CHAPTER VIII

THE CAMERA FIENDThe Camera Fiend is abroad in the land;Her tripod beareth she;And she lureth us all with a beckoning handToward the blue and shining sea.’Tis little we reck of the fate that impendsAs we follow her hurrying feet,Till she catches the crowd with a kodak snap,And the photograph is complete.

THE CAMERA FIEND

The Camera Fiend is abroad in the land;Her tripod beareth she;And she lureth us all with a beckoning handToward the blue and shining sea.’Tis little we reck of the fate that impendsAs we follow her hurrying feet,Till she catches the crowd with a kodak snap,And the photograph is complete.

The Camera Fiend is abroad in the land;

Her tripod beareth she;

And she lureth us all with a beckoning hand

Toward the blue and shining sea.

’Tis little we reck of the fate that impends

As we follow her hurrying feet,

Till she catches the crowd with a kodak snap,

And the photograph is complete.

“Of course,” said Hester, after they had laughed at Betty’s effort, “I can’t be in the picture, because I’ll have to take it, you know.”

TIMMY LOO.

“Oh, then it’s no fun if we can’t have the eight together,” said Helen.

“Let me snap it off,” said Aunt Molly, kindly. “I don’t know anything about a camera, but couldn’t you show me?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Hester; “that will be jolly of you—and I’ll take your picture afterward.”

So they all went down to the beach, and pictures were taken of most fantastic groups and duets and solitaires, as Millicent called them. Last but not least, they took a very fine solitaire of Timmy Loo in one of his fits of good behavior, and then Hester declared she must save the rest of her plates for another day.

“Do you know,” said Nan, in her slow, dreamy way, “if Marguerite and I are to get supper to-night, I really believe it’s time we began to think about it.”

“Oh, do something more than think about it,” groaned Betty. “I’m as hungry as if I hadn’t attended that grand and elegant dinner.”

“Are you, dear?” said Marguerite, with mock-solicitude. “Well, you shall soon be fed. Come on, Nan; the path of glory leads up to our cottage, and we must tread it like the brave heroes that we are.”

“When may we hope supper will be ready?” called out Jessie, as the Matron and the Poet wandered off.

“ ’Twill be served at six-thirty precisely,” replied Marguerite, with one of her unsuccessful attempts at a dignified mien. “Brush your hair and put on clean pinafores, and be prompt when the bell rings.”

“Aye, aye,” called out Hester; and the group on the beach watched the departing pair, and chuckled as they wondered what the two rattlepates would give them to eat.

CHAPTER VIII

FRITTERS AND SALAD

‟WHATarewe going to have for supper, Daisy?” asked Nan, as, arm in arm, they sauntered toward the cottage.

“I don’t know, I’m sure; but, Nannie, just look at those clouds,—those gorgeous ones behind that clump of pine-trees,—all gold and pink, pushing themselves through the green.”

“Yes, they are beautiful. The sun never sets like that at home, does it?”

“No. Oh, here’s the vegetable-man’s cart. Wonder what he’s around so late for? But suppose we get some of his things, ’cause I know there’s nothing in the house to cook.”

“Yes; let’s give them a vegetable supper. They ought to have a light meal after that hearty dinner. What shall we buy?”

“Whatever he has the freshest,” replied Marguerite, with one of her wisest nods.

“Good afternoon, young ladies,” called out the huckster, reining up his horse. “What’ll ye hev in my line?”

“Have you any very nice asparagus?” asked Marguerite.

“Grass? No mum; it’s a leetle late fer grass. Nice egg-plants now, or cauliflower.”

“Oh, cauliflower!” cried Nan. “That will be fine—you can make a salad.”

“So I can,” said Marguerite; “and here’s lovely-looking corn. You make some of your delicious corn fritters.”

“I will,” said Nan; “and let’s buy a watermelon, and then, with bread and butter and coffee, that will be enough.”

“Seems’s if we ought to have a made dessert,” said Marguerite, as they followed the huckster’s slowly moving vehicle to the house.

“I’ll make a snow pudding,” said Nan. “Let’s give them a real bang-up supper.”

“All right,” said Marguerite; and the two fell to work with such vigor that Rosie stared at them in astonishment, for she had secretly thought this particular duet ornamental rather than useful.

“Fly round, Rosie,” said Marguerite to the smiling Irish girl. “Husk this corn, please, and cut it carefully from the ears—we want to make fritters. Perhaps you’d better grate it.”

“No, cut it,” said Nan; “it’s so young and tender.”

“Well, cut it, Rosie,” went on the Matron; “and then boil the cauliflower for twenty minutes in salted water—oh, you’d better do that before you fix the corn, so it can get ice-cold for the salad.”

“But, Rosie,” put in Nan, “first I wish you’d get out the eggs for me; and just open this box of gelatine and put it to soak in cold water.”

“There ain’t no eggs, miss,” announced Rosie, after a search in the cupboard.

