"Oh, stranger, pause! Beneath this mossy stoneLies a poor child, who died, forsaken and alone.Her mother far in distant lands did roam,Leaving her daughter, Jean, to die at home.She pined away in sad and lonely grief,Not any pleasures brought to her relief,And when at last her family returned,With sorrow great, about her death they learned.So, pause, oh, stranger! drop a single tear,Pity the grief of her who liest here."
"Oh, stranger, pause! Beneath this mossy stoneLies a poor child, who died, forsaken and alone.Her mother far in distant lands did roam,Leaving her daughter, Jean, to die at home.She pined away in sad and lonely grief,Not any pleasures brought to her relief,And when at last her family returned,With sorrow great, about her death they learned.So, pause, oh, stranger! drop a single tear,Pity the grief of her who liest here."
This effusion was the greatest consolation to Cricket. She never showed it to anybody, not even to Eunice, but she often took it out, and read it with much satisfaction, and was almost inclined to begin pining away directly.
But on the whole they were very contented, and it was much easier for them than if they had been left at Kayuna.
Dinner-time—dinner was a one o'clock feast, in the summer—came when they had finished their letters, and had them ready for the mail.
"We'll have the European letters to-night," said Eunice, joyfully, as they sat down to the table. "Does it seem as if we'd been here two weeks? Mamma won't seem so far away, when we get the first letters."
"There was the cablegram," said Edna.
"That doesn't count," said Eunice. "It wasn't mamma's own dear handwriting."
"Papa writed it," chirped in Helen.
"No, he didn't, goosie," said Cricket. "The man here wrote it. Papa only sent it."
"I know!" exclaimed Zaidee. "Papa talked it into the box, and the man writed it down when he talked," confusing the telephone at home with the cablegram, which, directed to Miss Eunice Ward, as the eldest representative, had been the occasion of much excitement on its arrival.
After dinner the three girls started down on the beach, to sit down under the rocks till it should be cool enough, later, to go for a ride with the ponies.
"There comes the baby, all alone," said Cricket, presently, as that young man slipped out of the yard all by himself, and ran across the road and down towards the beach where the girls were. "Doesn't he look cunning? The darling!"
Kenneth, although he was nearly four, was still The Baby to the family. His broad-brimmed hat hung down his back, held around his chin by its elastic, and his golden hair was rampant. His blue eyes were dancing with mischief, and his hands were clasped behind his back.
"Dess what I dot?" he demanded, pausing at a safe distance, and looking up roguishly from under his long lashes.
"What have you there, baby? See what he has, Cricket, and tell him he mustn't have it," said Eunice.
"Bring it to Cricket, baby," said that young lady, holding out her hand.
"Dess what I dot," repeated the baby, edging off a little.
Just then Zaidee appeared from the house. Kenneth immediately trotted off up the beach at the sight of her. She ran after him.
"Do away!" he cried, holding his possession, whatever it was, more tightly. "You tan't have it, Zaidee. I dot it."
"What's the matter, Zaidee?" called Eunice. "Where's Eliza?"
"She's dressing Helen. Eunice, Kenneth has auntie's gold watch. She left it on the little table where she keeps her God-books"—for so the twins always called the Bible and Prayer-book—"and he's run off with it. I guess auntie forgot it. Ought he to have it, Eunice?"
"Of course not," said Eunice, springing up. "Edna, auntie told us to put it away, and we forgot it. Dear me! I hope he won't drop it. Baby, come here and give the watch to Eunice." She went slowly towards him, holding out her hand.
But baby hugged his treasure. "I dot tick-tick!" he announced, triumphantly. "Tennet likes it. Oo tan't have it," and off he started as fast as two little legs could carry him, over the soft sand till he reached the firmer beach, which the receding tide had left hard.
Eunice sprang after him. The baby looked back over his shoulder, greatly enjoying the race, tripped over a bit of stone, and fell headlong, the watch shooting on ahead. He gave a frightened cry as he fell, but the next instant, when Eunice reached him, he lay motionless. Hurriedly she raised him up. A stream of blood poured from an ugly gash inhis poor littleforehead, cut on a piece of glass that was half imbedded in the sand. As she raised him his golden head fell back heavily, and his eyes were closed.
"Oh, girls, girls!" shrieked Eunice. "Kenneth is dead! he's killed! he's killed!"
Cricket and Edna were already by her side.
"Run, Zaidee—Edna—run for Eliza. Get some water, Cricket. Oh, baby, speak to me," poor frightened Eunice cried, half beside herself at the gruesome sight of the baby's white, still face, and that dreadful blood welling up so fast, and staining everything with its vivid red. Cricket flew to the edge of the beach, dipping water up in the crown of her sailor hat. She tore off her soft Windsor tie to use for a handkerchief (which, of course, she didn't have), to wipe off the streaming blood. The little face looked ghastly white, in contrast to the blood-soaked hair about it.
Eliza came flying from the house with the Pond's Extract bottle in one hand and a bundle of old linen in the other, articles that were always at hand, ready for use.
"Bring him into the shade," she called, as she ran, and Eunice, with Kenneth in her arms, hurried up the beach. Eliza took him as they met, and fairly flew back into the yard.
"Oh, Billy!" she called, passing him, "go for the doctor as fast as you can. Kenneth's dreadfully hurt. No, Miss Edna, you go. You can go quicker;" and Edna flew.
