Frigate" will be found written on my heart.'" Mr. Prescott's letter to his daughter points out the strange difference between the life of a girl in England and a girl here. "I think on reflection, dear Lizzy, that you did well not to come with me. Girls of your age [she was then nineteen] make no great figure in society. One never, or very rarely, meets them at dinner parties, and they are not so numerous at evening parties as with us, unless it be at balls. Six out of seven women you meet are over thirty, and many of them over forty or fifty, not to say sixty; the older they are, the more they are dressed and diamonded. Young girls dress less, and wear very little ornament indeed." What a commentary this is on our American way of doing things,--where young girls rule society, put their mothers in the background, and wear too fine clothes. Dr. Prescott was of course presented at Court, and his account of it is delightful:-- "Well! the presentation has come off, and I will give you some account of it before going to dine with Lord Fitzwilliam. This morning I breakfasted with Mr. Monckton Milnes, where I met Macaulay the third time this week. We had also Lord Lyttleton, an excellent scholar, Gladstone, and Lord W. Germains, a sensible and agreeable person, and two or three others. We had a lively talk, but I left early for the Court affair. I was at Mr. Abbott Lawrence's at one in my costume,--a _chapeau_ with gold lace, blue coat, and white trowsers, begilded with buttons and metal, a sword, and patent-leather-boots. I was a figure indeed! but I had enough to keep me in countenance. I spent an hour yesterday with Lady M. getting instructions for demeaning myself. The greatest danger was that I should be tripped up by my sword. On reaching St. James Place we passed upstairs through files of the Guard, beefeaters, and were shown into a large saloon richly hung with crimson silk, and with some fine portraits of the family of George III. It was amusing, as we waited there an hour, to see the arrival of the different persons, diplomatic, military, and courtiers, all men and women blazing in their stock of princely finery, and such a power of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, and laces, the trains of the ladies' dresses several yards in length. Some of the ladies wore coronets of diamonds, which covered the greater part of the head. I counted on Lady D----'s head two strings of diamonds rising gradually from the size of a fourpence to the size of an English shilling, and thick in proportion. The dress of the Duchess of D---- was studded with diamonds as large as nutmegs. The young ladies dressed very plainly. I tell this for Lizzy's especial benefit. The company were permitted to pass one by one into the presence-chamber, a room of about the same size as the other, with gorgeous canopy and throne, at the farther end of which stood the little Queen and her Consort, surrounded by her Court. She was rather simply dressed, but he was in Field-Marshal's uniform, and covered, I should think, with all the orders of Europe. He is a good-looking person, but by no means so good-looking as you are given to expect from his pictures. The Queen is better looking than you might expect. I was presented by our minister, by the order of the Chamberlain, as the historian of Ferdinand and Isabella and made my profound obeisance to her Majesty who made a dignified courtesy. I made the same low bow to his Princeship, and then bowed myself out of the circle without my sword tripping up my heels. As I was drawing off, Lord Carlisle, who was standing on the outer edge, called me to him and kept me by his side telling me the names of the different lords and ladies who, after paying their obeisance to the Queen, passed out before us." Mr. Monckton Milnes became Lord Houghton, and I had great pleasure in knowing him well many years after this. He told me, what our American historian was too modest to tell, how well Mr. Prescott appeared in London. Lionized to death, as the English alone can lionize, Mr. Prescott never lost his modest self-possession. He was everywhere remarked for his beauty, his fine manner, and his knowledge of the usages of good society. But then, in 1887 the English went equally wild, even more so, over Buffalo Bill, and probably preferred him. Mr. Prescott was entertained at Cuddeston Palace, the residence of Bishop Wilberforce, the famous "Soapy Sam," from the fact, as he said himself, that he "was always in hot water, and always came out cleaner than he went in." This witty and accomplished prelate was very much pleased with our American scholar, and gave him a hearty welcome. It will sound curiously enough now, that Mr. Prescott found his Episcopal views very high, and says, "The service was performed with a ceremony quite Roman Catholic." The Bishop of Oxford would, were he living now, be called low church,--so much do terms vary in different ages. Truly the world moves! I was in my youth entertained at the house of Mr. Prescott, at Nahant, and allowed to see his workroom and the machinery with which he wrote. He gave me, and I have it still, a paper which he wrote for me with the wired plate which the blind use, for he could scarcely see at all. He was master of the art of entertaining. How charming he was at dinner at his own house; how pleasantly he made one forget his greatness, except that a supreme simplicity seems always to accompany true greatness. He had a regularity in his habits which would in a less amiable man have interfered with his agreeability, but with him it was most fascinating, as it seemed like musical chords set to noble words. It would be pleasant to record the triumphs of Mr Webster, Mr. Motley, Mr. Lowell, Mr. Phelps, Mr. Evarts, Mr. Depew, and many another great American in England, but that, while a subject for national pride, scarcely comes within the scope of this little book. It would seem, however, that our orators, however fed, have compassed the accomplishment of after-dinner speaking, which is so much appreciated in England, and it is to be hoped that no "dommed dyspepsia" from badly cooked food will dim the oratory of the future. It is quite true that a witty and full talker will be silenced if he is placed before a bad dinner, one which is palpably pretentious but not well cooked, and villanously served. It is impossible for the really conscientious diner-out, who respects his digestion, whose religion is his dinner, to talk much or laugh much, if his gormandize is wounded. Even if he wills to talk, in order not to lose his reputation, his speech will be a "muddy flood of saponaceous blather," instead of his usual brilliant flow of anecdote and repartee. Not all great men have, however, felt the influence of food as an inspirer. Dr. Johnson was great although he was a horrible feeder; and at the other extreme was General Grant, so abstemious that he once told me that he did not know the sensation of hunger; that he could go three days without food. At the splendid banquets given to him he rarely ate much, but noticed the people and the surroundings, great hero that he was. Thackeray, Disraeli, and Dickens have given us the most appreciative descriptions of the art of entertaining, and were men deeply sensible of the charms of a good dinner. Charles Lamb has been the poet of the homely and the comfortable side of good eating; he records for us in immortal prose and poetry what roast pig and tobacco have done for him. We claim boldly that a part of Webster's greatness, Prescott's charm, the genius of Motley and of Lowell, the oratory of Depew, the wit of Parke Godwin and Horace Porter, even the magnificent march of Sherman to the sea, the great genius of Bryant, the sparkling cup of Anacreon, O. W. Holmes, the masterly speech of our lawyers, and the unrivalled eloquence of our pulpit orators, are owing to that earlier style of domestic American cookery which was, and is, and always shall be, deserving of the highest praise,--when meats were cooked with all their juices, before a wood fire, when bread was light and feathery, when soups were soups, and broils were broils! Oh, vanished excellence! BONBONS. Do, child, go to it' grandam, child; Give grandam kingdom! and it' grandam will Give it plumb, a cherry, and a fig. KING JOHN. They used to call a sugar-plum a plumb in Shakspeare's time. Was it on account of its weight? Few ladies, on receiving a box of bonbons from Maillards, go into the great question of their antiquity and their manufacture. Few, even now, who at a fashionable hotel, receive on Sundays after dinner a pretty little paper box filled with candied rose-leaves and violets, remember that they are only following the fashion of Lucretia Borgia in putting them in their pocket to eat in their rooms, or at the theatre. There is nothing new under the sun. In France, in entertaining a lady, or a party of ladies, at theatre or opera, the gentleman host always carries a box of bonbons, within which is a little imitation-silver sugar-tongs by which she can help herself to a chocolate or a _marron déguisé_, without soiling her fingers. This pampered dame does not consider that France makes annually sixty million of francs' worth of bonbons; that it exports only about one fourth of this, leaving an enormous amount for home consumption. They send over to England alone, cheap sweets manufactured by steam, to the amount of three hundred thousand English pounds a year. The sugar-plum came from Italy, and dates no further back than the sixteenth century as an article of commerce. But the skilful confectioners in private houses knew how to manufacture not only those which were healthful, but those which were very useful in getting rid of dreaded rivals, unfaithful lovers, and troublesome friends. The manufacture of the antique sugar-plum, the antediluvian baked almond, and the nauseous coloured abominations whose paint-poisoned surface has long been discarded in France, received, as I read in an old chronicle, its death-blow from the Aboukir almonds, during the period of Napoleon's invasion of Egypt, which killed more people than the bullets. Next went down the cracker bonbons, called Cossacks, on account of the terror with which they inspired the _grandes dames_ on their first advent in 1814. These latter, however, have come back, in the harmless detonating powder-charged bonbons which every one hears at a dinner-party, as the fringed papers are pulled. Then come the _primaveras_, a variety of sugared bomb. Then the _marquises_, _orangines_, _marron glacé_, or sugared chestnut, _cerises pralinée_, burnt cherries, _bowles_, _ananas_, _dattes au café_, dates delightfully stuffed and covered with sugar, _diables noirs_, _ganaches_, and an ephemeral but delicious candy, _bonbons fondants_, with an inscription on the box that "these must be eaten within twenty-four hours." They are sometimes fruits with a creamy sugar, raspberries, currants, strawberries, and are delicious, but quite untransportable, although transporting merchandise. Their invention made the fortune of the inventor. Formerly the preparation of bonbons was a tedious affair. Now it is almost the work of a day, but they are perishable. If you leave a box open they will devour themselves. Kept cool and air-tight, they will last for years. About the first of December the great manufacturers in the Rue de la Paix, commence their operations for New Year's, when everybody, from President Carnot down, sends his friend a box of bonbons. They tell of one confectioner who abandoned his sugar-pots to turn playwright, about the time that Alphonse Karr forsook literature to sell bouquets. The principle remains the same. He wished to sweeten the existence of _les Parisiennes_. In visiting one of these immense establishments one descends a stone staircase, and finds one's self in a stifling atmosphere, heavily laden with the aroma of vanilla and other essences. Around are scores of workmen, in white-paper caps and aprons, their faces red with heat, as they plunge particular fruits into large cauldrons, filled with boiling syrups. More in the shade are other stalwart men, their faces pale with the heated atmosphere, piling up almonds on huge copper vessels; and so constant is the sound of metal clashing against metal that the visitor might imagine himself in an armour smithy, instead of a sugar factory; rather with Vulcan working for the gods, or some village blacksmith pounding out horseshoes, than with a party of French _ouvriers_ making sugar-plums for children to crunch. On all sides one sees sugar, gallons of liqueurs, syrups, and essences, rum, aniseed, noyau, maraschino, pineapple, apricot, strawberry, cherry, vanilla, chocolate, coffee, and tea, with sacks of almonds, and baskets of chestnuts, pistachio nuts, and filberts being emptied into machines which bruise their husks, flay them, and blanch them, all ready to receive their saccharine coating. Those bonbons which have liqueur in them are much appreciated by gourmets who find other bonbons disagree with them! A sugar-coated brandy cherry is relished by the wisest man. Most bonbons are made by hand; those only which are flat at the bottom are cast in moulds. In the hand-made bonbons, the sugar paste is rolled into shapes by the aid of an instrument formed of a stout piece of wire, one end of which is twisted, and the other fixed into a wooden handle. With this the paste is taken out of the cauldron, and worked into the desired form by a rapid _coup de main_. For bonbons of a particular form, such as those in imitation of various fruits, models are carved in wood. Liqueur bonbons are formed of a mixture of some given liqueur and liquid sugar, which is poured into moulds, and then placed in a slow oven for the day. Long before they are removed a hard crust has formed on the outside, while the inside remains in its original liquid state. Bonbons are crystallized by being plunged into a syrup heated to thirty degrees Reamur; by the time they are dry the crystallization is complete and acts as a protection against the atmosphere. The bonbons can then be kept a certain time, although their flavour deteriorates. I think sugar one of the most remarkable of all the gifts of nature. It submits itself to all sorts of plastic arts, and to see a confectioner pouring it through little funnels, to see him make a flower, even to its stamens, of this excellent juice of the cane or of the beet,--they use beet sugar almost entirely in France,--is to comprehend anew how many of the greatest of all curiosities are hidden in the kitchen. One must go to Chambéry, in Savoy, to taste some of the most exquisite _pâtisserie_, to find the most delicious candied fruits; and at Montpellier, in the south of France, is another most celebrated manufactory of bonbons. I received once from Montpellier a box holding six pounds of these marvellous sweets, which were arranged in layers. Beginning with chocolates in every form, they passed upward by strata, until they reached the candied fruit, which was to be eaten at once. I think there were fifty-five varieties of delicious sweets in that box. Such lovely colours, such ineffable flavours, such beauties as they were! The only remarkable part of this anecdote is that I survived to tell it. I can only account for it by the fact that it was sent me by a famous physician, who must have hidden his power of healing in the box. Unlike Pandora's box which sent the troop of evils out into the world, this famous _cachet_ sent nothing but good-will and pleasure, barring perhaps a possible danger. If, however, we speak of the bonbons themselves, what can we say of the _bonbonnières_! Everything that is beautiful, everything that is curious, everything that is quaint, everything that is ludicrous, everything that is timely, is utilized. I received an immense green satin grasshopper--the last _jour de l'an_, in Paris--filled to his uttermost _antennæ_ with bonbons. It could be for once said that the "grasshopper had not become a burden." The _panier Watteau_, formed of satin, pearls, straw, and flowers, may be made to conceal a handkerchief worth a thousand francs under the rose-satin lining. The boxes are painted by artists, and remain a lovely belonging for a toilet table. Beautiful metal reproductions of some antique _chef d'oeuvre_ are made into _bonbonnières_. Some bonbon-boxes have themselves concealed in huge bouquets of violets, fringed with lace, or hidden under roses, which are skilfully growing out of white satin; beautiful reticules, all embroidered, hold the carefully bound up packages, where tinfoil preserves the silk and satin from contact with the sugar. If France did nothing else but make _bonbonnières_, she would prove her claim to being the most ingenious purveyor for the luxury of entertaining in all the world. If luxury means, "to freight the passing hour with flying happiness," France does her "possible" as she would say herself, to help along this fairy packing. At Easter, when sweetmeats are almost as much in request as at the New Year,--the French make very little of Christmas,--these bonbon establishments are filled with Easter eggs of the gayest colours. There are nests of eggs, baskets of eggs, cradles full of eggs, and pretty peasants carrying eggs to market; nests of eggs, with birds of brilliant plumage sitting on the nests or hovering over them, while their freight of bonbons repose on softest swan's-down, lace, and satin; or again, the egg itself of satin, with its yolk of orange creams and its white of marshmallow paste. There is no end to this felicitous and dulcet strain. The best candied fruit I have ever eaten, I bought in a railway depot at Venice. The Italians understand this art to perfection. They hang the fruit by its natural stem on a long straw; and no better accompaniment for a long railway journey can be imagined. The French do not consider bonbons unhealthful. Instead of giving her boy a piece of bread and butter as he departs for the _Lycée_ the French mamma gives him two or three chocolate bonbons. The hunter takes these to the top of the Matterhorn; ladies take them in their pockets instead of a lunch-basket; and one assured me that two slabs of chocolate sufficed her for breakfast and supper on the road from Paris to Rome. I do not know what Baron Liebig would say to this in his learned articles on the "Nutritive Value of Certain Kinds of Food," but the French children seem to be the healthiest in the world,--a tribute to chocolate of the highest. "By their fruits shall ye know them." In the times of the Medici, and the St. Bartholomew Massacre, the French and Italian nobles had a curious custom of always carrying about with them, in the pockets of their silk doublets, costly little boxes full of bonbons. Henry IV., Marie de Medici, and all their friends and foes, carried about with them little gold and Limoges enamelled boxes, very pretty and desirable articles of _vertu_ now; and doubtless there was one full of red and white comfits in the pocket of Mary Queen of Scots, when she fell dead, poor, ill-used, beautiful woman, at the foot of the block, at Fotheringay. Doubtless there was one in the pouch of the grisly Duc de Guise, with his close-cropped bullet head, and long, spidery legs, when he fell, done to death by treacherous Catherine de Medici, dead and bleeding on the polished floor of Blois! It was a childish custom, and proved that the age had a sweet tooth; but it might have been useful for diplomatic purposes, and highly conducive to flirting. As a Lord Chief Justice once said that "snuff and snuff-boxes help to develop character," so the _bonbonnière_ helps to emphasize manners; and I am always pleased when an old or new friend opens for me a little silver box and offers me a sugared violet, or a rose leaf conserved in sugar, although I can eat neither of them. A witty writer says that dessert should be "the girandole, or cunning tableau of the dinner." It should "surprise, astonish, dazzle, and enchant." We may almost decide upon the taste of an age as we read of its desserts. The tasteless luxury and coarse pleasures of the reign of Charles II.,--that society where Rochester fluttered and Buckingham flaunted,--how it is all described in one dessert! At a dinner given the father (of a great many) of his subjects by Lady Dormer, was built a large gilded ship of confectionery. Its masts, cabins, portholes, and lofty poop all smart and glittering, its rigging all taut, its bunting flying, its figure-head bright as gold leaf could make it. Its guns were charged with actual powder. Its cargo was two turreted pies, one full of birds and the other of frogs. When borne in by the gay pages, to the sound of music, the guns were discharged, the ladies screamed and fainted, so as to "require to be held up and consoled by the gallants, who offered them sips of Tokay." Poor little things! Such was the Court of Charles. Then, to sweeten the smell of powder, the ladies threw at each other egg-shells filled with fragrant waters; and "all danger being over," they opened the pies. Out of one skipped live frogs; out of the other flew live birds who put out the lights; so, what with the screams, the darkness, the frogs, and the smell of powder, we get an idea of sports at Whitehall, where blackbrowed, swarthy-visaged Charles presided, on which grave Clarendon condescended to smile, and which the gentle Evelyn and Waller were condemned to approve. We have not entirely refrained from such sugar emblems at our own great feasts; but fortunately, they have rather gone out, excepting for some emblem-haunted dinners where we do have sugared Monitors, and chocolate torpedos. I have seen the lovely Venus of Milo in frozen cream, which gave a wit the opportunity of saying that the home for such a goddess should be the temple of Isis; and Bartholdi's immortal Liberty lends herself to chocolate and nougat now and then, but very rarely at private dinners. The fashion of our day, with its low dishes for the sweets, is so much better, that we cannot help congratulating ourselves that we do not live even in the days of the first George, when, as one witty author again says, "the House of Brunswick brought over sound protestantism, but German taste." Horace Walpole, great about trifles, incomparable decider of the width of a shoe-buckle, keen despiser of all meannesses but his own, neat and fastidious tripper along a flowery path over this vulgar planet, derided the new fashion in desserts. The ambitious confectioners, he says, "aspired to positive statuary, spindle-legged Venus, dummy Mars, all made of sugar;" and he mentions a confectioner of Lord Albemarle's who loudly complained that his lordship would not break up the ceiling of his dining-room to admit the heads, spear-points and upraised thunderbolts of a middle dish of Olympian deities eighteen feet high, all made of sugar. The dishes known in France as _Les Quatres Mendiants_, one of nuts, one of figs or dried fruit, one of raisins, and another of oranges, still to be seen on old-fashioned dinner-tables, was, I supposed, so called because it is seldom touched,--in fact, goes a-begging. But I have found this pretty little legend, which proves that it was far more poetical in origin. The name in French for aromatic vinegar is also connected with it. It is called "The Vinegar of the Four Thieves." So runs the legend: "Once four thieves of Marseilles, rubbing themselves with this vinegar during the plague, defied infection and robbed the dead." Who were these wretches? All that we know of them is that they dined beneath a tree on stolen walnuts and grapes, and imagined the repast a feast. We can picture them, Holbein men with slashed sleeves, as old soldiers of Francis I. who had wrestled with the Swiss. We can imagine them as beaten about by Burgundian peasants; and we know that they were grim, brown, scarred rascals, cutting purses, snatching silken cloaks,--sturdy, resolute, heartless, merry, desperate, God-forsaken scoundrels, living only for the moment. We can imagine Callot etching their rags, or Rembrandt putting in their dark shadows and high lights. We can see Salvator Rosa admiring them as they sleep under the green oak-tree, their heads on a dead deer, and the high rock above. Or we may get old Teniers to draw them for us, gambling with torn and greasy cards for a gold crucifix or a brass pot, or revelling at the village inn, swaggering, swearing, drunk, or tipsy, playing at shuffle-board. The only point in their history worth recording is that they were destined to be asked to every dinner party for four hundred years!--simply preceding the bonbons, as we see by the following verses:-- "Once on a time, in the brave Henry's age, Four beggars dining underneath a tree Combined their stores; each from his wallet drew Handfuls of stolen fruit, and sang for glee. "So runs the story,--'_Garçon_, bring the _carte_, Soup, cutlets--stay--and mind, a _matelotte_.' And 'Charles,--a pint of Burgundy's best Beanne; In our deep glasses every joy shall float!' "And '_Garçon_, bring me from the woven frail That turbaned merchants from fair Smyrna sent, The figs with golden seeds, the honeyed fruit, That feast the stranger in the Syrian tent. "'Go fetch us grapes from all the vintage rows Where the brave Spaniards gaily quaff the wine, What time the azure ripple of the waves Laughs bright beneath the green leaves of the vine! "'Nor yet, unmindful of the fabled scrip, Forget the nuts from Barcelona's shore, Soaked in Iberian oil from olives pressed, To the crisp kernels adding one charm more. "'The almonds last, plucked from a sunny tree, Half way up Lybanus, blanched as snowy white As Leila's teeth, and they will fitly crown The beggars' four-fold dish for us to-night. "'Beggars are happy! then let us be so; We've buried care in wine's red-glowing sea. There let him soaking lie--he was our foe; Joy laughs above his grave--and so will we!'" It was from that love of contrast, then, was it, which is a part of all luxury, that the fable of the _Quatre Mendiants_ was made to serve like the olives at dessert. Perhaps the fillip which walnuts give to wine suggested it. It was a modern French rendering of the skull made to do duty as a drinking-cup. It is a part of the five kernels of corn at a Pilgrim dinner, without that high conscientiousness of New England. It is a part, perhaps, of the more melancholy refrain, "Be merry, be merry, for to-morrow ye die!" It is that warmth is warmer when we remember cold; it is that food is good when we remember the starving; it is that _bringing in_ of the pleasant vision of the four beggars under the tree, as a picture perhaps; at any rate there it is, moral at your pleasure. The desserts of the middle ages were heavy and cumbrous affairs, and had no special character. There would be a good deal of Cellini cup and Limoges plate, and Palissy dish, and golden chased goblet about it, no doubt. How glad the collectors of to-day would be to get them! And we picture the heavy indigestible cakes, and poisonous bonbons. The taste must have been questionable if we can believe Ben Jonson, who tells of the beribboned dwarf jester who, at a Lord Mayor's dinner, took a flying header into a dish of custard, to the infinite sorrow of ladies' dresses; he followed, probably, that dish in which the dwarf Sir Geoffrey Hudson was concealed, and they both are after Tom Thumb, who was fishing about in a cup of posset a thousand years ago. The dessert is allowed by all French writers to be of Italian origin; and we read of the _maîtres d'hotel_, before the Italian dessert arrived, probably introduced by Catherine de Medici and the Guises, that they gloried in mountains of fruit, and sticky hills of sweetmeats. The elegance was clumsy and ostentatious; there was no poetry in it. Paul Veronese's picture of the "Marriage of Cana" will give some idea of the primeval French dessert. The later fashion was of those trees and gardens and puppets abused by Horace Walpole; but Frenchmen delighted in seas of glass, flower-beds formed of coloured sand, and little sugar men and women promenading in enamelled bowling-greens. We get some idea of the magnificent fêtes of Louis XIV. at Versailles from the glowing descriptions of Molière. Dufoy in 1805 introduced "frizzled muslin into a slice of fairyland;" that is, he made extraordinary pictures of temples and trees, for the centre of his dessert. And these palaces and temples were said to have been of perfect proportions; his trees of frizzled muslin were admirable. It sounds very much like children's toys just now. He went further, Dufoy; having ransacked heaven and earth, air and water, he thrust his hand into the fire, and made harmless rockets shoot from his sugar temples. Sugar rocks were strewn about with precipices of nougat, glaciers of vanilla candy, and waterfalls of spun sugar. A confectioner in 1805 had to keep his wits about him, for after every victory of Napoleon he was expected to do the whole thing in sugar. He was decorator, painter, architect, sculptor, and florist--icer, yes, until after the Russian campaign, and then--they had had enough of ice. Thus we see that the dessert has always been more for the eye than for the stomach. The good things which have been said over the walnuts and the wine! The pretty books written about claret and olives! One author says that if all the good things which have been said about the gay and smiling dessert could be printed, it would make a pleasant anecdotic little pamphlet of four thousand odd pages! We must not forget all the absurdities of the dessert. The Prince Regent, whose tastes inclined to a vulgar and spurious Orientalism, at one of his costly feasts at Carleton House had a channel of real water running around the table, and in this swam gold and silver fish. The water was only let on at dessert. These fancies may be sometimes parodied in our own time, as the bonbon makers of Paris now devote their talents to the paper absurdities of harlequins, Turks, Chinamen, and all the vagaries of a fancy-dress ball with which the passengers of steamships amuse themselves after the Captain's dinner. This is not that legitimate dessert at which we now find ices disguised as natural fruits, or copying a rose. All the most beautiful forms in the world are now reproduced in the frozen water or cream, as healthful as it is delicious, in the famous jelly with maraschino, or the delicate bonbon with the priceless liqueur, or, better still, that _eau de menthe_ cordial, our own green peppermint, which, after all, saves as by one mouthful from the horrors of indigestion and adds that "thing more exquisite still" to the perfect dessert,--a good night's sleep. FAMOUS MENUS AND RECIPES. Gather up the fragments that remain that nothing be lost. JOHN vi. 12. This is not intended to be a cookery book; but in order to help the young housekeeper we shall give some hints as to _menus_ and a few rare recipes. The great line of seacoast from New York to Florida presents us with some unrivalled delicacies, and the negroes of the State of Maryland, which was founded by a rich and luxurious Lord Baltimore, knew how to cook the terrapin, the canvas-back duck, oysters, and the superb wild turkey,--not to speak of the well-fattened poultry of that rich and luxurious Lorraine of America, "Maryland, my Maryland," which Oliver Wendell Holmes calls the "gastronomical centre of the universe." Here is an old Virginia recipe for cooking terrapin, which is rare and excellent:-- Take three large, live, diamond-backed terrapin, plunge them in boiling water for three minutes, to take off the skin, wipe them clean, cook them in water slightly salted, drain them, let them get cold, open and take out everything from the shell. In removing the entrails care must be taken not to break the gall. Cut off the head, tail, nails, gall, and bladder. Cut the meat in even-size pieces, put them in a sauce-pan with four ounces of butter, add the terrapin eggs, and moisten them with a half pint of Madeira wine. Let the mixture cook until the moisture is reduced one-half. Then add two spoonfuls of cream sauce. After five minutes add the yolks of four raw eggs diluted with a half-cup of cream. Season with salt and a pinch of red pepper. The mixture should not boil after the yolk of egg is added. Toss in two ounces of butter before serving. The heat of the mess will cook egg and butter enough. Serve with quartered lemon. This is, perhaps, if well-cooked, the most excellent of all American dishes. A chicken gumbo soup is next:-- Cut up one chicken, wash and dry it, dip it in flour, salt and pepper it, then fry it in hot lard to a delicate brown. In a soup kettle place five quarts of water and your chicken, let it boil hard for two hours, cut up twenty-four okra pods, add them to the soup, and boil the whole another hour. One large onion should be put in with the chicken. Add red pepper to taste, also salt, not too much, and serve with rice. Dried okra can be used, but must be soaked over night. Another Maryland success was the tomato catsup:-- Boil one bushel of tomatoes until soft, squeeze through a sieve, add to the juice half a gallon of vinegar, 1½ pints salt, 3 ounces of whole cloves, 1 ounce of allspice, 2 ounces of cayenne pepper, 3 tablespoonfuls of black pepper, 3 heads of garlic, skinned and separated; boil three hours or until the quantity is reduced one-half, bottle without skimming. The spices should be put in a muslin bag, which must be taken out, of course, before bottling. If desired 1 peck of onions can be boiled, passed through a sieve, and the juice added to the tomatoes. _Green pepper pickles_: Half a pound of mustard seed soaked over night, 1 quart of green pepper chopped, 2 quarts of onions chopped, 4 quarts of cucumbers also chopped, 8 quarts of green tomatoes chopped, 6 quarts of cabbage chopped; mix and measure. To every gallon of this mixture add one teacup of salt, let it stand until morning, then squeeze perfectly dry with the hands. Then add 8 pounds of sugar, and cover with good vinegar and boil five minutes. After boiling, and while still hot, squeeze perfectly dry, then add 2 ounces of cloves, 2 ounces of allspice, 3 ounces of cinnamon and the mustard seed. The peppers should be soaked in brine thirty-six or forty-eight hours. After soaking, wipe dry and stuff, place them in glass jars, and cover with fresh vinegar. This was considered the triumph of the Southern housekeeper. _Chicken with spaghetti_: Stir four sliced onions in two ounces of butter till very soft, add one quart of peeled tomatoes; stew chicken in water until tender, and pick to pieces. Add enough of the gravy to make a quart, put with the onions and tomatoes. Let it stew fifteen minutes gently. Put into boiling water 2½ pounds of spaghetti and a handful of salt, boil twenty minutes or until tender; drain this and put in a layer on a platter sprinkled with grated cheese, and pour the stew on it. Fill the platter with these layers, reserving the best of the chicken to lay on top. The old negro cooks made a delicious confection known as confection cake. Those who lived to tell of having eaten it declared that it was a dream. It certainly leads to dreams, and bad ones, but it is worth a nightmare:-- 1½ cups of sugar, 2½ cups of flour, ½ cup of butter, ½ cup of sweet milk, whites of six eggs, 3 small teaspoons of baking powder. Bake in two or three layers on a griddle. _Filling_: 1 small cocoanut grated, 1 pound almonds blanched, and cut up not too fine, 1 teacup of raisins chopped, 1 teacup of citron chopped, 4 eggs, whites only, 7 tablespoonfuls of pulverized sugar to each egg. Mix this destructive substance well in the froth of egg, and spread between the layers of cake when they are hot; set it a few minutes in the oven, but do not burn it, and you have a delicious and profoundly indigestible dessert. You will be able to write Sartor Resartus, after eating of it freely. _Walnut Cake_: 1 cup of butter, 2 cups of sugar, 6 eggs, 4 cups of flour, 1 cup of milk, 2 teaspoonfuls of yeast powder. This is also baked in layers, and awaits the dynamite filling which is to blow you up:-- _Walnut Filling_: 2 cups of brown sugar, 1 cup of cream, a piece of butter the size of an egg. Cook twenty minutes, stirring all the time; when ready to take off the stove put in one cup of walnut meats. After this has cooked a few minutes longer, spread between the layers, and while both cake and filling are hot. Perhaps a few _menus_ may be added here to assist the memory of her "who does not know what to have for dinner:"-- Tomato Soup. Golden Sherry. Whitefish broiled. Claret. Mashed potatoes. Round of beef _braisé_, Madeira. with glazed onions. Champagne. Roast plover with cress. Château Yquem. Chiccory Salad. Custard flavoured with vanilla. Cheese. Cordials. Chambertin. Fruit. Coffee. Or a plain dinner:-- Sherry. Oxtail Soup. Claret. _Filet_ of lobster _à la Mazarin_. Turkey rings with _purée_ of chestnuts. Salad of fresh tomatoes. Cream tart with meringue. Cheese. This last dinner is perhaps enough for only a small party, but it is very well composed. A much more elaborate _menu_ follows:-- Oysters on the half-shell. Soup: _Consommé royale_. Fish: Rudesheimer. Fried smelts, sauce Tartare, Duchess potatoes. Sherry. _Releves_: Boned capon. Roast ham. Champagne. Madeira, _Entreés_: Sweetbreads _braisé_. Quails. Claret. _Sorbet au kirsch_. Game: Port, Broiled woodcock, Chambertin. Canvas-back duck. Vegetables: Cauliflower, Spinach, French peas, Stewed tomatoes. Château Yquem. Dessert: Frozen pudding, _Biscuits Diplomats_. _Meringues Chantilly_, Assorted Cake. Fruit. Brandy. Coffee. Cordials. An excellent bill of fare for eight persons, in the month of October, is the following:-- Soup. Bisque of crayfish. Fish. Baked smelts, _à la Mentone_, Potato balls, _à la Rouenaise_, Ribs of beef braised, stewed with vegetables. Brussels sprouts. Roast birds, or quail on toast. Celery salad. To make a bisque of crayfish is a very delicate operation, but it is worth trying:-- Have three dozen live crayfish, wash them well, and take the intestines out by pinching the extreme end of the centre fin, when with a sudden jerk the gall can be withdrawn. Put in a stewpan two ounces of butter, with a carrot, an onion, two stalks of celery, two ounces of salted pork, all sliced fine, and a bunch of parsley; fry ten minutes, add the crayfish, with a pint of French white wine and a quart of veal broth. Stir and boil gently for an hour, then drain all in a large strainer, take out the bunch of parsley and save the broth; pick the shells off the crayfish tails, trim them neatly and keep until wanted. Cook separately a pint and a half of rice, with three pints of veal broth, pound the rest of the crayfish and vegetables, add the rice, pound again, dilute with the broth of the crayfish, and add more veal broth if too thick. Pass forcibly through a fine sieve with a wooden presser, put the residue in a saucepan, warm without boiling, and stir all the while with a wooden spoon. Finish with three ounces of table butter, a glass of Madeira wine, and a pinch of cayenne pepper; serve hot in soup tureen with the crayfish tails. _To prepare baked smelts à la Mentone_: Spread in a large and narrow baking-dish some fish forcemeat half an inch thick, have two dozen large, fresh, well-cleaned smelts, lay them down in a row on the forcemeat, season with salt, pepper, and grated nutmeg, pour over a thick white Italian sauce, sprinkle some bread crumbs on them, put a small pat of butter on each one and bake for half an hour in a pretty hot oven, then squeeze the juice of a lemon over and serve in a baking-dish. _To make potato balls à la Rouenaise_: Boil the potatoes and rub them fine, then roll each ball in white of egg, lay them on a floured table, roll into shape of a pigeon's egg, dip them in melted butter, and fry a light brown in clear hot grease. Sprinkle fine salt over and serve in a folded napkin. _To prepare braised ribs of beef_: Have a small set of three ribs cut short, cook it as _beef à la mode_, that is, stew it with spices and vegetables, dish it up with carrots, turnips, and onions, pour the reduced gravy over. _To prepare Brussels sprouts, demi-glacé_: Trim and wash the sprouts, soak them in boiling salted water about thirty minutes, cool them in cold water, and drain them. Put six ounces of butter in a large frying-pan, melt it and put the sprouts in it, season with salt and pepper, fry on a brisk fire until thoroughly hot, serve in a dish with a rich drawn-butter sauce with chopped parsley. A diplomatic supper was once served at the White House, of which the following _menu_ is an accurate report:-- Salmon with green sauce. Cold boned turkey, with truffles. _Pâtés_ of game, truffled. Ham cooked in Madeira sauce. Aspic of chicken. _Pâté de foie gras._ Salads of chicken and lobster in forms, surrounded by jelly. Pickled oysters. Sandwiches. Scalloped oysters. Stewed terrapin. Chicken and lobster croquettes. _Chocolat à la crème._ Coffee. Dessert: Ices. Fancy meringue baskets filled with cream. Pancakes. Large cakes. Fancy jellies. Charlotte Russe. Fruits. Cake. Wafers. Nougat. One could have satisfied an appetite with all this. General Grant was probably the most _fêted_ American who ever visited Europe. He was entertained by every monarch and by many most distinguished citizens. The Duke of Wellington opened the famous Waterloo Room in Apsley House in his honour, and toasted him as the first soldier of the age. But it is improbable that he ever had a better dinner than the following:-- It was given to him in New York, in 1880, at the Hotel Brunswick. It was for ten people only, in a private parlour, arranged as a dining-room _en suite_ with the Venetian parlour. The room was in rich olive and bronze tints. The buffet glittered with crystal, and Venetian glass. On the side tables were arranged the coffee service and other accessories. The whole room was filled with flowers, the chandelier hung with smilax, dotted with carnations. The table was arranged with roses, heliotrope, and carnations, the deep purple and green grapes hanging over gold dishes. The dinner service was of white porcelain with heliotrope border, the glass of iridescent crystal. The furnishing of the Venetian parlour, the rich carvings, the suits of armour, the antique chairs were all mediæval; the dinner was modern and American:-- Oysters. Soup, _Consommé Royale_. Fish: Fried smelts, sauce Tartare. _Releves_: Boned capon. _Entrées_: Sweetbreads, _braisé_, Quails, _à la Perigord_. _Sorbet au kirsch_. Game. Broiled woodcock, Canvas-back duck. Terrapin. Vegetables: Cauliflower, Spinach, Artichokes, French peas. Dessert: _Biscuits Diplomatiques_, Frozen pudding, _Meringue Chantilly_, Assorted cakes. Fruit. Coffee. Cigars. Liqueurs. Probably the last item interested and amused the General, who was no _gourmet_, much more than even the terrapin. This _menu_ for a November dinner cannot be surpassed. COOKERY AND WINES OF THE SOUTH OF EUROPE. Aufidius for his morning beverage used Honey in strong Falernian wine infused; But here methinks he showed his want of brains: Drink less austere best suits the empty veins. * * * * * Shell fish afford a lubricating slime! But then you must observe both place and time. They're caught the finest when the moon is new; The Lucrine far excel the Baian too. Misenum shines in cray fish; Circe most In oysters; scollops let Tarentum boast. The culinary critic first should learn Each nicer shade of flavour to discern: To sweep the fish stalls is mere show at best * * * * * Unless you know how each thing should be drest. Let boars of Umbrian game replete with mast, If game delights you, crown the rich repast. SATIRES OF HORACE. Italian cookery is excellent at its best. The same drift of talent, the same due sense of proportion which showed itself in all their art, which built St. Mark's and the Duomo, the Ducal Palace, the Rialto, and the churches of Palladio, comes out in their cookery. Their cooks are Michel Angelo and Leonardo da Vinci in a humbler sphere. They mingle cheese in cookery, with great effect; nothing can be better than their cauliflower covered with Parmesan cheese, and baked. Macaroni in all its forms is of course admirable. They have mastered the use of sweet oil, which in their cookery never tastes oily; it is simply a lambent richness. The great dish, wild boar, treated with a sweet and a sour sauce, with pine cones, is an excellent dish. Wild boar is a lean pork with a game flavour. All sorts of birds, especially _becafico_, are well cooked, they lose no juice or flavour over the fire. They make a dozen preparations of Indian meal, which are very good for breakfast. One little round cake, like a muffin, tastes almost of cocoanut; this is fried in oil, and is most delicious. The _frittala_ is another well-known dish, and is composed of liver, bacon, and birds, all pinned on a long stick, or iron pin. In an Italian palace, if you have the good luck to be asked, the dinner is handsome. It is served in twelve courses in the Russian manner, and if national dishes are offered they are disguised as inelegant. But at an ordinary farmhouse in the hills near Florence, or at the ordinary hotels, there will be a good soup, trout fresh from the brooks, fresh butter, macaroni with cheese, a fat capon, and a delicious omelette, enriched with morsels of kidney or fat bacon, a _frittala_, a bunch of grapes, a bottle of Pogio secco, or the sweet Italian straw wine. The Italians are very frugal, and would consider the luxurious overflow of American munificent hospitality as vulgar. At parties in Rome, Naples, and Florence it is not considered proper to offer much refreshment. At Mr. Story's delightful receptions American hospitality reigned at afternoon tea, as it did in all houses where the hostess was American, but at the houses of the Princes nothing was offered but weak wine and water and little cakes. Many travellers have urged that the cookery of the common Italian dinner is too much flavoured with garlic, but in a winter spent in travelling through Italy I did not find it so. I remember a certain leg of lamb with beans which had a slight taste of onions, but that is all. They have learned, as the French have, that the onion is to cookery what accent is to speech. It should not be _trop prononcée_. The lamb and pistachio nuts of the Arabian Nights is often served and is delicious. They give you in an Italian country house for breakfast, at twelve o'clock, a sort of thick soup, very savoury, probably made of chicken with an herb like okra, one dish of meat smothered in beans or tomatoes, followed by a huge dish of macaroni with cheese, or with morsels of ham through it. Then a white curd with powdered cinnamon, sugar, and wine, a bottle of _vino santo_, a cup of coffee or chocolate, and bread of phenomenal whiteness and lightness. Alas, for the poor people! They live on the chestnuts, the frogs, or nothing. The porter at the door of some great house is seen eating a dish of frogs, which are, however, so well cooked that they send up an appetizing fragrance more like a stew of crabs than anything else. One sees sometimes a massive ancient house, towering up in mediæval grandeur, with shafts of marble, and columns of porphyry, lonely, desolate, and beautiful, infinitely impressive, infinitely grand. Some member of a once illustrious family lives within these ruined walls, on almost nothing. He would have to kill his pet falcon to give you a dinner, while around his time-honoured house cluster his tenants shaking with malaria,--pale, unhappy, starved people. It is not a cheerful sight, but it can be seen in southern Italy. The prosperous Italians will give you a well-cooked meal, an immense quantity of bonbons, and the most exquisite candied fruits. Their _confetti_ are wonderful, their cakes and ices, their candied fruit, their _tutti frutti_, are beyond all others. They crown every feast with a Paradise in spun sugar. But they despise and fear a fire, and foreigners are apt to find the old Italian palaces dreary, and very cold. A recent traveller writes from Florence: "I have been within the walls of five Italian houses at evening parties, at three of them, music and no conversation; all except one held in cold rooms, the floors black, imperfectly covered with drugget, and no fire; conversation, to me at least, very dull; the topics, music, personal slander,--for religion, government, and literature, were generally excluded from polite society. In only one house, of which the mistress was a German, was tea handed around; sometimes not even a cup of water was passed." We learn from the novels of Marion Crawford that the Italians do not often eat in each others' houses. Victor Emmanuel, the mighty hunter, had a mighty appetite. He used to dine alone, before the hour for the State dinner. Then with sword in hand, leaning on its jewelled hilt, in full uniform, his breast covered with orders, the King sat at the head of his table, and talked with his guests while the really splendid dinner was served. Royal banquets are said to be dull. The presence of a man so much above the others in rank has a depressing effect. The guest must console himself with the glorious past of Italy, and fix his eyes on the magnificent furniture of the table, the cups of Benvenuto Cellini, the vases of Capo di Monti, the superb porcelain, and the Venetian glass, or he must devote himself to the lamb and pistachio nuts, the _choux fleurs aux Parmesan_, or the truffles, which are nowhere so large or so fine as at an Italian dinner. Near Rome they are rooted out of the oak forests by the king's dogs, and are large and full of flavour. King Humbert has inherited his father's taste for hunting, and sends presents of the game he has shot to his courtiers. The housekeeping at the Quirinal is excellent; a royal supper at a royal ball is something to remember. And what wines to wash them down with!