A CHAUTAUQUA SUNDAY
ON the last Sunday in July the sun rose on a Chautauqua made serious by the portentous event of war actually declared in Europe. The Mortons felt a vital interest in it. With their father and uncle in the Navy and Army war in theory was a thing not new to them. Both Lieutenant and Captain Morton had served in the Spanish-American War, but Roger was a baby at the time and the other children had been born later. The nearest approach to active service that the children had actually known about was the present situation in Vera Cruz. They had been thrilled when Lieutenant Morton had been ordered there in the spring and Captain Morton had followed later with General Funston's army of occupation.
But the United States troops were not in Mexico to make war but to prevent it, while the impending trouble in Europe was so filled with possibilities that it promised already to be the greatest struggle that the world ever had known.
The horror of it was increased by the fact that for a week all Chautauqua had been giving itself over to the peaceful joys of music. For six days Victor Herbert's Orchestra had provided a feast of melody and harmony and rhythm and everybody on the grounds had participated, either as auditor or as performer,in some of the vocal numbers. Mrs. Morton and Mr. Emerson and Roger had sung in the choir and Dorothy had raised her sweet pipe in the Children's Choir. And at the end of the week had come this crashing discord of war.
Yet the routine of a Chautauqua Sunday went on unbroken. The elders went at nine o'clock to the Bible Study class in the Amphitheatre, and at half past nine the younger members of the family dispersed to the various places where the divisions of the graded Sunday School met. Roger and Helen found the high school boys and girls in the Hall of Christ; the Ethels met the children of the seventh grade at the model of Palestine by the lakeside, and Dicky went to the kindergarten just as he had done on weekday mornings, though what he did after he entered the building was far different.
At ten o'clock Sunday School was over and the older children and the grown-ups scattered to the devotional services at the various denominational houses which Helen and the Ethels had noticed on their first day's walk. At eleven all Chautauqua gathered in the Amphitheatre in a union service that recognized no one creed but laid stress on the beauty and harmony common to all beliefs.
The coming week was that of the special celebration of the founding of Chautauqua Institution forty years before, so it was fitting that Bishop Vincent should preach from the platform which owed its existence to the God-given idea of service which he had brought into being. The ideal church and the ideal Christian were his themes.
"Personality is always enlarged and ennobled by having to do with and becoming responsible for some great institution," he said and even the children understood that the Church suggests a pattern for good thoughts and for service to others which uplifts the people who try to shape their own lives by it.
"Isn't he a beautiful old man," whispered Ethel Blue to Ethel Brown. "Do you suppose we'll ever have a chance to speak to him?"
It seemed to Ethel Brown almost an impossibility; yet it happened that very afternoon.
At three o'clock the Junior Congregation met in the Amphitheatre and the Ethels went, although they had sat through the morning service. It was a glad sight—several hundred girls and boys smiling happily and singing joyously and often grown people sat in the upper seats of the auditorium where they would not intrude upon the gathering below but would be able to see and hear the fresh young faces and voices.
It happened that Bishop Vincent, passing by with Miss Kimball, stopped for a few minutes at the head of one of the aisles to listen to the last hymn, and he was still there when the young people poured out upon the upper walk. Miss Kimball recognized the Ethels and called them to her.
"Here are two little acquaintances of mine, Bishop," she said; "I know they want to speak to you and shake hands with you."
Ethel Brown looked frankly into the benign face above her and made a prompt answer to the question, "Is this your first summer at Chautauqua?"But Ethel Blue was overcome with the embarrassment that seemed to be growing upon her lately, and hardly raised her eyes. Yet as Miss Kimball turned to go on and Ethel Brown walked away beside her Ethel Blue found herself saying desperately in a small voice,
"Bishop, would you tell me something? I must—I want to know something."
"Come and sit down here and tell me what it is," answered the kind and genial tones that could make the huge Amphitheatre ring or could comfort a child with equal effect.
Drawing her to a seat a little way down the sloping aisle the Bishop and the young girl sat down.
"Now what is it?" he asked softly.
Again shyness seized Ethel and made her speechless. She looked desperately after Ethel Brown, unconscious that the others were not following. Ethel Blue turned cold at her own audacity; but she had delayed the Bishop in his afternoon walk and she must tell him what was on her mind.
"Do you think," she stammered, "do you think that a coward can ever become brave?"
"I do," answered the Bishop promptly and simply. "A coward is afraid for two reasons; first, he doesn't control his imagination, and his imagination plays him tricks and makes him think that if such or such a thing happens to him he will suffer terribly; and secondly, he doesn't control his will. His will ought to stand up to his imagination and say, 'You may be right and you may be wrong, but even if you're right I can bear whatever comes. Pain may come, but Ican bear it. Trouble may come, but I can bear it.' Do you understand?"