Eliza, frightened herself by the child's unconsciousness, dropped on the grass under a tree, trying to stanch the blood that now flowed less freely. Eunice ran for hartshorn, Cricket for water. As they washed away the blood, they could see the long, ugly cut just over his eye. Eliza laid linen bandages soaking in Pond's Extract over the place, but in a moment they were stained through.
Edna came rushing back, panting and breathless.
"The doctor's gone away—won't be back for ever so long—they'll send him right over when he comes. Oh, Eliza! will Kenneth die?"
Zaidee set up a shriek at the word.
"Be still, Zaidee," ordered Cricket, slipping her hand over the little girl's mouth. "You go and find poor Helen, and help her finish her dressing."
Zaidee went off, sobbing, and Eunice asked, anxiously:
"Couldn't we plaster it up ourselves? I know papa says the edges of a cut like that ought to be drawn together as soon as possible, and bandaged. I know how he does it. He sops the place off, and washes the cut out, and puts strips of sticking-plaster over it, and then ties it up in a dry bandage."
"Oh, it's a head you have, Miss Eunice," said Eliza, who showed her Irish blood by her terror.
"You get some sticking-plaster, Miss Cricket, while I sop off the blood. Oh, my pretty! my pretty! See! he's opening his eyes. Do you know 'Liza, lovey?"
The heavy blue eyes opened, languidly, and the yellow head stirred a little. The motion set the blood flowing again.
"Kenneth," said Eunice, bending down beside him; "here's sister! wake him up, if you can, 'Liza. Papa wouldn't let Zaidee go to sleep last winter when she fell off the bedstead and bumped her head so. Baby! wake up, pet!" and she kissed him, eagerly.
In a few minutes, Cricket came running out of the house. "We can't find any sticking-plaster, and we've looked everywhere. Edna says she doesn't know if her mother has any. What shall we do? I know it ought to be put together right away, else it wouldn't heal so well. Oh, wait! I know!" and back she darted. Immediately she reappeared with a part of a sheet of postage stamps.
"These will do, 'Liza," she said, excitedly. "Now, is the cut all washed out? Here, I can do it. I've watched papa lots of times."
Cricket knelt down by the baby and dipped a piece of linen in water. The flow of blood was very slight by this time. She wiped Kenneth's forehead off, carefully, over and over, and then the cut itself, looking to see if any bit of glass or sand was still in it. Then, with firm, gentle little fingers, she drew the gaping edges together closely, and held them, while Eunice moistened some postage stamps in water, and laid them in place.
"Cricket! how can you do that? How do you know how?" exclaimed Edna, who kept in the rear, since the sight of the blood made her feel a little faint and sick.
"I've seen papaloadsof times," answered Cricket, in her matter-of-fact way. "If only we had some surgeon's plaster. But that will hold for now. Bind this strip tight around it now, 'Liza. Baby, can't you talk a little? Do you know Cricket?"
"Tritet," repeated Kenneth, with a faint little smile. "Tritet take baby."
"Let me have him," begged Cricket, and Eliza laid him gently in his little sister's arms.
"Eunice, there's Mrs. Bemis coming over," said Edna, "I'm so glad."
Mrs. Bemis was the doctor's wife. She came hastily up to the little group.
"I was out when Edna came, and just got in. The girl told me some one was hurt, so I came right over. The baby, is it? poor little soul! has he lost all that blood? did he cut himself?"
Eunice explained, and Cricket told Eliza to unfasten the bandage to ask Mrs. Bemis if it was all right. At the sight of four pink stamps, the doctor's wife exclaimed in astonishment:
"What have you put on for a plaster? It looks beautifully done."
"Them's postage stamps," volunteered Eliza, quickly. "Miss Cricket couldn't find any sticking-plaster, so she brought this. Oh, she's her father's own child for the doctorin'."
"I thought they might do," explained Cricket, rather shyly. "I knew I ought to have strips of plaster, of course, but I couldn't find any. I thought the cut ought to be drawn together as soon as possible."
"You're a thoughtful child," said Mrs. Bemis, warmly.
"But Eunice thought of doing it first," answered Cricket, quickly. "I only thought of the postage stamps."
"He's too heavy for you, my dear," said Mrs. Bemis, then. "Carry him gently into the house, Eliza. He's faint with the loss of so much blood. Let him go, dear," as Cricket demurred. "Eliza can carry him better than you. Let me give him a few drops of this, first," and she moistened the baby's lips with a few drops from a flask she had brought in her hand.
When the little procession reached the hall door, Mrs. Bemis said:
"Let me take care of him now, with Eliza, girls. You keep the twins amused out-of-doors," for Zaidee and Helen came creeping down the staircase, looking frightened to death. The girls willingly turned back, having taken them in charge.
"Oh, the watch!" suddenly exclaimed Edna, and they all raced down to the beach, where the accident had happened. The watch still lay, gleaming in the sunlight, where it had fallen, ticking as unconcernedly as if no adventure had befallen it. Fortunately, it had alighted on a particularly soft bit of sand. Edna picked it up.
"If only I hadn't forgotten to put this away when mamma told me to, all this wouldn't have happened," she said, remorsefully.
"I suppose Kenneth just slipped in there after 'Liza finished dressing him," said Eunice, "and saw it lying on the table. You know he's always teasing auntie to show him her 'tick-tick.'"
They went slowly back into the yard, scarcely knowing what to do with themselves. They could not settle to any of their regular amusements, and nobody wanted to go off riding. The twins were still under the tree, where they had left them. Helen ran towards them.