“Oh, what a shame! I’ve set my heart on making a snow pudding. Well, Rosie, can’t you run over to the grocer’s and get some? It won’t take a minute.”

“Yes’m,” said the willing maid, and away she went.

“Oh, dear!” groaned Marguerite, “she didn’t put the cauliflower on to cook; she might have done that before she started.”

“I’ll do it,” said Nan. “Is it that it must be washed?”

“Yes, of course; oh—no—I don’t know,” replied Marguerite, somewhat vaguely. “Does it look soiled?”

“Not much,” said Nan, cheerfully; “just a few stains of good old Mother Earth on its fair face. That won’t hurt anybody—so here goes.”

She dropped the cauliflower into a kettle of water and set it on the stove.

“We’ll have everything served separately,” said the canny Marguerite, “and then it will seem like more. Somehow I don’t see much around to eat.”

“Oh, there’s plenty,” said Nan, who was weighing sugar. “Corn fritters are hearty, you know.”

Rosie soon returned with the eggs, and the preparations went merrily on. Nan sang and Marguerite whistled, and occasionally they bumped against each other, and then waltzed a few turns around the kitchen.

“Now, Rosie, supply me with oil and vinegar and salt and pepper, and I’ll whisk up this mayonnaise in a jiffy. Phew! what’s burning?”

It was the cauliflower, but luckily it was only scorched on one side. Marguerite pared off the brown part, pronounced it done, and set it aside to cool.

“Don’t speak to me,” cried Nan, who was wildly manipulating a Dover beater; “this snow pudding won’t snow; it never will when I’m in a hurry.”

“Never mind, deary; it will be just as good soft.”

“It won’t,” wailed Nan; “and Betty will make fun of it—hers are always perfect.”

“Well, you’re perfect, so who cares about a pudding more or less? But jiminetty! when are you going to make the corn fritters? The girls will be here in a minute.”

“I can make corn fritters, miss. Shall I be afther doin’ ’em?” said Rosie.

“Oh, do,” cried Nan, still beating away for dear life; “and get the frying-pan on the stove—it wants to be awfully hot.”

And then, somehow, the things got done: the snow pudding wasnearlya success; the cauliflower salad looked fine; and as for Rosie’s corn fritters, they were of a melting golden brown that appealed very strongly to the two hungry cooks.

“How many are there, Rosie?” asked Nan, eyeing the pile.

“Thirteen, miss; the corn wouldn’t make no more.”

“Thirteen! An unlucky number!” exclaimed Marguerite. “Nannie, let’s eat one, and offer our friends a decent dozen.”

“All right,” said Nan, and a fritter was carefully halved and eaten with a relish.

“Those are simply great!” said Marguerite, with a hungry glance at the heaped-up plate. “You like them, don’t you, Rosie?”

“No, ma’am; I never touches corn in any way.”

“You don’t! Now see here, Nan; we would, of course, have left two for Rosie, and since she doesn’t care for them, and the girls haven’t come yet, let’s you and I eat Rosie’s share now.”

Nan willingly agreed, and the plate was further depleted by two.

Still the girls came not.

“It’s ridiculous,” said Nan, in a hesitating way, “to serve ten fritters to eight people. One apiece seems so much more reasonable.”

“It does,” said Marguerite, solemnly nodding her pretty head. “Let us so arrange matters that eight shall be served.”

Whereupon the cooks appropriated one more fritter apiece, and declared that they really increased in deliciousness. Then they sat and wondered why the girls didn’t come.

“It’s just half-past,” said Nan; “I supposed they’d be here howling before this.”

“Do you know,” said Marguerite, “I don’t feel like waiting, and I don’t believe they’d care if we—you and I, I mean—ate our two fritters now. They’re so much better hot.”

“We’ll do it,” said Nan; “two of them are ours, of course.”

So two more of Rosie’s fritters had just disappeared when a barking announced the approach of the cavalcade.

“Supper ready?” cried Betty, as they all trooped in.

“Yes,” said Marguerite, beaming with pride at her ability to answer the question in the affirmative; “bring it in, Rosie.”

The girls seated themselves at table, and Timmy Loo waltzed gaily about in great expectation when Rosie brought in the plate of six corn fritters and passed it round.

“Oh, how good!” cried Marjorie, helping herself. “I just love these things, and it’s so nice of you not to bake them all at once. They’re lovely just off the pan. Hurry up the next lot, Rosie.”

Nan blushed and thought seriously of slipping under the table; but Marguerite said blandly:

“Oh, these are individual fritters. There’s only one apiece, and Nan and I ate ours before you came home. What made you so late?”

“Only one apiece!” exclaimed Betty, ignoring Marguerite’s question. “Why, I could eat six!”

“So could I,” said Millicent; but Marguerite went on airily:

“Pooh! do you think we’re going to have nothing else? There are several courses yet to come.”

This mollified the girls, and each ate her fritter hopefully, while Nan and Marguerite chattered very fast to hide their rapidly growing embarrassment.

The next course was the salad, though it did seem as if something else ought to have preceded it.