Ethel's face was beginning to light up.
"You see," the Bishop went on, "God has given everybody the power to bear suffering and trouble. You may be perfectly sure that if suffering and trouble come to you you will be given strength to meet them. And God has given us something else; He has given us the power to avoid much pain and suffering."
"Oh, how?"
"One way is always to expect joy instead of pain. When you are looking for joy you find joy and when you are looking for pain you find pain. I rather think that you have been looking for pain recently."
Ethel hung her head.
"I was a coward at the fire at our house, and I'm so ashamed it doesn't seem to me I can ever see my father again. He's a soldier and I know he'd be mortified to death."
"He might be sorry; I don't believe he'd be mortified," said the Bishop, and somehow the half-agreement soothed Ethel. "They say that when soldiers go into battle for the first time they often are so frightened that they are nauseated. I dare say your father has seen cases like that among his own men, so he would understand that a sudden shock or surprise may bring about behavior that comes from nervousness and not from real fear. I rather think that that was what was the matter in your case."
Ethel drew a sigh of exquisite relief.
"Do you remember my two reasons for cowardice?I should think it was quite possible that in the sudden excitement of the fire your imagination worked too hard. You saw yourself smothered by the smoke or roasted in the flames. Didn't you?"
"I didn't really think it; I felt it," Ethel nodded.
"And you didn't stop to say to yourself: 'I'm going to do all I can to help and I'm going to be careful, but if anything does happen to me I'll be able to bear it.'"
"No, I didn't think that; I just thought how it would hurt. And Ethel Brown saved Dicky and wasn't afraid at all."
"She didn't let her imagination run away with her."
"I was so ashamed when she was doing splendid things and I couldn't move."
"It was too bad, but you'll have another chance, I've no doubt. You know the same Opportunity never comes twice but another one takes its place."
"I can't face Father unless it does."
"One thing you mustn't do," declared the Bishop firmly; "you mustn't think about this all the time. That isn't making your will control your imagination; it's doing just the opposite; it's letting your imagination run away with you."
Ethel looked rebuked.
"Now I want to tell you one more thing. I told you one way to avoid pain and suffering—by not expecting it. The best way of all is to do everything that comes into your life just as you think God would like to have you do it. If you work with God in that way God's peace comes to you. Have Ipreached too hard a sermon?" he asked as they rose to go. "You think about it and come and ask me anything else you want to. Will you?"
Ethel Blue nodded. She did not seem to have voice enough to trust herself to speak. Then she thrust her hand suddenly into the strong, gentle hand of the good man who had talked to her so kindly, gave it a big squeeze and ran away.
The Bishop looked after her.
"It was too hard a test for a nervous child; but she'll have her chance—bless her," and then he slowly walked around the edge of the Amphitheatre and rejoined his companion on the other side. Ethel Brown had just taken leave of her and was running after Ethel Blue as she dashed down the hill.
"I hope she won't catch my little friend," observed the Bishop. "She needs to sit and look at the lake for half an hour."
The address on the Holy Land given in Palestine Park in the afternoon was one of the most interesting things that Chautauqua had offered to them, Helen and Roger thought. Palestine Park, they had discovered early in their stay, was a model of Palestine on a scale of one and three-quarters feet to the mile. It lay along the shore of the lake, which played the part of the Mediterranean. Hills and valleys, mountains and streams, were correctly placed and little concrete cities dotted about in the grass brought Bible names into relation to each other in a way not possible on the ordinary map of the school geography.
"I'd like to study my Sunday School lesson righthere on the spot," Helen had said when she first went over the ground and traced the Jordan from its rise through the Sea of Galilee into the Dead Sea, where, on week days, children sailed their boats and fished with pins for non-existent whales.
Now Helen and Roger stood with the throng that gathered and understood as they never had before the location of tribes and the movements of armies. Most living to them seemed the recital of the life of Christ as the speaker traced His movements from the "little town of Bethlehem" to Calvary.
The later activities of this Sunday again divided the Morton family. Mrs. Morton and Roger nodded to Dorothy at the Organ Interlude at four o'clock. Grandfather and Grandmother sat through the C.L.S.C. Vesper Service at five in the Hall of Philosophy, the westering sun gleaming softly through the branches of the oaks in St. Paul's Grove in which the temple stood. After supper came the Lakeside Service and Helen and Roger stood together in the open and sang heartily from the same book and as they gazed out over the water were thankful that their father was safe in his vessel even though he was far from them and on waters where the sun set more glowingly. Mrs. Morton stayed at home in the evening to keep watch over Dicky but all the rest went to the Song Service, joining in the soft hymn that rose in the darkness before the lights were turned on, and listening with delight to the music of the soloists and the choir.