--the delicious Lacryma Christi, the Falerno or Capri, the Chianti, the Sestio Levante or Asti. Asti is a green wine, rich, strong, and sweet. It makes people ill if they drink it before it is quite old enough--but perhaps it is not often served at royal banquets. Verdeaux was a favourite wine of Frederic the Great, but Victor Emmanuel's wine was the luscious _Monte Pulciano_. "Monte Pulciano d'ogni vino e il Re." The brilliant purple colour, like an amethyst, of this noble wine is unlike any other. The aromatic odour is delicious; its sweetness is tempered by an agreeable sharpness and astringency; it leaves a flattering flavour on the tongue. These best Italian wines have a deliciousness which eludes analysis, like the famous Monte Beni, which old Tommaso produced in a small straw-covered flask at the visit of Kenyon to Donatello. This invaluable wine was of a pale golden hue, like other of the rarest Italian wines, and if carelessly and irreligiously quaffed, might have been mistaken for a sort of champagne. It was not, however, an effervescing wine, although its delicate piquancy produced a somewhat similar effect upon the palate. Sipping, the guest longed to sip again, but the wine demanded so deliberate a pause in order to detect the hidden peculiarities, and subtile exquisiteness of its flavour, that to drink it was more a moral than a physical delight. There was a deliciousness in it which eluded description, and like whatever else that is superlatively good was perhaps better appreciated by the memory than by present consciousness. One of its most ethereal charms lay in the transitory life of the wine's richest qualities; for while it required a certain leisure and delay, yet if you lingered too long in the draught, it became disenchanted both of its fragrance and flavour. The lustre and colour should not be forgotten among the other good qualities of the Monte Beni wine, for "as it stood in Kenyon's glass, a little circle of light glowed on the table around about it as if it were really so much golden sunshine." There are few wines worthy of this beautiful eloquence of Hawthorne. The description bears transportation; the wine did not. The transportation of even a few miles turned it sour. That is the trouble with Italian wines. Monte Pulciano and Chianti do bear transportation. Italy sends much of the latter wine to New York. Italy has, however, never produced a really good dry wine, with all its vineyards. The dark Grignolino wine grown in the vineyards of Asterau and Monferrato possesses the remarkable quality of keeping better if diluted with fresh water. The Falernian from the Bay of Naples, is the wine of the poets, nor need we remind the classical scholar that the hills around Rome were formerly supposed to produce it. The loose, volcanic soil about Mount Vesuvius grows the grapes from which Lacryma Christi is produced. It is sometimes of a rich red colour, though white and sparkling varieties are produced. The Italians are supremely fond of _al fresco_ entertainments,--their fine climate making out-of-door eating very agreeable. How many a traveller remembers the breakfast or dinner in a vine-covered _loggia_ overhanging some splendid scene! It forms the subject of many a picture, from those which illustrate the stories of Boccaccio up to the beautiful sketch of Tasso, at the court of the Duc d'Este. The dangers of these feasts have been immortalized in verse and prose from Dante down, and Shakspeare has touched upon them twice. George Eliot describes one in a "_loggia_ joining on a garden, with all one side of the room open, and with numerous groups of trees and statues and avenues of box, high enough to hide an assassin," in her wonderful novel of Romola. In modern days, since the Borgias are all killed, no one need fear to eat out-of-doors in Italy. Not much can be said of the cookery of Spain. In the principal hotels of Spain one gets all the evils of both Spanish and Gascon cookery. Garlic is the favourite flavour, and the bad oil expressed from the olive, skin, seed and all, allowed to stand until it is rancid, is beloved of the Spanish, but hated by all other nations. I believe, however, that an _olla podrida_ made in a Spanish house is very good. It may not be inappropriate here to give two recipes for macaroni. The first, _macaroni au gratin_ is very rarely found good in an American house:-- Break two ounces of best Italian macaroni into a pint of highly seasoned stock, let it simmer until very tender. When done, toss it up with a small piece of butter, and add pepper and salt to taste; put in a large meat dish, sift over it some fried bread-crumbs, and serve. It will take about an hour to cook, and should be covered with the stock all the time. * * * * * _Macaroni with Parmesan cheese_: Boil two ounces of macaroni in half a pint of water, with an ounce of butter, until perfectly tender. If the water evaporates add a little more, taking care that the macaroni does not stick to the stewpan, or become broken. When it is done, drain away the water and stir in two ounces of good cheese grated, cayenne pepper and salt to taste. Keep stirring until the cheese is dissolved. Pour on to a hot dish and serve. A little butter may be stirred into the macaroni before the cheese, and is an improvement. Through the Riviera, and indeed in the south of France, one meets with many peculiar dishes. No one who has read Thackeray need be reminded of _bouillabaise_, that famous fish chowder of Marseilles. It is, however, only our chowder with much red pepper. A cook can try it if she chooses, and perhaps achieve it after many failures. There are so many very good dishes awaiting the efforts of a young American housewife, that she need not go out of her way to extemporize or explore. The best cook-book for foreign dishes is still the old Francatelli. The presence in our midst of Italian warehouses, adds an infinite resource to the housewife. Those stimulants to the appetite called _hors d'oeuvres_, we call them relishes, are much increased by studying the list of Italian delicacies. Anchovy or caviar, potted meat, grated tongue, potted cheese, herring salad, the inevitable olive, and many other delicacies could be mentioned which aid digestion, and make the plainest table inexpensively luxurious. The Italians have all sorts of delicate vegetables preserved in bottles, mixed and ready for use in a _jardinière_ dressing; also the best of cheeses, _gargonzala_, and of course the truffle, which they know how to cook so well. The Italians have conquered the art of cooking in oil, so that you do not taste the oil. It is something to live for, to eat their fried things. Speaking of the south of Europe reminds us of that wonderful bit of orientalism out of place, which is called Algiers, and which France has enamelled on her fabulous and many-coloured shield. Algiers has become not only a winter watering-place, high in favour with the traveller, but it is a great wine-growing country. The official statement of Lieut. Col. Sir R. L. Playfair, her Majesty's consul-general, may be read with interest, dated 1889: "Viticulture in Algeria, was in 1778 in its infancy; now nearly one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres are under cultivation with vines, and during the last year about nine hundred thousand hectolitres of wine were produced. In 1873 Mr. Eyre Ledyard, an English cultivator of the vine in Algeria, bought the property of Chateau Hydra near Algiers. He found on it five acres of old and badly planted vineyards, which produced about seven hogsheads of wine. He has extended this vineyard and carried on his work with great intelligence and industry. He cultivates the following varieties: the Mourvedie, of a red colour resembling Burgundy, Cariguan, giving a wine good, dark, and rough, Alicante or Grenache, Petit Bouschet, Cabernot and Côt, a Burgundy, Perian Lyra, Aramen, and St. Saux. Chasselas succeeds well; the grapes are exported to France for the table. Clairette produces abundantly and makes a good dry wine. Ainin Kelb, more correctly Ain Kelb, dog's-eye, is an Arab grape which makes a good strong wine, but which requires keeping. Muscat is a capricious bearer. From the two last-named varieties, sweet as well as dry wines are produced by adding large quantities of alcohol to the juice of the grape, and thus preventing fermentation. The crops yield quantities varying from seven hundred gallons per acre in rich land to four hundred on the hillside, except Cariguan which yields more. Aramen yields as much, but the quality is inferior. The red wines are sent to Bordeaux and Burgundy, to give strength and quality to the French clarets, as they are very useful for blending. The dry, white wine is rather stronger and fuller than that of France or Germany, and is much used to give additional value to the thinner qualities of Rhine wine. The cellars of Château Hydra, are now probably the best in the colony. They are excavated in the soft rock here incorrectly called tufa, in reality an aggregation of minutely pulverized shells; it is soft and sandy, and easily excavated. The surface becomes harder by exposure to the atmosphere, and it is not subject to crumbling. Mr. Ledyard has excavated extensive cells in this rock, in which extreme evenness of temperature is ensured,--a condition most necessary for the proper manufacture of wine. Mr. Eyre Ledyard's vineyards and cellars of the Chateau Hydra estate are now farmed by the _Société Anonyme Viticole et Vinicole d'Hydra_, of which Mr. Ledyard is chairman. These wines have been so successfully shipped to England and other countries that the company now buys grapes largely from the best vineyards, in order to make sufficient wines to meet the demand. The Hydra Company supplies wine to all vessels of the Ocean Company going to India and China. A very carefully prepared quinine white wine is made for invalids, and for use in countries where there is fever. I especially recommend a trial of this last excellent wine to Americans, as it is most agreeable as well as healthful. The postal address is M. Le Gerant, Hydra Caves, Birmandreis, Algiers. All the stories of Algiers read like tales of the Arabian Nights, and none is more poetic than the names and the story of these delicious wines. The Greek wines are well spoken of in Europe: Santorin, and Zante, and St. Elié, and Corinth, and Mount Hymettus, Vino Santo, and Cyprus, while from Magyar vineyards come Visontaè, Badescony, Dioszeg, Bakator, Rust, Szamorodni, Oedenburger, Ofner, and Tokay. The Hungarian wines are very heady. He must be a swashbuckler who drinks them. They are said to make the drinker grow fat. To this unhappy class Brillat Savarin gives the following precepts:-- "Drink every summer thirty bottles of seltzer water, a large tumbler the first thing in the morning, another before lunch, and the same at bedtime. "Drink white wines, especially those which are light and acid, and avoid beer as you would the plague. Ask frequently for radishes, artichokes with hot sauce, asparagus, celery; choose veal and fowl rather than beef and mutton, and eat as little of the crumb of bread as possible. "Avoid macaroni and pea soup, avoid farinaceous food under whatever form it assumes, and dispense with all sweets. At breakfast take brown bread, and chocolate rather than coffee." Indeed Brillat Savarin seems to have inspired this later poet:-- "Talk of the nectar that flowed for celestials Richer in headaches it was than hilarity! Well for us animals, frequently bestials, Hebe destroyed the recipe as a charity! Once I could empty my glass with the best of 'em, Somehow my system has suffered a shock o' late; Now I shun spirits, wine, beer, and the rest of 'em, Fill me, then fill me, a bumper of chocolate. "Once I drank logwood, and quassia and turpentine, Liqueurs with coxcubes, aloes, and gentian in, Sure, 't is no wonder my path became serpentine, Getting a state I should blush now to mention in. Farewell to Burgundy, farewell to Sillery, I have not tasted a drop e'en of Hock o' late, Long live the kettle, my dear old distillery, Fill me, oh fill me, a bumper of chocolate." As we cannot all drink chocolate, I recommend the carefully prepared white wine, with quinine in it, which comes from Chateau Hydra in Algiers, or some of the Italian wines, Barolo for instance, or the excellent native wines which are produced in Savoy. About Aix les Bains, where the cuisine is the best in Europe, many wines are manufactured which are honest wines with no headaches in them. SOME ODDITIES IN THE ART OF ENTERTAINING. "Comparisons are odorous." I prithee let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig nuts; Show thee a jay's nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmozet; I'll bring thee To clustering filberds, and sometimes I'll get thee Young staniels from the rocks. Wilt thou go with me? THE TEMPEST. In the lamb roasted whole we have one of the earliest dishes on record in the history of cookery. Stuffed with pistachio nuts, and served with pilaf, it illustrates the antiquity of the art, and at the same time gives an example of the food upon which millions of our fellow creatures are sustained. At a dinner of the Acclimatization Society in London, all manner of strange and new dishes were offered, even the meat of the horse. A roast monkey filled with chestnuts was declared to be delicious; the fawn of fallow deer was described as good; buffalo meat was not so highly commended; a red-deer ham was considered very succulent; a sirloin of bear was "tough, glutinous, and had, besides, a dreadful, half-aromatic, half-putrescent flavour, as though it had been rubbed with assafoetida and then hung for a month in a musk shop." We will not try bear unless we are put to it. However, at this same dinner--we read on--haunch of venison, saddle of mutton, roast beef of old England, which is really the roast beef which is of old Normandy now, all gave way to a Chinese lamb roasted whole, stuffed with pistachio nuts, and served with _consousson_, a preparation of wheat used among the Moors, Africans, and other natives of the north of Africa littoral, in place of rice. The Moorish young ladies are, it is said, fattened into beauty by an enforced meal of this strengthening compound. The _consousson_ is made into balls and stuffed into the mouths of the marriageable young lady, until she grows as tired of balls as a young belle of three seasons. In Spain, in those damp swamps near Valencia, where the poor are old before forty and die before forty-five, the best rice sells at eleven farthings, the poorest at eight farthings per pound. This, cooked with the ground dust of _pimientos_, or capsicums, is the foundation of every stew in the south of Spain. It is of a rich brick-dust hue, and is full of fire and flavour. Into this stew the cook puts the "reptiles of the sea" known as "spotted cats," "toads" and other oily fish, sold at two pence a pound, or the _vogar_, a silvery fish, or the _gallina_, a coarse fish, chick peas, garlic, pork, and sausages. If rich she will make an _olla podrida_ with bacon, fresh meat, potatoes, cabbages, and she will pour off the soup, calling it _caldo_, then the lumps of meat and bacon, called _cocida_, will be served next. Then the cigarette is smoked. If you are a king she will add a quince and an apple to the stew. Of puddings and pies they know nothing; but what fruit they have!--watermelons weighing fifteen pounds apiece; lemon pippins called _perillons_; crimson, yellow, and purple plums; purple and green figs; tomatoes by the million; carob beans, on which half the nation lives; small cucumbers and gourds; large black grapes, very sweet; white grapes and quinces; peaches in abundance; and all the chestnuts and filberts in the world. In the summer they eat goat's flesh; and on All Saints' Day they eat pork and chestnuts and sweet _babatas_ of Malaga. In exile, in Mexico and Florida, the Spaniard eats alligator, which could scarcely be called a game bird; but the flesh of young alligators' tails is very fair, and tastes like chicken if the tail is cut off immediately after death, and stewed. The frost fish of the Adirondacks is seldom tasted, except by those who have spent a winter in the North Woods. They are delicious when fried. There is a European fish as little known as this, the _Marena_, caught in Lake Moris in the province of Pomerania, also in one lake in southern Italy, which is very good. There are two birds known in Prussia, the bustard, and the kammel, the former a species of small ostrich, once considered very fine eating, the latter very tough, except under unusual conditions. The Chinese enjoy themselves by night. All their feasts and festivals are kept then, generally by moonlight. When a Chinaman is poor he can live on a farthing's worth of rice a day; when he gets rich he becomes the most luxurious of sybarites, indulges freely in the most _recherché_ delicacies of the table, and becomes, like any Roman voluptuary, corpulent and phlegmatic. A lady thus describes a Chinese dinner:-- "The hour was eleven A. M., the _locale_ a boat. Having heard much of the obnoxious stuff I was to eat, I adopted the prescription of a friend. 'Eat very little of any dish, and be a long time about it.' "We commenced with tea, and finished with soup. Some of the intermediate dishes were shark's-fin; birds' nests brought from Borneo, costing nearly a guinea a mouthful, fricassee of poodle, a little dog almost a pig; the fish of the conch-shell, a substance like wax or india rubber, which you might masticate but never mash; peacock's liver, very fine and _recherché_; putrid eggs, nevertheless very good; rice, of course, salted shrimps, baked almonds, cabbage in a variety of forms, green ginger, stewed fungi, fresh fish of a dozen kinds, onions _ad libitum_, salt duck cured like ham, and pig in every form, roast, boiled, and fried, Foo-Chow ham which seemed to me equal to Wiltshire. In fact, the Chinese excel in pork, though the English there never touch it, under the supposition that the pigs are fed on little babies. "But this is a libel. Of course a pig would eat a baby, as it would a rattlesnake if it came across one; but the Chinese are very particular about their swine and keep them penned up, rivalling the Dutch in their scrubbing and washing. They grow whole fields of taro and herbs for their pigs. And I do not believe that one porker in a million ever tastes a baby." This traveller's sympathies appear to be with the pig. "About two o'clock we arose from the table, walked about, looked out of the window. Large brass bowls were brought with water and towels. Each one proceeded to perform ablutions, the Chinese washing their heads; after which refreshing operation we resumed our seats and re-commenced with another description of tea. "Seven different sorts of Samchou we partook of, made from rice, from peas, from mangoes, cocoa-nut, all fermented liquors, and the mystery remained,--I was not inebriated. The Samchou was drunk warm in tiny cups, during the whole course of the dinner. "The whole was cooked without salt and tasted very insipid to me. The bird's-nest seemed like glue or isinglass, but the coxcombs were palatable. The dog-meat was like some very delicate gizzards well-stewed, and of a short, close fibre. The dish which I most fancied turned out to be rat. Upon taking a second help, after the first taste I got the head, which made me rather sick; but I consoled myself that when in California we ate ground squirrels which are first cousins to the flat-tailed rats; and travellers who would know the world must go in for manners and customs. We had tortoise and frogs,--a curry of the latter was superior to chicken; we had fowls' hearts, and the brains of some birds, snipe, I think. We had a chow-chow of mangoes, rambustan preserved, salted cucumber, sweet potatoes, yams, taro, all sorts of sweets made of rice sugar, and cocoa-nuts; and the soup which terminated the entertainment was certainly boiled tripe or some other internal arrangement; and I wished I had halted some little time before. The whole was eaten with chop-sticks or a spoon like a small spade or shovel. The sticks are made into a kind of fork, being held crosswise between the fingers. It is not the custom for the sexes to meet at meals; I dined with the ladies." This dinner has one suggestion for our hostesses,--it was in a boat, on a river, by torchlight. We can, however, give a better one on a yacht at Newport, or at New London, or down on the Florida coast; but it would be a pretty fancy to give it on our river. It is curious to see what varieties there are in the art of entertaining; and it is useful to remember, when in Florida, "that alligators' tails are as good, when stewed, as chicken." The eating of the past included, under the Romans, the ass, the dog, the snail, hedge-hogs, oysters, asparagus, venison, wild-boar, sea-nettles. In England, in 1272, the hostess offered strange dishes: mallards, herons, swans, crane, and peacock. The peacock was, of old, a right royal bird which figured splendidly at the banquets of the great, and this is how the mediæval cooks dished up the dainty:-- "Flay off the skin, with the feathers, tail, neck, and head thereon. Then take the skin and all the feathers and lay it on the table, strewing thereon ground cumin; then take the peacock and roast him, and baste him with raw yolks of eggs, and when he is roasted take him off and let him cool awhile. Then sew him in his skin, and gild his comb, and so send him forth for the last course." Our Saxon ancestors were very fond, like the Spaniards, of putting everything into the same pot; and we read of stews that make the blood boil. Travellers tell us of dining with the Esquimaux, on a field of ice, when tallow candles were considered delicious, or they found their plates loaded with liver of the walrus. They vary their dinners by helping themselves to a lump of whale-meat, red and coarse and rancid, but very toothsome to an Esquimau, notwithstanding. If they should sit down to a Greenlander's table they would find it groaning under a dish of half-putrid whale's tail, which has been lauded as a savoury matter, not unlike cream cheese; and the liver of a porpoise makes the mouth water. They may finish their repast with a slice of reindeer, or roasted rat, and drink to their host in a bumper of train oil. In South America the tongue of a sea-lion is esteemed a great delicacy. Fashion in Siam prescribes a curry of ants' eggs as necessary to every well-ordered banquet. The eggs are not larger than grains of pepper, and to an unaccustomed palate have no particular flavour. Besides being curried, they are brought to table rolled in green leaves mingled with shreds or very fine slices of pork. The Mexicans make a species of bread of the eggs of insects which frequent the fresh water of the lagoons. The natives cultivate in the lagoon of Chalco a sort of carex called _tonte_, on which the insects deposit their eggs very freely. This carex is made into bundles and is soon covered. The eggs are disengaged, beaten, dried, and pounded into flour. Penguins' eggs, cormorants' eggs, gulls' eggs, the eggs of the albatross, turtles' eggs are all made subservient to the table. The mother turtle deposits her eggs, about a hundred at a time, in the dry sand, and leaves them to be hatched by the genial sun. The Indian tribes who live on the banks of the Orinoco procure from them a sweet and limpid oil which is their substitute for butter. Lizards' eggs are regarded as a _bonne bouche_ in the South Sea Islands, and the eggs of the _guana_, a species of lizard, are much favoured by West Indians. Alligators' eggs are eaten in the Antilles and resemble hens' eggs in size and shape. We have spoken of horse-flesh as introduced at the dinner of the Acclimatization Society, but it is hardly known that the Frenchmen have tried to make it as common as beef. Isidore St. Helain says of it, that it has long been regarded as of a sweetish, disagreeable taste, very tough, and not to be eaten without difficulty; but so many different facts are opposed to this prejudice that it is impossible not to perceive the slightness of the foundation. The free or wild horse is hunted as game in all parts of the world where it exists,--Asia, Africa, and America, and perhaps even now in Europe. The domestic horse is itself made use of for alimentary purposes in all those countries. "Its flesh is relished by races the most diverse,--Negro, Mongol, Malay, American, Caucasian. It was much esteemed until the eighth century amongst the ancestors of some of the greatest nations of Western Europe, who had it in general use and gave it up with regret. Soldiers to whom it has been served out and people who have bought it in markets, have taken it for beef; and many people buy it daily in Paris for venison." During the commune many people were glad enough to get horse-flesh for the roast. Locusts are eaten by many tribes of North American Indians, and there is no reason why they should not be very good. The bushmen of Africa rejoice in roasting spiders; maggots tickle the palates of the Australian aborigines; and the Chinese feast on the chrysalis of a silk-worm. If this is what they ate, what then did they drink? No thin potations, no half-filled cups for the early English. Wine-bibbers and beer-bibbers, three-bottle men they were down to one hundred years ago. Provocatives of drink were called "shoeing horses," "whetters," "drawers off and pullers on." Massinger puts forth a curious test of these provocatives:-- "I asked Such an unexpected dainty bit for breakfast As never yet I cooked; 'tis red _botargo_, Fried frogs, potatoes marroned, _cavear_, Carps' tongues, the pith of an English chine of beef, Now one Italian delicate wild mushroom, And yet a drawer on too; and if you show not An appetite, and a strong one, I'll not say To eat it, but devour it, without grace too, For it will not stay a preface. I am shamed, And all my past provocatives will be jeered at." Ben Jonson affords us many a glimpse of the drinking habits of all classes in his day. After the Restoration, England seems to have abandoned herself to one great saturnalia, and men drank deeply, from the king down. The novels of Fielding and Smollett are full of the wildest debauchery and drunken extravagance. Statesmen drank deep at their councils, ladies drank in their boudoirs, the criminal on his way to Tyburn stopped to drink a parting glass. Hogarth in his wonderful pictures has held the mirror up to society to show how general was the shame, how terrible the curse. In Germany the _Baierisch bier_, drunk out of _biergläschen_ ornamented as they are with engraved wreaths, "_Zum Andenken_," "_Aus Freundschaft_," and other little bits of national harmless sentiment, has come down from the remotest antiquity, and has never failed to provoke quiet and decorous, if sleepy hilarity. We are afraid that the "Dew of Ben Nevis" is not so peaceful, nor the juice of the juniper, nor New England rum, nor the _aquadiente_ of the Mexican, nor the _vodka_ of the Russian. All these have the most terrible wild madness in them. To the honour of civilization, it is no longer the fashion to drink to excess. The vice of drunkenness rarely meets the eye of a refined woman; and let us hope that less and less may it be the bane of society, the disgrace of the art of entertaining. THE SERVANT QUESTION. Verily I swear, 't is better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perked up in a glistering grief And wear a golden sorrow. HENRY VIII. It is impossible to do much with the art of entertaining without servants, and where shall we get them? In a country village, not two hundred miles from New York, I have seen well-to-do citizens going to a little restaurant in the main street for their dinners during an entire summer, because they could not get women to stay in their houses as servants. They are willing to pay high wages, they are generous livers, but such a thing as domestic service is out of the question. If any lady comes from the city bringing two or three maids, they are of far more interest in the village than their mistress, and are besieged, waited upon, intrigued with, to leave their place, to come and serve the village lady. What is the reason? The American farmer's daughter will not go out to service, will not be called a servant, will not work in another person's house as she will in her own. The Irish maid prefers the town, and dislikes the country, where there is no Catholic church. Such a story repeated all over the land is the story of American service. We have, however, every day, ships arriving in New York harbour which pour out on our shores the poor of all nations. The men seem to take readily enough to any sort of work. Italians shovel snow and work on railroads, but their wives and daughters make poor domestic servants. The best that we can get are the Irish who have been long in the country. Then come the Germans, who now outnumber the Irish. French, Swedes, Danes, Norwegians, all come in shoals. Of all these the French are by far the best. Of course, as cooks they are unrivalled; as butler, waiter, footman, a well-trained French serving-man is the very best. He is neat, economical, and respectful. He knows his value and he is very expensive. But if you can afford him, take him and keep him. French maids are admirable as seamstresses, and in all the best and highest walks of domestic service, but they are difficult as to the other servants. They make trouble about their food; they do not tell the truth, as a rule. A good Irish nurse is the best and most tender, the most to be relied on. Children love Irish servants; it is the best recommendation we can give them. They are not good cooks as a rule, and are wanting in head, management, and neatness; but they are willing; and a wise mistress can make of them almost anything she desires. The Germans surpass them very much in thrift and in concentration, but the Germans are stolid, and very far from being as gentle and willing as the Irish. If a housekeeper gets a number of German servants in training and thinks them perfect, she need not be astonished if some fine morning she rises and finds them gone off to parts unknown. The Swedes are more reliable up to a certain point; they are never stupid, they are rather fantastic, and very eccentric. They are also full of poetry, and indulge in sublime longings. The Swedish language is made up of eloquence and poetry as soft as the Italian; it has also something of the flow and the magnificence of the Spanish. It is freighted with picturesque and brilliant metaphor, and is richer than ours in its expressions of gentleness, politeness, and courtesy. They have a great talent for arguing with gentleness and courtesy, and of protesting with politeness, and they learn our language with singular ease. I once had a Swedish maid who argued me out of my desire to have the dining-room swept, in better language than I could use myself. One must, in hiring servants, take into account all these national characteristics. The Swedes are full of talent, they can do your work if they wish to, but ten chances to one they do not wish to. Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. were two types of Swedish character. The Swedes of to-day, like them, are full of dignity and lofty aspiration; they love brilliant display; they have audacious and adventurous spirits; one can imagine them marching to victory; but all this makes them, in this country, "too smart" to be servants. They are excellent cooks. A Swedish woman formerly came to my house to cook for dinner parties, and she was equal to any French _chef_. Her price was five dollars; she would do all my marketing for me, and serve the dinner most perfectly,--that is, render it up to the men waiters. I rarely had any fault to find; if I had, it was I who was in the wrong. She came often to instruct my Irish cook; but had I attempted any further intercourse, I felt that it would have been I who would have had to leave the house, and not my excellent cook. They have every qualification for service excepting this: they will not obey,--they are captains. The Norwegians are very different. We must again remember that at home they are poor, frugal, religious, and capable of all sacrifice; they will work patiently here for seven years in order to go back to Norway, to that poetical land, whose beauty is so unspeakable. These girls who come from the herds, who have spent the summer on the plains in a small hut and alone, making butter and cheese, are strong, patient, handsome, fresh creatures, with voices as sweet as lutes, and most obedient and good,--their thoughts ever of father and mother and home. Would there were more of them. If they were a little less awkward in an American house they would be perfect. As for the men, they are the best farm-laborers in the world. They have a high, noble, patient courage, a very slow mind, and are fond of argument. The Norwegian is the Scotchman of Scandinavia, as the Swede is the Irishman. There are no better adopted citizens than the Norwegians, but they live here only to go back to Norway when they have made enough. Deeply religious, they are neither narrow nor ignoble. They would be perfect servants if well trained. The Danes are not so simple; they are a mercantile people, and are desperately fond of bargaining. They are also, however, most interesting. Their taste for art is vastly more developed than that of either the Swedes or the Norwegians. A Danish parlour-maid will arrange the _bric-à-brac_ and stand and look at it. To go higher in their home history, they are making great painters. As servants they are hardly known enough amongst us to be criticised; those I have seen have been neat, faithful, and far more obedient than their cleverer Swedish sisters. Could I have my choice for servants about a country house they should be Norwegians, in a city house, French. In Chicago, the ladies speak highly of the German servants, if they do not happen to be Nihilists, which is a dreadful possibility. At the South they still have the negro, most excellent when good, most objectionable when bad. Certainly freedom has not improved him as to manners, and a coloured coachman in Washington can be far more disagreeable than an Irishman, or a French cabby during the Exposition, which is saying a great deal. The excellence, the superiority, the respectful manners of English servants at home has induced many ladies to bring over parlour maids, nurses, cooks, from England, with, however, but small success. I need but copy the following from the "London Queen," to show how different is the way of speaking of a servant, and to a servant in London from that which obtains in New York. It is _verbatim_:-- "The servants should rise at six-thirty, and the cook a little earlier; she then lights the kitchen fire, opens the house, sweeps the hall, cleans the steps, prepares upstairs and downstairs breakfast. Meantime the house parlourmaid does the dining-room, takes up hot water to bedrooms, lays the table, and so forth, while the housemaid dusts the day nursery and takes up the children's breakfast. Supposing the family breakfast is not wanted before eight-thirty, that meal should be taken, in both kitchen and nursery, before eight o'clock. As soon as this is over the cook must tidy her kitchen, look over her stores, contents of pantry, etc., and be ready by nine-thirty to take her orders for the day. She will answer the kitchen bell at all times, and perhaps the front door in the morning, and will be answerable besides for ordinary kitchen work, for the hall, kitchen stairs, all the basement, and according to arrangement possibly the dining-room. She must have fixed days for doing the above work, cleaning tins, etc. The cook also clears away the breakfast. As soon as the housemaid has taken up the family breakfast, she, the housemaid, must begin the bedrooms, where the second scullery-maid may help her as soon as she has done helping the cook. The house parlour-maid will be responsible for the drawing-room and sitting-room and all the bedrooms, also stairs and landing, having regular days for cleaning out one of each weekly, being helped by the second scullery-maid. She should be dressed in time for lunch, wait on it, and clear away. She will answer the front door in the afternoon, take up five o'clock tea, lay the table and wait at dinner. The scullery maid must clear the kitchen meals and help in all the washing up, take up nursery tea, help the cook prepare late dinner, carry up the dishes for late dinner, clear and wash up kitchen supper. The nurse has her dinner in the kitchen. Servants' meals should be breakfast, before the family, dinner directly after upstairs lunch, tea at five, supper at nine. They should go to bed regularly at ten o'clock. Now as to their fare. For breakfast a little bacon or an egg, or some smoked fish; for dinner, meat, vegetables, potatoes, and pudding. If a joint has been sent up for lunch, it is usual for it to go down to the servants' table. "Allow one pint and a half of beer to each servant who asks for it, or one bottle. Tea, butter, and sugar are given out to them. The weekly bills for the servants shall be about two dollars and a half." The neatness of all this careful housekeeping would be delightful if it could be carried out with us, or if the servant would accept it. But imagine a New York mistress achieving it! The independent voter would revolt, his wife would never accept it. English servants lose all their good manners when they come over here, and do not appear at all as they do in London. American servants are always expected to eat what goes down from the master's table, and there is no such thing as making one servant wait upon another in our free and independent country. There are households in America where many servants are kept in order by a very clever mistress, but it is rarely an order which lasts for long. It is a vexed question, and the freedom with which we take a servant, without knowing much of her character, must explain a great deal of it. Foreign servants find out soon their legal rights, and their importance. Here where labour is scarce, it is not so easy to get a good footman, parlour maid, or cook; the great variety and antipathy of race comes in. The Irishman will not work on a railroad with the Italian, and we all know the history of the "Heathen Chinee." That is repeated in every household. Mr. Winans, in Scotland, hires a place which reaches from the North Sea to the Atlantic; he spends two hundred thousand dollars a year on it. He has perhaps three hundred servants, every one of them perfect. Imagine his having such a place here! How many good servants could he find; how long would they stay? How long does a French _chef_, at ten thousand dollars a year, stay? Only one year. He prefers to return to France. Indeed, French servants, poorly paid and very poorly fed at home, are the hardest to keep in this country; they all wish to go back. It is a curious fact that they grow impertinent and do not seem to enjoy the life. They go back to Europe, and resume their good manners as if nothing had happened. It must be in the air. It is, however, possible for a lady to get good servants and to keep them for a while, if she has great executive ability and a natural leadership; but the whole question is one which has not yet been at all mastered. There is no "hook and eye" between the ship loaded down with those who want work and those who want work done. The great lack of respect in the manners of servants in hotels is especially noticeable to one returning from Europe. A woman, a sort of care-taker on a third-story floor, will sing while a lady is talking to her, not because she wishes to sing at all, but to establish her independence. In Europe she would say, "Yes, my Lady," or "No, my Lady" when spoken to. It is to be feared that the Declaration of Independence is between us and good service. We must be content if we find one or two amiable Irish, or old negroes, who will serve us because of the love they bear us, and for our children's sake, whom they love as if they were their very own. This is, however, but taking the seamy side, and the humbler side. Many opulent people in America employ thirty servants, and their house goes on with much of European elegance. It is not unusual in a fine New York house to find a butler and four men in the dining-room; a _chef_ and his assistants in the kitchen; a head groom and his men in the stables; a coachman, who is a very important functionary; and three women in the nursery besides the nursery governess, who acts as the amanuensis of the lady; the lady's maid, whose sole duty is to wait on her lady, and perhaps her young lady; a parlour maid or two; and two chambermaids, a laundress and her assistants. Of course the men in such a vast establishment do not sleep in the house, perhaps with one or two exceptions; the valet and the head footman may be kept at home, as they may be needed in the night, for errands, etc. But our American houses are not built to accommodate so many. One lady, the head of such an establishment, said that she had "never seen her laundress." A different staircase led to the servants' room; her maid did all the interviewing with this important personage. If a lady can find a competent housekeeper to direct this large household, it is all very well, but that is yet almost impossible, and the life of a fashionable woman in New York, who is the head of such a house, is apt to be slavery. The housekeeper and the butler are seldom friends, therefore the hostess has to reconcile these two conflicting powers before she can give a dinner; the head footman walks off disgusted and leaves a vacant place, etc. The households of men of foreign birth, who understand dealing with different nationalities, are apt to get on very well with thirty servants; doubtless such men import their own servants. In a household where one man alone is kept, he is expected to open the front door and to do all the work of the dining-room, and must have an assistant in the pantry. The cook, if a woman, generally demands and needs one; if a man, he demands two, for a _chef_ will not do any of the menial work of cookery. He is a pampered official. In England, the housekeeper engages the servants and supervises them. She has charge of the stores and the house linen, and in general is responsible for the economical and exact management of all household details, and for the comfort of guests and the family. She is expected to see that her employers are not cheated, and this in our country makes her unpopular. A bad housekeeper is worse than none, as of course her powers of stealing are endless. The butler is responsible for the silver and wine. He must be absolute over the footman. It is he who directs the carving and passing of dishes, and then stands behind the chair of his mistress. All the men-servants must be clean shaven; none are permitted to wear a mustache, that being the privilege of the gentlemen. A lady's maid is not expected to do her own washing, or make her own bed in Europe; but in this country, being required to do all that, and to eat with the other servants, she is apt to complain. A French maid always complains of the table. She must dress hair, understand dress-making, and clear starching, be a good packer, and always at hand to dress her lady and to sit up for her when she returns from parties. Her wages are very high and she is apt to become a tyrant. It is very difficult to define for an American household the duties of servants, which are so well defined in England and on the continent. Every lady has her own individual ideas on this subject, and servants have _their_ individual ideas, which they do not have in Europe. I heard an opulent gentleman who kept four men-servants in his house, and three in his stable, complain one snowy winter that he had not one who would shovel snow from his steps, each objecting that it was not his business; so he wrote a note to a friendly black man, who came around, and rendered it possible for the master of the house to go down to business. This was an extreme case, but it illustrates one of the phases of our curious civilization. The butler is the important person, and it will be well for the lady to hold him responsible; he should see to it that the footmen are neat and clean. Most servants in American houses wear black dress-coats, and white cravats, but some of our very rich men have now all their flunkies in livery, a sort of cut-away dress-coat, a waistcoat of another colour, small clothes, long stockings, and low shoes. Powdered footmen have not yet appeared. If we were in England we should say that the head footman is to attend the door, and in houses where much visiting goes on he could hardly do anything more. Ladies, however, simplify this process by keeping a "buttons," a small boy, who has, as Dickens says, "broken out in an eruption of buttons" on his jacket, who sits the livelong day the slave of the bell. The second man seems to do all the work, such as scrubbing silver, sweeping, arranging the fireplaces, and washing dishes; and what the third man does, except to black boots, I have never been able to discover. I think he serves as valet to the gentlemen and the growing boys, runs with notes, and is "Jeames Yellowplush" generally. I was once taken over her vast establishment by an English countess, who was most kind in explaining to me her domestic arrangements; but I did not think she knew herself what that third man did. I noticed that there were always several footmen waiting at dinner. "They also serve who only stand and wait." One thing I do remember in the housekeeper's room. There sat a very grand dame carving, and giving the servants their dinner. She rose and stood while my lady spoke to her, but at a wave of the hand from the countess all the others remained seated. The butler was at the other end of the table looking very sheepish. The dinner was a boiled leg of mutton, and some sort of meat pie, and a huge Yorkshire pudding,--no vegetables but potatoes; pitchers of ale, and bread and cheese, finished this meal. The third footman, I remember, brought in afternoon tea; perhaps he filled that place which is described in one of Miss Mulock's novels:-- "Dolly was hired as an off maid, to do everything which the other servants would not do." The etiquette of the stable servants was also explained to me in England. The coachman is as powerful a person in the equine realm as is the butler in the house. The head groom and his assistants always raise their finger to their hats when spoken to by master, or mistress, or the younger members of the family, or visitors, and in the case of royalty all stand with hats off, the coachman on the box slightly raising his, until the Prince of Wales, or his peers, are seated. In some houses I was told that the upper servants had their meals prepared by a kitchen maid, and that they had a different table from the scullery maids. The nursery governess was a person to be pitied; she was an educated girl, still the servant of the head nurse. She passed her entire life with the children, yet ate by herself, unless perhaps with the very young children. The head governess ate luncheon with the family, and came in to the parlour with the young ladies in the evening. Generally this personage was expected to sing and play for the amusement of the company. Now, imagine a set of servants thus trained, brought to America. The men soon learn that their vote is as good as the master's, and if they are Irishmen it is a great deal better. They soon cease to be respectful. This is the first break in the chain. A man, a Senator, was asked out to dinner in Albany; the lady of the house said, "I have a great respect for Senator ----; he used to wait on this table." That is a glorious thing for the flag, for the United States, but there is a missing link in the golden chain of household order. It is a difficult task to produce here the harmony of an English household. Our service at home is like our diplomatic service; we have no trained diplomats, no gradation of service, but in the case of our foreign ministers, they have risen to be the best in the world. We have plenty of talent at top; it is the root of the tree which puzzles us. We may make up our minds that no longer will the American girl go out to service. It is a thousand pities that she will not. It is not ignoble to do household work well. The châtelaines of the Middle Ages cooked and served the meals with their own fair hands. Training-schools are greatly needed; we should follow the nurses' training-school. Our dinner-tables in America are generally long and narrow, fitted to the shape of the dining-room. Once I saw in England, in a great house, a table so narrow that one could almost have shaken hands with one's opposite neighbour. The ornaments were high, slender vases filled with grasses and orchids, far above our heads. One or two matchless ornaments of Dresden, the gifts of monarchs, alone ornamented the table. This was a very sociable dinner-table and rather pleasing. Then came the round table, so vast that the footmen must have mounted up on it to place the centre piece, like poor distraught Lady Caroline Lamb, whose husband came in to find her walking up and down the table, telling the butler to "produce pyramidal effects." There is also the fine broad parallelogram, suited to a baronial hall; and this is copied in our best country houses. As no conversation of a confidential character is ever allowed at an English table until all the servants have left the room, so it is not considered good-breeding to allow a servant to talk to the mistress or the young ladies of what she hears in the servants' hall. The gossip of couriers and maids at a foreign watering-place reaches American ears, and unluckily gets into American newspapers sometimes. It is a wise precaution on the part of the English never to listen to this. As we have conquered everything else in America, perhaps we shall conquer the servant question, to the advantage of both parties. We should try to keep our servants a longer time with us. There are some houses where the law of change goes on forever, and there are some where the domestic machine runs without friction. The hostess may be a person with a talent for governing, and may be inspired with a sixth sense. If she is she can make her composite family respectful, helpful, and happy; but it must be confessed that it is as yet a vexed question, one which gives us trouble and will give us more. Those people are the happiest who can get on with three or four servants, and very many families live well and elegantly with this number, while more live well with two. To mark the difference in feeling as between those who employ and those who serve, one little anecdote may apply. At a watering-place in Europe I once met an English family, of the middle class. The lady said to her maid, "Bromley, your master wishes you to be in at nine o'clock this evening." Bromley said, "Yes, my lady." An American lady stood near with her maid, who flushed deeply. "What is the matter, Jane?" asked her lady. "I never could stand having any one called my master," said the American. This intimate nerve of self-love, this egotism, this false idea of independence affects women more than men, and in a country where both can go from the humblest position to the highest, it produces a "glistering grief." The difficulty of getting good servants prevents many families from keeping house. It brings on us the foreign reproach that we live in hotels and boarding-houses. It is at this moment the great unsolved American Question. What shall we do with it? SOMETHING ABOUT COOKS. "Last night I weighed, quite wearied out, The question that perplexes still; And that sad spirit we call doubt Made the good naught beside the ill. "This morning, when with rested mind, I try again the selfsame theme, The whole is altered, and I find The balance turned, the good supreme." What amateur cook has not had these moments of depression and exaltation as she has weighed the flour and sugar, stoned the raisins, and mixed the cake, or, even worse in her young novitiate, has attempted to make a soup and has begun with the formula which so often turns out badly:-- "Take a shin of beef and put it in a pot with three dozen carrots, a dozen onions, two dozen pieces of celery, twelve turnips, a fowl, and two partridges. It must simmer six hours, etc." Yes, and last week and the week before her husband said, "it was miserable." How willingly would she allow the claim of that glorious old coxcomb, Louis Eustache Ude, who had been cook to two French kings and never forgave the world for not permitting him to call himself an artist. "Scrapers of catgut," he says, "call themselves artists, and fellows who jump like a kangaroo claim the title; yet the man who has under his sole direction the great feasts given by the nobility of England to the allied sovereigns, and who superintended the grand banquet at Crockford's on the occasion of the coronation of Victoria, was denied the title prodigally showered on singers, dancers, and comedians, whose only quality, not requiring the microscope to discern, is vanity." Ude was the most eccentric of cooks. He was _maître d'hôtel_ to the Duke of York, who delighted in his anecdotes and mimicry. In his book, which he claims is the only work which gives due dignity to the great art, he says: "The chief fault in all great peoples' cooks is that they are too profuse in their preparations. Suppers are after all only ridiculous proofs of the extravagance and bad taste of the givers." He mentions great wastes which have seared his already seared conscience thus: "I have known balls where the next day, in spite of the pillage of a pack of footmen, which was enormous, I have seen thirty hams, one hundred and fifty to two hundred carved fowls, and forty or fifty tongues given away. Jellies melt on all the tables; pastries, patties, aspics, and lobster salads are heaped up in the kitchen and strewed about in the passages; and all this an utter waste, for not even the footmen would eat this; they do not consider it a legitimate repast to dine off the remnants of a last night's feast. Footmen are like cats; they only like what they steal, but are indifferent to what is given them." This was written by the cook of the bankrupt Duke of York, noted for his extravagance; but how well it would apply to-day to the banquet of many a _nouveau riche_, to how many a hotel, to how much of our American housekeeping. Ude was a poet and an enthusiast. Colonel Damer met him walking up and down at Crockford's in a great rage, and asked what was the matter. "Matter! _Ma foi!