"Eunice, won't you please make Zaidee stop drinking up all the Pond's Extrap? She says she likes it, and I'm afraid it will kill her," she said, half crying. "I told her to don't, and she didn't don't."
"Put the bottle right down, Zaidee," ordered Eunice, laughing. "If you drink the Pond's Extract, what will you do when you fall down and hurt yourself, next time?"
Zaidee took a last hasty swallow. Strange to say, she did like it, very much.
"I suppose it goes all down inside my legs," she said, with calm conviction, "and if I bump my legs it will do them lots more good inside than outside. Come on, Helen. 'Liza said cook would give us our supper to-night, and she's calling us."
"What funny children," exclaimed Edna. "Does Zaidee reallylikeit?"
"Yes, really. 'Liza keeps the bottle locked up. Isn't it funny?"
Just before auntie and grandma returned, Dr. Bemis came over, and went to see his little patient. He was amused at Cricket's original plaster, for which he carefully substituted the proper article, but he pronounced the dressing of the cut very nicely done, and said that the cut would not have healed so well as he hoped it would now, if it had been left open for that two hours that elapsed before he could get there.
A rattling, banging, clattering sound, like a small army of tin pans on a rampage, suddenly woke the echoes one still, sultry afternoon. Auntie Jean thought it was the circus, and sighed as she wondered if they were going to keep it up long enough to make it worth while for her to leave her cool room and her afternoon nap, to go and stop them. Grandma heard it, and supposed it was Cricket, trying some new experiment as a tinware merchant, and hoped she would soon turn her attention to some different employment. Cricket heard it, and promptly started for the scene of action, meeting, in the hall, Eunice and Edna, who came running down-stairs, as well as the boys, who appeared from the kitchen, where they had been foraging for a mid-afternoon lunch.
The disturbance came from the front piazza, but when they went out there nothing, for a moment, was visible, though the same mysterious whacking and banging went on, under the table.
"What is it?" they all exclaimed, but straightway the question was solved, for out from under the table-cover backed a half-grown black kitten, with its head firmly wedged into a tin tomato can. Backing and scratching, as a cat will when its head is covered, the poor little thing, evidently half frantic, tumbled up against the chairs and the side of the house, mewing most frightfully and banging its inconvenient headdress against the piazza floor.
"You poor little cat! Has some horrid boy been abusing you?" cried Cricket, making a dive for it, but dropping it, when she caught it, with equal promptness, as its sharp claws tore her hands. "Why, stop! you dreadful little thing! How you hurt me!"
"Pick it up, boys," begged Edna, as the cat resumed its backward way. "Do get that can off. How did any one ever get it on, do you suppose? Here, kitty! kitty!"
"Curiosity killed a cat, they say," said Will, watching his chance at it. "I suppose it wanted to see the inside of that can, and now that it has seen it, it isn't satisfied. There's no suiting some people. There you are, sir!" and Will, having caught the table-cloth from the table, sending the magazines and papers in a shower to the floor, threw it over the poor little black thing, so that, in picking it up, he could muffle its claws, so that it could not scratch. Its neck was torn a little, with the sharp, rough edges of the tin can, and a redoubled chorus of frightened meows greeted his first attempt to remove it.
"Should think a whole orchestra of cats was shut up in here," Will observed, trying another direction. "Arch, get out your knife, and see if you can rip up this can a little. Jove, but it's snug! We can dispense with a little of that music, my fine fellow. There—you—are," as Archie, with a final careful twist, drew off the can. Once out of its tin bondage, the little creature seemed too frightened to move, and suddenly curled down under the protecting table-cover, to restore its ruffled fur, with many a piteous mew.
The girls gathered around to pet and soothe it.
"Keep away, girls. Don't touch it yet with your hands. It's so frightened still it might scratch you. Here, Cricket, take it in the table-cloth, there. Better give it something to eat. It's a stray cat, and probably half starved, and that's why it tried to eat tomato cans, like a goat."
Cricket bore off her charge to the kitchen, where she fed and soothed it with such good effect that, when she came back, half an hour later, the little black cat cuddled down on her arm, purring like a teakettle in spite of its wounded neck.
"Isn't it a dear?" she said, admiringly. "I think grandma will let me keep it. We haven't any cat in the house since Wallops died, and I love them."
Grandma was entirely willing that the little waif should be added to the family, and so it was legally adopted by Cricket, with all sorts of solemn ceremonies. Then came the naming it, always a serious difficulty.
"I want a very appropriate name," meditated Cricket, aloud.
"The Cat in the Iron Mask," suggested Will.
"Too long. Think of calling all that out when I want him in a hurry."
"Cantankerous," said Archie.
"No, I want a regular name."
"Can-on Farrar, then. That's a regular name, and it's a very appropriate one."
"I don't like that, either. I want just a plain, common, every-day sort of name, like George Washington."
"Very well, take George Washington, then. That is very appropriate indeed. He couldn't tell a lie, and probably your cat can't either."
"Do you think he's dignified enough to be called George Washington!" asked Cricket, doubtfully, watching the Nameless jump around after his tail. She had had him for two days now, and he had quite recovered from his tinny imprisonment. He proved to be a most well-bred and entertaining little cat, for he came when he was called and went when he was bid, in orthodox fashion, and made himself entirely at home.
"Probably George was frisky in his youth," said Will. "Especially when he was courting Martha."