It was after they were all gathered again at the cottage that there came one of those talks that bindfamilies together. It was quiet Ethel Blue who began it.
"Bishop Vincent told me to-day that if you didn't think that things—bad things—were going to happen to you they were less likely to come," she said.
"Bishop Vincent told you!" exclaimed Roger. "What do you mean?"
"She had a long talk with him after the Junior Service," explained Ethel Brown. "I walked on with Miss Kimball."
"What I want to say is this," continued Ethel Blue patiently after Roger's curiosity had been satisfied; "it seems to me that you're less likely to be afraid that bad things are going to happen to you if you keep doing things for other people all the time."
"It's never wise to think about yourself all the time," agreed Mrs. Morton.
"The Bishop said that if you let your imagination run loose it might give you uncomfortable thoughts and make you afraid. If you're working for other people and inventing pleasant things to do to make them happy your imagination won't be hurting yourself."
"Our little Ethel Blue is becoming quite a chatterbox," commented Roger, giving her hair a tweak as she sat on the steps beside him.
"Hush, Roger. I wish you had half as much sense," said Helen smartly. "Anything more, Ethel?"
"Yes. I wish we had a club, just us youngsters, a club that would keep us doing things for other people all the time. Don't you think it would be fun?"
"H'm, h'm," began Roger, but a gentle nudge from Helen stopped him.
"I think it would be splendid, Ethel Blue," she said; "I know Mother thinks it's just what I need for my complaint. Mother, dear, I'm not selfish; I'm justself-respecting, and self-respecting people want to co-operate just as much as other people. I'd love to have this club to try to prove to you that I'm not a 'greedy Jo.'"
"I'm far from-thinking you a 'greedy Jo,' Helen. You're getting morbid about it, I'm afraid, and I believe this club idea of Ethel Blue's will be an excellent thing for you; and for Roger, too," she went on.
"What's the matter with me?" inquired Roger a trifle gruffly.
"You're a very dear boy," said his mother, running her fingers through his hair in a way that he was just beginning to like after years of considering it an almost unendurable habit, "but sometimes I think you've forgotten your Scout law, 'Do a kindness to some one every day.' It's not that you mean to be unkind; you're just careless."
"H'm," grunted Roger. "There seems to be a good reason for every one of us joining this club. What's the matter with Ethel Brown?"
"I know," answered Ethel Brown before her mother had time to reply; "Mother's going to tell you that I like to do things for people not to give them pleasure, but because it gives me pleasure and so I don't do things the way they like them but theway I like them. And that's really selfish and not unselfish."
"Upon my word," exclaimed Grandfather Emerson, "these children seem to be able to analyze themselves mighty closely! They agree on one thing, though—this club of Ethel Blue's is the cure that they all need for their different ailments."
"Let's have it," cried Roger. "Ethel Blue shall be president and we'll let Dicky be an honorary member and the grown-ups shall be the Advisory Board."
"Oh, I couldn't be president," said Ethel Blue shrinkingly.
"It's your idea. You ought to be," insisted Helen.
"No, you be president. And let's ask Margaret Hancock to belong, and James. You know we'll probably see a good deal of them next winter now that we know them. They're only forty minutes on the trolley from us."
"I wish we'd always known them; they're certainly great kids," pronounced Roger.
"If we have a club it will be an inducement to them to come over often."
"What'll we call the club?" Ethel Brown always liked to have details attended to promptly.
"Do for Others"; "A Thing a Day"; "Every Little Helps," were titles suggested by one voice and another.
"Why not 'The United Servers' if you are going to make it a club of service," asked Mrs. Emerson.
"Why not 'The United Service'?" demandedRoger. "With Father in the Navy and Ethel Blue's father in the Army we have the two arms of the Service united in the family, and if we call it 'The United Service Club' it will be a nice little pun for ourselves and express the idea of the club all right for outsiders."
Everybody seemed to like the suggestion.
"Now, then," declared Roger, standing below the steps and facing the family above him; "it has been moved that Helen be president. Do I hear a second?"
"You do," cried Ethel Blue.
"All right. Everybody in favor—"
"Aye."
"Contrary minded—"
Silence.
"It is a vote, and Miss Helen Morton is unanimously elected president of the United Service Club. What's the next thing to do?"
"Make Dicky an honorary member," suggested Ethel Blue.
"Go to bed," over-ruled Mrs. Morton. "There are the chimes."
So the president and members and Advisory Board of the United Service Club disappeared into the house and Dicky was not informed until the next day of the honor that had befallen him.