“H’m!” said Marjorie, as the not over-bounteous-looking bowl was placed before her. “I see the salads are also to be served individually. Mine looks very nice.”

“No, no!” cried Nan; but Marguerite laughed gaily and said: “Why, you girls would ruin a hotel proprietor. Howcanyou want so much to eat? No, madam; we offer you a variety in our service. The salad is to be served at table.”

Just then Rosie brought eight plates, and by careful division the Duchess portioned to each about a tablespoonful of salad.

“There’s really plenty of it, after all,” said Betty, laying down her fork after the first taste.

“Why?” said Marguerite, hurriedly trying hers. “Oh, it’s scorched, isn’t it? Well, you see, it burned a little while it was cooking, but I thought we scraped the burnt part all off. Queer how that scorchy taste permeates the whole thing!”

“Take it away, Rosie,” said Marjorie; “remove the smoked salad and delight our eyes with the next course.”

The next delicacy seemed to be a great bowl of yellow custard.

“Dessert already?” said Jessie. “Oh, perhaps we’re having one of those backward dinners. I’ve read about them. You begin with coffee and end with soup, you know.”

“I love custard,” said Millicent. “What do we eat it on?”

“It’s—it’s a snow pudding,” faltered Nan.

“Oh, so it is,” cried Millicent, “and the snow has all melted.”

“I think it’s down underneath,” Nan went on hopefully.

“Of course it must be,” replied teasing Millicent. “Get the snow-shovel; perhaps we can dig it up.”

However, the dessert was all eaten, for a snow pudding tastes good even when its shape is not all that could be desired.

“What, something else?” cried Millicent, as Rosie appeared with a pile of fresh plates. “You astonish me! Girls, you really oughtn’t to overfeed us in this mad fashion. A watermelon, as I live!”

The great green melon was hailed with delight by all, and, except that it was a bit warmish from having traveled about in the sun all day, it was pronounced extremely satisfactory. Coffee followed, and Betty remarked that that made up in quality and quantity for what the other courses had lacked in both.

“Some of the thingsdidn’tturn out quite right,” admitted Marguerite, “but you had quite enough of them. You can’t expect the lavishness of a Nero on five dollars a week.”

“Let’s go in the Grotto and write in the ‘Whitecap,’ ” said Helen, who always interposed when Betty and Marguerite began a discussion.

So into the Grotto they went, and while Helen picked at her banjo, and Nan and Jessie sang, the others made up rhymes for their book.

After some struggles, in which Marguerite joined with as much good will as the others, they produced this masterpiece, which they read aloud to the musicians, who applauded most heartily:

OMELET’S SOLILOQUYBY THE COOKTo fry or not to fry; that is the question —Whether ’tis better in this pan to sizzleA scarce and scanty lot of small corn fritters,And by devouring end them. To fry, to brown,No more. And by this dish to say we fillOur suffering companions and ourselves.Fritters and salad! ’Tis a combinationDevoutly to be wished. To fry, to brown,To brown, perchance to burn, aye, there’s the rub,For in that kitchen range what flames may comeWhen we have shoveled on this mortal coal.But who would want the roasts of beef or lamb,The apple-pie, Welsh rarebit, deviled crabs,The quail on toast, or duck with canvasback,When he might such a royal dinner makeWith a corn fritter? Who would these dainties wish,And run the risk of nightmare or of gout?And so the thought of soda-mints to comeImpels us to be careful what we eat,And makes us rather bear the ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of.Thus indigestion doth make cowards of all.And so instead of rich meringues and pastry,Instead of oysters, terrapin, or pie,Give us a single fritter!

OMELET’S SOLILOQUY

BY THE COOK

To fry or not to fry; that is the question —Whether ’tis better in this pan to sizzleA scarce and scanty lot of small corn fritters,And by devouring end them. To fry, to brown,No more. And by this dish to say we fillOur suffering companions and ourselves.Fritters and salad! ’Tis a combinationDevoutly to be wished. To fry, to brown,To brown, perchance to burn, aye, there’s the rub,For in that kitchen range what flames may comeWhen we have shoveled on this mortal coal.But who would want the roasts of beef or lamb,The apple-pie, Welsh rarebit, deviled crabs,The quail on toast, or duck with canvasback,When he might such a royal dinner makeWith a corn fritter? Who would these dainties wish,And run the risk of nightmare or of gout?And so the thought of soda-mints to comeImpels us to be careful what we eat,And makes us rather bear the ills we haveThan fly to others that we know not of.Thus indigestion doth make cowards of all.And so instead of rich meringues and pastry,Instead of oysters, terrapin, or pie,Give us a single fritter!

To fry or not to fry; that is the question —

Whether ’tis better in this pan to sizzle

A scarce and scanty lot of small corn fritters,

And by devouring end them. To fry, to brown,

No more. And by this dish to say we fill

Our suffering companions and ourselves.