_" answered he; "you saw that man just gone out? Well he ordered red mullet for his dinner. I made him a delicious little sauce with my own hand. The mullet was marked on the carte two shillings. I added sixpence for the sauce. He refuses to pay sixpence for the sauce. The imbecile! He seems to think red mullets come out of the sea with my sauce in their pockets." Carême, one of the greatest of French cooks, became eminent by inventing a sauce for fast-days. He then devoted several years to the science of roasting in all its branches. He studied design and elegance under Robert Lainé. His career was one of victory after victory. He nurtured the Emperor Alexander, kept alive Talleyrand through "that long disease, his life," fostered Lord Londonderry, and delighted the Princess Belgratine. A salary of a thousand pounds a year induced him to become _chef_ to the Regent; but he left Carlton House, he would return to France. The Regent was inconsolable, but Carême was implacable. "No," said the true patriot, "my soul is French, and I can only exist in France." Carême, therefore, overcome by his feelings, accepted an unprecedented salary from Baron Rothschild and settled in Paris. Lady Morgan, dining at the Baron's villa in 1830, has left us a sketch of a dinner by Carême which is so well done that, although I have already alluded to it, I will copy _verbatim_: "It was a very sultry evening, but the Baron's dining-room stood apart from the house and was shaded by orange trees. In the oblong pavilion of Grecian marble refreshed by fountains, no gold or silver heated or dazzled the eye, but porcelain beyond the price of all precious metals. There was no high-spiced sauce in the dinner, no dark-brown gravy, no flavour of cayenne and allspice, no tincture of catsup and walnut pickle, no visible agency of those vulgar elements of cooking of the good old times, fire and water. Distillations of the most delicate viands had been extracted in silver, with chemical precision. Every meat presented its own aroma,"--it was not cooked in a gas stove,--"every vegetable its own shade of verdure. The mayonnaise was fixed in ice, like Ninon's description of Sevigné's heart, '_une citronille frité à la neige_.' The tempered chill of the _plombière_ which held the place of the eternal _fondus_ and _soufflets_ of our English tables, anticipated and broke the stronger shock of the exquisite avalanche, which, with the hue and odour of fresh-gathered nectarines, satisfied every sense and dissipated every coarser flavour. With less genius than went to the composition of that dinner, men have written epic poems." Comparing Carême with the great Beauvilliers, the greatest restaurant cook in Paris from 1782 to 1815, a great authority in the matter says: "There was more _aplomb_ in the touch of Beauvilliers, more curious felicity in Carême's. Beauvilliers was great in an _entrée_, Carême sublime in an _entremet_; we should put Beauvilliers against the world for a _rôti_, but should wish Carême to prepare the sauce were we under the necessity of eating an elephant or our great grandfather." Vatel was the great Condé's cook who killed himself because the turbot did not arrive. Madame de Sevigné relates the event with her usual clearness. Louis XIV. had long promised a visit to the great Condé at Chantilly, the very estate which the Duc d'Aumale has so recently given back to France, but postponed it from time to time fearing to cause Condé trouble by the sudden influx of a gay and numerous retinue. The old château had become a trifle dull and a trifle mouldy, but it got itself brushed up. Vatel was cook, and his first mortification was that the roast was wanting at several tables. It seemed to him that his great master the captain would be dishonoured, but the king had brought a larger retinue than he had promised. "He had thought of nothing but to make this visit a great success." Gourville, one of the prince's household, finding Vatel so excited, asked the prince to reassure him, which he did very kindly, telling him that the king was delighted with his supper. But Vatel mournfully answered: "Monseigneur, your kindness overpowers me, but the roast was wanting at two tables." The next morning he arose at five to superintend the king's dinner. The purveyor of fish was at the door with only two baskets. "And is this all?" asked Vatel. "Yes," said the sleepy man. Vatel waited at the gates an hour; no more fish. Two or three hundred guests, and only two packages. He whispered to himself, "The joke in Paris will be that Vatel tried to save the prince the price of two red mullets a month." His hand fell on his rapier hilt, he rushed up-stairs, fell on the blade; as he expired the cart loaded with turbot came into the yard. Voila! Times have changed. Cooks now prefer living on their masters to dying for them. The Prince de Loubise, inventor of a sauce the discovery of which has made him more glorious than twenty victories, asked his cook to draw him up a bill of fare, a sort of rough estimate for a supper. Bertrand's first estimate was fifty hams. "What, Bertrand! Are you going to feast the whole army of the Rhine? Your brains are surely turning." Bertrand was blandly contemptuous. "My brains are surely turning? No, Monseigneur, only one ham will appear on the table, but the rest are indispensable for my _espagnoles_, my garnishing." "Bertrand, you are plundering me," stormed the prince. "This article shall not pass." The blood of the cook was up. "My lord," said he, sternly, "you do not understand the resources of our art. Give the word and I will so melt down these hams that they will go into a little glass bottle no bigger than my thumb." The prince was abashed by the genius of the spit, and the fifty hams were purchased. The Duke of Wellington liked a good dinner, and employed an artist named Felix. Lord Seaforth, finding Felix too expensive, allowed him to go to the Iron Duke, but Felix came back with tears in his eyes. "What is the matter," said Lord Seaforth; "has the Duke turned rusty?" "No, no, my lord! but I serve him a dinner which would make Francatelli or Ude die of envy, and he say nothing. I go to the country and leave him to try a dinner cooked by a stupid, dirty cook-maid, and he say nothing; that is what hurt my feelings." Felix lived on approbation; he would have been capable of dying like Vatel. Going last winter to see _le Bourgeoise Gentilhomme_ at the Comédie Française, I was struck with the novelty of the dinner served by this hero of Molière's who is so anxious to get rid of his money. All the dishes were brought in by little fellows dressed as cooks, who danced to the minuet. In a later faithful chronicle I learn that a certain marquis of the days of Louis XVI. invented a musical spit which caused all the snowy-garbed cooks to move in rhythmical steps. All was melody and order. "The fish simmered in six-eight time, the ponderous roasts circled gravely, the stews blended their essences to solemn anthems. The ears were gratified as the nose was regaled; this was an idea worthy of Apecius." So Molière, true to the spirit of his time, paid this compliment to the Marquis. Béchamel was cook to Louis XIV., and invented a famous sauce. Durand, who was cook to the great Napoleon, has left a curious record of his tempestuous eating. Francatelli succeeded Ude in England, was the _chef_ at Chesterfield House, at Lord Kinnaird's, and at the Melton Club. He held the post of _maître d'hôtel_ for a while but was dismissed by a cabal. The gay writer from whose pages we have gathered these desultory facts winds up with an advice to all who keep French cooks. "Make your _chef_ your friend. Take care of him. Watch over the health of this man of genius. Send for the physician when he is ill." Imagine the descent from these poets to the good plain cook,--you can depend upon the truth of this description,--with a six weeks' reference from her last place. Imagine the greasy soups, the mutton cutlets hard as a board, the few hard green peas, the soggy potatoes. How awful the recollections of one who came in "a week on trial!" Whose trial? Those who had to eat her food. It is bad to be without a cook, but ten times worse to have a bad one. But if Louis Eustache Ude, the cook _par excellence_ of all this little study, lamented over the waste in great kitchens, how much more should he revolt at that wholesale destruction of food which might go to feed the hungry, nourish and sustain the sick, and perhaps save many a child's life. What should be done with the broken meats of a great household? The cook is too apt to toss all into a tub or basket, to swell her own iniquitous profits. The half-tongues, ends of ham, roast beef, chicken-legs, the real honest relics of a generous kitchen would feed four or five poor families a week. What gifts of mercy to hospitals would be the half of a form of jelly, the pudding, the blanc mange, which are thrown away by the careless! In France the Little Sisters of the Poor go about with clean dishes and clean baskets, to collect these morsels which fall from the rich man's table. It is a worthy custom. While studying the names of these great men like Ude and Carême, Vatel and Francatelli, what shades of dead _pâtissiers_, spirits of extinct _confiseurs_, rise around us in savoury streams and revive for us the past of gastronomic pleasure! Many a Frenchman will tell you of the iced meringues of the Palais Royal and the _salades de fraises au marasquin_ of the Grand Seize as if they were things of the past. The French, gayer and lighter handed at the moulding of pastry, are apt to exceed all nations in this delicate, delicious _entremet_. The _vol au vent de volaille_, or chicken pie, with its delicate filling of chicken, mushroom, truffles, and its enveloping pastry, is never better than at the Grand Hôtel at Aix les Bains, where one finds the perfection of good eating. "Aix les Bains," says a resident physician, "lies half-way between Paris and Rome, with its famous curative baths to correct the good dinners of the one, and the good wines of the other." Aix adds a temptation of its own. The French have ever been fond of the playthings of the kitchen,--the tarts, custards, the frothy nothings which are fashioned out of the evanescent union of whipped cream and spun sugar. Their politeness, their brag, their accomplishments, their love of the external, all lead to such dainties. It was observed even so long ago as 1815, when the allies were in Paris, that the fifteen thousand _pâtés_ which Madame Felix sold daily in the _Passage des Panoramas_ were beginning to affect the foreign bayonets; and no doubt the German invasion may have been checked by the same dulcet influence. There is romance and history even about pastry. The _baba_, a species of savoury biscuit coloured with saffron, was introduced into France by Stanislaus, the first king of Poland, when that unlucky country was alternately the scourge and the victim of Russia. The dish was perhaps oriental in origin. It is made with _brioche_ paste, mixed with madeira, currants, raisins, and potted cream. French jellies are rather monotonous as to flavour, but they look very handsome on a supper-table. A _macédoine_ is a delicious variety of dainty, and worthy of the French nation. It is wine jelly frozen in a mould with grapes, strawberries, green-gages, cherries, apricots, or pineapple, or more economically with slices of pears and apples boiled in syrup coloured with carmine, saffron, or cochineal, the flavour aided by angelica or brandied cherries. An invention of Ude and one which we could copy here is jelly _au miroton de pêche_:-- Get half a dozen peaches, peel them carefully and boil them, with their kernels, a short time in a fine syrup, squeeze six lemons into it, and pass it through a bag. Add some clarified isinglass and put some of it into a mould in ice; then fill up with the jelly and peaches alternately and freeze it. Fruit cheeses are very pleasant, rich conserves for dessert. They can be made with apricots, strawberries, pineapple, peaches, or gooseberries. The fruit is powdered with sugar and rubbed through a colander; then melted isinglass and thick cream is added, whipped over ice and put into the mould. The French prepare the most ornamental ices, both water and cream, but they do not equal in richness or flavour those made in New York. Pancakes and fritters, although English dishes, are very popular in France and very good. Apple fritters with sherry wine and sugar are very comforting things. The French name is _beignet de pomme_. Thackeray immortalizes them thus:-- "Mid fritters and lollypops though we may roam, On the whole there is nothing like _beignet de pomme_. Of flour half a pound with a glass of milk share, A half-pound of butter the mixture will bear. _Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de pomme!_ Of _beignets_ there's none like the _beignet de pomme_! "A _beignet de pomme_ you may work at in vain If you stir not the mixture again and again. Some beer just to thin it may into it fall, Stir up that with three whites of eggs added to all. _Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de pomme!_ Of _beignets_ there's nothing like _beignet de pomme_! "Six apples when peeled you must carefully slice, And cut out the cores if you'll take my advice; Then dip them in butter and fry till they foam, And you'll have in six minutes your _beignet de pomme_. _Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de pomme!_ Of _beignets_ there's nothing like _beignet de pomme_!" In the _Almanach de Gourmands_ there appeared a philosophical treatise on pastry and pastry cooks, probably by the learned Giedeaud de la Reynière himself. Pastry, he says, is to cooking what rhetorical metaphors are to oratory,--life and ornament. A speech without metaphors, a dinner without pastry, are alike insipid; but, in like manner, as few people are eloquent, so few can make perfect pastry. Good pastry-cooks are as rare as good orators. This writer recommends the art of the rolling-pin to beautiful women as being at once an occupation, a pleasure, and a sure way of recovering embonpoint and freshness. He says: "This is an art which will chase _ennui_ from the saddest. It offers varied amusement and sweet and salutary exercise for the whole body; it restores appetite, strength, and gayety; it gathers around us friends; it tends to advance an art known from the most remote antiquity. Woman! lovely and charming woman, leave the sofas where _ennui_ and hypochondria prey upon the springtime of your life, unite in the varied moulds sugar, jasmine, and roses, and form those delicacies that will be more precious than gold when made by hands so dear to us." What woman could refuse to make a pudding and any number of pies after that? There seems to be nothing left to eat after all this perilous sweet stuff but a devilled biscuit at ten o'clock. "'A well devilled biscuit!' said Jenkins, enchanted, 'I'll have after dinner,--the thought is divine!' The biscuit was brought and he now only wanted, To fully enjoy it, a glass of good wine. He flew to the pepper and sat down before it, And at peppering the well-buttered biscuit he went; Then some cheese in a paste mixed with mustard spread o'er it, And down to the kitchen the devil was sent. "'Oh, how!' said the cook, 'can I thus think of grilling? When common the pepper, the whole will be flat; But here's the cayenne, if my master be willing I'll make if he pleases a devil with that.' So the footman ran up with the cook's observation To Jenkins, who gave him a terrible look; 'Oh, go to the devil!'--forgetting his station-- Was the answer that Jenkins sent down to the cook." A slice of _pâté de foie gras_, olives stuffed with anchovy, broiled bones, anchovy on toast, Welsh rarebit, devilled biscuit, devilled turkey-legs, devilled kidneys, _caviare_, devilled crabs, soft-shell crabs, shrimp salad, sardines on toast, broiled sausages, etc., are amongst the many appetizers which _gourmets_ seek at ten or twelve o'clock, to take the taste of the sweets out of their mouths, and to prepare the pampered palate perhaps for punch, whiskey, or brandy and soda. THE FURNISHING OF A COUNTRY HOUSE. The hostess should, in furnishing her house, provide a number of bath-tubs. The tin ones, shaped like a hat, are very convenient, as are also india-rubber portable baths. If there is not a bath-room belonging to every room, this will enable an Englishman to take his tub as cold as he pleases, or allow the American to take the warmer sponge bath which Americans generally prefer. The house should also be well supplied with lunch-baskets for picnics and for the railway journey. These can be had for a small sum, and are well fitted up with drinking-cups, knives, forks, spoons, corkscrews, sandwich-boxes, etc. These and a great supply of unbreakable cups for the lawn-tennis ground are very useful. There should be also any number of painted tin pails, and small pitchers to carry hot water; several services of plain tea things, and Japanese waiters, on which to send tea to the bedrooms; and in every room should be placed a table, thoroughly furnished with writing-materials, and with all the conveniences for writing and sealing a letter. Shakspeare's bequest to his wife of his second-best bed has passed as a bit of post-mortem ungallantry, which has dimmed his fame as a model husband; but to-day that second-best bed would be a very handsome bequest, not only because it was Shakspeare's, but because it was doubtless a "tester," for which there is a craze. All the old four-posters, which our grandmothers sent to the garret, are on their way back again to the model bedroom. With all our rage for ventilation and fresh air, we no longer fear the bed curtains which a few years ago were supposed to foster disease and death; because the model bedroom can now be furnished with a ventilator for admitting the fresh, and one permitting the egress of the foul air. Each gas bracket is provided with a pipe placed above it, which pierces the wall and through which the product of combustion is carried out of the house. This is a late sanitary improvement in London, and is being introduced in New York. As for the bed curtains, they are hung on rods with brass rings, no canopy on top, so that the curtains can be shaken and dusted freely. This is a great improvement on the old upholstered top, which recalls Dickens's description of Mrs. Todger's boarding-house, where at the top of the stairs "the odour of many generations of dinners had gathered and had never been dispelled." In like manner the unpleasant feeling that perhaps whole generations of sleepers had breathed into the same upholstery overhead, used to haunt the wakeful, in old English inns, to the murdering of sleep. There is a growing admiration, unfortunately, for tufted bedsteads. They are in the long run neither clean nor wholesome, and not easily kept free from vermin; but they are undeniably handsome, and recall the imperial beds of state apartments, where kings and queens are supposed to seek that repose which comes so unwillingly to them, but so readily to the plough-boy. These upholstered, tufted, satin-covered bedsteads should be fitted with a canopy, and from this should hang a baldachin and side curtains. Certain very beautiful specimens of this regal arrangement, bought in Italy, are in the Vanderbilt palaces in New York. Opulent purchasers can get copies at the great furnishing-houses, but it is becoming difficult to get the real antiques. Travellers in Brittany find the most wonderful carved bedsteads built into the wall, and are always buying them of the astonished fisher-folk, who have no idea how valuable is their smoke-stained, carved oak. But as to the making up of the bed. There are nowadays cleanly springs and hair mattresses, in place of the old feather-beds; and as to stiff white bedcovers, pillowslips and shams, false sheets and valenciennes trimmings, monogrammed and ruffled fineries, there is a truce. They were so slippery, so troublesome, and so false withal, that the beds that have known them shall know them no more forever. They had always to be unpinned and unhooked before the sleeper could enter his bed; and they were the torment of the housemaid. They entailed a degree of washing and ironing which was endless, and yet many a young housekeeper thought them indispensable. That idea has gone out completely. The bed now is made up with its fresh linen sheets, its clean blankets and its Marseilles quilt, with square or long pillow as the sleeper fancies, with bolster in plain linen sheath. Then over the whole is thrown a light lace cover lined with Liberty silk. This may be as expensive or as cheap as the owner pleases. Or the spreads may be of satin covered with Chinese embroidery, Turkish Smyrniote, or other rare things, or of the patchwork or decorative art designs now so fashionable. One light and easily aired drapery succeeds the four or five pieces of unmanageable linen. If the bed is a tester and the curtains of silk or chintz, the bed-covering should match in tint. In a very pretty bedroom the walls should be covered with chintz or silk. The modern highly glazed tile paper for walls and ceiling is an admirable covering, as it refuses to harbour dirt, and the housemaid's brush can keep it sweet and clean. Wall papers are so pretty and so exquisite in design that it seems hardly necessary to do more than mention them. Let us hope the exasperating old rectangular patterns, which have confused so many weary brains and haunted so many a feverish pillow, are gone forever. The floors should be of plain painted wood, varnished, than which nothing can be cleaner; or perhaps of polished or oiled wood of the natural colour, with parquetried borders. If this is impossible cover with dark-stained mattings, which are as clean and healthful as possible. These may remain down all winter, and rugs may be laid over them at the fireplace and near the bed, sofa, etc. Readily lifted and shaken, rugs have all the comfort of carpets, and none of their disadvantages. Much is said of the unhealthfulness of gas in bedrooms, but if it does not escape, it is not unhealthful. The prettiest illumination is by candles in the charming new candlesticks in tin and brass, which are as nice as Roman lamps. On the old bedsteads of Cromwell's time we find a shelf running across the head of the bed, just above the sleeper's head,--placed there for the posset cup. This is now utilized for a safety lamp, for those who indulge in the pernicious practice of reading in bed; but it is even better used as a receptacle for the book, the letter-case, the many little things which an invalid may need, and it saves calling a nurse. All paint used in a model bedroom should be free from poison. The fireplace should be tiled, and the windows made with a deep beading on the sill. This is a piece of wood like the rest of the frame, which comes up two or three inches in front of the lower part of the window. The object of this is to admit of the lower sash being raised without causing a draught. The room is thus ventilated by the air which filters through the slight aperture between the upper and lower sashes. Above all things have an open fireplace in the bedroom. Abolish stoves from that sacred precinct. Use wood for fuel if possible; if not, the softest of cannel-coal. Have brass rods placed, on which to hang portières in winter. Portières and curtains may be cheaply made of ingrain carpet embroidered; or of Turkish or Indian stuffs; splendid Delhi pulgaries, a mass of gold silk embroidered, with bits of looking-glass worked in; of velvet; camel's-hair shawls; satin, chintz, or cretonne. Costly thy portières as thy purse can buy; nothing is so pretty and so ornamental. Glazed chintzes may be hung at the windows, without lining, as the light shines through the flowers, making a good effect. Chenille curtains of soft rich colours are appropriate for the modern bedroom. Madras muslin curtains will do for the windows, but are not heavy enough for portières. There are hangings made of willow bamboo, which can be looped back, or left hanging, which give a window a furnished look, without intercepting the light. Low wooden tables painted red, tables for writing materials, brackets on the walls for vases, candlesticks, and photograph screens, a long couch with many pillows, a Shaker rocking-chair, a row of hanging book-shelves,--these, with bed and curtains in fresh tints, make a pretty room in a country house. If possible, people who entertain much should have a suite of bedrooms for guests, so that no one need be turned out of one's room to make way for a guest. Brass beds are to be recommended as cleanly, handsome, and durable. Many ladies have, however, found fault with them because they show the under mattress, where the clothes are tucked in over the upper one. This can be remedied by making a valance which is finished with a ruffle at the top, which can be fluted, the whole tied on by tapes. Two or three of these in white will be all that a housekeeper needs, and if made of pretty coloured merino to match the room, they will last clean a long time. Every bedroom should have, if possible, a dressing-room, where the wash-stand, wardrobe, bath-tub, box for boots and shoes, box for soiled clothes, and toilet-table, perhaps, can be kept. In the new sanitary houses in London, the water cistern is placed in view behind glass in these rooms, so that if anything is the matter with the water supply, it can be remedied immediately. However, in old fashioned houses, where dressing-rooms cannot be evoked, screens can be so placed as to conceal the unornamental objects. A toilet-table should be ornamental and not hidden, with its curtains, pockets, looking-glasses, little bows, shelves for bottles, devices for secret drawers for love letters, and so on. Ivory brushes with the owner's monogram, all sorts of pretty Japanese boxes, and dressing-cases, silver-backed brushes and mirrors, buttonhooks, knives, scissors can be neatly laid out. A little table for afternoon tea should stand ready, with a tray of Satsuma or old Worcester, with cups and tea equipage, and a copper kettle with alcohol lamp should stand on a bracket on the wall. In the heating of water, a trivet should be attached to the grate, and a little iron kettle might sing forever on the hob. Ornamental ottomans in plush covers, which open and disclose a wood box, should stand by the fireplace. Chameleon glass lamps with king-fisher stems are pretty on the mantel-piece, which can be upholstered to match the bed; and there may be vases in amber, primrose, cream-colour, pale blue, and ruby. No fragrant flowers or growing plants should be allowed in a bedroom. There should be at least one clock in the room, to strike the hour with musical reiteration. As for baths, the guest should be asked if he prefers hot or cold water, and the hour at which he will have it. If a tin hat-bath, or an india-rubber tub is used, the maid should enter and arrange it in this manner: first lay a rubber cloth on the floor and then place the tub on it. Then bring a large pail of cold water, and a can of hot. Place near the tub a towel-rack hung with fresh towels, both damask and Turkish, and if a full-length Turkish towel be added it will be a great luxury. If the guest be a gentleman, and no man-servant be kept, this should all be arranged the night before, with the exception of course of the hot water, which can be left outside the door at any hour in the morning when it is desired. If it is a stationary tub, of course the matter is a simple one, and depends on the turn of a couple of faucets. Some visitors are very fussy and dislike to be waited on; to such the option must be given: "Do you prefer to light your own fire, to turn on your bath, to make your own tea, or shall the maid enter at eight o'clock and do it for you?" Such questions are often asked in an English country house. Every facility for doing the work would of course be supplied to the visitor. The bedroom being nowadays made so very attractive, the guest should stay in it as much as possible, if he or she find that the hostess likes to be alone; in short, absent yourself occasionally. Do your letter-writing and some reading in your room. Most people prefer this freedom and like to be let alone in the morning. At a country house, gentlemen should be very particular to dress for dinner. If not in the regulation claw-hammer, still with a change of garment. There is a very good garment called a smokee, which is worn by gentlemen in the summer, a sort of light jacket of black cloth, which goes well with either black or white cravat; but with all the _laisser aller_ of a country visit, inattention to the proprieties of dress is not included. A guest must go provided with a lawn-tennis costume, if he plays that noble game which has become the great consolation of our rising generation. No doubt the hostess blesses the invention of this great time killer, as she sees her men and maidens trooping out to the ground, under the trees. This suggests the subject of out-of-door refreshment, the claret cup, the champagne cup, the shandy gaff, the fresh cider, and the thousand and one throat-coolers, for which our American genius seems to have been inspired to meet the drain of a very dry climate, and which we shall consider elsewhere. ENTERTAINING IN A COUNTRY HOUSE. We who love the country salute you who love the town. I praise the rivulets, the rocks overgrown with moss, and the groves of the delightful country. And do you ask why? I live and reign as soon as I have quitted those things which you extol to the skies with joyful applause, and like a priest's fugitive-slave I reject luscious wafers; I desire plain bread, which is more agreeable than honied cakes.--HORACE, _Ode_ X. Poets have been in the habit of praising a country life since the days of Homer, but Americans have not as a people appreciated its joys. As soon as a countryman was able to do it, he moved to the largest city near him, presumably New York, or perhaps Paris. The condition of opulence, much desired by those who had been bred in poverty, suggested at once the greater convenience of a town life, and the busy work-a-day world, to which most Americans are born, necessitates the nearness to Wall Street, to banks, to people, and to the town. City people were content formerly to give their children six weeks of country air, and old New Yorkers did not move out of the then small city, even in the hot months. The idea of going to the country to live for pleasure, to find in it a place in which to spend one's money and to entertain, has been, to the average American mind, a thing of recent growth. Perhaps our climate has much to do with this. People bred in the country feared to meet that long cold winter of the North, which even to the well-to-do was filled with suffering. Who does not remember the ice in the pitcher of a morning, which must be broken before even faces were washed? Therefore the furnace-heated city house, the companionship, the bustle, the stir, and convenience of a city has been, naturally enough, preferred to the loneliness of the country. As Hawthorne once said, Americans were not yet sufficiently civilized to live in the country. When he went to England, and saw a different order of things, he understood why. England, a small place with two thousand years of civilization, with admirable roads, with landed estates, with a mild winter, with a taste for sport, with dogs, horses, and well-trained servants, was a very different place. It may be years before we make our country life as agreeable as it is in England. We have to conquer climate first. But the love of country life is growing in America. Those so fortunate as to be able to live in a climate like that of southern California can certainly quote Horace with sympathy. Those who live so near to a great city as to command at once city conveniences and country air and freedom, are amongst the fortunate of the earth. And to hundreds, thousands of such, in our delightfully prosperous new country, the art of entertaining in a country house assumes a new interest. No better model for a hostess can be found than an Englishwoman. There is, when she receives her guests, a quiet cordiality, a sense of pleasurable expectancy, an inbred ease, grace, suavity, composure, and respect for her visitors, which seems to come naturally to a well-bred Englishwoman; that is to say, to the best types of the highest class. To be sure they have had vast experience in the art of entertaining; they have learned this useful accomplishment from a long line of well-trained predecessors. They have no domestic cares to worry them. At the head of her own house, an Englishwoman is as near perfection as a human being can be. There is the great advantage of the English climate, to begin with. It is less exciting than ours. Nervous women are there almost unknown. Their ability to take exercise, the moist and soft air they breathe, their good appetite and healthy digestion give English women a physical condition almost always denied to an American. Our climate drives us on by invisible whips; we breathe oxygen more intoxicating than champagne. The great servant question bothers us from the cradle to the grave; it has never entered into an English woman's scheme of annoyance, so that in an English hostess there is a total absence of fussiness. English women spend the greater part of the year in travelling, or at home in the country. Town life is with them a matter of six weeks or three months at the most. They are fond of nature, of walking, of riding; they share with the men a more vigorous physique than is given to any other race. A French or Italian woman dreads a long walk, the companionship of a dozen dogs, the yachting and the race course, the hunting-field and the lawn tennis pursued with indefatigable vigilance; but the fair English girl, with her blushing cheeks, her dog, her pony, and her hands full of wild flowers, is a character worth crossing the ocean to see. She is the product of the highest civilization, and as such is still near the divine model which nature furnishes. She has the underlying charm of simplicity, she is the very rose of perfect womanhood. She may seem shy, awkward, and reserved, but what the world calls pride or coldness may turn out to be hidden virtue, or reserve, or modesty. English home education is a seminary of infinite importance; a girl learns to control her speech, to be always calm and well-bred. She has been toned down from her youth. She has been carefully taught to respect the duties of her high position; she has this advantage to counterbalance the disadvantage which we freeborn citizens think may come with an overpride of birth,--she has learned the motto _noblesse oblige_. The English fireside is a beacon light forever to the soldier in the Crimea, to the colonist in Australia, to the grave official in India, to the missionary in the South Seas, to the English boy wherever he may be. It sustains and ennobles the English woman at home and abroad. As a hostess, the English woman is sure to mould her house to look like home. She has soft low couches for those who like them, high-backed tall chairs for the tall, low chairs for the lowly. She has her bookcases and pretty china scattered everywhere, she has work-baskets and writing-tables and flowers, particularly wild ones, which look as if she had tossed them in the vases herself. Her house looks cheerful and cultivated. I use the word advisedly, for all taste must be cultivated. A state apartment in an old English house can be inexpressibly dreary. High ceilings, stiff old girandoles, pictures of ancestors, miles of mirrors, and the Laocoön or other specimens of Grecian art, which no one cares for except in the Vatican, and the ceramic and historical horrors of some old collector, who had no taste,--are enough to frighten a visitor. But when a young or an experienced English hostess has smiled on such a house, there will be some delightful lumber strewn around, no end of pretty brackets and baskets and curtains and screens, and couches piled high with cushions; and then the quaint carvings, the rather affected niches, the mantelpiece nearly up to the ceiling, as in Hogarth's picture,--all these become humanized by her touch. The spirit of a hostess should aim at the combination of use and beauty. Some finer spirits command both, as Brunelleschi hung the dome at Florence high in air, and made a thing of beauty, which is a joy forever, but did not forget to build under it a convenient church as well. As for the bedrooms in an English country house, they transcend description, they are the very apotheosis of comfort. The dinners are excellent, the breakfast and lunch comfortable, informal, and easy, the horses are at your disposal, the lawn and garden are yours for a stroll, the chapel lies near at hand, where you can study architecture and ancient brass. There are pleasant people in the house, you are let alone, you are not being entertained. That most dreadful of sensations, that somebody has you on his mind, and must show you photographs and lift off your _ennui_ is absent; you seem to be in Paradise. English people will tell you that house parties are dull,--not that all are, but some are. No doubt the jaded senses lose the power of being pleased. A visit to an English house, to an American who brings with her a fresh sense of enjoyment, and who remembers the limitations of a new country, one who loves antiquity, history, old pictures, and all that time can do, one who is hungry for Old World refinements, to such an one a visit to an English country house is delightful. To a worn-out English set whose business it has been for a quarter of a century to go from one house to another, no doubt it is dull. Some unusual distraction is craved. "To relieve the monotony and silence and the dull, depressing cloud which sometimes settles on the most admirably arranged English dinner-party, even an American savage would be welcomed," says a modern novel-writer. How much more welcome then is a pretty young woman who, with a true enthusiasm and a wild liberty, has found her opportunity and uses it, plays the banjo, tells fortunes by the hand, has no fear of rank, is in her set a glacier of freshness with a heart of fire, like Roman punch. How much more gladly is a young American woman welcomed, in such a house, and how soon her head is turned. She is popular until she carries off the eldest son, and then she is severely criticised, and by her spoiled caprices becomes a heroine for Ouida to rejoice in, and the _fond_ of a society novel. But the glory is departing from many a stately English country house. Fortune is failing them; they are, many of them, to rent. Rich Americans are buying their old pictures. The Gainsboroughs, the Joshua Reynoldses, the Rembrandts, which have been the pride of English country houses, are coming down, charmed by the silver music of the almighty dollar; the old fairy tale is coming true,--even the furniture dances. We have the money and we have the vivacity, according to even our severest critics; we have now to cultivate the repose of an English hostess, if we would make our country houses as agreeable as she does. We cannot improvise the antiquity, or the old chapel, or the brasses; we cannot make our roads as fine as those which enable an English house party to drive sixteen miles to a dinner; in fact we must admit that they have been nine hundred years making a lawn even. But we must try to do things our own way, and use our own advantages so that we can make our guests comfortable. The American autumn is the most glorious of seasons for entertaining in a country house. Nature hangs our hillsides then with a tapestry that has no equal even at Windsor. The weather, that article which in America is so apt to be good that if it is bad we apologize for it, is more than apt to be good in October, and makes the duties of a hostess easy then, for Nature helps to entertain. It is to be feared that we have not yet learned to be guests. Trusting to that boundless American hospitality which has been apt to say, "Come when you please and stay as long as you can," we decline an invitation for the 6th, saying we can come on the 9th. This cannot be done when people begin to give house-parties. We must go on the 6th or not at all. We should also define the limits of a visit, as in England; one is asked on Wednesday to arrive at five, to leave at eleven on Saturday. Then one does not overstay one's welcome. Host and hostess and guest must thoroughly understand one another on this point, and then punctuality is the only thing to be considered. The opulent, who have butler, footman, and French cooks, need read no further in this chapter, the remainder of which will be directed to that larger class who have neither, and who have to help themselves. No lady should attempt to entertain in the country who has not a good cook, and one or two attendant maids who can wait well and perform other duties about the house. With these three and with a good deal of knowledge herself, a hostess can make a country house attractive. The dining-room should be the most agreeable room in the house, shaded in the morning and cool in the afternoon,--a large room with a hard-wood floor and mats, if possible, as these are clean and cool. Carving should be done by one of the servants at a side table. There is nothing more depressing on a warm evening than a smoking joint before one's plate. A light soup only should be served, leaving the more substantial varieties for cold weather. Nowadays the china and glass are so very pretty, and so very cheap, that they can be bought and used and left in the house all winter without much risk. If people are living in the country all winter a different style of furnishing, and a different style of entertaining is no doubt in order. It is well to have very easy laws about breakfast, and allow a guest to descend when he wishes. If possible give your guest an opportunity to breakfast in his room. So many people nowadays want simply a cup of tea, and to