THE UNITED SERVICE CLUB IS ORGANIZED
THE Hancocks were notified on Monday morning of their election to membership in the new club. They were delighted to join, especially as it would mean after they got home a regular meeting with the pleasant friends they had had to come many miles from home to know.
"What are we going to do first?" they asked Roger who took the invitation to them.
"Helen has called a meeting for this afternoon at five o'clock. We'll decide on something then."
"Where's it going to be?"
"Up in the ravine just before you get to Higgins Hall. Dorothy's going to make some sandwiches."
"Oh, Dorothy's going to belong."
"Sure thing. Our household can't do without her since Grandfather was sick. I asked Mother if Mary couldn't make us some sandwiches, but she said Mary was awfully busy to-day, and Dorothy said if the club was to help people she'd help Mary by making the sandwiches."
"Good old Dorothy! She's begun to be a United Server before the club has really got to working."
"I don't see why I can't come in on the sandwich business," said James. "I'm a dandy ham slicer."
"Come over, then. Dorothy's making them now on the back porch."
So it happened that there was almost a meeting of the club before the time actually set for it, but after all there was not a quorum, according to James, while at five o'clock every active member was present, though the members of the Advisory Board were detained by other engagements.
The ravine extended back from the lake toward the fence. Through it ran a brook which the dry weather had made almost non-existent, but its course was marked by an abundant growth of wild flowers, including the delicate blue of the forget-me-not.
"Let's have the forget-me-not for our flower," suggested Margaret as soon as they were settled on the bank under the tall trees. "We mustn't pick any of these, of course, but they won't be hard to find at home, and they'll be easy to embroider if we ever need to make badges or anything of that sort."
"Perhaps in the course of a few years we'll be advanced enough to have pins," said Helen, "and forget-me-not pins will be lovely. Even the boys can wear them for scarf pins—little ones with just one flower."
Roger and James approved this suggestion and so the matter of an emblem was decided not only without trouble but before the meeting had been called to order.
"We certainly are a harmonious lot," observed James when some one mentioned this fact.
"What I want to do," said Ethel Brown, "is to give a vote of thanks to Dorothy and James and Ethel Blue for making the sandwiches."
"Good idea; they're bully," commended Roger."I move, Helen, that the people just mentioned be elected official sandwich makers to the club."
"Don't call the president by her name," objected James. "Don't you have parliamentary law in your school?"
"No; plenty without it."
"We do. We have an assembly every morning—current events and things like that and sometimes a speaker from New York—and one of the scholars presides and we have to do the thing up brown. You wouldn't call Helen 'Helen' there, I can tell you."
"What ought I to say?"
"'Miss President,' or 'Madam President.'"
This was greeted by a howl of joy from Roger.
"'Madam' is good!" he howled, wriggling with delight. "I do know how to put a motion, though. I'll leave it to Ethel Blue if I didn't set her idea on its legs last night by putting through a unanimous vote for Helen for president."
"You did, but you don't seem to be giving the president a chance to call the meeting to order now."
"I apologize, Madam President," and again Roger rolled over in excessive mirth.
"The meeting will come to order, then," began Helen. "Is that right, James?"
"O.K. Go ahead."
"Madam President," said Margaret promptly, "do you think it's necessary for us to be so particular and follow parliamentary law? I think it will be dreadfully stiff and fussy."
"Oh, let's do it, Margaret. I want to learn and you and James know how, so that's a service you can do for me. And Helen ought to know if she's going to be president," Roger urged.
"Here's where you're wrong at the jump-off, old man. You ought not to speak directly to Margaret. You ought to address the chair—that is, Helen."
"What are you doing yourself, then, talking straight to me?"
"Bull's-eye. Margaret was all right, though, Madam President. She addressed the chair. What does the chair think about Margaret's question?"
"I think—the chair thinks—" began Helen, warned by James's amused glance, "that Margaret is right. It won't do us any harm to obey a few parliamentary rules, but if we are too particular it'll be horrid."
"It's a mighty good chance to learn," growled Roger. "I want to make old James useful."
"If you talk that queer way I'll never open my mouth," declared Ethel Blue in a tone of lament.
"Then I move you, Madam President, that we don't do it," said James, "because this club is Ethel Blue's idea and it would be a shame if she couldn't have a say-so in her own club."
"I'm willing to compromise, Helen—Madam President," went on Ethel Blue, giggling; "I say let Roger be parliamentary if he wants to, and the rest of us will be parliamentary or unparliamentary just as we feel like it."
Applause greeted this suggestion, largely fromDicky, who was glad of the opportunity to make some noise.
"There's a motion before the house, Madam President," reminded James.
"Dear me, so there is. What do I do now?"