Fritters and salad! ’Tis a combination

Devoutly to be wished. To fry, to brown,

To brown, perchance to burn, aye, there’s the rub,

For in that kitchen range what flames may come

When we have shoveled on this mortal coal.

But who would want the roasts of beef or lamb,

The apple-pie, Welsh rarebit, deviled crabs,

The quail on toast, or duck with canvasback,

When he might such a royal dinner make

With a corn fritter? Who would these dainties wish,

And run the risk of nightmare or of gout?

And so the thought of soda-mints to come

Impels us to be careful what we eat,

And makes us rather bear the ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of.

Thus indigestion doth make cowards of all.

And so instead of rich meringues and pastry,

Instead of oysters, terrapin, or pie,

Give us a single fritter!

CHAPTER IX

GENIUS BURNS

‟MY hearers,” said Nan, as they all dawdled on the veranda one morning, “a truly magnificent scheme is forming itself in my fertile brain.”

“Pray expound and elucidate,” murmured Marguerite, from the hammock, where she was lazily swaying to and fro.

“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Nan; “only that we give a play.”

“Is that all?” said Marguerite. “I thought you meant something nice.”

“Let’s do it,” cried Betty. “I just love that sort of thing—‘Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’ ”

“Shall we hire the town hall, or wouldn’t that be big enough?” inquired Helen.

“And don’t let’s do it half-way,” said Marjorie. “We can get scenery and costumes from New York and give ‘L’Aiglon’ or ‘Faust’ or something worth while.”

“Nonsense!” said Nan. “Do be quiet, girls, until I tell you what I mean. You see, we’ve written such really good and funny things in the ‘Whitecap’ that I’m sure we could write a little play, with songs and things, and then act it; and it would be lots of fun.”

“Oh, you mean an opera,” said Millicent. “Why, of course we could dash off an opera any morning, just as easy as not. Come on; let’s begin.”

“No, wait!” cried Nan; “you don’t understand, and I won’t be made fun of. I’m serious.”

“Of course you are; no one took you for a joke. But, even so, you can’t stop us now we’re started”; and Hester grasped a pencil, and taking the “Whitecap,” began to write:

Time: Midnight.Scene: A dark corridor.

Time: Midnight.

Scene: A dark corridor.

“We must have it gloomy and mysterious, it’s so much more interesting.”

“Yes,” said Helen, who was hanging over Hester’s shoulder. “Who’ll appear first?”

“You,” said Hester, writing rapidly.

Enter the Wandering Minstrel.

“Oh, I never could! I’d be scared to death!” cried Helen, who had a way of taking things seriously.

“Let her be asleep,” said Marjorie; “then she won’t feel embarrassed, and she’s used to walking in her sleep, you know.”

This was true enough, and Hester rewrote:

Enter the Wandering Minstrel, sound asleep. She sings to her banjo:THE WANDERING MINSTREL’S SONGI’ve something weird to tell you—’Twill make you crawl and creep;For I love to harrow up your soulsWhen walking in my sleep.’Tis something most appalling—’Twill make you shriek and yell;But you must not breathe a sentenceOf the tale that I shall tell.The most awful thing has happened;There’s a—

Enter the Wandering Minstrel, sound asleep. She sings to her banjo:

THE WANDERING MINSTREL’S SONGI’ve something weird to tell you—’Twill make you crawl and creep;For I love to harrow up your soulsWhen walking in my sleep.’Tis something most appalling—’Twill make you shriek and yell;But you must not breathe a sentenceOf the tale that I shall tell.The most awful thing has happened;There’s a—

THE WANDERING MINSTREL’S SONG

I’ve something weird to tell you—’Twill make you crawl and creep;For I love to harrow up your soulsWhen walking in my sleep.

I’ve something weird to tell you—

’Twill make you crawl and creep;

For I love to harrow up your souls

When walking in my sleep.

’Tis something most appalling—’Twill make you shriek and yell;But you must not breathe a sentenceOf the tale that I shall tell.

’Tis something most appalling—

’Twill make you shriek and yell;

But you must not breathe a sentence

Of the tale that I shall tell.

The most awful thing has happened;There’s a—

The most awful thing has happened;

There’s a—

“Oh, I can’t go on with this. I don’t know what happened! Somebody else finish it.”

“No; each must finish the song she begins. Wind that up, and then I’ll write my song,” said Marguerite.

So Hester wrote:

The Wandering Minstrel awakens, gives a scared look over her shoulder, and scurries back to her room.

“Oh, that’s no fair!” cried Marguerite, but Helen said:

“Yes, it is; I’ll be glad of a chance to vanish. Go on, Daisy.”

“You know I’m the Chaperon of this crowd,” said Marguerite, “and as such I’ll relate my woes.”

With some assistance from Nan, the rattlepated Chaperon composed her song:

THE CHAPERON’S SONGI am the unfortunate Chaperon;I never can call a minute my own:For the girls treat with mirthful derisionThe precision of my kind supervision.Oh, terribly hard is my luckless lot!I’m forced to hurry from spot to spot,And then all the thanks that I get for my troubleIs that I’m completely ignored.