wait until noon before eating a heavy meal; so many desire to eat steaks, chops, toast, eggs, hot cakes, and coffee at nine o'clock, that it is difficult for a hostess to know what to do. Her best plan, perhaps, is to have an elastic hour, and let her people come down when they feel like it. In England the maid enters the bedroom with tea, excellent black tea, a toasted muffin, and two boiled eggs at eight o'clock, a pitcher of hot water for the wash-stand, and a bath. No one is obliged to appear until luncheon, nor even then if indisposed so to do. Dinner at whatever hour is a formal meal, and every one should come freshly dressed and in good form, as the English say. The Arab law of hospitality should be printed over every lintel in a country house: "Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest;" "He who tastes my salt is sacred; neither I nor my household shall attack him, nor shall one word be said against him. Bring corn, wine, and fruit for the passing stranger. Give the one who departs from thy tents the swiftest horse. Let him who would go from thee take the fleet dromedary, reserve the lame one for thyself." If these momentous hints were carried out in America, and if these children of the desert, with their grave faces, composed manners, and noble creed, could be literally obeyed, we fear country-house visiting would become almost too popular. But if we cannot give them the fleet dromedary, we can drive them to the fast train, which is much better than any dromedary. We can make them comfortable, and enable them to do as they like. Unless we can do that, we should not invite any one. Unless a guest has been rude, it is the worst taste to criticise him. He has come at your request. He has entered your house as an altar of safety, an ark of refuge. He has laid his armour down. Your kind welcome has unlocked his reserve. He has spoken freely, and felt that he was in the presence of friends. If in this careless hour you have discovered his weak spot, be careful how you attack it. The intimate unreserve of a guest should be respected. And upon the guest an equal, nay, a superior conscientiousness should rest, as to any revelation of the secrets he may have found out while he was a visitor. No person should go from house to house bearing tales. We do not go to our friend's house to find the skeleton in the closet. No criticisms of the weaknesses or eccentricities of any member of the family should ever be heard from the lips of a guest. "Whose bread I have eaten, he is henceforth my brother," is another Arab proverb. Speak well always of your entertainers, but speak little of their domestic arrangements. Do not violate the sanctity of the fireside, or wrong the shelter of the roof-tree which has lent you its protection for even a night. The decorations for a country ballroom, in a rural neighbourhood, have called forth many an unknown genius in that art which has become the well-known profession of interior decoration. The favourite place in Lenox, and at many a summer resort, has been the large floor of a new barn. Before the equine tenants begin to champ their oats, the youths and maids assume the right to trip the light fantastic toe on the well-laid hard floor. The ornamentations at such a ball at Lenox were candles put in pine shields, with tin holders, and decorations of corn and wheat sheaves, tied with scarlet ribbons, surrounding pumpkins which were laid in improvised brackets, hastily cut out of pine, with hatchets, by the young men. Magnificent autumn leaves were arranged with ferns as garlands, and many were the devices for putting candles and kerosene lamps behind these so as to give almost the effect of stained glass, without causing a general conflagration. The effect of a pumpkin surrounded by autumn leaves recalls the Gardens of the Hesperides. No apple like those golden apples which we call pumpkins was ever seen there. To be sure they are rather large to throw to a goddess, and might bowl her down, but they look very handsome when tranquilly reposing. A sort of Druidical procession might be improvised to help along this ball, and the hostess would amuse her company for a week with the preparations. First, get a negro fiddler to head it, dressed like Browning's Pied Piper in gay colours, and playing his fiddle. Then have a procession of children, dressed in gay costumes; following them, "two milk-white oxen garlanded" with wreaths of flowers and ribbons, driven by a boy in Swiss costume; then a goat-cart with the baby driving two goats, also garlanded; next a lovely Alderney cow, also decorated, accompanied by a milkmaid, carrying a milking-stool; then another long line of children, followed by the youths and maids, bearing the decorations for the ballroom. Let all these parade the village street and wind up at the ballroom, where the cow can be milked, and a surprise of ice cream and cake given to the children. This is a Sunday-school picnic and a ball decoration, all in one, and the country lady who can give it will have earned the gratitude of neighbours and friends. It has been done. In the spring the decorations of a ballroom might be early wild flowers and the delicate ground-pine, far more beautiful than smilax, and also ferns, the treasures of the nearest wood. Wild flowers, ferns, and grasses, the ground-pine, the checkerberry, and the partridge berry make the most exquisite garlands, and it is only of late--when a few great geniuses have discovered that the field daisy is the prettiest of flowers, that the best beauty is that which is at our hands wherever we are, that the greatest rarity is the grass in the meadow--that we have reached the true meaning of interior decoration. Helen Hunt, in one of her prettiest papers, describes the beauty of kinnikinick, a lovely vine which grows all over Colorado. Although we have not that, we can even in winter find the hemlock boughs, the mistletoe, the holly, for our decorations. Of course, hot-house flowers and smilax, if they can be obtained, are very beautiful and desirable, but they are not within the reach of every purse, or of every country house. Sheaves of wheat, tied with fine ribbons and placed at intervals around a room, can be made to have the beauty of an armorial bearing. These, alternating with banners and hemlock boughs, are very effective. All these forms which Nature gives us have suggested the Corinthian capital, the Ionic pillar, the most graceful of Greek carvings. The acanthus leaf was the inspiration of the architect who built the Acropolis. Vine leaves, especially after they begin to turn, are capable of infinite suggestion, and we all remember the recent worship of the sunflower. Hop vines and clematis, especially after the last has gone to seed, remain long as ornaments. As for the refreshments to be served,--the oyster stew, the ice cream, the good home-made cake, coffee, and tea are within the reach of every country housekeeper, and are in their way unrivalled. Of course, if she wishes she can add chicken salad, boned turkey, _pâté de foie gras_, and punch, hot or cold. If it is in winter, the coachmen outside must not be forgotten. Some hot coffee and oysters should be sent to these patient sufferers, for our coachmen are not dressed as are the Russians, in fur from head to foot. If possible, there should be a good fire in the kitchen, to which these attendants on our pleasure could be admitted to thaw out. A PICNIC. "Come hither, come hither, the broom was in blossom all over yon rise, There went a wild murmur of brown bees about it with songs from the wood. We shall never be younger, O Love! let us forth to the world 'neath our eyes-- Ay! the world is made young, e'en as we, and right fair is her youth, and right good." Appetites flourish in the free air of hills and meadows, and after drinking in the ozone of the sea, one feels like drinking something else. There is a very good story of a reverend bishop who with a friend went a-fishing, like Peter, and being very thirsty essayed to draw the cork of a claret bottle. In his zeal he struck his bottle against a stone, and the claret oozed out to refresh the thirsty earth, instead of that precious porcelain of human clay of which the bishop was made. His remark to his friend was, "James, you are a layman, why don't you say something?" Now to avoid having our layman or our reverend wish to say something, let us try to suggest what they should eat and what they should drink. There are many kinds of picnics,--fashionable ones at Newport and other watering-places, where the French waiters of the period are told to get up a repast as if at the Casino; there are clam-bakes which are ideal, and there are picnics at Lenox and at Sharon, where the hotel keeper will help to fill the baskets. But the real picnic, which calls for talent and executive ability, should emanate from some country house, where two or three other country houses co-operate and help. Then what jolly drives in the brakes, what queer old family horses and antediluvian wagons, what noble dog-carts, and what prim pony phaetons can join in the procession. The day should be fine, and the place selected a hillside with trees, commanding a fine view. This is at least desirable. The necessity for a short walk, a short scramble after leaving the horses, should not be disregarded. The night before the picnic, which presumably starts early, the lady of the house should see to it that a boiled ham of perfect flavour is in readiness, and she may flank it with a boiled tongue, four roasted chickens, a game pie, and any amount of stale bread to cut into sandwiches. Now a sandwich can be at once the best and the worst thing in the world, but to make it the best the bread should be cut very thin, the butter, which must be as fresh as a cowslip, should be spread with deft fingers, then a slice of ham as thin as a wafer with not too much fat must be laid between, with a _soupçon_ of mustard. The prepared ham which comes in cans is excellent for making sandwiches. Cheese sandwiches, substituting a thin slice of American fresh cheese for the ham, are delicious, and some rollicking good-livers toast the cheese. Tongue, cold beef, and even cold sausages make excellent varieties of sandwich. To prevent their becoming the "sand which is under your feet" cover them over night with a damp napkin. Chicken can be eaten for itself alone, but it should be cut into very convenient fragments, judiciously salted and wrapped in a very white napkin. The game or veal pie must be in a strong earthen dish, and having been baked the day before, its pieces will have amalgamated with the crust, and it will cut into easily handled slices. All must be packed in luncheon baskets with little twisted cornucopias holding pepper and salt, hard-boiled eggs, the patty by itself, croquettes, if they happen to be made, cold fried oysters, excellent if in batter and well-drained after cooking; no article must be allowed to touch another. If cake and pastry be taken, each should have a separate basket. Fruit also should be carefully packed by itself, for if food gets mixed and mussy, even a mountain appetite will shun it. A bottle of olives is a welcome addition, and pickles and other relishes may be included. Sardines are also in order. Now what to drink? Cold tea and iced coffee prepared the night before, the cream and sugar put in just before starting, should always be provided. They are capital things to climb on, to knit up the "ravelled sleeve of care," and if somewhat exciting to the nerves, will be found the best thirst-quenchers. These beverages should be carefully bottled and firmly corked,--and don't forget the corkscrew. Plenty of tin cups, or those strong glass beer-mugs which you can throw across the room without breaking, should also be taken. Claret is the favourite wine for picnics, as being light and refreshing. Ginger ale is excellent and cheap and compact. "Champagne," says Walter Besant in his novel "By Celia's Arbour" is a wine as Catholic as the Athanasian Creed, because it goes well with chicken and with the more elaborate _pâté de foie gras_. Some men prefer sherry with their lunch, some take beer. If you have room and a plentiful cellar, take all these things. But tea and coffee and ginger ale will do for any one, anywhere. It has been suggested by those who have suffered losses from mischievous friends, that a composite basket containing everything should be put in each carriage, but this is refining the matter. Arrived at the picnic-ground, the whole force should be employed by the hostess as an amiable body of waiters. The ladies should set the tables, and the men bring water from the spring. The less ceremony the better. Things have not been served in order, they never are at a picnic, and the cunning hostess now produces some claret cup. She has made it herself since they reached the top of the mountain. Two bottles of claret to one of soda water, two lemons, a glass of sherry, a cucumber sliced in to give it the most perfect flavour, plenty of sugar and ice; and where had she hidden that immense pitcher, a regular brown toby, in which she has brewed it? "I know," said an _enfant terrible_; "I saw her hiding it under the back seat." There it is, filled with claret cup, the most refreshing drink for a warm afternoon. Various young persons of opposite sexes, who have been looking at each other more than at the game pie, now prepare to disappear in the neighbouring paths, under a pretence but feebly made of plucking blackberries,--artless dissemblers! Mamma shouts, "Mary, Caroline, Jane, Tom, Harry, be back before five, for we must start for home." May she get them, even at half-past six. From a group of peasants over a bunch of sticks in the Black Forest, to a queen who delighted to picnic in Fontainebleau, these _al fresco_ entertainments are ever delicious. We cannot put our ears too close to the confessional of Nature. She has always a new secret to tell us, and from the most artificial society to that which is primitive and rustic, they always carry the same charm. It is the Antæus trying to get back to Mother Earth, who strengthens him. In packing a lunch for a fisherman, or a hunter, the hostess often has to explain that brevity is the soul of wit. She must often compress a few eatables into the side pocket, and the bottle of claret into the fishing-basket. If not, she can palm off on the man one of those tin cases which poor little boys carry to school, which look like books and have suggestive titles, such as "Essays of Bacon," "Crabbe's Tales," or "News from Turkey," on the back. If the fisherman will take one of these his sandwiches will arrive in better order. The Western hunter takes a few beans and some slices of pork, some say in his hat, when he goes off on the warpath. The modern hunter or fisher, if he drive to the meet or the burn, can be trusted with an orthodox lunch-basket, which should hold cold tea, cold game-pie, a few olives, and a bit of cheese, and a large reserve of sandwiches. When we grow more celestial, when we achieve the physical theory of another life, we may know how to concentrate good eating in a more portable form than that of the sandwich, but we do not know it yet. Take an egg sandwich,--hard-boiled eggs chopped, and laid between the bread and butter. Can anything be more like the sonnet?--complete in only fourteen lines, and yet perfection! Only indefinite chicken, wheaten flour, the milk of the cow, all that goes to make up our daily food in one little compact rectangle! Egg sandwich! It is immense in its concentration. Some people like to take salads and apple pies to picnics. There are great moral objections to thus exposing these two delicacies to the rough experiences of a picnic. A salad, however well dressed, is an oily and slippery enjoyment. Like all great joys, it is apt to escape us, especially in a lunch basket. Apple pie, most delicate of pasties, will exude, and you are apt to find the crust on the top of the basket, and the apple in the bottom of the carriage. If you will take salad, and will not be taught by experience, make a perfect _jardinière_ of all the cold vegetables, green peas, beans, and cauliflower, green peppers, cucumbers, and cold potatoes, and take this mixture dry to the picnic. Have your mayonnaise in a bottle, and dress the salad with it after sitting down, on a very slippery, ferny rock, at the table. Truth compels the historian to observe, that this is delicious with the ham, and you will not mind in the least, until the next day, the large grease-spot on the side breadth of your gown. As for the apple pie, that is taken at the risk of the owner. It had better be left at home for tea. Of course, _pâté de foie gras_, sandwiches, boned turkey, jellied tongue, the various cold birds, as partridges, quails, pheasant, and chicken, and raw oysters, can be taken to a very elaborate picnic near a large town. Salmon dressed with green sauce, lobster salad, every kind of salad, is in order if you can only get it there, and "_caviare_ to the general." Cold terrapin is not to be despised; eaten on a bit of bread it is an excellent dainty, and so is the cold fried oyster. Public picnics, like Sunday-school picnics, fed with ice cream and strawberries; or the clam bake, a unique and enjoyable affair by the sea, are in the hands of experts, and need no description here. The French people picnic every day in the _Bois de Boulogne_, the woods of Versailles, and even on their asphalt, eating out of doors when they can. It is a very strange thing that we do not improve our fine climate by eating our dinners and breakfasts with the full draught of an unrivalled ozone. PASTIMES OF LADIES. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light; But oh, she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight. SIR JOHN SUCKLING. The "London Times" says that the present season has seen "driving jump to a great height of favour amongst fashionable women." It is a curious expression, but enlightens us as to the liberty which even so great an authority takes with our common language. There is no doubt of the fact that the pony phaeton and the pair of ponies are becoming a great necessity to an energetic woman. The little pony and the Ralli cart, as a ladies' pastime, is a familiar figure in the season at Newport, at a thousand country places, at the seaside, in our own Central Park, and all through the West and South. It has been much more the custom for ladies in the West and South to drive themselves, than for those at the North; consequently they drive better. Only those who know how to drive well ought ever to attempt it, for they not only endanger their own lives, but a dozen other lives. Whoever has seen a runaway carriage strike another vehicle, and has beheld the breaking up, can realize for the first time the tremendous force of an object in motion. The little Ralli cart can become a battering-ram of prodigious force. No form of recreation is so useful and so becoming as horseback exercise. No English woman looks so well as when turned out for out-of-door exercise. And our American women, who buy their habits and hats in London, are getting to have the same _chic_. Indeed, so immensely superior is the London habit considered, that the French circus-women who ride in the Bois, making so great a sensation, go over to London to have their habits made, and thus return the compliment which English ladies pay to Paris, in having all their dinner gowns and tea gowns made there. Perhaps disliking this sort of copy, the Englishwomen are becoming careless of their appearance on horseback, and are coming out in a straw hat, a covert coat, and a cotton skirt. The soft felt hat has long been a favourite on the Continent, at watering-places for the English; and it is much easier for the head. Still, in case of a fall it does not save the head like a hard, masculine hat. We have not yet, as a nation, taken to cycling for women; but many Englishwomen go all over the globe on a tricycle. A husband and wife are often seen on a tricycle near London, and women who lead sedentary lives, in offices and schools, enjoy many of their Saturday afternoons in this way. Boating needs to be cultivated in America. It is a superb exercise for developing a good figure; and to manage a punt has become a common accomplishment for the riverside girls. Ladies have regattas on the Thames. Fencing, which many actresses learn, is a very admirable process for developing the figure. The young Princesses of Wales are adepts in this. It requires an outfit consisting of a dainty tunic reaching to the knees, a fencing-jacket of soft leather with tight sleeves, gauntlet gloves, a mask, a pair of foils, and costing about fifteen dollars. American women as a rule are not fond of walking. There must be something in the nature of an attraction or a duty to rouse our delicate girls to walk. They will not do it for their health alone. Gymnastic teaching is, however, giving them more strength, and it would be well if in every family of daughters there were some calisthenic training, to develop the muscles, and to induce a more graceful walk. To teach a girl to swim is almost a duty, and such splendid physical exercises will have a great influence over that nervous distress which our climate produces with its over-fulness of oxygen. If girls do not like to walk, they all like to dance, and it is not intended as a pun when we mention that "a great jump" has been made back to the old-fashioned dancing, in which freedom of movement is allowed. Those who saw Mary Anderson's matchless grace in the Winter's Tale all tried to go and dance like her, and to see Ellen Terry's spring, as the pretty Olivia, teaches one how entirely beautiful is this strong command of one's muscles. From the German cotillion, back to the Virginia reel, is indeed a bound. Our grandfathers knew how to dance. We are fast getting back to them. The traditions of Taglioni still lingered fifty years ago. The earliest dancing-masters were Frenchmen, and our ancestors were taught to _pirouette_ as did Vestris when he was so obliging as to say after a royal command, "The house of Vestris has always danced for that of Bourbon." The galop has, during the long langour of the dance, alone held its own, in the matter of jollity. The glide waltz, the redowa, the stately minuet, give only the slow and graceful motions. The galop has always been a great favourite with the Swedes, Danes, and Russians, while the redowa reminds one of the graceful Viennese who dance it so well. The mazourka, danced to wild Polish music, is a poetical and active affair. The introduction of Hungarian bands and Hungarian music is another reason why dancing has become a "hop, skip and a bound," without losing dignity or grace. Activity need not be vulgar. The German cotillion, born many years ago at Vienna to meet the requirements of court etiquette, is still the fashionable dance with which the ball closes. Its favours, beginning with flowers and ribbons and bits of tinsel, have now ripened into fans, bracelets, gold scarf-pins and pencil-cases, and many things more expensive. Favours may cost five thousand dollars for a fashionable ball, or dance, as they say in London. The German is a dance of infinite variety, and to lead it requires a man of head. One such leader, who can construct new figures, becomes a power in society. The waltz, galop, redowa, and polka step can all be utilized in it. There is a slow walk in the quadrille figure, a stately march, the bows and courtesies of the old minuet, and above all, the _tour de valse_, which is the means of locomotion from place to place. The changeful exigencies of the various figures lead the forty or fifty, or the two hundred to meet, exchange greetings, dance with each other, and change their geographical position many times. Indeed no army goes through more evolutions. A pretty figure is _La Corbeille, l'Anneau, et la Fleur_. The first couple performs a _tour de valse_, after which the gentleman presents the lady with a basket, containing a ring and a flower, then resumes his seat. The lady presents the ring to one gentleman, the flower to another, and the basket to the third. The gentleman to whom she presents the ring selects a partner for himself, the gentleman who receives the flower dances with the lady who presents it, while the other gentleman holds the basket in his hand and dances alone. The kaleidoscope is one of the prettiest figures. The four couples perform a _tour de valse_, then form as for a quadrille; the next four couples in order take positions behind the first four couples, each of the latter couples facing the same as the couples in front. At a signal from the leader, the ladies of the inner couples cross right hands, move entirely round and turn into places by giving left hands to their partners. At the same time the outer couples waltz half round to opposite places. At another signal the inner couples waltz entirely round, and finish facing outward. At the same time the outer couples _chassent croisé_ and turn at corners with right hands, then _dechassent_ and turn partners with left hands. Valse _générale_ with _vis à vis_. _La Cavalier Trompé_ is another favourite figure. Five or six couples perform a _tour de valse_. They afterwards place themselves in ranks of two, one couple behind the other. The lady of the first gentleman leaves him and seeks a gentleman of another column. While this is going on the first gentleman must not look behind him. The first lady and the gentleman whom she has selected separate and advance on tip-toe on each side of the column, in order to deceive the gentleman at the head, and endeavour to join each other for a waltz. If the first gentleman is fortunate enough to seize his lady, he leads off in a waltz; if not, he must remain at his post until he is able to take a lady. The last gentleman remaining dances with the last lady. To give a German in a private house, a lady has all the furniture removed from her parlours, the floor covered with crash over the carpet, and a set of folding-chairs for the couples to sit in. A bare wooden floor is preferable to the carpet and crash. It is considered that all taking part in a German are introduced to one another, and on no condition whatever must a lady, so long as she remains in the German, refuse to speak or to dance with any gentleman whom she may chance to receive as a partner. Every American should learn that he can speak to any one whom he meets at a friend's house. The roof is an introduction, and, for the purpose of making his hostess comfortable, the guest should, at dinner-party and dance, speak to his next neighbour. The laws of the German are so strict, and to many so tiresome, that a good many parties have abjured it, and merely dance the round dances, the lancers and quadrilles, winding up with the Sir Roger de Coverley or the Virginia Reel. The leader of the German must have a comprehensive glance, a quick ear and eye, and a great belief in himself. General Edward Ferrero, who made a good general, declared that he owed all his success in war to his training as a dancing-master. With all other qualities, the leader of the German must have tact. It is no easy matter to get two hundred people into all sorts of combinations and mazes and then to get them out again, to offend nobody, and to produce that elegant kaleidoscope called the German. The term _tour de valse_ is used technically, meaning that the couple or couples performing it execute the round dance designated by the leader once round the room. Should the room be small, they make a second tour. After the introductory _tour de valse_ care must be taken by those who perform it not to select ladies and gentlemen who are on the floor, but from among those who are seated. When the leader claps his hands to warn those who are prolonging the valse, they must immediately cease dancing. The favours for the German are often fans, and this time-honoured, historic article grows in beauty and expense every day. And what various memories come in with the fan! It was created in primeval ages. The Egyptian ladies had fans of lotus leaves; and lately a breakfast was given all in Egyptian fashion, except the eating. The Roman ladies carried immense fans of peacocks' feathers. They did not open and shut like ours, opening and shutting being a modern invention. The _flabilliferaor_ or fan-bearer, was some young attendant, generally female, whose common business it was to carry her mistress's fan. There is a Pompeian painting of Cupid as the fan-bearer of Ariadne, lamenting her desertion by Theseus. In Queen Elizabeth's day the fan was usually made of feathers, like that still used in the East. The handle was richly ornamented and set with stones. A fashionable lady was never without her fan, which was held to her girdle by a jewelled chain. That fashion, with the large feathers, has returned in our day. Queen Elizabeth dropped a silver-handled fan into the moat at Arnstead Hall, which occasioned many madrigals. Sir Francis Drake presented to his royal mistress a fan of feathers, white and red, enamelled with a half-moon of mother-of-pearl. Poor Leicester gave her, as his New Year's gift in 1574, a fan of white feathers set in a handle of gold, adorned on one side with two very fair emeralds, and fully garnished with rubies and diamonds, and on each side a white bear,--his cognizance,--and two pearls hanging, a lion rampant and a white, muzzled bear at his foot. Just before Christmas in 1595 Elizabeth went to Kew, and dined at my Lord Keeper's house, and there was handed her a fine fan with a handle garnished with diamonds. Fans in Shakspeare's time seem to have been composed of ostrich and other feathers, fastened to handles. Gentlemen carried fans in those days, and in one of the later figures of the German they now carry fans. According to an old manuscript in the Ashmolean Museum, Sir Edward Cole rode the circuit with a prodigious fan, which had a long stick with which he corrected his daughters. Let us hope that that custom will not be reintroduced. The vellum fans painted by Watteau, and the lovely fans of Spain enriched with jewels are rather too expensive for favours for the German; one very rich entertainer gave away tortoise-shell fans with jewelled sticks, two years ago, at Delmonico's. Fans of silk, egg-shaped, and painted with birds, were used for an Easter German. Ribbons were used for a cotillon dinner with very good effect. "From the chandelier in the centre of the dining room," we read, "depended twenty scarfs of grosgrain ribbon, each three and a half yards long and nine inches wide, heavily fringed and richly adorned at both ends with paintings of flowers and foliage. These scarfs were so arranged that an end of each came down to the place one of the ladies was to occupy at the table, and care was taken in their selection to have colours harmonizing with the ladies' dress and complexion." These cotillion dinners have been a pretty fashion for two or three winters, as they enable four or five young hostesses to each give a dinner, the whole four to meet with their guests at one house for a small German, after the dinner. Each hostess compares her list with that of her neighbour, that there shall be no confusion. It is believed that this device was the invention of the incomparable Mr. McAllister, to whom society owes a great deal. Fashionable society like the German must have a leader, some one who will take trouble, and think out these elaborate details. Nowhere in Europe is so much pains taken about such details as with us. The _menus_ of these cotillion dinners are often water-colour paintings, worthy of preservation; sometimes a scene from one of Shakspeare's plays, sometimes a copy of some famous French picture,--in either case something delightfully artistic. For a supper after a dance the dishes are placed on the table, and it is served _en buffet_; but for a sit-down supper, served at little tables, the service should be exactly like a dinner except that there is no soup or fish. The manner of using flowers in America at such entertainments is simply bewildering. A climbing rose will seem to be going everywhere over an invisible trellis; delicate green vines will depend from the chandelier, dropping roses; roses cover the entire table-cloth; or perhaps the flowers are massed, all of yellow, or of white, or red, or pink. Nothing could exceed the magnificence of the great baskets of white and yellow chrysanthemums, roses, violets, and carnations, at a breakfast given to the Comte de Paris, at Delmonico's on October 20th, and at the subsequent dinner given him by his brother officers of the Army of the Potomac. His royal arms were in white flowers, the _fleur de lis_ of Joan of Arc, on a blue ground of flowers. Jacqueminot Roses went up and down the table, with the words "Grand Army of the Potomac" in white flowers. The orchid, that most regal and expensive of all flowers, a single specimen often costing many dollars, was used by a lady to make an imitation fire, the wood, the flames, and all consisting of flowers placed in a most artistic chimney-piece. Indeed, the cost of the cut flowers used in New York in one winter for entertaining is said to be five millions of dollars. Orchids have this advantage over other flowers--they have no scent; and that in a mixed company and a hot room is an advantage, for some people cannot bear even the perfume of a rose. A large lump of ice, with flowers trained over it, is a delightfully refreshing adornment for a hot ballroom. In grand party decorations, like one given by the Prince of Wales to the Czarina of Russia, ten tons of ice were used as an ornamental rockery. In smaller rooms the glacier can be cut out and its base hidden in a tub, lights put behind it and flowers and green vines draped over it. The effect is magical. The flowers are kept fresh, the white column looks always well, and the coolness it diffuses is delicious. It might, by way of contrast to the Dark Continent, be a complimentary decoration for a supper to be given to Mr. Stanley, to ornament the ballroom with Arctic bowlders, around which should be hung the tropical flowers and vines of Africa. PRIVATE THEATRICALS. A poor thing, my masters, not the real thing at all, a base imitation, but still a good enough mock-orange, if you cannot have the real thing.--OLD PLAY. Some of our opulent citizens in the West, particularly in that wondrous city Chicago, which is nearer to Aladdin's Lamp than anything else I have seen, have built private theatres in their palaces. This is taking time by the forelock, and arranging for a whole family of coming histrionic geniuses. When all the arrangements for private theatricals must be improvised,--and, indeed, it is a greater achievement to play in a barn than on the best stage,--the following hints may prove serviceable. Wherever the amateur actor elects to play, he must consider the extraneous space behind the acting arena necessary for his exits and entrances, and his theatrical properties. In an ordinary house the back parlour, with two doors opening into the dining-room, makes an ideal theatre, for the exits can be masked and the space is especially useful. At least one door opening into another room is absolutely necessary, if no better arrangement can be made. The best stage, of course, is like that of a theatre, raised, with space at the back and sides, for the players to retire to, and issue from. But if nothing better can be managed, a pair of screens and a curtain will do. It is hardly necessary to say that all these arrangements depend on the requirements of the play and its legitimate business, which may demand a table, a bureau, a piano, or a bed. That very funny piece "Box and Cox" needs nothing but a bed, a table, and a fireplace. And here we would say to the youthful actor, Select your play at first with a view to its requiring little change of scene, and not much furniture. A young actor needs space. He is embarrassed by too many chairs and tables. Then choose a play which has so much varied incident that it will play itself. The first thing is to build the stage. Any carpenter will lay a few stout boards on end pieces, which are simply squared joists, and for very little money will take away the boards and joists afterwards, so that a satisfactory stage can be built for a few dollars. Sometimes, ingenious boys build their own stage with a few boxes, but this is apt to be dangerous. Very few families are without an old carpet which will serve for a stage covering; and if this is lacking, green baize is very cheap. A whole stage fitting, curtains and all, can be made of green baize. Footlights may be made of tin, with bits of candle put in; or a row of old bottles of equal height, with candles stuck in the mouth, make a most admirable and cheap set of footlights. The curtain is always difficult to arrange, especially in a parlour. A light wooden frame should be made by the carpenter,--firm at the joints, and as high as the room allows. Attached to the stage, at the foot, this frame forms three sides of a square. The curtain must be firmly nailed to the top piece. A stiff wire should be run along the lower edge of the curtain, and a number of rings attached to the back of it, in squares,--three rows, of four rings each, extending from top to bottom. Three cords are now fastened to the wire, and passing through the rings are run over three pulleys on the upper piece of the frame. It is well for all young managers of garret theatres to get up one of these curtains, even with the help of an upholsterer, as the other draw-curtain never works so securely, and often hurts the _dénouement_ of the play. When the drop curtain above described is used, one person holds all the strings, and it pulls together. Now for the stage properties. They are easily made. A boy who can paint a little will indicate a scene, with black paint, on a white ground; tinsel paper, red flannel, and old finery will supply the fancy dresses. A stage manager who is a natural born leader is indispensable. Certain ambitious amateurs performed the opera of "Patience" in New York. It would have been a failure but for the musical talent of the two who took the title _rôles_, and the diligent six weeks' training which the players received at the hand of the principal actor in the real operetta. This seems very dear for the whistle, when one can go and hear the real tune. It is in places where the real play cannot be heard, that amateur theatricals are of importance. Young men at college get up the best of all amateur plays, because they are realistic, and stop at nothing to make strong outlines and deep shadows. They, too, buy many properties like wigs and dresses, and give study and observation to the make-up of the character. If they need a comic face they have an artist from the theatre put it on with a camel's-hair pencil. An old man's face, or a brigand's is only a bit of water-colour. A pretty girl can be made out of a heavy young man by rouge, chalk, and a blond wig. For a drunkard or a villain, a few purple spots are painted on chin, cheek, forehead and nose, judiciously. Young girls are apt, in essaying private theatricals, to sacrifice too much to prettiness. This is a fatal mistake; one must even sacrifice native bloom if the part requires it, or put on rouge, if necessary. As amusement is the object, the plays had better be comedy than tragedy; and no such delicate wordy duels as the "Scrap of Paper," should be attempted, as that requires the highest skill of two great actors. After reading the part and committing the lines to memory, young actors must submit to many and long rehearsals. After many of these and much study, they must not be discouraged if they grow worse instead of better. Perseverance conquers all things, and at last they reach the dress rehearsal. This is generally a disappointment, and time should be allowed for two dress rehearsals. It is a most excellent and advantageous discouragement, if it leads the actors to more study. The stage manager has a difficult _rôle_ to play, for he may discover that his actors must change parts. This nearly always excites a wounded self-love, and ill-feeling. But each one should bear in mind that he is only a part of a perfect whole, and be willing to sacrifice himself. If, however, plays are not successful and cease to amuse, the amateur stage can be utilized for _tableaux vivants_, which are always pretty, and may be made very artistic. The principle of a picture, the pyramidal form, should be closely observed in a tableau. There should be a square of black tarletan or gauze nailed before the picture, between the players and the footlights. The drop curtain must be outside of this, and go up and down very carefully, at a concerted signal. Although the pure white light of candles, or lime light, is the best for such pictures, very pretty effects can be easily made by the introduction of coloured lights, such as are produced by the use of nitrate of strontia, chlorate of potash, sulphuret of antimony, sulphur, oxymuriate of potassa, metallic arsenic, and pulverized charcoal. Muriate of ammonia makes a bluish-green fire, and many colours can be obtained by a little study of chemistry. To make a red fire, take five ounces of nitrate of strontia dry, and one and a half ounces finely powdered sulphur; also five drachms chlorate of potash, and four drachms sulphuret of antimony. Powder the last two separately in a mortar, then mix them on paper and having mixed the other ingredients, previously powdered, add these last and rub the whole together on paper. To use, mix a little spirits of wine with the powder, and burn in a flat iron plate or pan; the effect is excellent on the picture. Sulphate of copper when dissolved in water turns it a beautiful blue. The common red cabbage gives three colours. Slice the cabbage and pour boiling water on it. When cold add a small quantity of alum, and you have purple. Potash dissolved in the water will give a brilliant green. A few drops of muriatic acid will turn the cabbage water into crimson. Put these various coloured waters in globes, and with candles behind them they will throw the light on the picture. Again, if a ghastly look be required, and a ghost scene be in order, mix common salt with spirits of wine in a metal cup, and set it upon a wire frame over a spirit lamp. When the cup becomes heated, and the spirits of wine ignites, the other lights in the room should be extinguished, and that of the spirit lamp hidden from the observer. A light will be produced that will make the players seem like the witches in Macbeth, "that look not like the inhabitants of the earth, but yet are of it." The burning of common salt produces a very weird effect; for salt has properties other than the conservative, preserving, hospitable qualities which legend and the daily needs of mankind have ascribed to it. A very pretty effect for Christmas Eve may be made by throwing these lights on the highly decorated tree. A set of Christmas tableaux can be arranged, giving groups of the early Christians going into the Catacombs as the Pagans are going out, with a white shaft of light making a cross between them. A picture representing the Christmas of each nationality can be made, as for instance the Russian, the Norwegian, the Dane, the Swede, the German, the English of three hundred years ago. These are all possible to a family in which are artistic boys and girls. The grotesque is lost in a tableau where there seems to be an æsthetic need of the heroic, the refined, and the historic. A double action may be represented with good effect, and here can be used the coloured lights. Angels above, for instance, can well be in another colour than sleeping children below. To return for a moment to the first use of the stage, the play. It is a curious thing to see the plays which amateurs act well. The "Rivals" is one of these, and so is "Everybody's Friend." "The Follies of a Night" plays itself, and "The Happy Pair" goes very well. "A Regular Fix," one of Sothern's plays, is exceptionally funny, as is "The Liar," in which poor Lester Wallack was so very good. "Woodcock's Little Game," too, is excellent. Cheap and unsophisticated theatricals, such as schoolboys and girls can get up in the garret or the basement, are those which give the most pleasure. But so strong is the underlying love of the drama that youth and maid will attempt the hard and sometimes discouraging work, even in cities where professional work is so very much better. The private amateur player should study to be accurate as to costume. Pink-satin Marie Antoinette slippers must not be worn with a Greek dress; classic sandals are easily made. It is an admirable practice to get up a play in French. It helps to conquer the _délicatesse_ of the language. The French _répertoire_ is very rich in easily acted plays, which any French teacher can recommend. Imitation Negro minstrels are funny, and apt to be better than the original. A funny man, a mimic, one who can talk in various dialects, is a precious boon to an amateur company. Many of Dion Boucicault's Irish characters can be admirably imitated. In this connection, why not call in the transcendent attraction of music? Now that we have lady orchestras, why not have them on the stage, or let them be asked to play occasional music between the acts, or while the tableaux are on? It adds a great charm. The family circle in which the brothers have learned the key bugle, cornet, trombone, and violoncello, and the sisters the piano and harp, and the family that can sing part songs are to be envied. What a blessing in the family is the man who can sing comic songs, and who does not sing them too often. A small operetta is often very nicely done by amateurs. We need not refer to the lamented "Pinafore," but that sort of thing. Would that Sir Arthur would write another "Pinafore!" but, alas! there was never but one. A private theatre is a great addition to a large country house, and it can be made cheaply and well by a modern architect. It can be used as a ballroom on off evenings, as a dining-room, or for any other gathering. Nothing can be more improving for young people than to study a play. Observe the expressions of the Oberammergau peasants, their intellectual and happy faces, "informed with thought," and contrast them with the faces of the German and Bavarian peasants about them. Their old pastor, Deisenberg, by training them in poetry and declamation, by founding his well-written play on their old traditions, by giving them this highly improving recreation for their otherwise starved lives, made another set of human beings of them. They have a motive in life besides the mere gathering in of a livelihood. So it would be in any country neighbourhood, however rustic and remote, if some bright woman would assemble the young people at her house and train them to read and recite, lifting their young souls above vulgar gossip, and helping them to understand the older dramatists, to even attempt Shakspeare. Funny plays might be thrown in to enliven the scene, but there should be a good deal of earnest work inculcated as well. Music, that most divine of all the arts, should be assiduously cultivated. All the Oberammergau school-masters must be musicians, and all the peasants learn how to sing. What a good thing it would be if our district school-teachers should learn how to teach their scholars part songs. When the art of entertaining has reached its apotheosis, we feel certain that we can have this influence emanating from every opulent country house, and that there will be no more complaint of dulness. HUNTING AND SHOOTING. My love shall hear the music of my hounds: Uncouple in the western valley; let them go,-- Dispatch, I say, and find the Forester. We will, fair Queen, up to the mountain's top. MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. Fashion is at her best when she makes men and women love horses, dogs, boating, swimming, and all out-of-door games,--when she preaches physical culture. It is a good thing to see a man play lawn-tennis under a hot sun for hours; you feel that such a man could storm a battery. Nothing is more encouraging to the lover of all physical culture than the hunting, shooting, boating, and driving mania in the United States. "Hunting" and "shooting" are sometimes used as synonymous terms in America; in England they mean quite different things. Hunting is riding to hounds without firearms, letting the dogs kill the fox; while shooting is to tramp over field, mountain, and through forest with dogs and gun, to kill deer, grouse, or partridge. The 12th of August is the momentous day, the first of the grouse shooting. Every one who can afford it, or who has a friend who can afford it, is off for the moors on the 11th, hoping to fill his bag. The 1st of September, partridge, and the 1st of October, pheasant shooting, are gala days, and the man is little