"Then I'll do this: I'll call him George Washington as far as his tail, and I'll call that Martha, because he runs after it. Come here, George W., you've run after Martha long enough now. Come here, and be christened."
FEEDING GEORGE WASHINGTON—"CRICKET BORE OFF HER CHARGE TO THE KITCHEN"
FEEDING GEORGE WASHINGTON—"CRICKET BORE OFF HER CHARGE TO THE KITCHEN"
And so George Washington he remained to the end of the chapter. He soon learned his name, and would come flying at the first sound of it. He proved to be a pet that required considerable attention. He was of an especially sociable nature, and, if left alone in any room, he would howl in mournful and prolonged meows, that speedily brought some one to the rescue. He tagged the girls like a little dog, and would stand on the shore crying like a child if they went off in the boat and would not take him. He slept in Cricket's bed at night, and if by any chance he was shut out when the family went to bed, and the house was locked up, he would make night hideous with lamentations, to an extent that would soon bring some one down to let him in.
One day the familiar meow sounded, and Cricket, who was curled up in the hammock, reading, instantly sprang up.
"There's George W.," for so his name was generally abbreviated, "and he's shut up somewhere, and I let him out myself only a few minutes ago. I believe he gets into places through the keyholes, and I don't see why he doesn't get out through 'em."
But George was not to be found in any of his usual haunts, and his meows ceasing, Cricket went back to her book. Presently, a prolonged cry was heard again, and again Cricket started in quest of him. She looked and called everywhere, but George W. was nowhere to be found, though his meow, with a quality peculiar to himself, seemed to come from no particular place, but to pervade the air generally.
"Come and help me find George W.," she called to Eunice and Edna, who were also on the piazza. "He's mewing dreadfully, and I can't find him."
"He's worse than a baby," said Eunice, unwinding herself from the comfortable, twisted-up position in the steamer chair, which she loved. "Couldn't you let him cry a little while and give him a lesson?"
"I wouldn't mind givinghima lesson, but I'm afraid he'd give me one in patience," returned Cricket, laughing. "I'm sure I don't want to listen to that music long. There, he's stopped again, now."
But five minutes later, George W. renewed his complaints.
"Now I'm going to let him cry!" said Cricket, returning in despair from another search. So down she sat, shutting her ears to outside sounds in her comfortable fashion.
Presently grandma appeared at the hall door.
"Cricket, my dear, George Washington seems to want something. Don't you think you'd better try and find him?"
"Grandma, he's been crying and weeping for an hour at least, and I just can't find him. But I'll look again."
But wherever George W. was, he was certainly securely hidden. He cried now and then at intervals, but it was impossible to locate the sound, since it came first from one side, then from another.
"He's between the floors somewhere," said Will, who had joined the search. "The question is, where?"
"We'll have to decide that question at once," said auntie, "because we can scarcely have all the floors in the house taken up. How could he have gotten in?"
"Perhaps through some small hole in the garret floor. He's probably forgotten the way back. Or, perhaps there's some hole down cellar where he got inside, and ran up after the mice."
"Perhaps the mice have gotten the best of him, and are tearing him limb from limb," suggested Archie, making such a horrible face that Helen retreated behind Aunt Jean in terror.
All the afternoon they followed the sounds at intervals, listening at the floor, and calling over and over. George W. seemed to be exploring the entire interior of the house. Late in the afternoon, the cries came more constantly from the floor of the trunkroom, a small apartment off the garret, and directly over Eunice's room. There was a small knot-hole in the floor, and the light from a window fell directly on it, probably attracting George W. there. Saws and hatchets were brought, and the boys soon had a piece of the floor up, making a hole large enough for several cats the size of George to come up.
"George evidently likes this sort of thing," said Archie, hacking away. "First the tin can, then the floor. Come out here, old fellow." But he was evidently frightened away by the noise, and could not be induced to come up.
"Bring a saucer of milk, Edna," said Mrs. Somers. "Stand it at one side, and then we will all go away and he will soon come up." So the milk was brought, and as it was supper-time, they all went down and left George W. to his own devices. Cricket was much disposed to stay and make sure that he came up, but she was finally persuaded to come down with the rest.
"Isn't it funny how his voice came from all over?" she said, at the supper-table. "Probably he was right there under the trunkroom floor all the time. He was a regular philanthropist."
"A regular what?" asked grandma and Auntie Jean, together.
"A philanthropist. Don't you know? a man who—who talks where he isn't?"
"Aventriloquist!" said Will. "That's what you mean."
"Do I? Auntie, what is a philanthropist, then?"
"A philanthropist is one who loves man, dear, and who—"
"Then when a girl's engaged, is she a philanthropist?" broke in Cricket, with her glass of milk half raised. The others all laughed.
"She is, very often," said grandma.
"I know the man she is engaged to is called herfinancé, but I never knew she was called a philanthropist," went on Cricket, thoughtfully.
There was another shout.
"Fiancé, dear," said auntie, as soon as she could speak, "and the girl isn't oftencalleda philanthropist, though she often is one."
"Dear me," sighed Cricket. "Words are very puzzling. They seem to be made to say what you don't think."
"Oftentimes, my little Talleyrand," said grandma.