THE CHAPERON’S SONG

I am the unfortunate Chaperon;I never can call a minute my own:For the girls treat with mirthful derisionThe precision of my kind supervision.

I am the unfortunate Chaperon;

I never can call a minute my own:

For the girls treat with mirthful derision

The precision of my kind supervision.

Oh, terribly hard is my luckless lot!I’m forced to hurry from spot to spot,And then all the thanks that I get for my troubleIs that I’m completely ignored.

Oh, terribly hard is my luckless lot!

I’m forced to hurry from spot to spot,

And then all the thanks that I get for my trouble

Is that I’m completely ignored.

“Why, that’s fine!” cried Marjorie; “but how can you sing it? Helen’s has a tune to it, ‘Talking in My Sleep,’ you know.”

“Are we really going to sing this thing?” said Marguerite, looking awe-struck.

“Of course,” said Nan, decidedly. “We’ll write the words to tunes we know, and we’ll rehearse the whole thing and give it some evening to an audience composed of our friends next door.”

“And across the street, too,” said Jessie. “The Marlowes and Hillises over there are awfully nice people, and they’d love to be invited.”

“Don’t invite your chickens before the play is hatched,” said Betty. “But, Daisy, you ought to do a dance with your song. You’re a born soubrette.”

“I’ll tell you,” cried Nan. “Write it to the air of the ‘Kerry Dance.’ You sing that so prettily, and you can have a banjo accompaniment and hop around all you like.”

So, with much help from Nan and Hester, Marguerite accomplished a new

CHAPERON’S SONGI’m the Chaperon gay and frisky,And the rôle that I have to playIs decidedly rash and risky,And I know I’ll slip up some day.When the girls are all around me,I’m as staid as a cup of tea;And my prudish airs astound me,When I think of what I can be.Oh, my prudery! Oh, my dignity!And what I can be!I’m the Chaperon gay and frisky,And the rôle that I have to playIs decidedly rash and risky,And I know I’ll slip up some day.Oh, it’s slow when we all sit round in state,Eyes cast down and faces long and straight;Prim and staid, our manners quite correct;All approach to frivolousness checked.I assume a pedantic pose,But at heart I feel—I’m the Chaperon, gay and frisky, etc.

CHAPERON’S SONG

I’m the Chaperon gay and frisky,And the rôle that I have to playIs decidedly rash and risky,And I know I’ll slip up some day.

I’m the Chaperon gay and frisky,

And the rôle that I have to play

Is decidedly rash and risky,

And I know I’ll slip up some day.

When the girls are all around me,I’m as staid as a cup of tea;And my prudish airs astound me,When I think of what I can be.

When the girls are all around me,

I’m as staid as a cup of tea;

And my prudish airs astound me,

When I think of what I can be.

Oh, my prudery! Oh, my dignity!And what I can be!

Oh, my prudery! Oh, my dignity!

And what I can be!

I’m the Chaperon gay and frisky,And the rôle that I have to playIs decidedly rash and risky,And I know I’ll slip up some day.

I’m the Chaperon gay and frisky,

And the rôle that I have to play

Is decidedly rash and risky,

And I know I’ll slip up some day.

Oh, it’s slow when we all sit round in state,Eyes cast down and faces long and straight;Prim and staid, our manners quite correct;All approach to frivolousness checked.I assume a pedantic pose,But at heart I feel—

Oh, it’s slow when we all sit round in state,

Eyes cast down and faces long and straight;

Prim and staid, our manners quite correct;

All approach to frivolousness checked.

I assume a pedantic pose,

But at heart I feel—

I’m the Chaperon, gay and frisky, etc.

“Oh, that’s awfully pretty!” cried Marjorie, as they tried it over to the accompaniment of Helen’s banjo. “Why, the play will be a howling success if we keep on like this.”

“Indeed it will—a howling, screaming success.”

“Now, Jessie, it’s your turn. Let’s see what a Scullery-maid can do at making a song for herself.”

“Oh, I couldn’t make a rime to save my life,” said Jessie, with such a scared look that everybody laughed.

“But you’ll have to,” cried Betty. “Every one of us must write our own song, whether we can do it or not.”

“Help me out, Nannie,” said Jessie, pleadingly; “you’re a real live Poet, and you ought to teach the art to one who is but a lowly Scullery-maid.”

“Well, we’ll have a duet,” said Nan, good-naturedly, “and I’ll write it for us both, and then you and I will sing it together. Here goes!”

Enter Scullery-maid, carrying under her arm a dictionary, and in her hand a pad and pencil.Enter Poet, with frying-pan and cake of soap.

Enter Scullery-maid, carrying under her arm a dictionary, and in her hand a pad and pencil.

Enter Poet, with frying-pan and cake of soap.