thought of who cannot handle a gun. In August inveterate fox-hunters meet at four or five o'clock in the morning for cub-hunting, which amusement is over by eleven or twelve. As the winter comes on the real hunting begins, and lasts until late in March. In the midland counties it is the special sport. Melton, in Leicestershire, is a noted hunting rendezvous. People, many Americans among them, take boxes there for the season, with large stables, and beguile the evenings with dinners, dancing, and card-parties. It is a sort of winter watering-place without any water, where the wine flows in streams every night, and where the brandy flask is filled every morning, "in case of accidents" while out with the hounds. An enthusiast in riding can be in the saddle ten or twelve hours out of every day, except Sunday, which is a dull day at Melton. All the houses within such a neighbourhood are successively made the rendezvous or meet of the hunt. People come from great distances and send their horses by rail; others drive or ride in, and send their valuable hunters by a groom, who walks them the whole way. The show of "pink" is generally good. "Pink" means the scarlet hunting-coat worn by the gentlemen, the whippers-in, etc. The weather fades these coats to a pale pink very much esteemed by the older men. They suggest the scars of a veteran warrior, hence the name. Some men hunt in black, but always in top boots. These boots are a cardinal point in a sportsman's dandyism. Once or twice during the season a hunt breakfast is given in the house where the meet takes place. This is a pretty scene. All sorts of neat broughams, dog-carts, and old family chariots bring the ladies, who wear as much scarlet as good taste will allow. Ladies, with their children, come to these breakfasts, which are sumptuous affairs. Great rounds of cold beef, game patties, and salads are spread out. All sorts of drinks, from beer up to champagne, are offered. One of the ladies of the house sits at the head of the table, with a large antique silver urn before her, and with tea and coffee ready for those who wish these beverages. Some girls come on horseback, and look very pretty in their habits. These Dianas cut slices of beef and make impromptu sandwiches for their friends outside who have not dismounted. The daughters of the house stand on the steps while liveried servants hand around cake and wine, and others carry foaming tankards of ale, and liberal slices of cheese, among the farmers and attendants of the kennel. It is an in-door and an out-door feast. The hounds are gathered in a group, the huntsman standing in the centre cracking his whip, and calling each hound by his name. Two or three masters of neighbouring packs are talking to the master of the hounds, a prominent gentleman of the county, who holds fox-hunting as something sacred, and the killing of a fox otherwise than in a legitimate manner as one of the seven deadly sins. Twelve o'clock strikes, and every one begins to move. Generally the throw off is at eleven, but in honour of this breakfast a delay has been allowed. The huntsman mounts his horse and blows his horn; the hounds gather around him, and the whole field starts out. They are going to draw the covers at some large plantation above the park. The earths, or fox-holes, have been stopped for miles around, so that the fox once started has no refuge to make for, and is compelled to give the horses a run. It is a fine, manly sport, for with all the odds against him, the fox often gets away. It is a pretty sight. The hounds go first, with nose to the ground, searching for the scent. The hunters and whippers-in, professional sportsmen, in scarlet coats and velvet jockey caps, ride immediately next to them, followed by the field. In a little while a confusion of rumours and cries is heard in the wood, various calls are blown on the horn, and the frequent cracking of high whips, which sound is used to keep the hounds in order, has all the effect of a succession of pistol shots. Hark! the fox has broken cover, and a repeated cry of "Tally Ho!" bursts from the wood. Away go the hounds, full cry, and what sportsmen call their music, something between a bay and a yelp, is indeed a pleasant sound, heard as it always is under circumstances calculated to give it a romantic character. Many ladies and small boys are amongst the followers of the chase. As soon as a boy can sit on his pony he begins to follow the hounds. A fox has no tail and no feet in hunting parlance, he has only a brush and pads. The lady who is in at the death receives the brush, and the man the pads, as a rule. The hunt is a privileged institution in England, and can make gaps in hedges and break down walls with impunity. The farmer never complains if his wheat and turnip fields are ruined by the sport, nor does a lady complain if her flower garden and ornamental arbour be laid in ruins. The wily fox who has made such a skilful run must be followed at any cost. Shooting is, however, the favourite sport of all Englishmen. Both pheasants and partridges are first carefully reared; the eggs generally purchased in large quantities, hatched by hens, and the birds fed through the summer with meal and other appropriate food. The gamekeepers take the greatest pride in the rearing of these birds. The pheasant is to the Englishman what the ibis was to the Egyptian. They are let loose in the woods only when nearly full-grown. When the covers are full, and a good bag is to be expected, the first of October is a regular feast-day; a large party is asked, and a variety of costumes makes the scene picturesque. Red or purple stockings, knickerbockers of stout cloth or velveteen, a shooting-jacket of rough heavy material, and stout shoes make up the costume. The ladies collect after breakfast to see the party start out, a rendezvous is agreed upon, and luncheon or tea brings them together at either two or five o'clock, under a sheltering hedge on the side of a wood. The materials for an ample meal are brought to the appointed place, and a gay picnic ensues. Though shooting is a sport in which more real personal work is done by those who join in it, and in which skill is a real ingredient, still it is neither so characteristic nor so picturesque as fox-hunting. There, a firm seat in the saddle, a good horse, and a determination to ride straight across country, are all that is needed for the majority of the field. In shooting much patience is required, besides accuracy of aim, and a judicious knowledge of when and how to shoot. When we consider that hunting is the fashion which Americans are trying to follow, in a country without foxes, we must concede that success must be the result of considerable hard study. The fox is an anise-seed bag, but stone walls and high rail fences often make a stiffer country to ride over than any to be found abroad. In England there are no fences. As an addition to the art of entertaining, hunting is a very great boon, and a hunt breakfast at the Westchester Hunting Club is as pretty a sight as possible. In America, the sport began in Virginia in the last century, and no doubt in our great West and South it will some day become as recognized an institution as in England. We have room enough for it, too much perhaps. Shooting should become, from the Adirondacks to the Mississippi, a recognized sport, as it was once a necessity. If Americans could devote five months of the year to sport, as the Englishmen do, they might rival Great Britain. Unfortunately, Americans are bringing down other kinds of game. We cannot help thinking, however, that shooting a buck in the Adirondacks is a more manly sport than shooting one in England. No one who has ever had the privilege will forget his first drive through the delights of an English park. The herds of fallow deer that haunt the ferny glades beneath the old oaks and beeches, are kept both for show and for the table; for park-fed venison is a more delicious morsel than the flesh of the Scotch red deer, that runs wild on the moor. White, brown, and mottled, with branching antlers which serve admirably for offensive and defensive weapons, the deer browse in groups; the does and fawns generally keeping apart from the more lordly bucks. The park-keeper knows them all, and when one is shot, the hides, hoofs, and antlers become his perquisites. The method of shooting a buck is, however, this: The keeper's assistant drives the herd in a certain direction previously agreed upon. The sight is a very pretty one. The keeper stations himself, rifle in hand, in the fork of some convenient tree along the route. He takes aim at the intended victim, and at the ominous report the scared herd scampers away faster than ever, leaving their comrade to the knives of the keeper. It is very much like going out to shoot a cow. There is occasionally an attempt to renew the scenes of Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest, and the hounds are let out, but it is a sham after all, as they are trained not to kill the deer. The stag in this instance is given a start, being carried bound in a cart to a certain point, whence he is released and the chase commences. Thus the same stag may be hunted a number of times and be none the worse for it,--which is not the way they do it in the Adirondacks. American venison is a higher flavoured meat than English, and should be only partly roasted before the fire, then cut in slices half-raw, placed on a chafing-dish with jelly and gravy, and warmed and cooked before the guest to ensure perfection. A Polish officer of distinction has sent me the following account of hunting in his province:-- "We do not hunt the fox as in England. He is shot when met in a drive, or worried out of his subterranean castle by a special breed of dogs, the Dachshund, or Texel; or if young cubs are suspected to be in the hole the exits so far as known are closed, a shaft sunk to the centre, and the whole brood extinguished. "We ride to hounds after hare, and the speed of a fox-hunt is nothing when compared with a cruise of the hare; for the greyhound, used for the latter, can beat any fox hound in racing. No one would ever think of water-killing deer as is done in the Adirondacks, and woe unto him who kills a doe! "The old-fashioned way to kill the wild boar is to let him run at you, then kneel on one knee holding a hunting knife, or cutlass, double-edged. The boar infuriated by the dogs rushes at you. If well directed, the knife enters his breast and heart; if it does not, then look out. This is what is called pig-sticking in India. Old Emperor William hunted the boar in the Royal Forests near Berlin, and King Humbert does the same in the mountains near Rome. "Bird hunting, that of snipe, woodcock, partridge, quail, and waterfowl, is done in the same way as here, excepting the use of duck batteries. "There is very little big game to be found in Europe, that is, in the civilized parts of it, but in some forests belonging to royalty and that ilk, the elk, the stag, the bear, and the wild boar, present themselves as a target, and bison are to be found in Russia. The elk is purely royal game in Prussia. "Southern or Upper Silesia is called the Prussian Ireland, and was famous for hunting-parties; ladies would join, and we would drive home with lighted torches attached to our sleighs." These accounts of hunting-parties are introduced into the Art of Entertaining as they each and all contain hints which may be of use to the future American entertainer. THE GAME OF GOLF. As an addition to one's power of entertaining one's self, "golf affords a wide field of observation for the philosopher and the student of human nature. To play it aright requires nerve, endurance, and self-control, qualities which are essential to success in all great vocations; on the other hand, golf is peculiarly trying to the temper, although it must be said that when the golfer forgets himself his outbursts are usually directed against inanimate objects, or showered upon his own head." How it may take possession of one is well described in this little poem from the "St. James Gazette:"-- "Would you like to see a city given over, Soul and body, to a tyrannizing game? If you would, there's little need to be a rover, For St. Andrews is that abject city's name. "It is surely quite superfluous to mention, To a person who has been here half an hour, That Golf is what engrosses the attention Of the people, with an all-absorbing power. "Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever; 'Tis their business and religion both to play; And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer Unless he goes at least a round a day. "The city boasts an old and learned college, Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek; Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge Are a driver, and a putter, and a cleek. "All the natives and the residents are patrons Of this royal, ancient, irritating game; All the old men, all the young men, maids and matrons, With this passion burn in hard and gem-like flame. "In the morning, as the light grows strong and stronger, You may see the players going out in shoals; And when night forbids their playing any longer, They will tell you how they did the different holes. "Golf, golf, golf, and golf again, is all the story! Till despair my overburdened spirit sinks; Till I wish that every golfer was in glory, And I pray the sea may overflow the links. "Still a slender, struggling ray of consolation Comes to cheer me, very feeble though it be; There are two who still escape infatuation, One's my bosom friend McFoozle, t'other's me. "As I write the words McFoozle enters blushing, With a brassy and an iron in his hand; And this blow, so unexpected and so crushing, Is more than I am able to withstand. "So now it but remains for me to die, sir. Stay! There is another course I may pursue. And perhaps, upon the whole, it would be wiser, I will yield to fate and be a golfer, too!" "The game of golf," says Andrew Lang, its gifted poet and its historian, "has been described as putting little balls into holes difficult to find, with instruments which are sadly inadequate and illy adapted to the purpose." Its learned home is St. Andrews, in Scotland, although its advocates give it several classic starting-points. Learned antiquarians seem to think that the name comes from a Celtic word, meaning club. It is certainly an ancient game, and some variation of it was known on the Continent under various names. The game requires room. A golf-course of nine holes should be at least a mile and a half long, and a hundred and twenty feet wide. It is usual to so lay out the course that the player ends where he began. All sorts of obstructions are left, or made artificially,--running water, railway embankments, bushes, ditches, etc. The game is played with a gutta-percha ball, about an inch and a quarter in diameter, and a variety of clubs, with wooden or iron heads, whose individual use depends on the position in which the ball lies. It is usual for each player to be followed by a boy, who carries his clubs and watches his ball, marking it down as it falls. Games are either singles,--that is, when two persons play against one another, each having a ball,--or fours, when there are two on each side, partners playing alternately on one ball. The start is made near the club house at a place called the tee. Down the course, anywhere from two hundred and fifty to five hundred yards distant, is a level space, fifty feet square, called a putting-green, and in its centre is a hole about four and a half inches in diameter and of the same depth. This is the first hole, and the contestant who puts his ball into it in the fewest number of strokes wins the hole. As the score is kept by strokes, the ball that is behind is played first. In this way the players are always together. For his first shot from the tee, the player uses a club called the driver. It has a wooden head and a long, springy, hickory handle. With this an expert will drive a ball for two hundred yards. It is needless to say that the beginner is not so successful. After the first shot a cleek is used; or if the ball is in a bad hole, a mashie; if it is necessary to loft it, an iron, and so on,--the particular club depending, as we have said, on the position in which the ball lies. The first hole won, the contestants start from a teeing-ground close by it, and fight for the second hole, and so on around the course,--the one who has won the most holes being the winner. "A fine day, a good match, and a clear green" is the paradise of the golfer, but it still can be played all the year and even, by the use of a red ball, when snow is on the ground. In Scotland and athletic England it is a game for players of all ages, though in nearly all clubs children are not allowed. It can be played by both sexes. A beginner's inclination is to grasp a golf club as he would a cricket bat, more firmly with the right hand than with the left, or at times equally firm with both hands. Now in golf, in making a full drive, the club when brought back must be held firmly with the left hand and more loosely with the right, because when the club is raised above the shoulder, and brought round the back of the neck, the grasp of one hand or the other must relax, and the hand to give way must be the right hand and not the left. The force of the club must be brought squarely against the ball. The keeping of one's balance is another difficulty. In preparing to strike, the player bends forward a little. In drawing back his club he raises, or should raise, his left heel from the ground, and at the end of the upward swing stands poised on his right foot and the toe or ball of the left foot. At this point there is danger of his losing his balance, and as he brings the club down, falling either forward or backward, and consequently either heeling or toeing the ball, instead of hitting it with the middle of the face. Accuracy of hitting depends greatly on keeping a firm and steady hold of the ground with the toe of the left foot, and not bending the left knee too much. To "keep your eye on the ball" sounds an injunction easy to be obeyed, but it is not always so. In making any considerable stroke, the player's body makes or should make a quarter turn, and the difficulty is to keep the head steady and the eye fixed upon the ball while doing this. Like all other games, golf has its technical terms; the "teeing-ground," "putting," the "high-lofting stroke," the "approach shot," "hammer-hurling," "topping," "slicing," "hooking," "skidding," and "foozling" mean little to the uninitiated, but everything to the golfer. Let us copy _verbatim_ the following description of the Links of St. Andrews, the Elysium of the braw Scots: "The Links occupy a crook-necked stretch of land bordered on the east by the sea and on the left by the railway and by the wide estuary of the Eden. The course, out and in, is some two miles and a half in length, allowing for the pursuit of balls not driven quite straight. Few pieces of land have given so much inexpensive pleasure for centuries. The first hole is to some extent carpeted by grass rather longer and rougher than the rest of the links. On the left lie some new houses and a big hotel; they can only be 'hazards' on the outward tack to a very wild driver indeed." These "hazards" mean, dear reader, that if you and I are stopping at that big hotel, we may have our eyes put out by a passing ball; small grief would that be to a golfer! "On the right it is just possible to 'heel' the ball over heaps of rubbish into the sea sand. The natural and orthodox hazards are few. Everybody should clear the road from the tee; if he does not the ruts are tenacious. The second shot should either cross or fall short of the celebrated Swilcan Burn. This tributary of ocean is extremely shallow, and meanders through stone embankments, hither and thither, between the tee and the hole. The number of balls that run into it, or jump in from the opposite bank, or off the old stone footbridge is enormous! People 'funk' the burn, top their iron shots, and are engulfed. Once you cross it, the hole whether to right or left is easily approached. "The second hole, when the course is on the left, is guarded near the tee by the 'Scholar's Bunker,' a sand face which swallows a topped ball. On the right of the course are whins, much scantier now than of old; on the left you may get into long grass, and thence into a very sandy road under a wall, a nasty lie. The hole is sentinelled by two bunkers and many an approach lights in one or the other. The putting-green is nubbly and difficult. "Driving to the third hole, on the left you may alight in the railway, or a straight hit may tumble into one of three little bunkers, in a knoll styled 'the Principal's Nose.' There are more bunkers lying in wait close to the putting-green. "The driver to the fourth hole has to 'carry' some low hills and mounds; then comes a bunker that yawns almost across the course, with a small outpost named Sutherlands, which Englishmen profanely desired to fill up. This is impious. "The long bunker has a buttress, a disagreeable round knoll; from this to the hole is open country if you keep to the right, but it is whinny. On the left, bunkers and broken ground stretch, and there is a convenient sepulchre of hope here, and another beyond the hole. "As you drive to the fifth hole you may have to clear 'hell,' but 'hell' is not what it was. The first shot should carry you to the broken spurs of a table land, the Elysian fields, in which there yawn the Beardies, deep, narrow, greedy bunkers. Beyond the table land there is a gorge, and beyond it again a beautiful stretch of land and the putting-green. To the right is plenty of deep bent grass and gorse. This is a long hole and full of difficulties, the left side near the hole being guarded by irregular and dangerous bunkers. "The sixth or heathery hole has lost most of its heather, but is a teaser. A heeled ball from the tee drops into the worst whins of the course in a chaos of steep, difficult hills. A straight ball topped falls into 'Walkinshaw's Grave,' or if very badly topped into a little spiteful pitfall; it is the usual receptacle of a well-hit second ball on its return journey. Escaping 'Walkinshaw's Grave' you have a stretch of very rugged and broken country, bunkers on the left, bent grass on the right, before you reach the sixth hole. "The next, the high hole, is often shifted. It is usually placed between a network of bunkers with rough grass immediately beyond it. The first shot should open the hole and let you see the uncomfortable district into which you have to play. You may approach from the left, running the ball up a narrow causeway between the bunkers, but it is usually attempted from the front. Grief, in any case, is almost unavoidable." It is evident the Scotch pleasure in "contradeectin'" is emphasized in golf. One gets a wholesome sense of invigorating sea air, healthy exercise, and that delightful smell of the short, fresh grass. One sees "the beauty of the wild aerial landscape, the delicate tints of sand, and low, far-off hills, the distant crest of Lochnager, the gleaming estuary, and the black cluster of ruined towers above the bay, which make the charm of St. Andrews Links." Golf has come to our country, and is becoming a passion. There is a club at Yonkers and one at Cedarhurst, but that on the Shinnecock Hills, on Long Island, will probably be the great headquarters of golf in the United States, as this club owns eighty acres beautifully adapted to the uses of the game, and has a large club-house, designed by Stanford White. So we may expect an American historian to write an account of this fine vigorous game, in some future Badminton Library of sports and pastimes; and we shall have our own dear "fifth hole, which offers every possible facility to the erratic driver for coming to grief," if we can be as "contradeectin'" as a Scot. You never hear one word about victory; this golf literature is all written in the minor key,--but it is a gay thing to look at. The regular golf uniform is a red jacket, which adds much to the gayety of a green, and has its obvious advantages. "Ladies' links should be laid out on the model, though on a smaller scale, of the long round, containing some short putting-holes, some larger holes admitting of a drive or two of seventy or eighty yards, and a few suitable hazards. We venture to suggest seventy or eighty yards as the average limit of a drive, advisedly not because we doubt a lady's power to make a longer drive, but because that cannot be well done without raising the club above the shoulder. Now we do not presume to dictate, but we must observe that the posture and gestures requisite for a full swing are not particularly graceful when the player is clad in female dress. "Most ladies put well, and all the better because they play boldly for the hole, without considering too much the lay of the ground; and there is no reason why they should not practise and excel in wrist shots with a lofting-iron or cleek. Their right to play, or rather the expediency of their playing, the long round is much more doubtful. If they choose to play at times when the male golfers are feeding or resting, no one can object; but at other times, must we say it? they are in the way, just because gallantry forbids to treat them exactly as men. The tender mercies of the golfer are cruel. He cannot afford to be merciful, because, if he forbears to drive into the party in front he is promptly driven into from behind. It is a hard lot to follow a party of ladies with a powerful driver behind you, if you are troubled with a spark of chivalry or shyness. "As to the ladies playing the long round with men as their partners, it may be sufficient to say, in the words of a promising young player who found it hard to decide between flirtation and playing the game, 'It is mighty pleasant, but it is not business.'" To learn this difficult game requires months of practice, and great nerve and talent for it. I shall not attempt to define what is meant by "dormy," "divot," "foozle," "gobble," "grip," or "gully." "_Mashy_, a straight-faced niblich," is one of these definitions. Horace G. Hutchinson's book on golf is a most entertaining work,--if for no other reason than that its humour, the pleasant out-of-door atmosphere, the true enthusiasm for the game, and the illustrations, which are very well drawn, all make it an addition to one's knowledge of athletic sports. That golf has taken its place amongst the arts of entertaining, we have no better proof than the very nice description of it in Norris's novel of "Marcia." This clever writer introduces a scene where "Lady Evelyn backs the winner" in the following sprightly manner:-- "Not many years ago all golfers who dwelt south of the Tweed were compelled, when speaking of their favourite relaxation, to take up an apologetic tone; they had to explain with humility, and with the chilling certainty of being disbelieved, that an immense amount of experience, dexterity, and self-command are requisite in order to make sure of hitting a little ball across five hundred yards of broken ground, and depositing it in a small hole in four or five strokes; but now that golf links have been established all over England there is no longer any need to make excuses for one of the finest games that human ingenuity or the accident of circumstances have ever called into existence. The theory of the game is simplicity itself,--you have only to put your ball into a hole in one or less strokes than your opponent; but the practice is full of difficulty, and what is better still, full of endless variety, so that you may go on playing golf from the age of eight to that of eighty, and yet never grow tired of it. Indeed, the circumstance that gray-haired enthusiasts are to be seen enjoying themselves thoroughly, and losing their tempers ludicrously, wherever 'the royal and ancient sport' has taken root, has caused certain ignorant persons to describe golf contemptuously as the old gentleman's game. Such criticisms, however, come only from those who have not attempted to acquire the game." We advise all incipient golfers to read "Marcia," and to see how well golf and love-making can go together. Golf has its poetic and humoristic literature; and as we began with its poetic side we may end with its broadest, latest joke:-- Two well-known professional golfers were playing a match. We will call them Sandy and Jock. On one side of the golf course was a railway, over which Jock drove his ball, landing it in some long grass. They both hunted for a long while for the missing ball. Sandy wanted Jock to give in and say that the ball was lost; but Jock would not consent, as a lost ball meant a lost hole. They continued to look round, and Jock slyly dropped another ball, and then came back and cried, "I've found the ba', Sandy." "Ye're a leear," said Sandy, "for here it's in ma pooch." We commend also "Famous Golf Links," by Hutchinson as clear and agreeable reading. OF GAMES. Come, thou complaisant cards, and cheat me Of a bad night, and miserable dreams. SHAKSPEARE. 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world,--to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd. COWPER. There is no amusement for a town or country-house, where people like to stay at home, so perfectly innocent and amusing as games which require a little brain. It is a delightful feature of our modern civilization that books are cheap, and that the poets are read by every one. That would be a barren house where we did not find Scott, Byron, Goldsmith, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, Bret Harte, and Jean Ingelow. Therefore, there would be little embarrassment should we ask the members of the circle around the evening lamp to write a parody on "Evangeline," "Lady Clara Vere de Vere," "Hervé Riel," or "The Heathen Chinee." The result is amusing. Amongst games requiring memory and attention, we may mention Cross Purposes, The Horned Ambassador, I Love my Love with an A, the Game of the Ring, which is arithmetical, The Deaf Man, The Goose's History, Story Play, which consists in putting a word into a narrative so cleverly that it will not readily be guessed, although several may tell different stories with the word repeated. The best way to play this is to have some word which is not the word, like "ambassador," if the word be "banana" for instance, so by thus repeating "ambassador" the listener maybe baffled. The Dutch Conceit, My Lady's Toilette, Scheherazade's Ransom are also very good. This last deserves a description. Three of the company sustain the parts of the Sultan, the Vizier, and the Princess. The Sultan takes his seat at the end of the room, and the Vizier then leads the Princess before him with her hands bound behind her. The Vizier then makes an absurd proclamation that the Princess, having exhausted all her stories is about to be punished, unless a sufficient ransom be offered. All the rest of the company then advance in turn, and propose enigmas which must be solved by the Sultan or Vizier; sing the first verse of a song, to which the Vizier must answer with the second verse; or recite any well-known piece of poetry in alternate lines with the Vizier. Forfeits must be paid, either by the company when successfully encountered by the Sultan and Vizier, or by the Vizier when unable to respond to his opponents; and the game goes on till the forfeits amount to any specified number on either side. Should the company be victorious and obtain the greater number of forfeits, the Princess is released and the Vizier has to execute all the penalties that may be imposed upon him. If otherwise, the Princess is led to execution. For this purpose she is seated on a low stool. The penalties for the forfeits, which should be previously prepared, are written on slips of paper and put in a basket, which she holds in her hands, tied behind her. The owners of the forfeits advance, and draw each a slip of paper. As each person comes forward the Princess guesses who it is, and if right, the person must pay an additional forfeit, the penalty for which is to be exacted by the Princess herself. When all the penalties have been distributed, the hands and eyes of the Princess are released, and she then superintends the execution of the various punishments that have been allotted to the company. Another very good game is to send one of the company out, and as he comes in again to address him in the supposed character of General Scott, the Duke of Wellington, or of some Shakspearean hero. This, amongst bright people, can be very amusing. The hero thus addressed must find out who he is himself,--a difficult task for any one to discover, even with leading questions. The Echo is another nice little game. It is played by reciting some story, which Echo is supposed to interrupt whenever the narrator pronounces certain words which recur frequently in his narrative. These words relate to the profession or trade of him who is the subject of the story. If, for example, the story is about a soldier the words which would recur most frequently would naturally be uniform, gaiters, _chapeau bras_, musket, plume, pouch, sword, sabre, gun, knapsack, belt, sash, cap, powder-flask, accoutrements, and so on. Each one of the company, with the exception of the person who tells the story, takes the name of soldier, powder-flask, etc., except the name accoutrements. When the speaker pronounces one of these words, he who has taken it for his name, ought, if the word has been said only once, to pronounce it twice; if it has been said twice, to pronounce it once. When the word "accoutrements" is uttered the players, all except the soldier, ought to repeat the word "accoutrements" either once or twice. These games are amusing, as showing how defective a thing is memory, how apt it is to desert us under fire. It is very interesting to mark the difference of character exhibited by the players. Another very funny game is Confession by a Die, played with cards and dice. It would look at first like a parody on Mother Church, but it does not so offend. A person takes some blank cards, and counting the company, writes down a sin for each. The unlucky sinner when called upon must not only confess, but, by throwing the dice, also confess as many sins as they indicate, and do penance for them all. These can, with a witty leader, be made very amusing. The Secretary is another good game. The players sit at a table with square pieces of paper and pencils, and each one writes his own name, handing the paper, carefully folded down, to the secretary, who distributes them, saying, "Character." Then each one writes out an imaginary character, hands it to the secretary, who says, "Future." The papers are again distributed, and the writers forecast the future. Of course the secretary throws in all sorts of other questions, and when the game is through, the papers are read. They form a curious and heterogeneous piece of reading; sometimes such curious bits of character-reading crop out that one suspects complicity. But if honestly played it is amusing. The Traveller's Tour is interesting. One of the party announces himself as the traveller. He is given an empty bag, and counters, with numbers on, are distributed amongst the players. Thus if twelve persons are playing the numbers must count up to twelve,--a set of ones to be given to one, twos to two, and so on. Then the traveller asks for information about the places to which he is going. The first person gives it if he can; if not, the second, and so on. If the traveller considers it correct information or worthy of notice he takes from the person one of his counters as a pledge of the obligation he is under to him. The next person in order takes up the next question, and so on. After the traveller reaches his destination he empties his bag and sees to whom he has been indebted for the greatest amount of information. He then makes him the next traveller. Of course this opens the door for all sorts of witty rejoinders, according as the players choose to exaggerate the claims of certain hotels, and to invent hits at certain watering-places. The rhyming game is amusing. "I have a word that rhymes with game." _Interlocutor._--"Is it something statesmen crave?" _Speaker._--"No, it is not fame." _Interlocutor._--"Is it something that goes halt?" _Speaker._--"No, it is not lame." _Interlocutor._--"Is it something tigers need?" _Speaker._--"No, it is not to tame." _Interlocutor._--"Is it something we all would like?" _Speaker._--"No, it is not a good name." _Interlocutor._--"Is it to shoot at duck?" _Speaker._--"Yes, and that duck to maim." Such words as "nut," "thing," "fall," etc., which rhyme easily, are good choices. The two who play it must be quick-witted. The game of Crambo, in which each player has to write a noun on one piece of paper, and a question on another, is curious. As, for instance, the drawer gets the word "Africa" and the question "Have you an invitation to my wedding?" He must write a poem in which he answers the question and brings in the other word. The game of Preferences has had a long and successful career. It is a very good addition to the furniture of a country parlour to possess a blank-book which is left lying on the table, in which each guest should be asked to write out answers to the following questions: Who is your favourite hero in history? Who is your favourite heroine? Who is your favourite king? Who is your favourite queen? What is your favourite Christian name for a man? What is your favourite Christian name for a woman? etc. The game of Authors, especially when created by the persons who wish to play it, is very interesting. The game can be bought and is a very common one, as perhaps every one knows, but it can be rendered uncommon by the preparation of the cards among the members of the family. There are sixty-four cards to be prepared, each bearing the name of a favourite author and any three of his works. The entire set is numbered from one to sixty-four. Any four cards containing the name and works of the same author form a book. Or the names of kings and queens and the learned men of their reigns may be used, instead of authors; it is a very good way to study history. The popes can be utilized, with their attendant great men, and after playing the game for a season one has no difficulty in fixing the environment of the history of an epoch. As the numbers affixed to the cards may be purely arbitrary, the count at the end will fluctuate with great impartiality. The Dickens cards may count but one, while Tupper will be named sixteen. Carlyle will only count two, while Artemas Ward will be sixty. King Henry VIII., who set no small store by himself, may be No. I in the kingly game, while Edward IV. will be allowed a higher numeral than he was allotted in life. Now we come to a game which interests old and young. None are so apathetic but they relish a peep behind the dark curtain. The apple-paring in the fire, the roasted chestnut and the raisin, the fire-back and the stars, have been interrogated since time began. The pack of cards, the teacup, the dream-book, the board with mystic numbers, the Bible and key, have been consulted from time immemorial. The makers of games have given in their statistics, and they declare there are no games so popular as those which foretell the future. Now this tampering with gruesome things which may lead to bad dreams is not recommended, but so long as it is done for fun and an evening's amusement it is not at all dangerous. The riches which are hidden in a pack of fortune-telling cards are very comforting while they last. They are endless, they are not taxed, they have few really trying responsibilities attached, they bring no beggars. They buy all we want, they are gained without headache or backache, they are inherited without stain, and lost without regret. Of what other fortune can we say so much? Who is not glad to find a four-leaved clover, to see the moon over his right shoulder, to have a black cat come to the house? She is sure to bring good fortune! The French have, however, tabularized fortune-telling for us. Their peculiar ability in arranging ceremonials and _fêtes_, and their undoubted genius for tactics and strategy, show that they might be able to foresee events. Their ingenuity, in all technical contrivances, is an additional testimony in the right direction, and we are not surprised that they have here, as is their wont, given us the practical help which we need in fortune-telling. Mademoiselle Lenormand, the sorceress who foretold Napoleon's greatness and to many of the great people of France their downfall and misfortunes, has left us thirty-six cards in which we can read the decrees of fate. Lenormand was a clever sybil. She knew how to mix things, and throw in the inevitable bad and the possible good so as at least to amuse those who consulted her. In this game, which can be bought at any bookstore, the _cavalier_, for instance, is a messenger of good fortune, the clover leaf a harbinger of good news, but if surrounded by clouds it indicates great pain, but if No. 2 lies near No. 26 or 28 the pain will be of short duration, and so on. Thus Mlle. Lenormand tells fortunes still, although she has gone to the land of certainty, and has herself found out whether her symbols and emblems and her combinations really did draw aside the curtain of the future with invisible strings. Amateur sybils playing this game can be sure that they add to the art of entertaining. The cup of tea, and the mysterious wanderings of the grounds around the cup, is used for divination by the old crone in an English farmhouse, while the Spanish gypsy uses chocolate grounds for the same purpose. That most interesting of tragic sybils, Norna of the Fitful Head, used molten lead. Cards from the earliest antiquity have been used to tell fortunes. Fortuna, courted by all nations, was in Greek Tyche, or the goddess of chance. She differed from Destiny, or Fate, in so far as that she worked without law, giving or taking at her own good pleasure. Her symbols were those of mutability, a ball, a wheel, a pair of wings, a rudder. The Romans affirmed that when she entered their city she threw off her wings and shoes, determined to live with them forever. She seems to have thought better of it, however. She was the sister of the Parcae, or Fates, those three who spin the thread of life, measure it, and cut it off. The power to tell fortunes by the hand is easily learned from Desbarolles' book, is a very popular accomplishment, and never fails to amuse the company and interest the individual. It must not be made, however, of too much importance. It never amuses people to be warned that they may expect an early and violent death. Then comes Merelles, or Blind Men's Morris, which can be played on a board or on the ground, but which now finds itself reduced to a parlour game. This takes two players. American Bagatelle can be played alone or with an antagonist. Chinese puzzles, which are infinitely amusing, and all the great family of the Sphinx, known as puzzles, are of infinite service to the retired, the invalid, and weary people for whom the active business of life is at an end. We may describe one of these games as an example. It is called The Blind Abbot and his Monks. It is played with counters. Arrange eight external cells of a square so that there may be always nine in each row, though the whole number may vary from eighteen to thirty-six. A convent in which there were nine cells was occupied by a blind abbot and twenty-four monks, the abbot lodging in the centre cell and the monks in the side cells, three in each, giving a row of nine persons on each side of the building. The abbot suspecting the fidelity of his brethren often went out at night and counted them. When he found nine in each row, the old man counted his beads, said an _Ave_, and went to bed contented. The monks, taking advantage of his failing sight, contrived to deceive him, so that four could go out at night, yet have nine in a row. How did they do it? The next night, emboldened by success, the monks returned with four visitors, and then arranged them nine in a row. The next night they brought in four more belated brethren, and again arranged them nine in a row, and again four more. Finally, when the twelve clandestine monks had departed, and six monks with them, the remainder deceived the abbot again by presenting a row of nine. Try it with the counters, and see how they so abused the privileges of conventual seclusion! Then try quibbles: "How can I get the wine out of a bottle if I have no corkscrew and must not break the glass or make a hole in it or the cork?" The _raconteur_, or story-teller, is a potent force. Any one who can memorize the stories of Grimm, or Hans Christian Anderson, or Browning's "Pied Piper," or Ouida's "Dog of Flanders," or Dr. Holmes' delightful "Punch Bowl," and tell these in a natural sort of way is a blessing. But this talent should never be abused. The man who, in cold blood, fires off a long poetical quotation at a dinner, or makes a speech when he is not asked, in defiance of the goose-flesh which is creeping down his neighbours' backs, is a traitor to honour and religion, and should be dragged to execution with his back to the horses, like a Nihilist. It is only when these extempore talents can be used without alarming people that they are useful or endurable. Perhaps we might make our Christmas Holidays a little more gay. There are old English and German customs beyond the mistletoe, and the tree, and the rather faded legend of Santa Claus. There are worlds of legendary lore. We might bring back the Leprechaun, the little fairy-man in red, who if you catch him will make you happy forever after, and who has such a strange relationship to humanity that at birth and death the Leprechaun must be tended by a mortal. To follow up the Banshee and the Brownie, to light the Yule log, to invoke the Lord of Misrule, above all to bring back the waits or singing-boys who come under the window with an old carol, and the universal study of symbolism,--all this is useful at Christmastide, when the art of entertaining is ennobled by the song "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will toward men." The supper-table has unfortunately fallen into desuetude, probably on account of our exceedingly late dinners. We sup out, we sup at a ball, but rarely have that informal and delightful meal which once wound up every evening. Mrs. Elizabeth Montague, in her delightful letters, talks about the "Whisk, and the Quadrille parties, with a light supper," which amused the ladies of her day. We still have the "Whisk," but what has become of _lansquenet_, quadrille basset, piquet, those pretty and courtly games? Whist! Who shall pretend to describe its attractions? What a relief to the tired man of affairs, to the woman who has no longer any part in the pageant of society! What pleasure in its regulating, shifting fortunes. We have seen, in its parody on life, that holding the best cards, even the highest ones, does not always give us the game. We have noticed that with a poor hand, somebody wins fame, success, and happiness. We have all felt the injustice of the long suit, which has baffled our best endeavours. We play our own experience over again, with its faithless kings and queens. The knave is apt to trip us up, on the green cloth as on the street. So long as cards do not lead to gambling, they are innocent enough. The great passion for gambling is behind the game of boaston, played appropriately for beans. We all like to accumulate, to believe that we are fortune's favourite. What matter if it be only a few more beans than one's neighbour? That is a poorly furnished parlour which has not a chess table in one corner, a whist table properly stocked, and a little solitaire table for Grandma. Cribbage and backgammon boards, cards of every variety, bezique counters and packs, and the red and white champions for the hard-fought battle-field of chess, should be at hand. Playing cards made their way through Arabia from India to Europe, where they first arrived about the year 1370. They carried with them the two rival arts, engraving and painting. They were the _avants couriers_ of engraving on wood and metal, and of the art of printing. Cards, begun as the luxuries of kings and queens, became the necessity of the gambler, the solace of all who like games. They have been one of the worst curses and one of the greatest blessings of poor human nature. "When failing health, or cross event, Or dull monotony of days, Has brought us into discontent Which darkens round us like a haze"-- then the arithmetical progression of a game has sometimes saved the reason. They are a priceless boon to failing eyesight. Piquet, a courtly game, was invented by Etienne Vignoles, called La Hire, one of the most