After supper, Cricket ran up to see if George W. had made his appearance yet. A few moments later, the household, assembled on the front piazza, was startled by a crash and a scream in Cricket's voice. With one accord, everybody rushed up-stairs. The sounds seemed to come from Eunice's room. As they opened the door, a cloud of dust poured out, from a mass of plaster that lay on the floor, while from a hole in the ceiling a length of black-stockinged leg kicked wildly. Above, a pair of fists beat a tattoo on the floor, while Cricket called, loudly:
"For goodness' sake, somebody come and pull me up; I'm breaking my other leg off."
Will sprang for the garret stairs, stumbling headlong, at the top, over George W., who took the opportunity to spring over his head, alighting right in the midst of the group of eager children, each of whom was trying to get up-stairs first, and in a moment everybody lay on top of everybody else, at the foot of the staircase.
Will, meantime, found his feet, and went to Cricket's rescue. It was dark in the trunkroom, under the eaves, but there was light enough to see Cricket, with one leg stretched out straight, and the other one so firmly wedged into the hole in the floor that she could not move.
"My leg feels as George W.'s head must have when he was caught in the tomato can," said Cricket, as Will drew up. "It's a pretty tight squeeze. I don't believe there's any skin left on it. I just came up quickly, and I couldn't see very well, and the first thing I knew my foot slipped into a hole, and there was not any floor there, and I slumped through."
"Are you hurt? Is Cricket hurt?" cried everybody, scrambling in, in hot haste.
"Not much," said Cricket, ruefully, feeling her barked knee. "I came down pretty hard on my elbow, and I nearly knocked it up to the top of my head, and my back feels funny, but I'mnothurt, not a bit!"
"What a mercy the child didn't fall all the way through, and go down on the lower floor," said grandma, who had just arrived on the scene.
"Why, I couldn't," said Cricket, surprised. "My other leg stopped me."
Eunice and Edna went sauntering along the beach, with arms around each other's waists. They were bending their steps towards one of their favourite retreats, under some big rocks. It was high tide, and the water lay dimpling and smiling in the sunlight. Down beside the dock, Will and Archie were giving their sailboat, theGentle Jane, a thorough cleaning and overhauling. Cricket was—the girls didn't know exactly where.
"There she is now," said Eunice, as they came around the rocks. Cricket lay in her favourite attitude, full length on the sand, in which her elbows were buried, with a book under her nose. She sat up as the girls came nearer.
"I have an idea," she announced, beamingly.
"Veryhot weather for ideas!" said Eunice, fanning herself with her broad-brimmed hat.
"Eunice, you're dreadfully brilliant, aren't you? Anyway, Ihavean idea, and I just got it from 'Little Women.'"
Edna threw herself on the sand. "Don't let's do it, if we have todoanything," she said, fanning likewise.
"Now, you're brilliant. But you're a lazybones, you know. Tell us your idea, Cricket."
"You know how Jo and the rest had a club and published a paper? Now, then, letushave a club and publish a paper ourselves. It would be lots of fun."
Eunice and Edna looked rather startled at Cricket's ambition.
"Who would write the pieces for it?" demanded Edna, instantly.
"Wewould, of course," answered Cricket, superbly. "I'd love to do it."
"Write stories, and poems, and everything," urged Edna, aghast.
"Of course," repeated Cricket, undauntedly. "It's as easy as rolling off a log. That isn't slang, Eunice, and you needn't look at me. Rolling off a log is really very easy indeed." For Eunice, though her own language was not always above reproach, was very apt to play censor to her younger sister. "We'd just make them up ourselves."
"Make themup!" Unimaginative Edna opened her mouth and eyes wider. "I couldn't, to save my life!"
"Oh, youcould. I've made up billions of stories," answered Cricket, hugging her knees, and talking earnestly.
"But how?" persisted Edna. "Oh, I couldn't! I wouldn't try!"
"I don't know exactlyhow," returned Cricket, considering. "Just make them up, that's all. Things come into your head all by themselves, somehow."
"Itwouldbe fun, Cricket," put in Eunice, who had been thinking over the project. "We could print the paper all out on foolscap."
"Would we each write our own story out?"
"We could if we wanted to. I thought we might take turns being editor, and printing everything out like a real paper. We might have one every week, and get subscribers," added Cricket, ambitiously.
"Subscribers!" groaned Edna, "and print a copy out for each one? Not if I know myself. It's too warm weather."
"Well, then, we might hand the one around to the subscribers, and each one could pass it to the next, like a Magazine Club," said Edna.
"No," said Eunice. "Don't let us have subscribers, or anything like that. We'll just do it for fun. We'll write one number out for ourselves. I do think it will be fun. Shall we let the boys know?"
"No," said Edna, instantly. "They would tease and spoil things, just as they always do."
"They don't tease much," said Cricket, defensively. "They're a great deal nicer than they were last summer, I think, anyway. They did tease, last summer, dreadfully, and they never played with Eunice and me, but were always with Donald." For the summer before, Will and Archie had spent two months at Kayuna, as grandma had been ill, and was not able to have them at Marbury, as usual.
"This summer I think they're awfully nice. At least Will always is, and Archie is, sometimes. They let me be around with them all the time."
"But I think we'd better not let them into it," said Eunice, judicially. Eunice generally settled all questions. "They would not stick to it, and they would want us to do it some other way from what we wanted,"—speaking from long experience with boys,—"and they would want to have it their own way. Now what shall we call ourselves?"
"We ought to be the 'Echo Club,'" suggested Edna, who often had practical ideas. "We copy it from 'Little Women.'"