"Say, 'Is it seconded?'" whispered James.
"Is it seconded?"
"I second it," came from Margaret.
"It is moved and seconded by the Hancocks that we do not follow parliamentary rules in the United Service Club."
Helen had felt herself getting on swimmingly but at this point she seemed to have come to a wall.
"Are you ready for the question?" prompted James in an undertone.
"Are you ready for the question?" repeated Helen aloud.
"Let her rip," advised Roger.
"All in favor say 'Aye.'"
Margaret and James said "Aye."
"Contrary minded——"
"No," roared Roger.
"No," followed Ethel Blue meekly.
"No," came Ethel Brown in uncertain negative.
Helen didn't know just how to handle this situation.
"Three to two," she counted. "They don't agree," and she turned helplessly toward James.
"Right you are," he acknowledged. "Why don't you ask for Ethel Blue's motion?"
"But I didn't make a motion," screamed Ethel Blue, deeply agitated.
"Same thing; you said you were willing to compromise and let Roger be parliamentary if he wanted to and the rest of us do as we liked."
"I think that's a good way."
"Do you make that motion?" asked Helen, prompted by James.
"Yes, I make that motion," repeated Ethel Blue.
"Hurrah for the lady who said she'd never talk 'that queer way,'" cheered Roger.
"It isn't so bad when you know how," admitted Ethel Blue.
"Is that motion seconded?" Helen had not forgotten her first lesson.
"I second it." It was Roger who spoke.
"Question," called Margaret.
"It is moved and seconded that we all do as we like except Roger and that he talk parliamentary fashion all the time."
Thus the president stated the motion.
"Oh, say," objected Roger. "I call that unfair discrimination."
"Not at all," retorted the president. "You were the one who wanted to learn so it's only fair that you should have the chance."
"I can't do it alone."
"Perhaps some of us will be moved to do it, too, once in a while. You see the president ought to know how. These Hancock experts here said so."
"You haven't asked for the 'Ayes' and 'Nos' yet," reminded Margaret, and this time Helen sent it through without a hesitation.
"The next thing for us to decide," continued thepresident when Ethel Blue's motion had passed without a dissenting voice, "is what we are going to do. Of course we can't undertake any really big things here at Chautauqua where we have all our time pretty well filled and where we are studying things that we ought not to slight because they may help us out later in our plans for service. So I think what we must look out for is little things that we can do to be helpful. Does anybody know of any?"
"I know of one," offered James promptly. "Tomorrow is Old First Night. That's the only time in all the summer when there is a collection taken on the grounds. All the money they get on Old First Night is used for the benefit of the general public. The Miller Tower, for instance, was an Old First Night Gift, and part of the Arts and Crafts Studios was paid for by another one, and the Sherwood Music Studio."
"Great scheme," remarked Roger. "You take your contribution out of one pocket and put it into the other, so to speak. Where do we come in?"
"They want boys to collect the money from the people in the Amphitheatre. That's something you and I can do."
"Is there anything that girls do on Old First Night?"
Ethel Brown turned to Margaret as authority because the Hancocks had been at Chautauqua many summers.
"There never has been anything particular for them to do but I don't know why we couldn't offer to trim the stage. I believe they'd like to have us."
"How shall we find out?"
"I'll telephone to the Director to-night, and if he says 'Yes,' then we can go outside the gate to-morrow afternoon and pick wild flowers and trim the stage just before supper."
"You boys will have to go too," said Helen; "we'll need you to bring back the flowers."
"Right-o," agreed James. "Anybody any more ideas?"
"We'll have to keep our eyes open as things come along," said Ethel Blue. "There ought to be something every day. There's Recognition Day, any way."
"We're all too big for Flower Girls; they have to be not over ten; but Mother went to the 1914 Class meeting this afternoon and one of the members of the class proposed that they should have boys as well as girls—a boys' guard of honor—so there's a job for our honorary member, Mr. Richard Morton."
"If they have a lot of kids they'll want some big fellows to keep them straight and make them march right," guessed James; "that's where you and I come in, Roger, thanks to your mother and grandfather and my father being in the class."
"How about us girls?"
"The graduating class can use all the flowers they can lay their hands on, so we can bring them all we can carry and I know they'll be glad to have them," said Margaret.
"Can't we help them decorate?"
"They always do all the decorating themselves,but the evening before Recognition Day there's going to be a sale of ice cream for the benefit of the fund the C.L.S.C. people are raising to build a veranda on Alumni Hall and we can help a lot there."
"Where's that going to be?"
"There'll be hundreds of lanterns strung between the two halls, the band will play, and they'll have tables in the Hall of Philosophy."
"And we'll wait on the tables."