SCULLERY-MAID AND POET(A Duet)“Where are you going, my Scullery-maid?”“I seek inspiration, kind Poet,” she said.“And why inspiration, my Scullery-maid?”“I want to write verses, like you,” she said.“We’ll make a good bargain, my Scullery-maid.”“And what is the bargain, kind Poet?” she said.“You teach me scouring, my Scullery-maid.”“And then you can brighten my wits,” she said.

SCULLERY-MAID AND POET

(A Duet)

“Where are you going, my Scullery-maid?”

“I seek inspiration, kind Poet,” she said.

“And why inspiration, my Scullery-maid?”

“I want to write verses, like you,” she said.

“We’ll make a good bargain, my Scullery-maid.”“And what is the bargain, kind Poet?” she said.“You teach me scouring, my Scullery-maid.”“And then you can brighten my wits,” she said.

“We’ll make a good bargain, my Scullery-maid.”

“And what is the bargain, kind Poet?” she said.

“You teach me scouring, my Scullery-maid.”

“And then you can brighten my wits,” she said.

“That’s lovely, and you two girls sing beautifully together,” said Marjorie; “but you must have solos, too; you’re our best singers, and you can’t get off with one duet.”

“All right; I’ll write a solo for Jessie,” said Nan. “It can follow right after this duet, you know. It’s to the tune of ‘My Mother Dear.’ ”

SCULLERY-MAID’S SONGDo you think I’m asking much of you, my Poet?I’ve longed to be poetic for a week.My longings are intense, did you but know it,And now I come your kind advice to seek.Each day I’m riming, dictionaries buying;I cull from books each sweet poetic flower;But though like any furnace I am sighing,I really can’t do anything but scour—Scour, my Poet,Scour, my Poet,I really can’t do anything but scour.

SCULLERY-MAID’S SONG

Do you think I’m asking much of you, my Poet?I’ve longed to be poetic for a week.My longings are intense, did you but know it,And now I come your kind advice to seek.

Do you think I’m asking much of you, my Poet?

I’ve longed to be poetic for a week.

My longings are intense, did you but know it,

And now I come your kind advice to seek.

Each day I’m riming, dictionaries buying;I cull from books each sweet poetic flower;But though like any furnace I am sighing,I really can’t do anything but scour—Scour, my Poet,Scour, my Poet,I really can’t do anything but scour.

Each day I’m riming, dictionaries buying;

I cull from books each sweet poetic flower;

But though like any furnace I am sighing,

I really can’t do anything but scour—

Scour, my Poet,

I really can’t do anything but scour.

“That’s gay,” said Millicent, “and it’s specially funny for Jessie, who really is farther removed from scullery-maidism than any of the rest of us.”

“I don’t care,” said Jessie. “I’ll sing anything you want me to, if I don’t have to write it.”

“I’ll write Nan’s solo,” volunteered Hester. “It’s more fun to write each other’s than our own. This is to the tune of the Burglar Song in ‘The Pirates.’ ”

POET’S SONGWhen the interesting Poet’s not composing,Or rolling round her fine poetic eye,Oh, she loves to leave her tragic muse a-dozing,And spend her time in making cake and pie.But the other girls her aspirations smother,And will not let her have a bit of fun;Taking one consideration with another,The Poet’s life is not a happy one.Oh, she’d love to make a salad or a fritter,Or even polish up the parlor grate;Yet they must suppose she is a helpless critter,For they bind her to her melancholy fate.They make her pump out verses, when she’d rutherTurn out a pie, a pudding, or a bun;Taking one consideration with another,The Poet’s life is not a happy one.

POET’S SONG

When the interesting Poet’s not composing,Or rolling round her fine poetic eye,Oh, she loves to leave her tragic muse a-dozing,And spend her time in making cake and pie.

When the interesting Poet’s not composing,

Or rolling round her fine poetic eye,

Oh, she loves to leave her tragic muse a-dozing,

And spend her time in making cake and pie.

But the other girls her aspirations smother,And will not let her have a bit of fun;Taking one consideration with another,The Poet’s life is not a happy one.

But the other girls her aspirations smother,

And will not let her have a bit of fun;

Taking one consideration with another,

The Poet’s life is not a happy one.

Oh, she’d love to make a salad or a fritter,Or even polish up the parlor grate;Yet they must suppose she is a helpless critter,For they bind her to her melancholy fate.

Oh, she’d love to make a salad or a fritter,

Or even polish up the parlor grate;

Yet they must suppose she is a helpless critter,

For they bind her to her melancholy fate.

They make her pump out verses, when she’d rutherTurn out a pie, a pudding, or a bun;Taking one consideration with another,The Poet’s life is not a happy one.

They make her pump out verses, when she’d ruther

Turn out a pie, a pudding, or a bun;

Taking one consideration with another,

The Poet’s life is not a happy one.

“Well, turn about is fair play,” said Nan, with fun in her eyes. “I’ll write Hester’s solo. She’s a fine Stoker for our open fire, but she can’t do much with stoves. I’ve tried her.”

“We always have open fires in England,” said Hester, “and really, girls, you don’t know how much nicer they are than your old registers and radiators.”