"Splendid!" cried Cricket, clapping her hands. "That's just the name, Edna. How clever of you! We'll be the Echo Club, and the paper shall be the 'Echo,' and we'll have badges with 'E. C.' on them, and we'll choose a certain colour ribbon to wear them on, always, and we'll have meetings, and oh, we'll have some by-laws!" her imagination instantly running away with her. "I always wanted to have a club, and have by-laws, and rules, all written out. Do let's begin, right away!"
"We can't very well begin a paper, till we have some stories written to print in it," said Eunice, laughing. "We'll have to get some ideas, first."
"You don't want ideas," answered Cricket, scornfully. "We want to write some stories and things."
"Inevercan!" sighed Edna, despairingly.
"But you can try," insisted Cricket. "It's so easy." And at last, Edna, with a groan, promised she would at least try.
For the next few days, the three girls were never seen without the accompaniment of blank books and pencils. The blank books were Cricket's idea. She said that they could carry around blank books with them, and write whenever they thought of anything to say. So they tied pencils around their necks, by long ribbons, and scribbled industriously in corners. Edna groaned, and protested, and chewed up her pencil, but Cricket was inexorable, and gave her no peace, till she made a beginning.
Suddenly Cricket discovered that they were not properly organized yet.
"Let's have a meeting at two o'clock this afternoon, and choose a president, and secretary, and treasurer, and an editor, to print the paper when it is done. We must make up our rules and by-laws, too. Oh, we must have a regular business meeting," with an air of much importance.
"Let's have it now, for we're all here," proposed Edna.
"No, indeed, that would not do at all," said Cricket, decidedly, quite disgusted with this suggestion. "We must call the meeting first, just as grown-up people do." For Cricket, with all her harum-scarum ways, had a strong liking for organization.
"You're a fuss," said Edna, laughing, but yielding the point.
So at two o'clock, the three girls duly and solemnly convened behind the rocks, where they were completely screened from observation, both from the house, and from any one passing along the beach. All felt the importance of the occasion, and had preternaturally grave faces.
"What do we do first?" asked Edna, uncertainly.
"I know," said Cricket, quickly. "We nominate some one for president, and somebody seconds the motive. Papa has often told us about it, and once I went with mamma to a club of hers. I'll nominate Eunice for president, and you must second the motive, Edna, and then we'll vote."
"There'll be nobody to vote, but me, then," objected Eunice. "Shall I vote for myself?"
"Might as well. You'll have to be president anyway, because you're the oldest, and it's more appropriate. Or let's do this: You say, 'All in favour say, aye. Contrary-minded, no,' and then we'll all vote. That's the way they did in mamma's meeting, only, of course, there were more to vote. Now, I nominate Eunice Ward as president of the Echo Club."
"I second the motive," said Edna, promptly, trying not to laugh.
"All in favour of my being president, say aye," said Eunice, in her turn.
A very vigorous aye from the two others followed.
"Contrary-minded, say no."
There being nobody to say no, it was considered a unanimous election, and Cricket so declared it, with a slight variation.
"Eunice is aunaminouspresident," she announced.
"What is aunaminouspresident," asked Edna.
"I don't know. It's something they always say. Now we must choose a secretary and treasurer."
"What do they do?"
"Why, the secretary writes things," said Cricket, vaguely.
"All the stories?" said Edna, brightening. "I nominate Cricket for secretary."
"Of course not. We each write our own stories. I mean letters and things. Don't you know, Eunice, that Marjorie was secretary to her club last winter, and what a lot of writing she had to do?"
"Who to?" persisted Edna. "What do they have to write letters for? We've nobody to write letters to but Aunt Margaret and the rest."
"Not to them, ofcourse," returned Cricket, somewhat impatiently, as she did not at all know the duties of a secretary. "And the treasurer takes care of the money, of course," she went on, quickly shifting the subject to something she was sure of.
"How are we going to get any money, will you kindly tell me?" pursued Edna.
"Keeping a peanut stand," suggested Eunice, slyly.
"No, don't let's," answered Cricket, seriously. "It isn't reallymuchfun, and you don't make very much, anyway. First, let's take up a collection to buy the paper with, for we've got to have that. And, well, if we should have any money in any way, the treasurer would be all ready to take care of it. Don't you see?"
"Ye-es. I nominate Cricket for secretary and treasurer, then—"
"I'll second the motive—Cricket, that doesn't sound right."
"It is," said Cricket, positively. "When I went to that meeting with mamma, they kept saying that—'I'll second the motive.'"
"All right, then, I'll second the motive, but then Edna will have to be the editor."
"No, no," cried Edna, looking alarmed. "I'll nominate myself for secretary and treasurer, and we'll have Cricket for editor. There won't be any letters to write, and I'm sure there won't be much money to take care of."
"It will be lots of work to be editor," meditated Eunice. "Wouldn't this be better, girls? Let each be editor in turn."
"Yes, that will be best," said Cricket. "I'd just as lief be first editor, though, if Edna doesn't want to."
"And I'dlievseryou would," said Edna. "Shall I be secretary and treasurer, then? All in favour say aye;" and Eunice and Cricket said aye, loudly.
"What do we do now the officers are all chosen?" asked Edna.
"Make rules and by-laws," answered Cricket, promptly.
"Whatareby-laws?" asked Edna, again.
"Why, they are—by-laws. I don't know just exactly what they are," broke off Cricket, honestly. "But I think they sound very interesting and grown-up-y. Do you know what they are, Eunice?"
"N—o, not exactly. Do you suppose they are the laws about buying things? or who must buy them, or anything like that?"