active soldiers of the reign of Charles VII. This brave soldier was an accomplished cavalier, deeply imbued with a reverence for the manners and customs of chivalry. Cards continued from his day to follow the whim of the court, and to assume the character of the period, through the regency of Marie de Medicis, the time of Anne of Austria and of Louis XIV. The Germans were the first people to make a pack of cards assume the form of a scholastic treatise; the king, queen, knight, and knave tell of English customs, manners, and nomenclature. The highly intellectual game of Twenty Questions can be played by three or four people or by a hundred. It is an unfailing delight by the wood fire in the remote house in the wood, or by the open window looking out on the lordly Hudson of a summer's night. It only needs that one bright mind shall throw the ball, and half a dozen may catch. Mr. Lowell once said there was no subject so erudite, no quotation so little known, that it could not be reached in twenty questions. But we are not all as bright as James Russell Lowell. We can, however, all ask questions and we can all guess; it is our Yankee privilege. The game of Twenty Questions has led to the writing of several books. The best way to begin is, however, to choose a subject. Two persons should be in the secret. The questioner begins: Is it animal, vegetable or mineral? Is it a manufactured object? Ancient or modern? What is its shape, size and colour? What is its use? Where is it now? The object of the answerer is of course to baffle, to excite curiosity; it is a mental battledore and shuttlecock. It is strange that the pretty game of croquet has gone out of favour. It is still, however, to be seen on some handsome lawns. Twenty years ago it inspired the following lines:-- CROQUET. "A painter must that poet be And lay with brightest hues his palette Who'd be the bard of Croquet'rie And sing the joys of hoop and mallet. "Given a level lawn in June And six or eight, enthusiastic, Who never miss their hoops, or spoon, And are on duffers most sarcastic; "Given the girl whom you adore-- And given, too, that she's your side on, Given a game that's not soon o'er, And ne'er a bore the lawn espied on; "Given a claret cup as cool As simple Wenham Ice can make it, Given a code whose every rule Is so defined that none can break it; "Given a very fragrant weed-- Given she doesn't mind your smoking, Given the players take no heed And most discreetly keep from joking; "Given all these, and I proclaim, Be fortune friendly or capricious, Whether you win or lose the game, You'll find that croquet is delicious." ARCHERY. "The stranger he made no muckle ado, But he bent a right good bow, And the fattest of all the herds he slew Forty good yards him fro: 'Well shot! well shot!' quoth Robin Hood." "Aim at the moon, if you ambitious are, And failing that, you may bring down a star." Fashion has brought us again this pretty and romantic pastime, which has filled the early ballads with many a picturesque figure. Now on many a lawn may be seen the target and the group in Lincoln green. Indeed, it looks as if archery were to prove a very formidable rival to lawn tennis. The requirements of archery are these: First, a bow; secondly, arrows; thirdly, a quiver, pouch, and belt; fourthly, a grease pot, an arm-guard or brace, a shooting-glove, a target and a scoring-card. The bow is the most important article in archery, and also the most expensive. It is usually from five to six feet in length, made of a simple piece of yew or of lance-wood and hickory glued together back to back. The former is better for gentlemen, the latter for ladies, as it is adapted for the short, sharp, pull of the feminine arm. The wood is gradually tapered, and at each end is a tip of horn; the one from the upper end being longer than the other or lower end. The strength of bows is marked in pounds, varying from twenty-five to forty pounds in strength for ladies, for gentlemen from fifty to eighty pounds. One side of the bow is flat, called the back, the other, called the belly, is rounded. Nearly in the middle, where the hand should take hold, it is lapped round with velvet, and that part is called the handle. In each of the tips of the horns is a notch for the string, called the nock. Bow strings are made of hemp or flax, the former being the better material, for though at first they stretch more, yet they wear longer and stand a harder pull, and are, as well, more elastic in the shooting. In applying a fresh string to a bow, be careful in opening it not to break the composition that is on it. Cut the tie, take hold of the eye which will be found ready worked at one end, let the other part hang down, and pass the eye over the upper end of the bow. If for a lady, it may be held from two to two and a half inches below the nock; if for a gentleman, half an inch lower, varying it according to the length and strength of the bow. Then run your hand along the side of the bow and string to the bottom nock. Turn it around that and fix it by the noose, called the timber noose, taking care not to untwist the string in making it. This noose is simply a turn back and twist, without a knot. When strung a lady's bow will have the string about five inches from the belly, and a gentleman's about half an inch more. The part opposite the handle is bound round with waxed silk in order to prevent its being frayed by the arrow. As soon as a string becomes too soft and the fibres too straight, rub it with beeswax and give it a few turns in the proper direction, so as to shorten it, and twist its strands a little tighter. A spare string should always be provided by the shooter. Arrows are differently shaped by various makers; some being of uniform thickness throughout, while others are protuberant in the middle; some again are larger at the point than at the feather end. They are generally made of white deal, with joints of iron or brass riveted on, and have a piece of heavy wood spliced to the deal, between it and the point, by which their flight is improved. At the other end a piece of horn is inserted, in which is a notch for the string. They are armed with three feathers glued on, one of which is a different colour from the others, and is intended to mark the proper position of the arrow when placed on the string, this one always pointing from the bow. These feathers, properly applied, give a rotary motion to the arrow, which causes its flight to be straight. They are generally from the wing of the turkey or the goose. The length and weight of the arrows vary, the latter in England being marked in sterling silver coin and stamped in the arrow in plain figures. It is usual to paint a crest or a monogram or distinguishing rings on the arrow, just between the feathers by which they may be known in shooting at the target. The quiver is merely a tin case painted green, intended for the security of the arrows when not in use. The pouch and belt are worn round the waist, the latter containing those arrows which are actually being shot. A pot to hold grease for touching the glove and string, and a tassel to wipe the arrows are hung at the belt. The grease is composed of beef suet and wax melted together. The arm is protected from the blow of the string by the brace, a broad guard of strong leather buckled on by two straps. A shooting-glove, also of thin tubes of leather, is attached to the wrist by three flat pieces, ending in a circular strap buckled around it. This glove prevents the soreness of the fingers, which soon comes after using the bow without it. The target consists of a circular mat of straw, covered with canvas painted in a series of circles. It is usually from three feet six inches to four feet in diameter, the centre is gilt, and called the gold; the ring about it is called the red, after which comes the inner white, then the black, and finally the outer white. These targets are mounted on triangular stands, from fifty to a hundred yards apart; sixty being the usual shooting distance. A scoring-card is provided with columns for each colour, which are marked with a pin. The usual score for a gold hit, or the bull's-eye, is 9, the red 7, inner white 5, black 3, and outer white, 1. To string the bow properly it should be taken by the handle in the right hand. Place one end on the ground, resting in the hollow of the right foot, keeping the flat side of the bow, called the back, toward your person. The left foot should be advanced a little, and the right placed so that the bow cannot slip sideways. Place the heel of the left hand upon the upper limb of the bow, below the eye of the string. Now while the fingers and thumb of the left hand slide the eye towards the notch in the horn, and the heel pushes the limb away from the body, the right hand pulls the handle toward the person and thus resists the action of the left, by which the bow is bent, and at the same time the string is slipped into the nock, as the notch is termed. Take care to keep the three outer fingers free from the string, for if the bow should slip from the hand, and the string catch them, they will be severely pinched. In shooting in frosty weather, warm the bow before the fire or by friction with a woollen cloth. If the bow has been lying by for a long time, it should be well rubbed with boiled linseed oil before using it. To unstring the bow hold it as in stringing, then press down the upper limb exactly as before, and as if you wished to place the eye of the string in a higher notch. This will loose the string and liberate the eye, when it must be lifted out of the notch by the forefinger, and suffered to slip down the limb. Before using the bow hold it in a perpendicular direction, with the string toward you, and see if the line of the string cuts the middle of the bow. If not, shift the eye and noose of the string to either side, so as to make the two lines coincide. This precaution prevents a very common cause of defective shooting, which is the result of an uneven string throwing the arrow on one side. After using it unstring it, and at a large shooting-party unloose your bow after every round. Some bows get bent into very unmanageable shapes. The general management of the bow should be on the principle that damp injures it, and that any loose floating ends interfere with its shooting. It should therefore be kept well varnished, and in a waterproof case, and it should be carefully dried after shooting in damp weather. If there are any ends hanging from the string cut them off close, and see that the whipping, in the middle of the string, is close and well-fitting. The case should be hung up against a dry, internal wall, not too near the fire. In selecting your bow be careful that it is not too strong for your power, and that you can draw the arrow to its head without any trembling of the hand. If this cannot be done after a little practice, the bow should be changed for a weaker one; for no arrow will go true, if it is discharged by a trembling hand. If an arrow has been shot into the target on the ground, be particularly careful to withdraw it by laying hold close to its head, and by twisting it around as it is withdrawn, in the direction of its axis. Without this precaution it may be easily bent or broken. In shooting at the target the first thing is to nock the arrow, that is, to place it properly on the string. In order to effect this, take the bow in the left hand, with the string toward you, the upper limb being toward the right. Hold it horizontally while you take the arrow by the middle; pass it on the under side of the string and the upper side of the bow, till the head reaches two or three inches past the left hand. Hold it there with the forefinger or thumb, while you remove the right hand down to the neck; turn the arrow till the cock feather comes uppermost, then pass it down the bow, and fix it on the working part of the string. In doing this all contact with the feathers should be avoided, unless they are rubbed out of place, when they may be smoothed down by passing them through the hand. The body should be at right angles with the target, but the face must be turned over the left shoulder, so as to be opposed to it. The feet must be flat on the ground, with the heels a little apart, the left foot turned toward the mark. The head and chest inclined a little forward so as to present a full bust, but not bent at all below the waist. Draw the arrow to the full length of the arm, till the hand touches the shoulder, then take aim. The loosing should be quick, and the string must leave the fingers smartly and steadily. The bow-head must be as firm as a vise, no trembling allowed. The rules of an Archery Club are usually that a Lady Paramount be annually elected; that there be a President, Secretary, and Treasurer; that all members intending to shoot shall appear in the uniform of the club, and that a fine shall be imposed for non-attendance. The Secretary sends out cards at least a week before each day of meeting, acquainting members with the place and hour. There are generally four prizes for each meeting, two for each sex, the first for numbers, the second for hits. No person is allowed to take both on the same day. A certain sum of money is voted to the Lady Paramount, for prizes for each meeting. In case of a tie for hits, numbers decide, and in case of a tie for numbers, hits decide. The decision of the Lady Paramount is final. There is also a challenge prize, and a commemorative ornament is presented to the winner of this prize. The distance for shooting is sixty or one hundred yards, and five-feet targets are used. The dress or uniform of the club is decided by the Lady Paramount. The expenses of archery are not great, about the same as lawn tennis, although a great many arrows are lost in the course of the season. Bows and other paraphernalia last a long time. The lady archers are apt to feel a little lame after the first two or three essays, but they should practise a short time every morning, and always in a loose waist or jacket. It will be found a very healthy and strengthening practice and pastime. We must not judge of the merits of ancient bowmen from the practice of archery in the present day. There are no such distances now assigned for the marks as we find mentioned in old histories or poetic legends, nor such precision, even at short lengths, in the direction of the arrow. Few, if any, modern archers in long shooting reach four hundred yards; or in shooting at a mark exceed eighty or a hundred. Archery has been since the invention of gunpowder followed as a pastime only. It is decidedly the most graceful game that can be practised, and the legends of Sherwood Forest, of Maid Marion, Little John, Friar Tuck, and the Abbot carry us back into the fragrant heart of the forest, and bring back memories which are agreeable to all who have in them a drop of Saxon blood. The usual dress is the Lincoln green of Robin Hood and his merry men, and at Auburn in New York they have a famous club and shooting ground, over the gate of which is painted this motto:-- "What is hit is history, And what is missed is mystery." The traveller still sees in the Alpine Tyrol, and in some parts of Switzerland, bands of archers who depend on the bow and arrow for their game. But there is not that skill or that poetry attached to the sport which made Locksley try conclusions with Hubert, in the presence of Prince John, as we read in the immortal pages of Ivanhoe. The prize was to be a bugle horn mounted with silver, a silken baldric richly ornamented, having on it a medallion of Saint Hubert, the patron of sylvan sport. Had Robin Hood been beaten he would have yielded up bow, baldric, and quiver to the provost of the sports; as it was, however, he let fly his arrow, and it lighted upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. THE SEASON, BALLS, AND RECEPTIONS. "Good-night to the season! the dances, The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances, The flarings of fancy costumes, The pleasures which fashion makes duties, The phrasings of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at beauties, The tedium of talking to mutes, The female diplomatists, planners Of matches for Laura and Jane, The ice of her Ladyship's manners! The ice of his Lordship's champagne." The season in London extends from May to August, often longer if Parliament is in session. In Paris it is from May to the _Grand Prix_, when it is supposed to end, about the 20th of June. In New York and Washington it is all winter, from November 1st to Lent, with good Episcopalians, and from November to May with the rest of mankind. It then begins again in July, with the people who go to Newport and to Bar Harbor, and keeps up until September, when comes in Tuxedo and the gayety of Long Island, and the Hudson. Indeed, with the gayety of country-house life, hunting, lawn tennis and driving, it is hard to say when the American season ends. There is one sort of entertainment which is a favourite everywhere and very convenient. It is the afternoon reception or party by daylight. The gas is lighted, the day excluded, the hostess and her guests are in beautiful toilets; their friends come in street dresses and bonnets; their male friends in frock coats. This is one of the anomalies of fashion. These entertainments are very large, and a splendid collation is served. The form of invitation is simply-- MRS. BROWNTON at home Thursday, from 3 to 6. and unless an R. S. V. P. is appended, no reply is expected. These receptions are favourites with housekeepers, as they avoid the necessity of keeping the servants up at night. The drawback to this reception is that, in our busy world of America, very few men can spare the time to call in the daytime, so the attendance is largely feminine. On entering, the guest places a card on the table, or, if she cannot be present, she should send a card in an envelope. After these entertainments, which are really parties, a lady should call. They are different things entirely from afternoon tea, after which no call is expected. If the reception is given to some distinguished person, the lady stands beside her guest to present all the company to him or her. If on the card the word "Music" is added, the guests should be punctual, as, doubtless, they are to be seated, and that takes time. No lady who gives a _musicale_ should invite more than she can seat comfortably; and she should have her rooms cool, and her lights soft and shaded. People with weak eyes suffer dreadfully from a glare of gas, and when music is going on they cannot move to relieve themselves. The hostess should think of all this. Who can endure the mingled misery of a hot room, an uncomfortable seat, a glare of gas, and a pianoforte solo? A very sensible reformation is now in progress in regard to the sending of invitations and the answering of the same. The post is now freely used as a safe and convenient medium, and no one feels offended if an invitation arrives with a two-cent stamp on the envelope. There is no loss of caste in sending an invitation by post. Then comes the ball, or, as they always say in Europe, the dance, which is the gayest of all things for the _débutante_. The popular form for an invitation to an evening party is as follows:-- MRS. HAMMOND Requests the pleasure of MR. and MRS. NORTON'S company on Tuesday evening, December 23, at 9 o'clock. R. S. V. P. Dancing. The card of the _débutante_, if the ball is given for one, is enclosed. If a hostess gives her ball at some public place, like Delmonico's, she has but little trouble. The compliment is not the same as if she gave it in her own house, however. If there is room, a ball in a private house is much more agreeable, and a greater honour to the guest. Gentlemen who have not an acquaintance should be presented to the young dancing set; but first, of course, to the _chaperon_. As, however, the hostess cannot leave her post while receiving, she should have two or three friends to help her. Great care should be taken that there be no wall-flowers, no neglected girls. The non-dancers in an American ball are like the non-Catholics in a highly doctrinal sermon: they are nowhere, pushed into a corner where there is perhaps a draught, and the smell of fried oysters. Such is the limbo of the woman of forty or over, who in Europe would be the belle, the person just beginning to have a career. For it is too true that the woman who has learned something, who is still beautiful, the woman who has maturity and experience, is pushed to the wall in America, while in Europe she is courted and admired. Society holds out all its attractive distractions and comforts to such a woman in Europe; in America it keeps everything, even its comforts, for the very young. The fact that American ballrooms, or rather the parlours of our ordinary houses, are wholly disproportioned to the needs of society, has led to the giving of balls at Delmonico's and other public places. If these are under proper patronage there is no reason why they should not be as entertaining, as exclusive, and as respectable as a ball at home. Any hostess or group of managers should, if they give up a ball at home and use the large accommodations of Delmonico or the Assembly Rooms, certainly consider the claims of chaperons and mammas who must wearily sit through the German. It is to be feared that attention to the mamma is not yet a grace in which even her daughter excels. Young men who wish to marry mademoiselle had better pay her mother the compliment of getting her a seat, and social leaders should also show her the greatest attention, not alone from the selfish reason which the poet commemorates:-- "Philosophy has got a charm,-- I thought of Martin Tupper,-- And offering mamma my arm, I took her down to supper. "I gave her Pommery, _Côte d'Or_, Which seethed in rosy bubbles; I called this fleeting life a bore, The world a sea of troubles." It is to be feared that the life of a _chaperon_ in America is not a bed of roses, even if softened by all these attentions. Kept up late, pushed into a corner, the mother of a society girl becomes only a sort of head-chambermaid. Were she in Europe, she would be the person who would receive the compliments and the attention and be asked to dance in the German. A competent critic of our manners spoke of this in the following sensible words:-- "The evils arising from the excessive liberty permitted to American girls cannot be cured by laws. If we ever root them out we must begin with the family life, which must be reformed. For young people, parental authority is the only sure guide. Coleridge well said that he who was not able to govern himself must be governed by others; and experience has shown us that the children of civilized parents are as little able to govern themselves as the children of savages. The liberty or license of our youth will have to be curtailed, as our society is becoming more complex and artificial, like older societies in Europe. The children will have to approximate to them in status, and parents will have to waken to a sense of their responsibilities, and subordinate their ambitions and their pleasures to their duties." Mothers should go out more with their daughters, join in their pleasures, and never permit themselves to be shelved. Society is in a transition state in America. In one or more cities of the West and South it is considered proper for a young man to call for a young girl, and drive with her alone to a ball. In Northern cities this is considered very bad form. In Europe it would be considered a vulgar madness, and a girl's character compromised. Therefore it is better for the mother to keep her rightful place as guardian, _chaperon_, friend, no matter how she is treated. Women are gifted with so much tact and so intuitive a faculty, that in the conduct of fashionable life they need but few hints. The art of entertaining should be founded first, on good sense, a quiet considerateness, a good heart, a spirit of friendliness; next, a consideration of what is due to others and what is due to one's self. There is always a social conscience in one's organization, which will point aright; but the outward performance of conventional rules can never be thoroughly learned, unless the heart is well-bred. Many ladies are now introducing dancing at crowded day receptions and teas. Where people are coming and going this is objectionable, as the hostess is expected to do too much, and the guests being in street dress, while the hostess and her dancers are in low evening dress, the appearance of the party is not ornamental. Evening parties are far more formal, and require the most elaborate dress. Every lady who can wear a low-necked dress should do so. The great drawback in New York is now the ridiculous lateness of the hour--eleven or twelve--at which the guests arrive. If a card is written,-- MRS. BROWN at home Tuesday evening, some sticklers for etiquette say that she should not put R. S. V. P. on her card. If she wishes an answer, she should say,-- MRS. BROWN requests the pleasure of MR. and MRS. CAMPBELL'S company. R. S. V. P. Perhaps the latter is better form. It is more respectful. The "At Home" can be used for large and informal receptions, where an individual acceptance is not required. Garden parties are becoming very fashionable at watering-places, in rural cities, and at country houses which are accessible to a town. No doubt the garden party is a troublesome affair in a climate so capricious as ours. The hostess has to be prepared for a sudden shower, and to have two tables of refreshments. The effort to give the out-of-door plays in this country, as in England, has often been frustrated by a sudden shower, as at Mrs. Stevens' palace at Castle Point. It is curious that they can and do give them in England, where it always rains. However, these entertainments and hunting remain rather as visitors than as old and recognized institutions. Americans all dance well, and are always glad to dance. Whether it be assembly, hunt ball, or private party, the German cotillion finishes the bail. It is an allegory of society in its complicated and bewildering complications, its winding and unwinding of the tangled chain. In every large city a set arises whose aim is to be exclusive. Sometimes this privilege seems to be pushed too far. Often one is astonished at the black sheep who leap into the well-defended enclosures. In London, formerly, an autocratic set of ladies, well known as Almacks, turned out the Duke of Wellington because he came in a black cravat. In our republican country perpetual Almacks arise, offensive and defensive,--a state of things which has its advantages and disadvantages. It keeps up an interest in society. It is like the fire in the engine: it makes the train move, even if it sends out smoke and cinders which get into people's eyes and make them weep. It is a part of the inevitable friction which accompanies the best machinery; and if they have patience, those who are left out one winter will be the inside aristocrats of the next, and can leave somebody else out. Quadrilles, the Lancers, and occasionally a Virginia Reel, are introduced to make the modern ball more interesting, and enable people who cannot bear the whirl of the waltz to dance. The elderly can dance a quadrille without loss of breath or dignity. Indeed, the Americans are the only people who relegate the dance to the young alone. In Europe the old gray-head, the old mustache, leads the German. Ambassadors and generals, princes and potentates, go spinning around with gray-haired ladies until they are seventy. Grandmothers dance with their grandsons. Socrates learned to dance. In Europe it is the elderly woman who receives the most flattering invitations to lead the German. An ambassadress of fifty would be very much astonished if the prince did not ask her to dance. The saltatory art is like the flight of a butterfly,--hard to describe, impossible to follow. The _valse à deux temps_ keeps its precedence in Europe as the favourite measure, varied with galop, polka, and polka mazourka. We add, in America, Dancing in the Barn, which is really a Spanish dance. The _Pavanne_ is worthy of study, and the _Minuet de la Cour_ is a stately and beautiful thing, quite worthy of being learned, if it only teaches our women how to make a courtesy. Each leader of the German is a potentate; he leads his troops through new evolutions, and into combinations so vast, varied, and changeful that it is impossible to do more than hint at them. The proper name for a private ball is "a dance." In London one never talks of balls; it is always "a dance." Although supper is served generally at a buffet, yet some leaders, with large houses, are introducing little tables, which are more agreeable, but infinitely inconvenient. The comfort, however, of being able to sit while eating, and the fact that a party of four or six may enjoy their supper together would certainly determine the question as to its agreeableness. This is a London fashion, one set succeeding another at the same table. It can only be carried out, however, in a very large house or public place. The ball suppers in New York--indeed, all over America--are very "gorgeous feeds" compared with those one sees in Europe. The profusion of flowers, the hot oysters, boned turkey, terrapin, and canvas-back duck, the salmon, the game patties, salads, ices, jellies, and creams, all crowded in, sweetbreads and green peas, _filet de boeuf_, constant cups of _bouillon_,--one feels Carlyle's internal rat gnawing as one reads of them,--the champagne, the punch, the fine glass, choice china, the drapery of German looms, the Queen Anne silver, the porcelain of Sèvres and Dresden, the beauty of the women, the smart dressing, make the ball supper an elegant, an amazing, a princely sort of sight, saving that princes do not give such feasts,--only Americans. WEDDINGS. "Rice and slippers, slippers and rice! Quaint old symbols of all that's nice In a world made up of sugar and spice, With a honeymoon always shining; A world where the birds keep house by twos, And the ring-dove calls, and the stock-dove coos, And maids are many, and men may choose, And never shall love go pining!" If there were no weddings, there would be no art of entertaining. It is the key-note, the initial letter, the "open sesame," of the great business of society. Therefore certain general and very, perhaps, unnecessary hints as to the conduct of weddings in all countries may not be out of place here. In London a wedding in high life--or, as the French call it, "higlif"--is a very sweeping affair. If we were to read the descriptions in the "Court Journal" of one wedding trousseau alone, furnished to a royal princess, or to Lady Gertrude Somebody, we should say with Fielding that "dress is the principal accomplishment of men and women." As for the wedding-cake which is built at Gunter's, it is a sight to see,--almost as big as Mont Blanc. The importance of Gunter is assured by the "Epicure's Almanac," published in 1815; and for many years this firm supplied the royal family. When George III. was king, the royal dukes stopped to eat Gunter's pies, in gratitude for the sweet repasts furnished them in childhood; but now the Buzzards, of 197 Oxford Street, also are specialists in wedding-cakes. Leigh Hunt, in one of his essays, described one Trumbull Walker as "the artist who confined himself to that denomination," meaning wedding-cake. His mantle fell on the Buzzards. This enormous cake, and the equally enormous bouquet are the chief distinctive marks in which a London wedding differs from ours. To be legal, unless by special license, weddings in England must be celebrated before twelve o'clock. The reason given for this law is that before 1820 gentlemen were supposed to be drunk after that hour, and not responsible for what they promised at the altar. In France, a singular difference of dress on the part of the groom exists. He always wears a dress-coat and white cravat, as do all his ushers and immediate friends. It looks very strange to English and American eyes. How does a wedding begin? As for the premonitory symptoms, they are in the air for several weeks. It is whispered about amongst the bridesmaids; it gets into the papers. It would be easy to write a volume, and it would be a useful volume if it brought conviction to the hearts of the offenders, of the wrong done to young ladies by the newspapers who assume, without authority, to publish the news of an engagement. Many a match has been broken off by such a premature surmise, and the happiness of one or more persons injured for life. Young people like to approach this most important event of their lives in a mutual confidence and secrecy; consequently society newspapers should be very careful how they either report an engagement, or declare that it is off. Sometimes rumors prejudicial to the gentleman are circulated without sufficient reason, and of course much ill-feeling is engendered. The first intimation of an engagement should come from the bride's mother, and the young bride fixes the day of her wedding herself. Then the father and mother, or guardians, of the young lady issue cards, naming the day and hour of the wedding. Brides often give the attendant maidens their dresses; or if they do not choose to do this, they suggest what they shall wear. Six ushers generally precede the party into the church, after having seated the guests. These are generally followed by six bridesmaids, who walk two and two. No one wears a veil but the bride herself, who enters on her father's arm. Widows who marry again must not wear white, or veils. The fact that the bride is in white satin, and often with low neck and short sleeves, and the groom in full morning costume, is much criticised in France. If the wedding occurs in the evening, the groom must wear a dress-coat and white tie. The invitations to the wedding are very simple and explicit:-- GENERAL AND MRS. BROUNLOW Request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter EXCLAIRMONDE to MR. GERALD FITZGERALD, on Thursday, June 16th, at 12 o'clock, St. Peter's Church. In asking a young lady to be her bridesmaid, the bride is supposed to be prompted by claims of relationship or friendship, although fashion and wealth and other considerations often influence these invitations. As for the ushers, they must be unmarried men, and are expected to manage all matters at the church. Music should play softly during the entrance of the family, before the service. The mother of the bride, and her nearest relatives, precede her into the church, and are seated before she enters, unless the mother be a widow and gives the bride away. The ceremony should be conducted with great dignity and composure on all sides; for exhibitions of feeling in public are in the worst possible taste. At the reception, the bride's mother yields her place as hostess for the nonce, and is addressed after the bride. After two hours of receiving her friends, the young wife goes upstairs to put on her dress for the journey, which may be of any colour but black. Perhaps this is the time for a few tears, as she kisses mamma good-by. She comes down, with her mother and sisters, meets the groom in the hall, and dispenses the flowers of her bouquet to the smiling maidens, each of whom struggles for a flower. The parents of the bride send announcement cards to persons not invited to the wedding. Dinners to the young pair succeed each other in rapid succession. For the first three months the art of entertaining is stretched to its uttermost. A widow, in marrying again, should not use the name or initials of her late husband. If she was Mary Steward, and had married Mr. Hamilton, and being his widow, wishes to marry James Constable, her cards should read: MR. AND MRS. STEWARD Request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter MARY STEWARD-HAMILTON to MR. JAMES CONSTABLE. If she is alone, she can invite in her own name as Mrs. Mary Steward Hamilton; or better still, a friend sends out the cards in her own name, with simply the cards of Mrs. Mary Steward Hamilton, and of the gentleman whom she is to marry. The custom of giving bridal presents has grown into an outrageous abuse of a good thing. There has grown up a rivalry between families; and the publicity of the whole thing, its notoriety and extravagance, ought to be well rebuked. At the wedding refreshment-table, the bride sometimes cuts the cake and allows the young people to search for a ring, but this is rather bad for the gloves. At a country wedding, if the day is fine, little tables are set out on the lawn. The ladies seat themselves, the gentlemen carry refreshments to them. The piazzas can be decorated with autumn boughs, evergreens, and flowers; the whole thing becomes a garden-party, and even the family dogs should have a wreath of white flowers around their necks. Much ill feeling is apt to be engendered by the distinction which is inevitably made in leaving out the friends who feel that they were entitled to an invitation to the house. It is better to offend no one on so important an occasion. Wedding-cards and wedding stationery should be simple, white without glaze, and with no attempt at ornamentation. It is proper for the bride to have her left hand bare as she walks to the altar, as it saves her the trouble of taking off a long glove. Child bridesmaids are very pretty and very much in favour. These charming children, covered with flowers and looking very grave and solemn, are the sweetest of heralds for a wedding procession. There is not, however, much difficulty except when Protestant marries Catholic. Such a marriage cannot be celebrated at the High Altar; it leads to a house wedding which is in the minds of many much more agreeable, as saving the bride the journey to church. In this matter, one of individual preference of course, the large and liberal American mind can have a very wide choice. In France the couple must go to the _Mairie_, where an official in a tricolour scarf, looking like Marat, marries them. This is especially the case if husband or wife is a divorced person, the Catholic church refusing to marry such. It is a curious fact, that in Catholic Italy a civil marriage is the only legal marriage; therefore good Catholics are all married twice. A mixed marriage in Catholic countries is very difficult; but in our country, alas! the wedding knot can be untied as easily as it is tied. "This train waits twenty minutes for divorces" is a joke founded on fact. "What do _divorcées_ do with their wedding presents?" has been a favourite conundrum of late, especially with those sent by the friends of the husband. If an evening wedding takes place in a church those who are asked to the house afterwards should go without bonnets. Catholic ladies, however, must always cover their heads in church; so they throw a light lace or mantilla over the head. It is not often that the bride dances at her own wedding, but there is no reason why she should not. "'Tis custom that makes cowards of us all." One brave girl was married on a Saturday in May, thus violating all the old saws and superstitions. She has been happy ever afterwards. Marriages in May used to be said to lead to poverty. It is the month of Mary, the Virgin, therefore Catholics object. One still braver bride chose Friday; this is hangman's day, and also the day of the crucifixion, therefore considered unlucky by the larger portion of the human race. However, marriage is lucky or unlucky as the blind goddess pleases; no foresight of ours can make it a certainty. Sometimes two very doubtful characters make each other better, and live happily; again two very fine characters but help to sublimate each other's misery. Perhaps no more hopeless picture of this failure was ever painted than the misery of Caroline and Robert Elsmere, in that masterly novel which led you nowhere. There is a capital description of a French _bourgeoise_ wedding in one of Daudet's novels:-- "The least details of this important day were forever engraved on Risler's mind. "He saw himself at daybreak pacing his bachelor chamber, already shaved and dressed, with two pairs of white gloves in his pocket. Then came the gala carriages, and in the first one, the one with white horses, white reins, and a lining of yellow satin, his bride's veil floated like a cloud. "Then the entrance to the church, two by two, with this white cloud always at their head, floating, light, gleaming; the organ, the verger, the sermon of the _curé_, the tapers twinkling like jewels, the spring toilets, and all the world in the sacristie--the little white cloud lost, engulfed, surrounded, embraced, while the groom shook hands with the representatives of the great Parisian firms assembled in his honour; and the grand swell of the organ at the end, more solemn because the doors of the church were wide open so that the whole quarter took part in the family ceremony; the noises of the street as the cortège passed out, the exclamations of the lookers-on,--a burnisher in a lustring apron crying aloud, 'The groom is not handsome, but the bride is stunning,'--all this is what makes one proud when he is a bridegroom. "Then the breakfast at the works, in a room ornamented with hangings and flowers; the stroll in the Bois, a concession to the bride's mother, Madame Chèbe, who in her position as a Parisian _bourgeoise_ would not have considered her daughter married without the round of the lake and a visit to the cascade; then the return for dinner just as the lights were appearing on the Boulevard, where every one turned to see the wedding party, a true, well-appointed party, as it passed in a procession of liveried carriages to the very steps of the Café Vefour. "It was all like a dream. "Now, dulled by fatigue and happiness, the worthy Risler looked dreamily at the great table of twenty-five covers, with a horseshoe at each end. Around it were well-known, smiling faces in whose eyes he seemed to see his own happiness reflected. Little waves of conversation from the different groups drifted across the table; faces were turned toward one another. You could see here the white cuffs of a black suit behind a basket of asclepias, here the laughing face of a girl above a dish of confections. The faces of the guests were half hidden behind the flowers and the dessert; all around the board were gayety, light, and colour. "Yes, Risler was happy. "Aside from his brother Franz, all whom he loved were there. First and foremost, facing him, was Sidonie,--yesterday the little Sidonie, to-day his wife. She had laid aside her veil for dinner, she had emerged from the white cloud. "Now in her silken gown, white and simple, her charming face seemed more clear and sweet under the carefully arranged bridal wreath. "By the side of Risler sat Madame Chèbe, the mother of the bride, who shone and glistened in a dress of green satin gleaming like a shield. Since morning all the thoughts of the good woman had been as brilliant as her robe. Every moment she had said to herself, 'My daughter is marrying Fremont and Risler,'--because in her mind it was not Risler whom her daughter married, but the whole establishment. "All at once came that little movement among the guests that announces their leaving the table,--the rustle of silks, the noise of chairs, the last words of talk, laughter broken off. Then they all passed into the grand _salon_, where those invited were arriving in crowds, and, while the orchestra tuned their instruments, the men with glass in eye paraded before the young girls all dressed in white and impatient to begin." HOW ROYALTY ENTERTAINS. Stand back, and let the King go by.