“Very well, my loyal Briton,” said Nan; “you shall air those national views of yours to a small but highly appreciative audience. Do you know that old tune, ‘You should see me dance the polka?’ ”

“Yes,” said Hester, laughing. “I’ve known it all my life.”

“ ’Tis well,” said Nan; “your success as a songster is assured.”

Then, amid much laughter and advice from the merry crowd, Nan achieved this masterpiece:

STOKER’S SONGA fig for the air-tight furnace,A fig for the shut-up stove;They may suit the modern stoker,But I really can’t approve.A fig for the radiator,The steam-heat of to-day;Hot-air pipes, too, may do for you,But I don’t like that way.ChorusBut you should see me use the poker,You should see me shovel coal;I’m a rattling, raking Stoker,And that’s my only rôle.When the fire begins a-burningI’ll show what I can do,For the rattling rollicking StokerWill be poking fun at you.I cannot sing the praisesOf the gas-log with its flame—Although it burns like blazes,And it gets there just the same.But when I come in freezing,And with cold I shiver and shake,The Yule log bright, with its blazing light,Is the fire that takes the cake.Chorus.

STOKER’S SONG

A fig for the air-tight furnace,A fig for the shut-up stove;They may suit the modern stoker,But I really can’t approve.

A fig for the air-tight furnace,

A fig for the shut-up stove;

They may suit the modern stoker,

But I really can’t approve.

A fig for the radiator,The steam-heat of to-day;Hot-air pipes, too, may do for you,But I don’t like that way.

A fig for the radiator,

The steam-heat of to-day;

Hot-air pipes, too, may do for you,

But I don’t like that way.

Chorus

But you should see me use the poker,You should see me shovel coal;I’m a rattling, raking Stoker,And that’s my only rôle.When the fire begins a-burningI’ll show what I can do,For the rattling rollicking StokerWill be poking fun at you.

But you should see me use the poker,

You should see me shovel coal;

I’m a rattling, raking Stoker,

And that’s my only rôle.

When the fire begins a-burning

I’ll show what I can do,

For the rattling rollicking Stoker

Will be poking fun at you.

I cannot sing the praisesOf the gas-log with its flame—Although it burns like blazes,And it gets there just the same.But when I come in freezing,And with cold I shiver and shake,The Yule log bright, with its blazing light,Is the fire that takes the cake.

I cannot sing the praises

Of the gas-log with its flame—

Although it burns like blazes,

And it gets there just the same.

But when I come in freezing,

And with cold I shiver and shake,

The Yule log bright, with its blazing light,

Is the fire that takes the cake.

Chorus.

Hester’s well-known aversion to slang made this song a good joke, and it was fully appreciated, even by the victim herself.

“Now let’s have a big chorus, so we can all sing together,” said Helen.

“Yes,” said Nan, “with solos in it—a regular descriptive piece.”

“But I can’t sing,” said Millicent.

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Nan. “I’ll write your verse first. How would that tune from ‘Patience’ go? Don’t you know—about theje ne sais quoiyoung man. Let’s try it anyway.”

A Lamplighter trim you seeWhenever you look at me;You may sneer, you may flout,But you can’t put me out,For I am as bright as can be.ChorusThe Cooking Club girls are we,As happy as we can be,Whether walking or ridingOr skating or sliding,Or sitting at dinner or tea.

A Lamplighter trim you seeWhenever you look at me;You may sneer, you may flout,But you can’t put me out,For I am as bright as can be.

A Lamplighter trim you see

Whenever you look at me;

You may sneer, you may flout,

But you can’t put me out,

For I am as bright as can be.

Chorus

The Cooking Club girls are we,As happy as we can be,Whether walking or ridingOr skating or sliding,Or sitting at dinner or tea.

The Cooking Club girls are we,

As happy as we can be,

Whether walking or riding

Or skating or sliding,

Or sitting at dinner or tea.

“How absurd!” said Hester. “We can’t skate or slide in September.”

“That’s poetic license,” explained Nan, calmly, “but of course you’re too English to see the joke.”

“Well, it’s a good tune,” said Hester; “let’s write verses for the rest.”

Many heads make light work, and though some of the girls did more than others, all helped, and the result was this fine collection of stanzas:

Oh, I am the Peeler serene,Though never at peeling I’m seen.The girls say I’m lazy—I think they are crazy;There’s nothing about me that’s green.Chorus.A Camera Fiend you see;A sister to you I’ll be.We’re both of us makingA business of taking—I’ll take you, and you can take me.Chorus.Oh, I am the Chaperon gay;I sing and I whistle all day.And though I don’t shirkMy share of the work,I’d much rather run out and play.ChorusA Wandering Minstrel I—My voice ’way up in the sky;My banjo I’m picking,While others are kicking,Though I can’t imagine why.Chorus.Oh, I am the Scullery-maid;Of kitchen work I’m afraid;While I should be scrubbing,My wits I am rubbing,To shine in the Poet’s trade.Chorus.It seems to be my fateTo be Poet Laureate;Though I always am shrinkingFrom doing much thinking,I’d far rather polish the grate.Chorus.I’m a Cook of undoubted skill;The girls praise my dishes, but still—I cannot tell why—After eating my pieThey always are awfully ill.Chorus.