"Why, of course!" exclaimed Cricket, with an air of conviction. "You see then, we'llhaveto have by-laws to see about buying the paper, won't we?"
"And what sort of rules do we have?" went on Edna, in the pursuit of information.
"Oh, everything! Let's begin to make them now. You write them down, Edna, for your handwriting is so nice and neat. Take the last leaf of your blank book."
Edna obediently opened her book, and took up her pencil.
"Write 'Rules for the Echo Club' at the top of the page," directed Cricket. "Now, Rule One," when this was down in Edna's careful handwriting.
"How would this do for rule one? 'We make ourselves into a club called the Echo Club.'"
"That's good. Now for rule two.
"'Every two weeks we will print a paper called theEcho,'" said Cricket. "Edna, you make up rule three."
"'The secretary shall be excused from writing stories,'" laughed Edna.
"You lazy, lazy thing. That sha'n't be a rule at all," answered Eunice, laughing also.
"How would this do, then, for rule three? 'The Echo Club will not do anything in very hot weather, but sit under the trees and embroider and read, and none of the members shall be allowed to make the others go on long walks and things when it's so roasting hot that nobody wants to stir.' That's a beautiful rule," said Edna, mischievously. Whereupon Cricket flew at her, and rolled her over on the sand, till she cried for mercy.
"Will the meeting please come to order," announced the president. "Let's have the third rule about our ribbons. We'll choose one colour. I vote for pale-green."
"Blue," said Edna, and "Pink," said Cricket, in one breath. The children looked at each other and laughed.
"I'd just as soon have pale-green," said Edna, amiably.
"So would I," agreed Cricket. "Eunice is president, so let's vote for pale-green. How would this do? 'The club will have pale-green ribbon to tie its pencils round its necks.'"
"'Round its necks' sounds funny," commented Edna, writing.
"Round its neck, then. But that sounds as if we had only one neck."
"Say, the club will have pale-green ribbon to tie their pencils round their necks," amended Eunice.
"That will do. Now rule four," said Edna, waiting, with pencil raised.
"Shouldn't we have a by-law now?" asked Cricket. "For instance, By-law one: 'The club will buy foolscap paper to print on, and will take up a surscription of five cents to buy it with.'"
"Subscription," corrected Eunice. "I should think that would do."
So Edna wrote, neatly:
"Buy-law I. The club will take up a subscription of five cents each, and buy foolscap paper, as much as it needs."
"That's good. Do we need any more by-laws? What else have we to buy?"
"Ain't those enough rules?" asked Eunice. "I can't seem to think of any more rules we want to make."
"When will we have the paper?" asked Edna.
"Depends on when you send in your stories. This is Wednesday. Have you your stories nearly done, girls? I guess it will take some time to print them all out carefully."
"I can finish mine to-morrow," said Eunice.
"Mine's a horrid little thing, but I wasn't born bright," sighed Edna. "I'll get it done by Friday. I can't think up more than five lines a day."
"Mine's all done," said Cricket. "But, oh, girls! a newspaper ought to have ever so many more things than stories in it. We ought to have jokes, and advertisements, and deaths, and marriages, and all that. And puzzles, too."
"Oh-h!" groaned Edna. "Then you'll have to make them up, that's all. I think it's the editor's business, anyway."
"We'll each do a few. That won't be hard," suggested Eunice.
"Suppose nobody dies, or gets married, that we know of?" asked literal Edna.
"Make them up, child," answered Cricket, with a funny air of superiority. "In a paper you can make upanything. It doesn't have to be true. Don't you know how often papa says 'that's only a newspaper story?'"
"Making them up is just the trouble," persisted Edna. "If anybody really died, or married, or anything, it would be easy enough to write of it, of course. How silly people are who make real newspapers. Why do they ever make up anything, when real things are happening all the time?"
"It's more fun to make things up," answered Cricket, from the depths of her experience. "But we can write about that old red hen, and about poor little Wallops"—referring to a little black cat, lately deceased. "Then each of you must send me in some things besides your stories, and I'll make some up myself. Let's appoint next Tuesday for a meeting, if I can get the paper done. If I don't, we'll have it as soon as I can get it ready."
"Shall that be a rule?" laughed Eunice.
"No, miss. But suppose we make this a rule—how many rules have we now?"
"Three," said Edna, referring to the constitution.
"Then rule four: 'The paper shall be read on Wednesday afternoons, at three o'clock, in Rocky Nook.' Why, girls! I made up that name just then!" interrupting herself, in her surprise.
"It's a splendid name," the girls said.
"We might call it 'Exiles' Bower,'" laughed Edna, teasingly, for the boys had given that name to Bear Island since the girls' imprisonment there.
"If you like," said Cricket, the unteasable, serenely.
"Don't you think that the next rule ought to be that we won't tell the boys?" asked Edna. "I just know they will tease us out of our senses."
So rule five was duly registered, to the effect that strict secrecy was to be observed, and that they would tell no one but grandma and Auntie Jean.
"There must be another by-law," put in Cricket, reflectively, here, "for we must have some badges, like Marjorie's society."
"What are they?" asked Edna.
"Marjorie took a dime and had the jeweller rub it off smooth, and put some letters on it. We could have E. C. put on ours. Then he put a little pin on it, and she wears it all the time. Don't you suppose auntie would see about them for us?"
"I'm sure she would. She would lend us the money, I guess, and let us make it up from our allowances."