--OLD PLAY. "Thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers." When we approach the subject of royal entertainments, we cannot but feel that the best of us are at a disadvantage. Princes have palaces and retainers furnished for them. They have a purse which knows no end. They are either by the divine right, or by lucky chance, the personages of the hour! It is only when one of them loses his head, or is forced to abdicate, or falls by the assassin's dagger, that they approach at all our common humanity. Doubtless to them, entertaining, being a perfunctory affair, becomes very tedious. Pomp is not an amusing circumstance and they get so tired of it all that when off duty kings and queens are usually the most plainly dressed and the most simple of mortals. The "age of strut" has passed away. No one cares to assume the puffiness of Louis XIV. or George IV. Royal entertainments, however, have this advantage, they open to the observer the historical palace, and the pictures, gems of art, and interesting collections of which palaces are the great conservators. It would seem that Louis XIV., called _le Grand Monarque_, Louis the Magnificent, was a master of the art of entertaining. Under him the science of giving banquets received, in common with the other sciences, a great progressive impulse. There still remains some memory of those festivals, which all Europe went to see, and those tournaments, where for the last time shone lances and knightly suits of armour. The festivals always ended with a sumptuous banquet, where were displayed huge centre-pieces of gold and silver, painting, sculpture, and enamel, all laudatory of the hero of the occasion. This fashion made the fame of Benvenuto Cellini in the previous century. To-day, monarchs content themselves with having these centre-pieces made of cake, sugar, or ices. There will be no record of their great feasts for future ages. Toward the end of the reign of Louis XIV., the cook, the _cordon bleu_, received favourable notice; his name was written beside that of his patron; he was called in after dinner. It is mentioned in some of the English memoirs that this fashion was not unknown so lately as fifty years ago in great houses in England, where the cook was called in, in his white cap and apron, publicly thanked for his efforts, and a glass of wine offered him by his master, all the company drinking his health. This must have had an excellent effect on the art of gastronomy. Madame de Maintenon, whose gloomy sway over the old king reduced the gay court to the loneliness of an empty cathedral, threw a wet napkin on the science of good eating, and put out the kitchen fires for a season. Queen Anne, however, was fond of good cheer, and consulted with her cook. Many cookery books have the qualification "after Queen Anne's fashion." Under the Regent Orléans, a princely prince in spite of his faults, the art of good eating and entertaining was revived; and he has left a reputation for _piqués_ of superlative delicacy, _matelots_ of tempting quality, and turkeys superbly stuffed. The reign of Louis XV. was equally favourable to the art of entertaining. Eighteen years of peace had made France rich, and a spirit of conviviality was diffused amongst all classes. The proper setting of the table, and order, neatness, and elegance, as essentials of a well-appointed meal, date from this reign. It is from this period that the history of the _petit soupers de Choisy_ begins. We need hardly go in to that history of all that was reckless, witty, gay, and dissolute in the art of entertaining; but as one item, a floor was constructed so that the table and sideboard sank into the lower story after each course, to be immediately replaced by others which rose covered with a fresh course. From this we may imagine its luxury and detail. Louis XV. was a proficient in the art of cookery; he also worked tapestry with his own hand. We should linger over his feasts with more pleasure had they not led on to the French Revolution, as a horrible dessert. His carving-knives later on became the guillotine. Under Louis XVI. there was a constant improvement in all the "occupations which are required in the preparation of food" by cooks, _traiteurs_, pastry cooks, and confectioners. The art of preserving food, so that one could have the fruits of summer in the midst of winter, really began then, although the art of canning may safely be said to belong to our own much later time. In the year 1740 a dinner was served in this order: Soup, followed by the _bouilli_, an _entrée_ of veal cooked in its own gravy, as a side dish. Second course: A turkey, a dish of vegetables, a salad, and sometimes a cream. Dessert: Cheese, fruit and sweets. Plates were changed only thrice: after the soup, at the second course, and at dessert. Coffee was rarely served, but cherry brandy or some liqueur was passed. Louis XVIII., who grew to be an immensely fat man, was a remarkable gastronome. Let any one read Victor Hugo's "Les Misérables," and an account of his reign, to get an idea of this magnificent entertainer. His most famous _maître d'hôtel_ was the Duc d'Escars. When he and his royal master were closeted together to meditate a dish, the ministers of state were kept waiting in the antechamber, and the next day an official announcement was made, "Monsieur le Duc d'Escars a travaillé dans le cabinet." How strangely would it affect the American people if President Harrison kept them waiting for his signature because he was discussing terrapin and Madeira sauce with his _chef_. The king had invented the _truffles à la purée d'ortolans_, and invariably prepared it himself, assisted by the duke. On one occasion they jointly composed a dish of more than ordinary dimensions, and duly consumed the whole of it. In the night the duke was seized with a fit of indigestion, and his case was declared hopeless. Loyal to the last, he ordered an attendant to awake and inform the king, who might be exposed to a similar attack. His majesty was roused accordingly, and told that D'Escars was dying of his invention. "Dying!" exclaimed the king: "well, I always said I had the better stomach of the two." So much for the gratitude of kings. The Parisian restaurants, those world-renowned Edens of the gastronomer, were formed and founded on the theories of these cookery-loving kings. But political disturbances were to intervene in the year 1770. After the glorious days of Louis XIV. and the wild dissipation of the Regency, after the long tranquillity under the ministry of Fleury, travellers arriving in Paris found its resources very poor as to good cheer. But that soon mended itself. It was not until about 1814 that the parent of Parisian restaurants, Beauvilliers, made himself a cosmopolitan reputation by feeding the allied armies. He learned to speak English, and in that way became most popular. He had a prodigious memory, and would recognize and welcome men who had dined at his house twenty years before. In this he was like General Grant and the Prince of Wales. It is a very popular faculty. Beauvilliers, Méot, Robert, Rose Legacque, the Brothers Very, Hennevan, and Baleine, are the noble army of argonauts in discovering the Parisian restaurant; or rather, they founded it. The Brothers Very, and the Trois Frères Prevenceaux, both in the Palais Royal, are still great names to compete with. When the allied monarchs held Paris, in 1814, the Brothers Very supplied their table for a daily charge of one hundred and twenty pounds, not including wine, and in Père-la-Chaise a magnificent monument is erected to one of them, declaring that his "whole life was consecrated to the useful arts," as it doubtless was. From that day until 1890, what an advance there has been. There is now a restaurant in nearly every street in Paris, where one can get a good dinner. What a crowd of them in the Champs Élysées and out near the Bois. A Parisian dinner is thoroughly cosmopolitan, and the best in the world, when it is good. Parisian cookery has declined of late in the matter of meats. They are not as good as they ought to be. But the sauces are so many and so fine that they have given rise to many proverbs. "The sauce is the ambassador of a king." "With such a sauce, a man could eat his grandfather." Leaving France for other shores, for France has no monarch to entertain us now, let us see how two reigning monarchs entertain. A presentation at the Court of St. James is a picturesque affair and worth seeing, although it is a fatiguing process. A lady must be dressed at eleven in the morning, in full court dress, which means low neck and short sleeves, with a train four yards long and three wide. She must wear a white veil and have three feathers in her hair so that they can be seen in front. White gloves are also _de rigueur_, and as they are seldom worn now, except at weddings, a lady must remember to buy a pair. The carriages approach Buckingham Palace in a long queue, and the lady waits an hour or more in line, exposed to the jeers of the populace, who look in at the carriage windows and make comments, laugh, and amuse themselves. One hopes that this may do these ragamuffins some good, for they look miserable enough. Arriving in the noble quadrangle of Buckingham Palace, the music of the Guard's band enlivens one, and the silent, splendid figures of the household troops, the handsomest men in the world, sit like statues on their horses. No matter if the rain is pouring, as it generally is, neither man nor horse stirs. Once inside the palace, the card of entrance is taken by one of the Queen's pages, some other official takes her cloak, and the lady wends her way up a magnificent staircase into another gallery, out of which open many fine rooms. Gentlemen of the Household in glittering uniforms, and with orders, stand about in picturesque groups. The last room is filled with chairs, and is soon crowded with ladies and gentlemen, waiting for the summons to move on. The gentlemen are all in black velvet suits, with knee breeches and sword, silk stockings and low shoes. A slight commotion at the little turnstile tells you to take your turn; you pass on with the others, your name is loudly called, you make three little courtesies to her Majesty, the Prince and Princess of Wales, you see a glittering line of royalties, you hear the words, "Your train, Madame," it is thrown over your arm by some cavalier behind, and all is over; except that you are amongst your friends, and see a glittering room full of people, and realize that nothing is so bad as you had feared. After about an hour, you find your carriage and drive home, or to your minister's for a cup of tea. Then you receive, if you are fortunate, a great card from the Lord Chamberlain, with the Queen's command that you should be invited to a ball at Buckingham Palace. This ball is a sight to see, so splendid is the ball-room, so grand the elevated red sofas, with the duchesses and their jewels. Royalty enters about eleven o'clock, followed by all the ambassadors. Of late years the Queen has relegated her place as hostess to the Princess of Wales, but during the jubilee year she kept it, and it was a beautiful sight to see the little woman all covered with jewels, with her royal brood around her. The royal family go in to supper through a lane of guests. The supper-room is adorned with the gold plate bought by George IV., and many very fine pieces of plate given by other monarchs. The eatables and drinkables are what they would be at any great ball. The prettiest entertainment of the jubilee year was, however, the Queen's garden-party. No one had seen that lovely park behind Buckingham Palace for eighteen years; then it was used for the garden-party given to the Khedive of Egypt. Now it was filled by a most picturesque group. The Indian princes with all their jewels, their turbans, their robes, their dark, handsome faces, stood at the foot of a grand staircase which runs from the palace to the green turf. Every other man was a king, a prince, a nobleman, a great soldier, a statesman, a diplomate, a somebody. The women were all, of course, beautifully dressed in summer costume; and the grounds, full of ancient trees and fountains, artificial lakes with swans, marquees with refreshments, were as pretty as only a royal English park can be. Presently we heard the sound of the bagpipes, and a procession headed by some dancing Scotchmen came along. It was the Queen, with all her children and grandchildren, ladies-in-waiting, and many monarchs, amongst whom marched Queen Kapiolani of the Sandwich Islands. The Queen walked with a cane, the Prince of Wales by her side. They all stopped repeatedly and spoke to their guests on either side; then the younger members of the family led the way to the refreshment tents, where a truly regal buffet was spread. There was much talk, much music, much laughter, no stiffness. It was real hospitality. In one of the windows of the palace stood looking out the Crown Prince of Germany, later on to be the noble Emperor Frederic, even then feeling the pressure of that malady which in another year was to kill him. He who had been, in the procession of Princes on the great day, so important and so handsome a figure, was on this day a silent observer. The Queen after this gave an evening party to all the royalties, and the ambassadors, and many invited guests. The hospitality of the Queen is, of course, regal, but her dinners must of a necessity be formal. General Grant mentioned his disappointment that he did not sit next her, when she invited him to Windsor, but she had one of her children on either side, and he came next to the Princess Beatrice. The entertainments at Marlborough House are much less formal. The Prince of Wales, the most genial and hospitable of men, cannot always pen up his delightful cordiality behind the barriers of rank. As for the King and Queen of Italy, they do not try to restrain their cordiality. The Court of Italy is most easy-going, democratic, and agreeable, in spite of its thousand years of grandeur. The favoured guest who is to be presented receives a card to the _cercle_, on a certain Monday evening. The card prescribes low-necked dress, and any colour but black. To drive to the Quirinal Palace on a moonlight night in Rome is not unpleasant. The grand staircase, all covered with scarlet carpet, was lined with gigantic cuirassiers in scarlet, who stood as motionless as statues. We entered a grand hall frescoed by Domenichino. How small we felt under these giant figures. We passed on to another _salon_, frescoed by Julio Romano, so on to another where a handsome cavalier, the Prince Vicovara, received our cards, and opening a door, presented us to the Marchesa Villamarina, the Queen's dearest friend and favourite lady-in-waiting. We were arranged in rows around a long and handsome room. Presently a little movement at the door, and the deep courtesies of the Princess Brancaccio and the Princess Vicovara, both Americans, told us that the Queen had entered. Truly she is a royal beauty, a wonder on a throne. An accomplished scholar, a thoughtful woman, Marguerite of Savoy is the rose of the nineteenth century; her smile keeps Italy together. She is the sweetest, the most beautiful of all the queens, and as she walks about accompanied by her ladies, who introduce every one, she speaks to each person in his or her own language; she is mistress of ten languages. After she had said a few gracious words, the Queen disappeared, and the Marchesa Villamarina asked us to take some refreshments, saying, "I hope we shall see you on Thursday." The next day came an invitation to the grand court-ball. This is a very fine sight. The King and Queen enter and take their places on a high estrade covered with a crimson velvet baldaquin. Then the ladies and gentlemen of the household and the ambassadors enter. The Count Gianotti, a very handsome Piedmontese, the favourite friend of the King, the prefect of the palace and master of ceremonies, declared the ball opened, and the Queen danced with the Baron Kendall. The royal quadrille over, dancing became general. The King stood about looking soldier-like, bored and silent; a patriot and brave man, he hates society. The Queen does all the social work, and she does it admirably. What a company that was,--all the Roman nobility, the diplomatic corps, the visitors to Rome, S. P. Q. R., the senate and the Roman people. After the dancing, supper was announced. Royalty does not sup in public in Rome, as in England. The difference in etiquette is curious. The King and Queen retired. We went in as we pleased at ten o'clock, had seats, and supped gloriously; the excellent Italian cookery, of which we have spoken previously, was served admirably. The housekeeping at the Quirinal is excellent. The Queen of Italy moves about amongst the ambassadors' wives, and summons any stranger to whom she may wish to speak, to her side. A presentation to her is more personal and gracious than a like honour at any other court. A presentation at court resolves itself into two advantages. One sees the paraphernalia of royalty, always amusing and interesting to American eyes. Americans see its poetry, its almost vanished meaning, better than others. Power, even when it descends for a day on fresh Republican shoulders, is awe-inspiring. The boy who is a leader at school is more important than the boy who walks behind him. "A captain of thousands" was an old Greek term for leadership, dignity, and honour. Therefore it is not snobbery to desire to see these people on whom have fallen the ermine of power. It is snobbery to bow down before some unworthy bearer of a title; but when, as in the case of Marguerite of Savoy, there is a very good, a very gifted, a very wonderful woman behind it all, we are glad that she has been born to wear all these jewels. We have in our minds one more scene, and a very picturesque one. In September, 1888, the Duc d'Aosta, brother to King Humbert, married his niece, Letitia Bonaparte, daughter of the Princess Clotilde and Prince Jerome Bonaparte. This marriage occurred at Turin. A fine week of autumn weather was devoted to this ceremony. It was a great gathering of all the family of Victor Emmanuel. The Pope had granted an especial dispensation to the nearly related couple. The degree of consanguinity so repellent to us, is not considered, however, as prejudicial to marriage in Spain, Italy, or Germany. The King of Italy made this occasion of his brother's marriage, an open door for returning to the old Italian customs of past centuries, in the art of entertaining. The city of Turin was _en fête_ for the week. At booths, in the open air, strolling companies were playing opera, tragedy, burlesque, and farce. At the King's charge, the streets were lined with gay decorations of pink and white silk, banners and escutcheons; music was heard everywhere, and at evening brilliant illuminations followed the river. When the royal cortège appeared on their way to a public square they were preceded by six hundred young cavaliers in the dress of Prince Eugene, powdered hair, bright red and blue coats, each detachment escorting a royal carriage. First came the King and Queen, then the bridal pair. They mounted a superb thing, like a basket of flowers, in the Piazza Vittorio Emmanuel, where all the royalties sat around the bride. Music and flags saluted them. The vast crowd sat and looked at them for two hours. A gayly decorated balloon, covered with roses, floated over the Queen's head, and finally, as the rosy light faded away, a gun from the fortress sounded the hour of departure. The glittering cavalcade drove back to the palace, and we foreigners knew that we had seen a real, mediæval Italian festa. ENTERTAINING AT EASTER. "There is a tender hue that tips the first young leaves of spring, A trembling beauty in their notes when young birds learn to sing A purer look when first on earth the gushing brook appears, A liquid depth in infant eyes that fades with summer years." In the early days of ecumenical councils it was a mooted point when Easter should be celebrated. The Christian Jews kept the feast on the same day as their Passover, the fourteenth of Nisan, the month corresponding to our March or April; but the Gentile church observed the first Sunday following this, because Christ rose from the dead on that day. It was not until the fourth century that the Council of Nice decided upon the first Sunday after the full moon which follows the twenty-first of March. The contest was waged long and heavily, but the Western churches were victorious; a vote settled it. Perhaps this victory decided the later and more splendid religious ceremonials of Easter, which are much more observed in Rome and in all Catholic countries than those of Christmas. Constantine gratified his love of display by causing Easter to be celebrated with unusual pomp and parade. Vigils and night watches were instituted, people remaining all night in the churches in Rome, and carrying high wax tapers through the streets in processions. People in the North, glad of an escape from four months of darkness, watch to see the sun dawn on an Easter morning. They have a superstitious feeling about this observance, which came originally from Egypt, and is akin to the legend that the statue of Memnon sings when the first ray of the sun touches it. It is the queen of feasts in all Catholic churches, the world over. In early days, the fasting of Lent was restricted to one day, the Friday of Passion Week, Good Friday; then it extended to forty hours, then to forty days,--showing how much fashion, even in churchly affairs, has to do with these matters. One witty author says that, "people who do not believe in anything will observe Lent, for it is the fashion." Certainly, the little dinners of Lent, in fashionable society, are amongst the most agreeable of all entertainments. The _crème d'écrevisse_, the oyster and clam soups, the newly arrived shad, the codfish _à la royale_ and other tempting dainties are very good, and the dinner being small, and at eight o'clock, there is before it a long twilight for the drive in the Park. A pope of Rome once offered a prize to the man who would invent one thousand ways of cooking eggs, for eggs can always be eaten in Lent, and let us hope that he found them. The greatest coxcomb of all cooks, Louis Ude, who was prone to demand a carriage and five thousand a year, was famous for his little Lenten _menus_, and could cook fish and eggs marvellously. The amusements of Lent have left one joke in New York. Roller skates were once a very fashionable amusement for Lenten afternoons, though now gone out, and a club had rented Irving Hall for their playground and chosen _Festina lente_, "Make haste slowly," for their motto. It was a very witty motto, but some wise Malaprop remarked, "What a very happy selection, 'Festivals of Lent!'" However, Lent once passed, with its sewing circles and small whist-parties, then comes the brilliant Easter, with its splendid dinners, its weddings, its christenings and caudle parties, its ladies' lunches, its Meadow Brook hunt, its asparagus parties, and the chickens of gayety which are hatched out of Easter eggs. It is a great day for the confectioner. In Paris, that city full of gold and misery, the splendour and luxury of the Easter egg _bonbonnière_ is fabulous. A few years since a Paris house furnished an Easter egg for a Spanish infanta, which cost eight hundred pounds sterling. Easter dinners can be made delightful. They are simple, less heavy, hot, and stuffy, than those of mid-winter. That enemy of the feminine complexion, the furnace, is put out. It no longer sends up its direful sirocco behind one's back. Spring lamb and mint sauce, asparagus and fresh dandelion salad, replace the heavy joint and the canned vegetables. A foreigner said of us that we have everything canned, even the canvas-back duck and the American opera. Everything should be fresh. The ice-cream man devises allegorical allusions in his forms, and there are white dinners for young brides, and roseate dinners for _débutantes_. For a gorgeous ladies' lunch, behold a _menu_. This is for Easter Monday:-- Little Neck clams. Chablis. Beef tea or _consommé_ in cups. _Côtelettes de cervelles à la cardinal._ Cucumbers. Little ducks with fresh mushrooms. Champagne. Artichokes. Sweetbread _à la Richelieu_. Asparagus, Hollandaise sauce. Claret. Roman punch. _Pâté de foie gras._ Roast snipe. Tomato salad, lettuce. Liqueur. Ice-creams, in form of nightingales' nests. Strawberries, sugared fruit, nougat cakes. Coffee. Of course, a season of such rejoicing, when "Christians stand praying, each in an exalted attitude, with outstretched hands and uplifted faces, expressing joy and gladness," is thought to be very propitious for marriage. There is generally a wedding every day, excepting Friday, during Easter week. A favourite spring travelling-dress for an Easter bride is fawn coloured cashmere, with a little round hat and bunch of primroses. For a number of choir boys to sing an epithalamium, walking up the aisle before the bride, is a new and very beautiful Easter fashion. A favourite entertainment for Easter is a christening. Christening parties are becoming very important functions in the art of entertaining. Many Roman Catholics are so anxious for the salvation of the little new soul, that they have their children baptized as soon as possible, but others put off this important ceremony until mamma can go to church, when little master is five weeks old. Then friends are invited to the ceremony very much in this fashion:-- Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton request the pleasure of your company at the baptism of their infant daughter at the Cathedral, Monday, March 30, at 12 o'clock. At home, after the ceremony, 14 W. Ellicott Square. Many wealthy Roman Catholics have private chapels where the ceremony may be performed earlier. Presents are sent to the mamma, of flowers and bonbonnières shaped like an altar, a cradle, a powder-box; and there may be gold tea-scoops, pap-spoons and a caudle-cup. Gifts of old Dutch silver and the inevitable posy or couplet are very favourite gifts for the baby and mamma on these auspicious occasions. Caudle is a very succulent porridge made of oatmeal, raisins, spices, and rum, all boiled together for several days until it becomes a jelly gruel. It is very much sweetened, and is served hot in cups. The caudle-cup designed by Albrecht Dürer for some member of the family of Maximilian is still shown. Caudle cards are very often stamped with a cameo resemblance of these cups, and the invitation reads:-- MRS. JAMES HAMILTON, at Home, Thursday, March 30, from three to six. Caudle. These do not require an answer. Very pretty tea-gowns are worn by mamma and the ladies of her family for this entertainment, but the guests come in bonnets and street dresses. There is no objection to having the afternoon tea-table with its silver tea-kettle, alcohol-lamp, pretty silver tea-set, plates of bread and butter, and little cakes ready for those ladies who prefer tea. Caudle is sometimes added to the teas of a winter afternoon, by the remnants of old Dutch families, even when there is no little master as a _raison d'être_, and delicious it is. There is a pretty account of the marriage of Marguerite of Austria with Philibert, the handsome Duke of Savoy. It is called _Mariage aux oeufs_. She had come to the Castle of Brae, in the charming district of Bresse lying on the western slopes of the Alps. Here the rich princess kept open house, and Philibert, who was hunting in the neighbourhood, came to pay his court to her. It was Easter Monday, and high and low danced together on the green. The old men drew their bows on a barrel filled with wine, and when one succeeded in planting his arrow firmly in it he was privileged to drink as much as he pleased _jusqu'à merci_. A hundred eggs were scattered in a level place, covered with sand, and a lad and lass, holding each other by the hand, came forward to execute a dance of the country. According to the ancient custom, if they succeeded in finishing the _branle_ without breaking a single egg they became affianced, and even the will of their parents might not avail to break their union. Three couples had already tried it unsuccessfully and shouts of laughter derided their attempts, when the sound of a horn was heard, and Philibert of Savoy, radiant with youth and happiness, appeared on the scene. He bent his knees before the noble _châtelaine_ and besought her hospitality. He proposed to her to try the egg fortune. She accepted. Their grace and beauty charmed the lookers-on and they succeeded, without a single crash, in treading the perilous maze. "Savoy and Austria!" shouted the crowd. And she said, "Let us adopt the custom of Bresse." They were married, and enjoyed a few years of exquisite happiness; then the beloved husband died. Marguerite survived him long, but never forgot him. She built in his memory a beautiful church. Travellers go to-day to see their magnificent tomb. The egg has been in all ages and in all countries the subject of infinite mystery, legend, and history. The ancient Finns believed that a mystic bird laid an egg in the lap of Vaimainon, who hatched it in his bosom. He let it fall in the water, and it broke. The lower portion of the shell formed the earth, the upper the sky, the liquid white became the sun, the yolk the moon, while little bits of egg-shells became the stars. Old English and Irish nurses instruct the children, when they have eaten a boiled egg, to push the spoon through the bottom of the shell to hinder the witches from making a boat of it. It is difficult to ascertain the precise origin of the custom of offering eggs at the festival of Easter. The Persians, the Russians, and the Jews all follow it. Amongst the Romans the year began at Easter, as it did amongst the Franks under the Capets. Many presents are exchanged, and as an egg is the beginning of all things, nothing better could be found as an offering. Its symbolic meaning is striking. We offer our friends all the blessings contained under that fragile shell, whose fragility represents that of happiness here below. The Romans commenced their repasts with an egg; hence the proverbial phrase, "_ab ovo usque ad mala_," or, as we still say, "beginning _ab ovo_." Another reason given for the Easter egg is that, about the fourth century, the Church forbade the use of eggs in Lent. But as the heretical hens would go on laying, the eggs accumulated to such a degree that they were boiled hard and given away. They were given to the children for playthings, and they dyed them of gay colours. In certain churches in Belgium the priests, at the beginning of a glad anthem, threw the eggs at the choristers who threw them back again, dancing to the music whilst catching the frail eggs that they might not break. In Germany, where means are more limited than in France, the Easter egg _bonbonnière_ is rare. There are none of the eight-hundred-pound kind, which was made of enamel, and which on its inside had engraved the gospel for the day, while by an ingenious mechanism a little bird, lodged in this pretty cage, sang twelve airs from as many operas. But in Germany, to make up for this poverty, they have transformed the hare into an oviparous animal, and in the pastry cook's windows one sees this species of hen sitting upright in a nest surrounded by eggs. I have often wondered if that inexplicable saying "a mare's nest," might not have been "a hare's nest." As a _lucus a non lucendo_ it would have done as well. When a German child, at any season of the year, sees a hare run across the field, he says, "Hare, good little hare, lay plenty of eggs for me on Easter day." It is the custom of German families, on Easter eve, to place sugar-eggs and real eggs, the former filled with sugar plums, in a nest, and then to conceal it with dried leaves in the garden that the joyous children may hunt for them on Easter morning. It is a superstition all over the world that we should wear new clothes on Easter Day. Bad luck will follow if there is not at least one article which is new. HOW TO ENTERTAIN CHILDREN. From the realms of old-world story There beckons a lily hand, That calls up the sweetness, the glory, The sounds of a magic land. Ah, many a time in my dreaming Through that blessed region I roam! Then the morning sun comes with its beaming And scatters it all like foam! HEINE. In the life of Madame Swetchine we read the following account of the amusements of a clever child:-- "The occupation of a courtier did not prevent Monsieur Soymonof from bestowing the most assiduous care on the education of a daughter, who for six years was his only child. He was struck by the progress of her young intellect. She showed an aptitude for languages, music, and drawing, while she developed firmness of character,--a rare quality in a child. "She desired a watch with an ardour which transpired in all her movements, and her father had promised her one. The watch came and was worn with the keenest enjoyment; but suddenly a new thought seized upon the little Sophia. She reflected that there was something better than a watch. To relinquish it of her own accord, she hurried to her father and restored to him the object of her passionate desires, acknowledging the motive. Her father looked at her, took the watch, shut it up in a bureau drawer, and said no more about it. "M. Soymonof's rooms were adorned with bronzes, medals, and costly marbles. Sophia was on terms of intimacy with these personages of fable and history; but she felt an unconquerable repugnance to a cabinet full of mummies. The poor child blushed for her weakness, and one day, when alone, opened the terrible door, ran straight to the nearest mummy, took it up, and embraced it till her strength and courage gave away, and she fell down in a swoon. At the noise of her fall, her father hastened in, raised her in his arms, and obtained from her, not without difficulty, an avowal of the terrors which she had hitherto concealed from him. But this supreme effort was as good for her as a victory. From that day the mummies were to her only common objects of interest and curiosity. "Studious as was her education, M. Soymonof did not banish dolls. His daughter loved them as friends and preserved this taste beyond her childish years, but elevated it by the admixture of an intellectual and often dramatic interest. Her dolls were generally of the largest size. She gave them each a name and part to act, established connected relations between the different individuals, and kept up animated dialogues which occupied her imagination vividly, and became a means of instruction. Playing dolls was for her an introduction to ethics and a knowledge of the world. "Catherine's court was a succession of continual _fêtes_. The fairy pantomimes performed at the Hermitage were the first to strike the imagination of the child, who as yet could not relish the tragedies of Voltaire. She composed a _ballet_ which she called 'The Faithful Shepherdess and the Fickle Shepherdess.' She writes in her sixtieth year: 'One of the liveliest pleasures of my childhood was to compose festive decorations which I loved to light up and arrange upon the white marble chimney-piece of my schoolroom. The ardour which I threw into designing, cutting out, and painting transparencies, and finding emblems and mottoes for them was something incredible. My heart beat high while the preparations were in progress but the moment my illumination began to fade an ineffable devouring melancholy seized me.'" This extract is invaluable not only for its historic importance, but for the keynote which it sounds to a child's nature. The noble little Russian girl at the court of Catherine of Russia found only those pleasures lasting which came from herself, and when she could invest the fairy pantomime with her own personality. A fairy pantomime is possible to the poorest child if some superior intelligence, an older sister or aunt, will lend her help. The fairies can all be of pasteboard, with strings as the motive power. There can be no cheaper _corps de ballet_, nor any so amusing. "You have done much for your child" is an expression we often hear. "You have had a nurse, a nursery governess, a fine pony for your boy, you take your children often to the play and give them dancing parties, and yet they are not happy." It is the sincere regret of many a mamma that she cannot make her children happy. Yet in a large town, in a house shut up from our cold winter blasts, what can she do? A good dog and a kind-hearted set of servants will solve the problem better than all the intellect in the world. Grandmamma brings a doll to the little girl, who looks it over and says: "The dolly cannot be undressed, I do not want it." It is the dressing and the undressing which are the delights of her heart. A boy wants to make a noise, first of all things. Let him have a large upper room, a drum, a tambourine, a ball, and there he should be allowed to kick out the effervescence of early manhood. Do not follow him with all manner of prohibitions. Constant nagging and fault-finding is an offence against a child's paradise. Put him in a room for certain hours of the day where no one need say, "Get down! don't do that! don't make so much noise!" Let him roar, and shout, and climb over chairs and tables, and tear his gown, and work off his exuberance, and then he will be very glad to have his hands and face washed and listen to a story, or come down to meet papa with a smiling countenance. Children should be allowed to have pet birds, kittens, dogs, and as much live stock as the house will hold; it develops their sympathies. When a bird dies, and the floodgates of the poor little heart are opened, sympathize with it. It is cruel to laugh at childish woe. Never refuse a child sympathy in joy or sorrow. This lack of sympathy has made more criminals than anything else. Children should never be deceived either in the taking of medicine or the administration of knowledge. One witty writer a few years ago spoke of the bad influence of good books. He declared that reading "that Tommy was a good boy and kept his pinafore clean and rose to affluence, while Harry flung stones and told fibs and was carried off by robbers," developed his sympathies for Harry; and that although he was naturally a good boy he went, for pure hatred of the virtuous Tommy, to the river's brink and helped a bad boy to drown his aunt's cat, and then went home and wrote a prize composition called "Frank the Friendless, or Honesty is Best." All this was because the boy saw that Tommy was a prig, that his virtue was of that kind mentioned in Jane Eyre, in which the charity child was asked whether she would rather learn a hymn or receive a cake; she said "Learn a hymn," whereupon she received "two cakes as a reward for her infant piety." Children cannot be humbugged; they can be made into hypocrites, however, by too many good books. The best entertainment for children is to let them play at being useful. Let the little girl get papa's slippers, brush his hat, even if the wrong way, find his walking stick, hold the yarn for grandma's knitting, or rock her brother's cradle, and she will be happy. Give the boy a printing-press or some safe tools, let him make a garden, feed his chickens, or clean out the cage of his pet robin, and he will be happy. Try to make them think and decide for themselves. A little girl says, "I don't know which dress to put on my dolly, Mamma, which shall I?" The mamma will be wise if she says, "You must decide, you know dolly best." When a child is ill or nervous, the great hour of despair comes to the mamma. A person without nerves, generally a good coloured mammy, is the best playmate, and a dog is invaluable. It is touching to see the smile come to the poor bloodless lips in a hospital ward, as a great, big, kindly dog puts his cold nose out to reach a little feverish hand. There is a sympathy in nature which intellect loses. Madame Swetchine's fear of the mummies has another lesson in it. Children are born with pet aversions, as well as with that terrible fear which is so much bigger than they are. The first of their rights to be respected is that they shall not be frightened, and shall not be too seriously blamed for their aversions. Buffalo Bill, who knows more about horses than most people, says that no horse is born bad; that he is made a bucking horse, a skittish horse, or a stumbling horse by being badly trained,--misunderstood when he was young. How true this is of human nature! How many villains are developed by an unhappy childhood! How many scoundrels does the boys' hall turn out! We must try to find these skeletons in the closet, this imprisoned spectre which haunts the imaginative child, and lay the ghost by sympathy and by common-sense. Cultivating the imagination, not over-feeding it or starving it, would seem to be the right way. Perhaps there are no better ways of entertaining children than by a juggler, the magic lantern, and simple scientific experiments. We use the term advisedly. Jugglery was the oldest of the sciences. Aaron and Moses tried it. One of the most valuable solaces for an invalid child--one with a broken leg, or some complaint which necessitates bed and quiet--is an experiment in natural magic. One of these simple tricks is called "The Balanced Coin." Procure a bottle, cork it, and in the cork place a needle. Take another cork, and cut a slit in it, so that the edge of a dollar will fit into it; then put two forks into the upper cork. Place the edge of the coin, which holds the upper cork and forks, on the point of the needle, and it will revolve without falling. This will amuse an imprisoned boy all the afternoon. The revolving image is a most amusing gentleman. Let poor Harry make this himself. Cut a little man out of a thin bit of wood, making him end in one leg, like a peg-top, instead of in two. Give him a pair of long arms, shaped like oars. Then place him on the tip of your finger, and blow; he will stand there and rotate, like an undecided politician. The Spanish dancer is another nice experiment. Cut a figure out of pasteboard, and gum one foot on the inverted side of a watch-glass; then place the watch-glass on a Japan waiter or a clean plate. Hold the plate slanting, and they will slide down; but drop a little water on the waiter or plate, and instead of the watch-glass sliding, it will begin to revolve, and continue to revolve with increased velocity as the experimentalist chooses. This is in consequence of the cohesion of water to the two surfaces, by which a new force is introduced. These experiments are endless, and will serve a variety of purposes, the principal being that of entertaining. To take children to the pantomime at Christmas is the universal law in England. We have seldom the pantomime here. We have the circus, the menagerie, and the play. A real play is better for children than a burlesque, and it is astonishing to see how soon a child can understand even Hamlet. To allow children to play themselves in a fairy tale, such as "Cinderella," is a doubtful practice. The exposure, the excitement, the late hours, the rehearsals, are all bad for young nerves; but they can play at home if it is in the daytime. When boys and girls get old enough for dancing-parties, nothing can be more amusing than the sight of the youthful followers of Terpsichore. It is a healthy amusement, and if kept within proper hours, and followed by a light supper only, is the most fitting of all children's amusements. Do not, however, make little men and women of them too soon. That is lamentable. As for ruses and catch-games like "The Slave Despoiled," "The Pigeon Flies," "The Sorcerer behind the Screen," "The Knight of the Whistle," "The Witch," "The Tombola," one should buy one of the cheap manuals of games found at any bookstore, and a clever boy should read up, and put himself in touch with this very easy way of passing an evening. The games requiring wit and intelligence are many; as "The Bouquet," "The Fool's Discourse," which has a resemblance to "Cross Questions," "The Secretary," "The Culprit's Seat." All these need a good memory and a ready wit. All mistakes are to be redeemed by forfeit. Of the games to be played with pencil and paper, none is funnier than "The Narrative," in which the leader decides on the title, and gives it out to the company. It may be called "The Fortunate and Unfortunate Adventures of Miss Palmer." The words to be used may be "history," "reading," "railway accident," "nourishment," "pleasures," "four-in-hand," etc. The paper has a line written, and is folded and handed thus to the next,--each writer giving Miss Palmer whatever adventures he pleases, only bringing in the desired word. The result is incoherent, but amusing, and Miss Palmer becomes a heroine of romance. There are some children, as there are some grown people, who have a natural talent for games. It is a great help in entertaining children to get hold of a born leader. The game called "The Language of Animals" is one for philosophers. Each player takes his pencil and paper, and describes the feelings, emotions, and passions of an animal as if he were one. As, for instance, the dog would say: "I feel anger, like a human being. I am sometimes vindictive, but generally forgiving. I suffer terribly from jealousy. My envy leads me to eat more than I want, because I do not wish Tray to get it. Gluttony is my easily besetting sin, but I never got drunk in my life. I love my master better than any one; and if he dies, I mourn him till death. My worst sorrow is being lost; but my delights are never chilled by expectation, so I never lose the edge of my enjoyments by over-raised hopes. I want to run twenty miles a day, but I like to be with my master in the evening. I love children dearly, and would die for any boy: I would save him from drowning. I cannot wag my tongue, but I can wag my tail to express my emotion." The cat says: "I am a natural diplomatist, and I carry on a great secret service so that nobody knows anything about it. I do not care for my master or mistress, but for the house and the hearth-rug. I am very frugal, and have very little appetite. I kill mice because I dislike them, not that I like them for food. Oh, no! give me the cream-jug for that. I am always ready to do any mischief on the sly; and so if any one else does anything, always say, 'It was the cat.' I have no heart, by which I escape much misery. I have a great advantage over the dog, as he lives but a few years and has but one life. I have a long life, and nine of them; but why the number nine is always connected with me, I do not know. Why 'cat-o-nine-tails?' Why 'A cat has nine lives,' etc.?" Thus, for children's entertaining we have the same necessities as for grown people. Some one must begin; some one must suggest; some one must tell how. All society needs a leader. It may be for that reason our own grown-up society is a little chaotic. Perhaps the story of Madame Swetchine and her watch conveys a needed moral. Do not deluge children with costly gifts. Do not thus deprive them of the pleasures of hope. Anticipation is the dearest part of a child's life, and an overfed child, suffering from the pangs of dyspepsia, is no more to be pitied than the poor little gorged, overburdened child, who has more books than he can read and more toys than he can ever play with. Remember, too, "Dr. Blimber's Young Gentlemen," and their longing jealousy of the boy in the gutter. CHRISTMAS AND CHILDREN. "Then I stooped for a bunch of holly Which had fallen on the floor, And there fell to the ground as I lifted it A berry--or something more; And after it fell my eyes could see More clearly than before! But oh! for the red Christingle That never was missing of yore, And oh! for the red Christingle That I miss forever more!" Christingles are not much known in this country. They are made by piercing a hole in an orange, putting a piece of quill three or four inches long, set upright, in the hole, and usually a second piece inside this. Each quill is divided into several slips, each one of which is loaded with a raisin. The weight of the raisins bends down the little boughs, giving two circles of pendants. A coloured taper is placed in the upper quill and lighted on Christmas Eve. The custom is a German one. The harbinger of Christmas, in Holland, is a Star of Bethlehem carried along through the cities by the young men who pick up alms for the poor. They gather much money, for all come to welcome this symbol of peace. They then betake themselves to the head burgomaster of the town, who is bound to give them a good meal. The little Russian, amid the snows, looks for the red candle and the Christmas Tree, and the ice is all alight with gay illuminations. The little Roman boy watches with delight the preparation for the _Beffana_ in the public squares of Rome. For the _Beffana_ is the witch who rides on a broomstick; she is a female Santa Claus, who brings presents to a good child and a bunch of rods to a bad one. Her worship is celebrated on Christmas Eve to the sound of trumpets and all manner of unearthly noises. Then the boy goes to the Church of the Augustins, to see the little Jesus Child lying in the lap of his Holy Mother. He hears the most charming music, and singing choristers swing the censer before the Host. Above his head Saint Michael fights with the dragon. He sees the splendid procession of the cardinals in their gorgeous red and white robes, and as he goes down the broad marble steps, on each side of which beautiful statues stand in niches, his mother, poor Dominica, peasant of the Campagna, kneels and makes the sign of the cross, and tells her boy that this is Christmas, the day on which the Jesus Child was born to take his sins away. Again he wanders with her through the market-place; every one gives him playthings, fruits, and cakes; a rich foreigner tosses him a coin. The little Antonio asks why, and his mother tells him it is Christmas, but not so gay as when she was a little girl, for then the _pifferari_, the shepherds from the mountains, came, in their short cloaks with ribbons around their pointed hats, to play on their bagpipes before every image of the Virgin. Then they go again to the Church, the beautiful Church of Ara Coeli, to hear the angel girls make Christmas speeches to welcome the little Christ-child, and as he looks at the image of the Madonna, all hung with jewels, he wishes it were Christmas all the year round. The Christmas tree dates back to the Druids, but seems to have disappeared from England for several centuries. Meantime, it blossomed in Germany, where, under the tender and soft Scandinavian influence which has such an admirable and ameliorating effect on homely German life, it has continued to bear its fruit for six hundred years. It came back to England in the days of Queen Charlotte, who, true to her German associations, had a tree dressed at Kew Palace in the rooms of her German attendant. It was hung, writes the Hon. Amelia Murray, with gifts for the children, "who were invited to see it; and I remember," she says, "what a pleasure it was to hunt for one's name." The "Mayflower," which brought much else that was good, forgot the Christmas tree. It was not until the beginning of the present century that one could be seen near Plymouth Rock. Men and women now living can remember when Washington Irving's "Sketch-book" told to them the first story of an English Christmas, and some brave women determined to hang a few boughs and red berries around the cold, barren church. Then the tree began to bud and burgeon with gifts, and the rare glories of colour crept in upon the snows of winter. The red fire on the hearth, the red berries on the mantel, brought in the light which grew pale in winter, the hospitality and the cheer of the turkey and plum-pudding went around, and Christmas carols began to be sung by men of Puritan antecedents. Old Christmas, frightened away at first by a few fanatics, came at last to America to stay, and the mistletoe, prettiest, most weird, most artistic of parasites, was removed from dreary Druidical associations, and no longer assists at human sacrifices,--unless some misogynist may so consider the getting of husbands. The English Christmas is the typical one in the art of entertaining. In every country neighbourhood, public county balls are conducted with great pomp during the twelve days of Christmas. From all the great houses within ten or fifteen miles come large parties, dressed in the latest London fashions, among them the most distinguished lights of the London world. Country residents are also conspicuous, and for people who live altogether in the country this is the chosen occasion for the first introduction of a daughter into society. The town hall or any other convenient building is beautifully dressed with holly and mistletoe. The band is at the upper end and the different sets form exclusive groups about the room, seldom mixing even in the Virginia Reel and other country dances. The private festivities of Christmas consist of a dinner to the tenantry and a large one to the family, all of whose members are expected. The mistletoe is hung conspicuously from the great lantern in the hall, or over the stag's head at the door. The rooms are wreathed with holly, each picture is framed in it, and the ladies put the red berries in their hair and all over their dresses. The customary turkey, a mighty bird, enters, making an event at the dinner, while later on, a plum-pudding, all ablaze, with a sprig of holly in the midst, makes another sensation. Mince-pies are set on fire with the aid of a little alcohol, which is poured over them from a small silver ladle. After the dinner, is passed the loving cup, a silver cup with two handles, containing a hot, spiced, sweetened ale. It has two mouths, and as it is lifted its weight requires both hands. In England, Christmas and New Year's still keep some of the mediæval village customs. Men go about in motley, imitating quacks and fortune-tellers, and there is much noise and tooting of horns. These mummers are sent to the servants' hall, where a plentiful supper and