Oh, I am the Peeler serene,Though never at peeling I’m seen.The girls say I’m lazy—I think they are crazy;There’s nothing about me that’s green.

Oh, I am the Peeler serene,

Though never at peeling I’m seen.

The girls say I’m lazy—

I think they are crazy;

There’s nothing about me that’s green.

Chorus.

A Camera Fiend you see;A sister to you I’ll be.We’re both of us makingA business of taking—I’ll take you, and you can take me.

A Camera Fiend you see;

A sister to you I’ll be.

We’re both of us making

A business of taking—

I’ll take you, and you can take me.

Chorus.

Oh, I am the Chaperon gay;I sing and I whistle all day.And though I don’t shirkMy share of the work,I’d much rather run out and play.

Oh, I am the Chaperon gay;

I sing and I whistle all day.

And though I don’t shirk

My share of the work,

I’d much rather run out and play.

Chorus

A Wandering Minstrel I—My voice ’way up in the sky;My banjo I’m picking,While others are kicking,Though I can’t imagine why.

A Wandering Minstrel I—

My voice ’way up in the sky;

My banjo I’m picking,

While others are kicking,

Though I can’t imagine why.

Chorus.

Oh, I am the Scullery-maid;Of kitchen work I’m afraid;While I should be scrubbing,My wits I am rubbing,To shine in the Poet’s trade.

Oh, I am the Scullery-maid;

Of kitchen work I’m afraid;

While I should be scrubbing,

My wits I am rubbing,

To shine in the Poet’s trade.

Chorus.

It seems to be my fateTo be Poet Laureate;Though I always am shrinkingFrom doing much thinking,I’d far rather polish the grate.

It seems to be my fate

To be Poet Laureate;

Though I always am shrinking

From doing much thinking,

I’d far rather polish the grate.

Chorus.

I’m a Cook of undoubted skill;The girls praise my dishes, but still—I cannot tell why—After eating my pieThey always are awfully ill.

I’m a Cook of undoubted skill;

The girls praise my dishes, but still—

I cannot tell why—

After eating my pie

They always are awfully ill.

Chorus.

“That’s a fine chorus; let’s practise it now,” said Marjorie. So Helen played her banjo, and the girls all sang until, to their great surprise, they found it was dinner-time.

CHAPTER X

THE PLAY’S THE THING

ONCE started, the play monopolized all the interest and attention of the club.

Aunt Molly was called over and the great project was laid before her.

“Why, it will be lovely, girlies,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

“We need sympathy and advice,” said Marjorie, with the judicial air that marked the Duchess’s serious moments.

“Oh, I’ll give you those,” said Aunt Molly, “but I want to be of more material help. Suppose I provide you with an audience.”

“Yes, do,” cried Betty. “Ask the Marlowes and the Hillises, and those nice people who live the other side of your house—I forget their name.”

“But we can’t sing this foolishness we’ve written to a lot of strangers,” said Nan.

“Indeed we can,” responded Marguerite. “The Blue Ribbon Club can do anything, if it makes up its mind to.”

“The music would be prettier if we had some men’s voices in it,” said Nan, who was looking over the written sheets. “It’s all so high and light.”

“Uncle Ned sings a fine barytone,” said Marjorie. “Do you suppose he’d help us out, aunty?”

“Of course he would,” answered Aunt Molly, heartily; “he’d do anything in his power for the ‘lambs,’ as he always calls you girls.”

“Let’s write a part for him, then,” said Hester. “What could he be?”

“What is the plot of your play?” asked Aunt Molly.

The girls looked at each other blankly.

“Why, it hasn’t any plot,” said Nan. “Do plays always have to have plots? You see, we’ve just written songs for each of us in the characters we’ve assumed down here.”

“Then I don’t exactly see how Uncle Ned could be brought in,” said Aunt Molly, smiling.

“He can’t bebroughtin; he’ll just have tocomein,” said Betty.

“Like a burglar,” said Nan; “we’ve expected one ever since we’ve been here, and we may as well have our expectations realized.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Hester. “The play, of course, will represent all us girls here in this cottage; and Uncle Ned might appear as a burglar—a nice, kind one, you know, like ‘Editha’s Burglar.’ ”

“Yes, and he can be real affable and social, and sing solos as he prowls about for his plunder.”

“That seems more like a plot. Let’s do it,” said Nan.

Out came the paper-pad and pencils, and genius was set to burning, all of which resulted in several songs for Uncle Ned, whose consent to the plan was fully guaranteed by Aunt Molly.

The Amiable Burglar was destined to enter through a window while singing this solo to the tune of “Robin Adair”:

Back to Index Next