So the next regulation read:
"Buy-law two. We will have badges, made of dimes, with E. C. on them, and will ask mamma to let us have the money for them."
"Doesn't that look club-by?" exclaimed Cricket, enthusiastically, surveying the neatly written page, with its rules and "buy-laws."
"You ought to be the first editor, Edna, for you do writebeautifully."
"You write my stories, and I'll print the paper, any time," said Edna, brightening.
"No, I won't. I won't let you wiggle out of writing your stories, Edna, if I printallthe papers. Come, girls, I'm nearly dead with sitting still so long," added Cricket, springing up. "Let's go to ride."
"No, I thank you. This is all I want to do, this hot day," answered Edna, stretching herself out on the sand, with her head in Eunice's lap.
"Oh, lazybones! I'm going to find old Billy, and take him to ride. Good-by!"
"Girls, we forgot one very important thing," said Cricket, suddenly pausing in her work of copying out carefully, in print, on legal cap, the much-interlined and very untidy looking manuscripts that had been handed in. The three girlswere sitting cosilyin one end of the broad piazza, Edna lying back in a bamboo steamer chair, reading, Eunice in the hammock, while Cricket, at the table, with both feet curled up on the round of her chair, worked industriously.
"What did we forget?" asked Edna, languidly.
"We forgot to choose names for ourselves, as Jo and the rest did. I don't want to sign just plain Edna Somers to your piece."
"I'm sure I don't want you to," said Edna, with sudden energy. "I just hate my name. I wish mamma hadn't named me till I could choose for myself."
"What a good idea!" said Eunice, admiringly. "I never thought of that. What name would you choose?"
"Hildegarde Genevieve," answered Edna, promptly. "Those are my favourite names. And I wish my last name was Montague."
"Hildegarde Genevieve Montague! That's a beautiful name!" exclaimed Cricket. "Have that for your club name, Edna. Now you choose, Eunice."
"Let me see!" considered Eunice. "I think Esmeralda is just splendid, and IloveMuriel. Esmeralda Muriel would do."
"And have Le Grand for your last name," begged Cricket. "I think anything with aLein it is so—so stately. But Muriel is one of my favourite names, too, Eunice. What shall I choose? Do you like Seretta?"
"That isn't a real name, is it," asked Edna.
"I made it up the other night, and I think it's sweet. I'll be Seretta Carlillian. I made that up, too. So that's settled," said Cricket, resuming her work, and signing, "Hildegarde Genevieve Montague," very carefully.
The rest of the family had, of course, noticed the sudden literary bent of these young women, and were all curiosity to know the reason of it. The boys gave them no peace, and though the girls stuck to their secret valiantly, Will and Archie managed to worm it from them at last. To the relief of the girls, however, they did not tease, but, on the contrary, quite approved, and even offered to contribute, an offer which the small editor would not accept unconditionally.
"You may write things," she said, rather dubiously, "andifI like them I'll print them. But I'm not going to put in any nonsense. This is a really-truly paper, and the girls have written beautiful stories."
She was sole judge of the production, however, for the other girls had agreed that it would be more fun if nobody but the editor knew the contents of the paper till it was read. It proved to be a great deal of work to copy all the paper neatly in printing letters, but Cricket stuck to it faithfully. Auntie advised that she should work regularly, one hour in the morning, and one hour in the afternoon, till she got it done, and Cricket, who, at first, felt obliged to work at it all the morning, very willingly followed her suggestion. Auntie had also undertaken to advance the money for the badges, which a little local watchmaker had promised to have done before Wednesday. He kept his promise, and three prouder little girls never walked than these three, when they fastened on these round, shining pins, with "E. C." embroidered on them, as Cricket said.
Would my little readers like a glimpse of this "really-truly" paper of "really-truly" little girls?
Well, then, the club meeting was held, by common consent, on the piazza, instead of in "Rocky Nook," for the boys insisted on being present, and Auntie Jean hinted that an invitation to herself and grandma would be much appreciated.
"You mustn't anybody laugh," said Eunice, finally, in some trepidation.
"We'll be as sober as—crocodiles," promised Will, "and I don't know anything more serious than a crocodile."
So, when the audience was duly assembled on the piazza, the "Echo Club" marched out of the house, headed by President Eunice, the secretary and treasurer following, while the editor, all in a flutter, carrying the precious paper laid flat in an atlas, brought up the rear. The president sat down, gravely, in a big chair reserved for her, while the secretary took a seat by her side, though she cast a longing look at the hammock, which was regarded as undignified. The editor, vainly trying to control her smiles and restrain her dimples, stood behind the table, and began.
"I copied the top part of it from a real newspaper, auntie," she said, opening the sheet. "Now, boys, remember, if you laugh the least bit, I'll stop. And, oh, auntie, I forgot to say that the boys wrote some of the atoms."
"Atoms?" repeated Auntie Jean, puzzled.
"Atoms!Miss Scricket, oh, ho!" called Archie; then, recollecting himself just in time, he clapped his hands over his mouth.
"That's what you said they were, I thought," said Cricket, anxiously. "Don't you know, auntie, those little things that come between the stories, and all that? General atoms. I have written it down."
"Items, dear," said auntie, soberly.
"Items—atoms," repeated Cricket, thoughtfully, comparing the sounds. "Yes, of course. How silly of me. I'll change it right away. Well, the boys wrote most of them, anyway. Now, I'm all ready," and Cricket cleared her throat, and began.