"We'll carry ice cream and sell cake and tell people how awfully good a chocolate cake that hasn't been cut yet looks so they'll want a piece of that to take home to one of the children who couldn't come."
"Foxy Margaret!"
"It'll be true."
"I suspect it will. My mouth waters now."
"You'll excuse my turning the subject, Madam President," said James excitedly, "but there are some of the jolliest little squirrels up over our heads. I've been watching them ever since we came and I believe I've learned a thing or two about them."
"What!"
They all threw themselves on their backs and stared up into the trees.
"They have regular paths that they follow in going from tree to tree. Did you see that fellow jump? He went out on the tip of that long twig and leaped from there. He just could grab the branch that sticks out from that oak. I believe that must be the only place where it is near enough for them to make the leap, for I've seen at least twenty jump from that same twig since I noticed them first."
"Twenty! How do you know it wasn't one leaping twenty times to show off to us?"
"It was more than one, anyway, for there was a chap with a grand, bushy tail and another one with hardly any tail at all."
"Cats," hissed Ethel Brown tragically.
"Very likely, since shooting isn't allowed here. Last summer I saw a cat catch a chipmunk right over there by that red cottage."
"Did she kill him?"
"Not much! Mr. Chip gave himself a twist and scampered back into his hole in the bank. I tell you the stripes on his back looked like one continuous strip of ribbon he went so fast!"
"Poor little fellow. Any more sandwiches left?" queried Roger. "No? Too bad. Let's adjourn, then. Madam President, I move we adjourn."
"To meet when?"
"When the president calls us," said Ethel Blue.
"And we'll all have our eyes and ears open so as to give her information so she'll have something to call us for."
Picking up the honorary member and setting him on his shoulder Roger led the procession back to the lake front, and so ended the first meeting of the United Service Club which was to fill so large a part in the lives of all its members for several years to come.
OLD FIRST NIGHT
FOR several days after the fire Dicky had been far from well and Mrs. Morton had taken him out of the kindergarten. As he recovered his balance, however, it became evident that he would be very lonely in the mornings when all the rest of the family were away at their different occupations if he, too, did not have some regular task. He was so much stronger and taller than the other children at the kindergarten that Roger, who was proud of his manliness, urged his mother to let him join the Boys' Club.
"Will they take boys as young as he is?"
"It depends entirely on how young they behave, and Dicky's no baby."
"Then if you think they'll accept him suppose you take him to the Club and enroll him."
So Dicky marched bravely in among the hundreds of boys who help to make lively the southern part of the Assembly Grounds, and was duly registered as a member of the Boys' Club. If his rompers seemed to give him a too youthful air at one end the blue sweater adorned with the Boys' Club monogram which he insisted on donning at once, evened up his status. For a day or two Roger had happened in at the Club to see whether the little chap was holdinghis own and he had been so satisfied with what he saw that he no longer felt it necessary to exercise a daily watchfulness. Dicky came and went all over the grounds now, and often enlightened his elders about some locality of which they were not certain.
When the sun rises on the day that is to end with the Old First Night celebration there is always a suppressed excitement in Chautauqua. The young men of theDailyare listening to the Managing Editor's assignment of their extra duties in reporting the evening festivities; the boys who are to collect the money from the audience in the Amphitheatre and the men to whom they are to deliver it are receiving from the Usher-in-Chief their instructions as to their respective positions and duties; messengers rush their bicycles over the ground delivering notes of invitation to the people who are to sit on the platform.
In the homes the heads of the families are deciding how much they can afford to give to the Old First Night Fund and the other members down to the small children are examining their pocket books and shaking the pennies out of their banks so that every one may have a share, no matter how small, in the gift of Chautauquans to Chautauqua.
The Morton-Emerson household had had its share of the morning excitement and Mrs. Morton and her father were climbing up the hill, she to go to the Women's Club and he to occupy his usual stool at the Arts and Crafts Studios. At almost every step they nodded pleasantly to acquaintances, for they had many friends, some made before the fire, andothers drawn to them by the spirit of helpfulness that makes Chautauquans run to the rescue of distress wherever they find it.
As they reached the hilltop and crossed the street to enter the Post Office for the morning mail their ears were saluted by the customary morning sounds. The ice cream booth and the bakery in the pergola were being replenished from heavy kegs and boxes which were in process of being unloaded from carts on to the ground before their destinations. Crowds of people on their way to classes and clubs were opening letters and calling out home news to other members of their families or slitting the wrappers from newspapers and shaking out the front page to come at the war news quickly.