horns of ale await them. The waits, or carol singers, are another remnant of old Christmas. In remote parts of England the stables are lighted, to prove that man has not forgotten the Child born and laid in a manger. As for the parish festivities, in which the hall has so prominent a part, the school feasts, the blankets for the poor, the clothing-club meetings at Martinmas, all has been told us in novels, which have also given us many a picture of comfortable and stately English life. The modern English squire does not, however, eat, drink, and make merry for twelve days, as he used. The wassail-bowl is broken at the fountain, and mince-pies and goose-pies and yule-cakes are thought to be heavy for modern digestion. But the good cheer remains. The noblest as well as the humblest of all English houses, especially in Yorkshire, keep up the old superstition of lighting the Yule log, "the ponderous ashen fagot from the yard," and great ill-luck is foretold if its flame dies out before Twelfth Night. Frumenty, which is a porridge boiled with milk, sugar, wine, spices, and raisins, is served. It was in a cup of frumenty, as every conscientious reader of fairy stories will remember, that Tom Thumb was dropped by his careless nurse. The Christmas pie of Yorkshire, is a "brae goose-pie" which Herrick in one of his delightful verses thus defends: "Come guard this night the Christmas pie, That the thiefe, though ne'er so slie, With his fleshhooks, don't come nie To catch it. "From him who all alone sits there, Having his eyes still in his eare, And a deale of nightly feare To watch it." In America, the young people are utilizing Christmas day as they do in England, if there is no frost, to go a-hunting. Afternoon tea, under the mistletoe in the hall of a country house, is generally taken in a riding habit. In most families it is a purely domestic festival; although, as the tree has been enjoyed the night before, when Santa Claus, the great German sprite, has held his revels, there is no reason why a grand dinner to one's friends should not be given. And let us plead that the turkey, our great national bird, may not be cooked by gas. He is so much better roasted before a wood fire. There are some difficulties in giving a Christmas dinner in a large city, as nearly all the waiters are sure to be drunk, and the cook has also, perhaps, been at the frumenty. Being a religious as well as a social festival, it is apt to bring about a confusion of ideas. But, everything else apart, it is Children's Day; it is the day when, as Dickens says, we should remember the time when its great Founder was a child Himself. It is especially the day for the friendless young, the children in hospitals, the lame, the sick, the weary, the blind. No child should be left alone on Christmas Day, for loneliness with children means brooding. A child growing up with no child friend is not a child at all, but a premature man or woman. The best Christmas present to a boy is a box of tools, the best to a girl any number of dolls. After dressing and undressing them, giving them a bath, taking them through a fit of sickness, punishing them, and giving them an airing in the park,--for little maidens begin to imitate mamma at a very early age,--the next best amusement is to manufacture a doll's house. The brother must plane the box,--an old wine box will do,--and fit in it four compartments, each of which must be elaborately papered. Then a "real carpet" must be nailed down and pictures hung on the wall. These bits, framed with gold paper, usually require mamma's help. The kitchen must be fitted up with tins, which perhaps had better be bought, but after the _batterie de cuisine_ is finished, then the chairs and beds should be made at home. Cardboard boxes can be cut into excellent doll's beds. Pillows, bolsters, mattress, sheets, pillow-cases, will keep little fingers busy for many days. When they get older, and can write letters, a post-office is a delightful boon. These are to be bought, but they are far more amusing if made at home. Any good-sized card-box will do for this purpose. The lid should be fastened to it so that when it stands up it will open like a door. A slit must be cut out about an inch wide, and from five to six inches long, so as to allow the postage of small parcels, yet not large enough even to admit the smallest hand. Children should learn to respect the inviolate character of the post from the earliest age. On the door should be written the times of the post. Most children are fond of writing letters to one another, and this will of course give rise to a grand manufacture of note paper, envelopes, and post-cards, and will call forth ingenuity in designing and colouring monograms and crests, for their note paper and envelopes. An envelope must be taken carefully to pieces, to form a flat pattern. Then those cut from it have to be folded, gummed together, a touch of gum put on the flap and the monogram made to correspond. It is wonderful what occupation this gives for weeks. A paint-box should be also amongst the Christmas gifts. Capital scrap-books can be made by children. Old railway guides may be the foundation, and every illustrated paper the magazine of art. A paste-pot, next to a paint-box, is a most serviceable toy. Children like to imitate their elders. A little boy of two years enjoys smoking a pipe as he sees grandpapa smoke, and knocks out imaginary ashes, as he does, against the door. Hobby horses are profitable steeds, and can be made to go through any amount of paces. But mechanical toys are more amusing to his elders than to the child, who wishes to do his own mechanism. A boy can be amused by turning him out of the house, giving him a ball or a kite, or letting him dig in the ground for the unhappy mole. Little girls, who must be kept in, on a rainy day, or invalid children, are very hard to amuse and recourse must be had to story-telling, to the dear delightful thousand and one books now written for children, of which "Alice in Wonderland" is the flower and perfection. For communities of children, as in asylums and schools, there is nothing like music, songs, and marches; anything to keep them in time and tune. It removes for a moment that institutionized look which has so unhappy an effect. Happy is the child who has inherited a garret full of old trunks, old furniture, old pictures, any kind of old things. It is a precious inheritance. Given the dramatic instinct and a garret, and a family of quick-witted boys and girls will have amusement long after the Christmas holidays are passed. It would be a great amusement for weeks before Christmas, if children were taught to make the ornaments for the tree, as is done in economical Germany. Here the ideas of secrecy and mystery are so associated with Santa Claus that such an idea would be rejected. But a thing is twice as interesting if we put ourselves into it. At Christmas time let us invoke the fairies. They, the gentry, the wee people, the good people, are very dear to the real little wee people, who see the fun and do not believe too much in them. The fairies who make their homes under old trees and resort to toadstools for shelter, and who make invisible excursions into farmhouses have afforded the Irish nurse no end of legends. An old nurse once held a magnificent position in the nursery because she had seen a fairy. The Christmas green was once the home of the peace-loving wood-sprite. Christmas evergreens and red berries make the most effective interior decorations, their delightful fragrance, their splendid colour renders the palace more beautiful, and the humble house attractive. Before Twelfth Night, January 6, they must all be taken down. The festivities of this great day were much celebrated in mediæval times, and the picture by Rubens, "The King Drinks," recalls the splendour of these feasts. It is called Kings' Day to commemorate the three kings of Orient, who paid their visit to the humble manger, bringing those first Christmas gifts of which we have any account. The negroes from Africa, who were brought as slaves to the West Indian Islands, always celebrate this day with queer and fetich rites. It is in honour of the black king Melchior whom we see in the pictures "from Afric's sunny fountains." The Twelfth-Night cake, crowned with candles, is cut and eaten with many ceremonies on this occasion. The universality of Christmas is its most remarkable feature. Trace it as one will to the ancient Saturnalia, this universality is still inexplicable. It long antedates the Christian era. The distinctly modern customs are the giving of gifts, and the good eating, which, if followed back, we find to have been gluttony among the Norsemen. To the older members of the family the day is a sad one. The little verse at the head of the chapter recalls the fact that for every child gone back to heaven, there is one Christingle less. But if it will bring the rich to the poor, if it will not forget a single legend or grace, if the holly and evergreen will breathe the sweetest and highest significance, if we can remember that every simple festival at Christmas which makes the hearth-stone brighter is a tribute to the highest wisdom, if we connect Christmas and humanity, then shall we keep it aright. For the world unlocks its heart on every Christmas Day as it has done for eighteen Christian centuries. The cairn of Christmas memories rises higher and higher as the dear procession of children, those constantly arriving, precious pilgrims from the unknown world, halts by the majestic mountain to receive gifts, giving more than they take. For what would Christmas be without the children? CERTAIN PRACTICAL SUGGESTIONS. The rules laid down in books of etiquette may seem preposterously elaborate and absurd to the denizens of cities, and to those who have had the manual of society at their fingers' ends from childhood, but they may be like the grammar of an unknown tongue to the youth or maiden whose life has been spent in seclusion or a rustic neighbourhood. As it is the aim of this unpretending volume to assist such young people, a few hints to young men coming fresh from life on the plains, or from an Eastern or Western college, from any life which has separated them from the society of ladies, may not be considered impertinent. A young man on coming into a great city, or into a new place where he is not known, should try to bring a few letters of introduction. If he can bring such a letter to any lady of good social position, he has nothing further to do but deliver it, and if she takes him up and introduces him, his social position is made. But this good fortune cannot always be commanded. Young men often pass through a lonely life in a great city, never finding that desired opportunity. To some it comes through a friendship on the tennis ground, at the clubs, or through business. If a friend says to some ladies that Tilden is a good fellow, Tilden will be sought out and invited. It is hardly creditable to any young man to live in a great city without knowing the best ladies' society. He should seek to do so, and perhaps the simplest way would be for him to ask some friend to take him about and to introduce him. Once introduced, Tilden should be particular not to transcend the delicate outlines of social suffrance. He must not immediately rush into an intimacy. A call should never be too long. A woman of the world says that one hour is all that should be granted to a caller. This rule is a good one for an evening visit. It is much better to have one's hostess wishing for a longer visit than to have her sigh that you should go. In a first visit, a gentleman should always send in his card. After that he may dispense with that ceremony. A gentleman, for an evening visit, should always be in evening dress, black cloth dress-coat, waistcoat, and trousers, faultless linen and white cravat, silk stockings, and polished low shoes. A black cravat is permissible, but it is not full dress. He should carry a crush hat in his hand, and a cane if he likes. For a dinner-party a white cravat is indispensable; a man must wear it then. No jewelry of any kind is fashionable, excepting rings. Men hide their watch chains, in evening dress. The hands should be especially cared for, the nails carefully cut and trimmed. No matter how big or how red the hand is, the more masculine the better. Women like men to look manly, as if they could drive, row, play ball, cricket, perhaps even handle the gloves. A gentleman's dress should be so quiet and so perfect that it will not excite remark or attention. Thackeray used to advise that a watering-pot should be applied to a new hat to take off the gloss. The suspicion of being dressed up defeats an otherwise good toilet. We will suppose that Tilden becomes sufficiently well acquainted to be asked to join a theatre party. He must be punctual at the rendezvous, and take as a partner whomever the hostess may assign him, but in the East he must not offer to send a carriage; that must come from the giver of the party. In this, Eastern and Western etiquette are at variance, for in certain cities in the West and South a gentleman is expected to call in a carriage, and take a young lady to a party. To do this would be social ruin in Europe, nor is it allowed in Boston or New York. If, however, Tilden wishes to give a theatre party, he must furnish everything. He first asks a lady to _chaperon_ his party. He must arrange that all meet at his room, or a friend's house. He must charter an omnibus or send carriages for the whole party; he must buy the tickets. He is then expected to invite his party to sup with him after the theatre, making the feast as handsome as his means allow. This is a favourite and proper manner for a young man to return the civilities offered him. It is indispensable that he should have the mother of one of the young ladies present. The custom of having such a party with only a very young _chaperon_ has fallen, properly, into disrepute. And it seems almost unnecessary to say so, except that the offence has been committed. A man should never force himself into any society, or go anywhere unasked. Of course, if he be taken by a lady, she assumes the responsibility, and it is an understood thing that a leader of society can take a young man anywhere. She is his sponsor. In the early morning a young man should wear the heavy, loosely fitting English clothes now so fashionable, but for an afternoon promenade with a lady, or for a reception, a frock coat tightly buttoned, gray trousers, a neat tie, and plain gold pin is very good form. This dress is allowed at a small dinner in the country, or for a Sunday tea. If men are in the Adirondacks, if flannel is the only wear, there is no dressing for dinner; but in a country house, where there are guests, it is better to make a full evening toilet, unless the hostess gives absolution. There should always be some change, and clean linen, a fresh coat, fresh shoes, etc., donned even in the quiet retirement of one's own home. Neatness, a cold bath every morning, and much exercise in the open air are among the admirable customs of young gentlemen of the present day. If every one of them, no matter how busy, how hard-worked, could come home and dress for dinner, it would be a good habit. Indeed, if all American men, like all English men, would show this attention to their wives, society would be far more elegant. A man always expects his wife to dress for him; why should he not dress for her? He is then ready for evening visits, operas, parties, theatres, wherever he may wish to go. No man should sit down to a seven o'clock dinner unless freshly dressed. If Tilden can afford to keep a tilbury, or a dog-cart, and fine horses, so much the better for him. He can take a young girl to drive, if her mamma consents; but a servant should sit behind; that is indispensable. The livery and the whole turnout should be elegant, but not flashy, if Tilden would succeed. As true refinement comes from within, let him read the noble description of Thackeray:-- "What is it to be a gentleman? Is it to be honest, to be gentle, to be generous, to be true, to be brave, to be wise, and possessing all these qualities to exercise them in the most gentle manner? Ought a gentleman to be a loyal son, a true husband, and honest father? Ought his life to be decent, his bills to be paid, his tastes to be high and elegant? Yes, a thousand times yes!" Young men who come to a great city to live are sometimes led astray by the success of gaudy adventurers who do not fall within the lines of the above description, men who get on by means of enormous impudence, self-assurance, audacity, and plausible ways. But if they have patience and hold to the right, the gentleman will succeed, and the adventurer will fail. No such man lasts long. Give him rope enough, and he will soon hang himself. It is not necessary here to refer to the etiquette of clubs. They are self-protecting. A man soon learns their rules and limitations. A man of honesty and character seldom gets into difficulty at his club. If his club rejects or pronounces against him, however, it is a social stigma which it is hard to wipe out. A young man should lose no opportunity of improving himself. Works of art are a fine means of instruction. He should read and study in his leisure hours, and frequent picture galleries and museums. A young man becomes the most agreeable of companions if he brings a keen fresh intelligence, refined tastes, and a desire to be agreeable into society. Success in society is like electricity,--it makes itself felt, and yet is unseen and indescribable. It is a nice thing if a man has some accomplishment, such as music or elocution, and to be a good dancer is almost indispensable. Yet many a man gets on without any of these. It is a work-a-day world that we live in, and the whole formation of our society betrays it. Then dress plainly, simply, and without display. A gentleman's servants often dress better than their master, and yet nothing is so distinctive as the dress of a gentleman. It is as much a costume of nobility as if it were the velvet coat which Sir Walter Raleigh threw down before Queen Elizabeth. It may not be inappropriate here to say a word or two on minor points. In addressing a note to a lady, whom he does not know well, Tilden should use the third person, as follows:-- Mr. Tilden presents his compliments to Mrs. Montgomery and begs to know if she and Miss Montgomery will honor him with their company at a theatre party in the evening of April 3d, at the Chestnut Street Theatre. R. S. V. P. 117 South Market Place. This note should be sealed with wax, impressed with the writer's coat of arms or some favourite device, and delivered by a private messenger who should wait for an answer. In addressing a letter to a gentleman, the full title should be used,--"Walter Tilden, Esq.," or, first name not known, "---- Tilden, Esq.," never, "Mr. Walter Tilden." If it be an invitation, it is not etiquette to say "Mister." In writing in the first person, Tilden must not be too familiar. He must make no elisions or contractions, but fill out every word and line, as if it were a pleasure. It is urged against us by foreigners, that the manners of men toward women partake of the freedom of the age; that they are not sufficiently respectful. But, if careless in manner, American men are the most chivalrous at heart. At a ball a young man can ask a friend to present him to a lady who is chaperoning a young girl, and through her he can be presented to the young girl. No man should, however, introduce another man without permission. If he is presented and asks the girl to dance, a short walk is permitted before he returns his partner to the side of the _chaperon_. But it is bad manners for the young couple to disappear for a long time. No man should go into a supper-room alone, or help himself while ladies remain unhelped. To get on in society involves so much that can never be written down that any manual is of course imperfect; for no one can predict who will succeed and who will fail. Bold and arrogant people--"cheeky" people--succeed at first, modest ones in the long run. It is a melancholy fact that the most objectionable persons do get into fashionable society. It is to be feared that the possession of wealth is more desired than the possession of any other attribute; that much is forgiven in the rich man which would be rank heresy in the poor one. We would not, however, advise Tilden to choose his friends from the worldly point simply, either of fashion or wealth. He should try to find those who are well bred, good, true, honourable, and generous. Wherever they are, such people are always good society. In the ranks of society we find sometimes the ideal gentleman. Society may not have produced so good a crop as it should have done; yet its false aims have not yet dazzled all men out of the true, the ideal breeding. There are many clubs; but there are some admirable Crichtons,--men who can think, read, study, work, and still be fashionable. A man should go through the fierce fires of social competition, and yet not be scorched. All men have not had that fine, repressive training, which makes our navy and army men such gentlemen. The breeding of the young men of fashion is not what their grandfathers would have called good. They sometimes have a severe and bored expression when called on to give up a selfish pleasure. One asks, "Where are their manners?" Breeding, cultivation, manners, must start from the heart. The old saying that it takes three generations to make a gentleman makes us ask, How many does it take to unmake one? Some young and well-born men seem to be undoing the work of the three generations, and to have inherited nothing of a great ancestor but his bad manners. An American should have the best manners. He has had nothing to crush him; he is unacquainted with patronage, which in its way makes snobs, and no one loves a snob, least of all the man whom the snob cultivates. The word "gentleman" although one of the best in the language, should not be used too much. Be a gentleman, but talk about a man. A man avoids display and cultivates simplicity, neatness, and fitness of things, if he is both a man and a gentleman. COMPARATIVE MERITS OF AMERICAN AND FOREIGN MODES OF ENTERTAINING. There is no better old saw in existence than that comparisons are odious; they are not only odious, but they are nearly if not quite impossible. For instance, if we compare a dinner in London with a dinner in New York, we must say, Whose dinner? What dinner? If we compare New York with Paris, we must say, What Paris? Shall we take the old Catholic aristocracy of the Faubourg St. Germain, or the upstart social spheres of the Faubourg St. Honoré and the Chaussée d'Antin? Or shall we take _Tout Paris_, with its thousand ramifications, with its literary and artistic salons, the _Tout Paris mondain_, the _Tout Paris artiste_, the _Tout Paris des Premières_, and all the rest of that heterogeneous crowd, any fragment of which could swallow up the "four hundred," and all its works? Shall we attempt to compare New York or Washington with London, with its four millions, its Prince of Wales set, its old and sober aristocracy of cultivated people, whose ideas of refinement, culture, and of all the traditions of good society date back a thousand years? Would it be fair, either, to attempt to say which part of this vast congeries should be taken as the sample end, and which part of America with its new civilization should be compared with any or all of these? Therefore any thoughts which follow must be merely apologized for, as the rapid observations of a traveller, who, in seeing many countries, has loved her own the best, and who puts down these fleeting impressions, merely with a hope to benefit her own, even if sometimes criticising it. Twenty years ago, Justin McCarthy, than whom there has been no better international critic, wrote an immortal paper called, "English and American Women Compared." It was perhaps the most complimentary, and we are therefore bound to say the fairest, description of our women ever given to the world. It came at a time when the American girl was being served up by Ouida, the American senator by Anthony Trollope, and the American _divorcée_ by Victorien Sardou, in "L'Oncle Sam." There was never a moment when the American needed a friend more. In that gentle, yet pungent paper, Mr. McCarthy refers to our extravagance, our love of display, our superficial criticisms of the merits of English literary women, judged from the standpoint of dress, and of a singular underlying snobbery which he observed in a few, who wished that the days of titles and of aristocratic customs could come back to the land where Thomas Jefferson tied his horse to the Capitol palings, when he went up to take the Presidential oath. Since that paper was written what a flood of prosperity has deluged the land; what a stride has been made in all the arts of entertaining! What houses we possess; what dinners we give! What would Horace Walpole say, could he see the collections of some of our really poor people, not to mention those of our billionnaires? Should he go out to dinner in New York, the master of Strawberry Hill and the first great collector could see more curious old furniture, more hawthorn vases, more antique teapots, more rare silver, and more _chiffons_ than he had ever dreamed of; he could see the power which a young, vigorous nation possesses when it takes a kangaroo trick of leaping backward into antiquity, or forward into strange countries, and what it can bring home from its constant globe-trotting, in exchange for some of its own silver and gold. He would also see the power which art has possessed over a nation so suddenly rich that one reads with alarm the axiom of Taine, "When a nation has reached its highest point of prosperity, and begins to decay, then blossoms the consummate flower of art." We need not go so far back as Horace Walpole; it even astonishes the collector of last year to find that he must come to New York to buy back his Japanese bronzes, and his Capo di Monte, his Majolica and peach-blow vase. We may say that we have the oldest of arts, that of entertaining, wrested from the hands of the oldest of nations, and placed almost recklessly in the hands of the youngest,--as one would take a delicate musical instrument from the hands of a master and put it in the hands of a child. What wonder if in the first essay some chords are missed, some discords struck? Then we must remember that modern life is passing, slowly but decidedly, through a great revolution, now nearly achieved. The relation of equality is gradually eclipsing every other,--that of inequality, where it does survive, taking on its least noble form, as most things do in their decay. In Europe there is still deference to title, although the real power of feudalism was broken by Louis XI. Its shadow remains even in republican France, where if a man has not a title he is apt to buy or to steal one. On this side of the Atlantic there is a deference paid to wealth, however obtained. This is a much greater strain upon character, a more vulgar form of snobbery than the reverence for title; for a title means that sometime, no matter how long ago, some one lived nobly and won his spurs. We may therefore assume that the great necromancer Prosperity, with his wand, luxury, has suddenly placed our new nation, if not on a footing with the old, certainly as a new knight in the field, whose prowess deserves that he should be mentioned. Or, to change the metaphor, we can imagine some spread-eagle orator comparing us to a David who with his smooth stones from the brook, dug up in California and Nevada, is giving all modern Goliaths a crack in the forehead. When we come to make a comparison, however, let us narrow this down to the giving of a dinner in London, in distinction to giving a dinner in any city in America, and see what our giant can do. London possesses a regular system of society, a social citadel, around which rally those whose birth, title, and character are all well-known. It is conscious of an identity of interest, which compacts its members, with the force of cement, into a single corporation. The queen and her drawing-room, the Prince of Wales and his set, the royal family, the nobility and gentry, what is called the aristocracy form a core to this apple, and this central idea goes through all its juices. Think what it must mean to a man to read that he is descended from Harry Hotspur, Bolingbroke, Clarendon, Sidney, Spenser, Cecil. Imagine what it must have been to have known the men who daily gathered around the tables of the famous dinner-givers. Imagine what the dinners at Holland House were, and then compare such a dinner with one which any American could give. And yet, improbable as it may seem, the American dinner might be the more amusing. The American dinner would have far more flowers; it would be in a brighter room; it would be more "talky," perhaps,--but it could not be so well worth going to. In England, in the greater as well as in the simpler houses, there is a respect for intellect, for intelligence, that we have not. It is the fashion to invite the man or the woman who has done something to meet the most worshipful company, and the young countess just beginning to entertain would receive from her grandmother, who entertained Lord Byron, this advice, "My dear, always have a literary man, or an artist in your set." The humblest literary man who has done anything well is immediately sought out and is asked to dinner; and the artist of merit, in music, painting, architecture, literature, is sure of recognition in London. One is almost always sure to see, at a grand dinner in London, some quiet elderly woman, who receives the attention of the most distinguished guests, and one learns that she is Mrs. So-and-So, who has written a story, or a few hymns. In this respect for the best part of us, our brains, the London dinner-giver has shown his thousand years of civilization; he is playing the harp like a master. To return for a moment to the criticism of Justin McCarthy. He says in it, that while he admired the American taste in dress, he could not admire a certain confusion of mind, by which an otherwise kindly and well-informed American woman misjudged a person who preferred to go plain, or shabby, if you will. In fact, he stood up for the right which every English woman will claim as her own, "to be dowdy," if she will. The Queen has taught her this. While the Princess of Wales, the younger daughters of the Queen, and much of the fashion of London dresses itself in Paris, and is consequently very smart, there is still a class who look down on clothes and consider them a small matter. Perhaps that is the reason why such stringent regulations are laid down for the court dress. Magnificent, stately, and well-ordered, are the dinners of London,--a countess at the head of the table, a footman behind each chair, in great houses a very fine dinner, and splendid pieces of plate, some old china, pictures on the wall from the pencils of Rembrandt, Rubens, Van Dyck, Gainsborough, and Sir Joshua. Sweet, low-voiced, and well-bred are the women, with beautiful necks, and shoulders, and fine heads. The men are they who are doing the work of the world in the House of Lords, the House of Commons, in India, in Egypt, in the Soudan; there is a multiplicity of topics of conversation. No English stiffness exists at the dinner, and there is always present some literary man or woman, some famous artist as the _pièce de resistance_; such are the dinners of London. The luncheons are simpler, and here one is sure to meet men advanced in thought, and women of ideas, and there is no question as to the rent-roll. Wealth has absolutely nothing to do with society success in London. We might mention many a literary and artistic _salon_, over which charming and fascinating, young and fashionable women preside with the mingled grace, which adds a beauty and a meaning to Emerson's famous _mot_ that "fashion is funded politeness." We might mention many a literary or artistic man or woman of London, who is the favoured friend of these great ladies, who would, if an American, never be asked to a luncheon at Newport, or admitted to a ball at Delmonico's, because he was not fashionable. It would not occur to the gay entertainers to think that such a person would be desirable. Paris, as the land of the _mot_ and the epigram, has always had a great attraction for literary people. Carlyle said of England that it was composed of sixty millions of people, mostly fools. His own experience as a favoured guest at Lady Ashburton's, and other great houses, ought to have modified his decision. In America, the Carlyles would have been called "queer," and probably left out. In England, it is a recommendation to be "queer," original, thoughtful. In that bubble which rises to the top, to which Mr. McAllister has given the name "the four hundred," it is not a recommendation to be queer, original, or thoughtful. That some men and women of genius have commanded success in society only proves the rule; that some people of fashion have become writers, and painters, and poets, and have still kept their foothold, is only the exception. Charles Astor Bristed, born to fortune and fashion, declared that what he gained in prestige in England by becoming an author, he lost in America. What woman of fashion goes out of her way to find the man of letters who writes the striking editorials in a morning paper in New York? In London, a dozen coroneted notes await such a lucky fellow. Perhaps the most curious instance of the awkward handling of that rare and valuable instrument, which we call the art of entertaining in America, is the deliberate ignoring of the best element of a dinner party,--the hitherto unknown, or the well-known man of brains. This distinguishes our entertaining from that of foreigners. The best society we have in America is that at Washington; the President's house is the palace. He and his ministers, and the judges of the Supreme Court, the officers of the army and navy, are our aristocracy,--a simple, unpretending one, but as real in its social laws and organization as any in the world. And there intellect reigns. The dinners at Washington, having a kind of precedence, reinforced by intelligence, independent of wealth, and regardless of the arbitrary rules of a self-elected leadership, are the most agreeable in this country, if not in the world. We have said there are many sorts of Paris, and so there are many sorts of America. It must not be supposed that clever people do not get together, and that there are not dinners of the brightest and the best. Outside the "four hundred" there is a group of fifty thousand or more, who have travelled, thought, and read, experienced, and learned how to give a good dinner,--a witty dinner. I use the term "four hundred" as a convenient alias for that for which Americans have no other name; that is, the particular reigning set in every city, every small village. In Paris, republic as it is, there is still a very decided aristocracy. There is the Duchesse Rochefaucauld Bisaccia, and the eccentric Duchesse d'Uzes, and so on, who are decidedly the four hundred. There are the very wealthy Jews, like the Rothschilds, who are much to be commended for their recognition of the supremacy of art and letters. They have become the protectors of these classes commercially, and their intelligent wives have made their _salons_ delightful, by bringing in men of culture and talent. On Sundays the Comtesse Potocka, who wears the best pearls in Paris, tries to revive the traditions of the Hotel Rambouillet, in her beautiful hôtel in the Avenue Friedland. Her guests are De Maupassant, Ratisbonne, Coquelin, the painter Bérand, and other men of wit. The Baroness de Poilly has a tendency to refine Bohemianism and is an indefatigable pleasure seeker. The only people she will not receive are the financiers and the heavy-witted. The Comtesse de Beaumont says that the key to her house is "wit and intellect without regard to party, caste, or school." Carolus Duran, Alphonse Daudet, the painters, whoever is at the head of music, literature, or the dramatic art, is welcomed there. The princes of the House of Orléans, are most prominent in their attentions to people of talent. The Princesse Mathilde has a house in the Rue de Berri full of exquisite pictures by the old masters, and a few of the modern school. Her _salon_ is a model of comfort and refined elegance, and at her Sunday receptions, where one meets the world, are men distinguished in diplomacy, art, and letters. But what simple dinners, as to meat and drink, do any of these great people give, compared to the dinners which are given constantly in New York,--dinners which are banquets, but to which the young _littérateur_ or painter would not be invited! That is to say, in London and in Paris the fashionable woman who would make her party more fashionable, courts the literary and artistic guild; as a guild, the fashionable woman in America does not court them. It may be said that this is an unfair presentation of the case, because in London there may be patronage on one side, while in America there is perfect equality, and the literary man is a greater aristocrat than the fashionable woman who gives the party. This is in one sense true, for the professions have all the honour here. The journalists are often the men who give the party. The witty lawyer is the most honoured guest everywhere; so are certain _littérateurs_. People who have become rich suddenly, who wish to be leaders, to have gay, young, well-dressed guests at their dinners, do not desire the company of any but their own kind. Yet they try to emulate the dinners of London, and are surprised when some English critic finds their entertainments dull, flat, and unprofitable, overloaded and vulgar. The same young, gay, rich dancing set in London would have asked Robert Browning to the dinner, merely as a matter of fashion. And it is this fashion which is commendable. It improves society. The social recognition of the dramatic profession is not here what it is in England or France. There is no Lady Burdett Coutts to take Mr. Irving off on her yacht. No actor here has the social position which Mr. Irving has in London. Who ever heard of society running after Mr. John Gilbert, one of the most respectable men of his profession, as well as a consummate actor? In London, duchesses and countesses run after Mr. Toole; he is a darling of society. Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft have done much to help their profession and themselves by taking the initiative, and giving delightful little evenings. But it is vastly more common, to see many of the leading actors and actresses in society in London than in New York. Indeed, it is the custom abroad to ask, "what has he done, what can he do?" rather than, "how much is he worth?" The actor is valued for what he is doing. Perhaps our system of equality is somewhat to blame for this, and the woman of fashion may wait for the dramatic artist to take the initiative and call on her. But we know that any one who should urge this would be talking nonsense. In our system of entertaining in a gay city, it is the richest who reigns, and although there are some people who can still boast a grandfather, it is the new-comer who is the arbiter of fashion. Such a person could, in London or Paris or Rome, merely as a fashionable fad, invite the artist or the writer to make her party complete. In America she would not do it, unless the man of genius were a lion, a foreigner, a novelty. Then she would do so, and perhaps run after him too much. And now, as we have been treating of a very small, unimportant, and to the great American world, unknown quantity, the reigning set in any city, let us look at the matter from within. Have we individually considered the merits of the festive plenty which crowns our table, relatively to the selection of the company which is gathered around it? Have we in any of our cities those _déjeuners d'esprit_, as in Paris, where certain witty women invite other witty women to come and talk of the last new novel? Have we counted on that possible Utopia where men and women meet and talk, to contribute of their best thought to the entertaining? Have we many houses to which we are asked to a banquet of wit? Are there many opulent people who can say, The key to my house is wit and intellect, and character, without regard to party, caste or school? If such a house can be found, its owner has, all other things being equal, conquered the art of entertaining. Now, all people of talent are not personages of society. To be that, one must have good manners, know how to dress one's self and respect the usages of society. We should not like to meet Dr. Johnson at a ball, but it is very rare to find people nowadays, however learned, however retired, however gifted, who have discarded as he did, the decencies of deportment. The far greater evil of depriving society of its backbone should be balanced against this lesser danger. There are literary and artistic and academic _salons_ in Paris, which are the most interesting places to the foreigner, which might be copied in every university town of America, to the infinite advantage of society. A fashionable young woman of Paris never misses these, or the lectures, or her Thursday at the Comédie Française where she hears the classic plays of Molière and even Shakspeare. It makes her a very agreeable talker, although her culture may not be very deep. She is not a bit less particular as to the number of buttons on her gloves, or the becomingness of her dress, because she has given a few hours to her mental development. In America, we have thoughtful women, gifted women, brilliant women, but we rarely have the combination which we see in France, of all this with fashion. When this young and fashionable hostess gives a dinner, or an evening, she invites Coquelin and some of his witty compeers, and she talks over Molière with the men who understand him best. It is possible that French _littérateurs_ care more for society than their American brothers. They go into it more, and at splendid dinners in Paris I remember the writers for the "Figaro," as most desirable guests. The presence of members of the French Academy, for instance, is much courted, and as feminine influence plays a considerable _rôle_ in the Academy elections, it is advisable for playwrights, novelists, and aspiring writers generally to cultivate influential relations with a view to the future. However this may be, literature and art are more highly honoured socially in Paris than in America, and men of letters lead a very joyous existence, dining and being dined, and making a dinner delightfully brilliant. The artists of Paris have become such magnates, living in sumptuous houses and giving splendid fêtes, that it is hardly possible to speak of their being left out; they are mostly agreeable men,--Carolus Duran and Bonnat especially. But painters, especially portrait painters, are always favourites in all fashionable society. The French women talk much about being in the "movement" which to the American ear may be translated the "swim." They follow every picture exhibition, can quote from the "Figaro" what is going on, they criticise the last play, the last new novel, they do much hard work, but they seek out and honour the man of brains, known or unknown, who has made a fine play or novel. Every woman in America may take a lesson in entertaining from the old world, and strive to combine this respect for both conditions, the luxury which feeds, and the brain which illuminates. A house should be at once a pleasure and a force,--a force to sustain the struggling, as well as a pleasure to the prosperous. A merely sumptuous buffet, a check sent to Delmonico for a "heavy feed" does not master that great art, which has illuminated the noblest chapters in the history of our race, and led to the most complete improvement in the continuous development of mankind. Without each other we become savages, with the conquering of the art of entertaining we reach the highest triumphs of civilization. It is a progressive art, while those that we have worshipped stand still. No architect of our day, even when revealing the inner conceit which cynics say possesses all minds, would hope to surpass the builders of the Parthenon, no carver of marble hopes to reach Phidias, no painter dares to measure his brush with Raphael, Titian, or Velasquez. "In Asia art has been declining for ages; the Moor of Fez would hardly recognize what his race did in Granada; the Indian Mussulman gazes at the Pearl Mosque as if the genii had built it; the Persians buy their own old carpets; and the Japanese confess, with a sigh, that their own old ceramic work cannot be equalled now." In all art there is "despair of advance," except in the art of entertaining. That is always new and always progressive; there is no end to the originality which may be brought to bear upon it. This rule should be constantly enforced. A hostess must take pains and trouble to give her house a colour, an originality, and a type of its own. She must put brains into her entertaining. We have begun this little book, somewhat bumptiously perhaps, with an account of our physical resources. Let us pursue the same strain as to our mental wealth. We have not only witty after-dinner speakers--in that, let no country hope to rival us--amongst our lawyers, journalists, and literary men, but we have our clergy. It would be difficult to find any hamlet in the United States where there is not one agreeable clergyman, more often three or four. The best addition to a company is an accomplished divine, who knows that his mission is for two worlds. He need not be any the less the ambassador to the next, of which we know so little, because he is a pleasant resident and improver of this world, of which many of us feel that we know quite enough. The position of a popular clergyman is a peculiar and a dangerous one, for he is expected to be merry with one, and sad with another, at all hours of the day. Next to the doctor, we confide in him, and the call on his sympathies might well make a man doubtful whether any of his emotions are his own. But the scholarship, the communing with high ideas, the relationship to his flock, all tend to the formation of that type of man which we call the agreeable, and America is extremely rich in this eminent aid to the art of entertaining. As a Roman Catholic bishop once observed, "As a part of my duty, I must make myself agreeable in society;" and so must every clergyman. And to say truth, we have few examples of a disagreeable clergyman. While his cloth surrounds him with reverence and respect, his fertile brain, ready wit, and cheerful co-operation in the pleasure of the moment, will be like a finer education and a purifying atmosphere. From the days of Chrysostom to Sydney Smith the clergy should be known as the golden-mouthed. The American mind, brilliant, rapid, and clear, the American speech, voluble, ready, and replete, the talent for repartee, rapier-like with so many of our orators, and the quick wit which seems to be born of our oxygen, all this, added to the remarkable beauty and tact of our women, of which all the world is talking, and which the young aristocrats of the old world seem to be quite willing to appropriate, makes splendid provision for a dinner, a reception, an afternoon tea, or a ball. We sometimes hear complaints of the insufficiency of society, and that our best men will not go into it. If there is such an insufficiency, it is because we have too much sufficiency, we are struggling with the overplus, often as great an embarrassment as the too little. It is somebody's fault if we have not learned to play on this "harp of a thousand strings." We need not heed the criticism of the world, snobbishly; we are a great nation, and can afford to make our own laws. But we should ask of ourselves the question, whether or not we are too lavish, too fond of display, too much given to overfeeding, too fond of dress, too much concerned with the outside of things; we should take the best ideas of all nations in regard to the progressive art, the art of entertaining. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Inconsistent hyphenation, diacritical marks and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. The quote starting on page 13, "Viticulture in Algeria", does not have an ending quote mark. On page 117, "spatch-cooked" should possibly be "spatch-cocked". On page 160, "gormandize" should possibly be "gourmandize". The chapter starting on page 176 is called "Receipts" in the Contents and "Recipes" in the text. On page 193, "gargonzala" should possibly be "gorgonzola". On page 310, "boaston" should possibly be "boston".