Shrill cries of "Chautauquan Daily" rose on every side as boy venders of the local paper pressed among the people, for they did their best business in the early hours. People who would not take the time to stop and examine the program for the day posted in the tree boxes would read it in the paper as they hurried on to ensure punctuality at their classrooms.
"It really seems as if there was an extra hum in the air," laughed Mrs. Morton.
"I think there is," returned her father drily. His eyes were fastened on a figure approaching them.
"Chautauquan Daily" came from a small but earnest throat. "Chautauquan Daily; program for to-day and to-morrow."
"Upon my word!" ejaculated Mrs. Morton.
"Lecture by Mithter Griggth; addreth by Doctor Hurlbut," piped the piercing voice.
"Upon my word," gasped Mrs. Morton once more; "it's Dicky!"
It was. It was a radiant Dicky. His romper trousers were spread wide on each side and he strutted consumedly. His breast heaved proudly beneath the Boys' Club monogram on his sweater. The elastic under his chin did not hold his hat straight upon his bobbed hair and the brim was canted over one ear and gave him a rakish expression. He was the picture of a perfectly happy boy and he was doing a bigger business than any other newsboy in front of the Post Office. People crowded around him and every time he shouted "Lecture by Mithter Griggth; addreth by Doctor Hurlbut," they went into peals of laughter.
"What shall I do, Father?" asked Mrs. Morton breathlessly.
"You wouldn't have the heart to stop him, would you?" Mr. Emerson asked in return.
Dicky's mother gazed raptly at him for a whole minute.
"No," she said at last, "I haven't the heart to stop him."
"It's in the air, as I said the other evening when Helen was making her plea," said Mr. Emerson.
"Do you suppose it's money Dicky wants?"
"Money and excitement. Dicky will do a kindness to a friend and expect no pay for it just as you did when you were young, but I've no doubt that Dicky also likes the feeling of some extra coppers in his pockets. I suppose there are pockets in those extraordinary garments he wears?"
"Yes," returned Mrs. Morton mechanically. "What is behind it all?" she asked again; "are we Americans getting so thoroughly commercialized that even the babies want to go out in the street and earn money?"
"I believe it's a love of adventure as much as a love of money. At any rate we've seen it developed in three members of your own family and surely our family traditions and the traditions of the Army and Navy are all against commercialism. I believe it is one of the modern phenomena that we must bow before. Opposing it will bring unhappiness and trouble. The thing to do is to encourage such a spirit as your children are showing in this new club of theirs. Let them be commercial if they will but make them understand that their business interests must not make them less human, less friendly, less willing to serve any one who needs their service."
"It is very perplexing," sighed Mrs. Morton, but she walked away without speaking to Dicky, leaving him the centre of a throng lost in admiration of his cry, "Lecture by Mithter Griggth; addreth by Doctor Hurlbut."
Dicky's escapade was not the only one entered into by the Mortons on this memorable day. Right after dinner the whole club except Dicky who, it was decided, was not up to the long walk, went outside the grounds to pick wild flowers for the decoration of the platform of the Amphitheatre. The Director had given his consent and had expressed his pleasure, so the Hancocks and the Mortons and Dorothy set out in high spirits.
It was late in the afternoon when they returned laden with their spoils. Early goldenrod and asters filled their arms, feathery green boughs waved over their heads, and long vines of clematis trailed behind them.
The Ethels were not such good walkers as the others. Even Dorothy kept up with the big boys better than the two younger Mortons, so they found themselves quite alone some distance before they reached the trolley gate.
"Um," sighed Ethel Brown; "I'm tired. I'd like to stop right here."
"Peg along," urged Ethel Blue.
"If only it wasn't against the rule we might crawl under the fence just ahead there where the hole is."
Ethel Blue looked at the place with longing eyes. Dogs had burrowed their way under the pickets and had worn, out a hole that seemed big enough for thin people to get through. She turned to Ethel Brown.
"It would be wrong to do it," she said, "but it would save us a long distance, because there's a short cut right to the Amphitheatre just over there inside."
Ethel Blue was open to temptation to do anything that required daring, for she was trying hard to gain courage by following the Bishop's advice and by attempting little adventures about which she felt timid.
"I'm almost dead," groaned Ethel Brown plaintively. "Do you think they could possibly catch us? You know they tell a story of a fat woman who found a place like this and squeezed her way in andwhen she was all in a fence guard appeared and made her squeeze herself out again."
"She was trying to cheat the Institution out of her entrance money. We aren't doing that; we've got our gate tickets."
Somehow that made the matter seem better, though in their inmost hearts the girls knew that they were not doing what was right. Yet with a look around and a gasp of excitement they pushed their flowers through ahead of them and then struggled through themselves.
"There isn't anybody in sight," exclaimed Ethel Brown in the low voice of guilt, scanning the grounds as she helped Ethel Blue get on her feet.
"We've done it, anyway," answered Ethel Blue, and she even felt a touch of pride, in the adventure, for at least she had not been frightened.
They took their contribution to the Amphitheatre and helped the others, who had been at work for some time, to arrange the flowers around the edge of the platform. The result was beautiful and the group was delighted when a hearty voice said suddenly, "Is this the United Service Club? I want to thank you for doing this for us. We've never looked so fine as this before on Old First Night."
"Thank you, thank you," they chorused in return as the Director left them.
It was a happy though weary group that chattered its way along the lake front and across Miller Park. No sooner had they reached the cottage than the Ethels told their story to Mrs. Morton withmuch laughter. For some reason she did not take the joke just as they would have liked to have her.
"You know it is against the rule? Everybody is expected to go out and enter through the gates."
"Oh, we know that. But what harm did it do? We weren't cheating the Institution; we had our tickets."
"Suppose everybody did what you did. Can you see any objection?"
"It would look mighty funny," giggled Ethel Blue.
"It would be rather confusing, I suppose," admitted Ethel Brown; "they wouldn't be able to tell who had tickets and who hadn't."
"You don't really mind, do you, Aunt Marion?"
"I confess I shall have to make up a new opinion about my honest little girls," she replied slowly. "Have you thought what you are going to do about the punch on your tickets?"
This hint was alarming.
"What about the punch?"
"Everybody's ticket is punched on an odd number when you come in and on an even one when you go out. Your last punch was on an even number, when you went out this afternoon. What are you going to do when you want to go out again?"
Ethel Brown stared at Ethel Blue in dismay, and Ethel Blue's eyes began to fill with tears.
"It will be perfectly clear to the gateman that you came in in some improper way."
Mrs. Morton went into the dining-room to takea last look at the table and the Ethels went upstairs to dress. Somehow the fun of their adventure had faded away. In its place was a growing discomfort that was increasingly painful. They did not discuss their trouble and they put on clean dresses without their usual pleasure in their freshness and prettiness. Mrs. Morton did not allude to the subject again, and that gave the children additional feelings of uneasiness, for they felt that she was leaving the decision as to their future action entirely to them.
Roger, who was to pass a basket at the Amphitheatre, hurried through his supper and whooped to James as he passed the Hancocks' house. The other members of the two families went later and more slowly, enjoying as they walked along the lake front the familiar tunes that the chimes were ringing out. As they climbed the hill they were sorry that they had not made an earlier start, for people were gathering in flocks and the organ was already playing. Once more they had to say, "This is the largest audience yet." This time it was remarkable for its number of old people, for it seemed as if everybody who ever had been at Chautauqua made a point of returning to join in the celebration of the Fortieth Anniversary.
The service arranged by Bishop Vincent for the opening night was used for the forty-first time, and tears ran down the cheeks of old men and women who recalled the passing of the intervening years and gave their memento of esteem to the Chautauquans of bygone days when they joined the rest ofthe huge audience in lifting their handkerchiefs in a drooping salute to the dead.
The Chancellor introduced the President, and he, after a few words of historical reminiscence, introduced the speakers of the evening, a dozen of them, who spoke briefly and told some good stories. Between their speeches were sandwiched the events that make Old First Night different from any other night in the Amphitheatre. The members of the family of Mr. Miller, one of the founders of the Institution, were honored by a waving Chautauqua salute, invented long ago for a deaf speaker and continued because of its beauty. Mrs. Thomas Edison, a daughter of Mr. Miller, thanked the audience for its tribute to her father and called for a similar salute to the Vincent family.
"There's Miss Kimball standing with two other ladies to be saluted," cried Ethel Brown.
"And there's the president of the Women's Club with her," said Mrs. Morton.
Old songs were sung and "Dixie" brought a large Southern contingent to its feet. Mr. Vincent joked and cajoled his hearers while messengers and ushers gathered several thousand dollars, the Old First Night gift.
Best fun of all were the roll calls. Between sixty and seventy were present who had been a part of the original Old First Night. Thirty-two persons rose as having been at Chautauqua for forty-one summers and a Chautauqua salute sent them happily to their seats, for a Chautauqua salute is an honor, not achieved every day. "I've been waitingtwenty-five years for this," said a professor in one of the Summer Schools who received the distinction as a "Good-bye" before a trip to Europe.
By way of gaining an idea of the breadth of Chautauqua's call, dwellers in different parts of the world and of the United States were called to their feet. A small group rose as from New England; a very large group from New York and Pennsylvania. The South stood solid in large parties all over the auditorium, and the West had sent many representatives. The showing from Canada and parts of the world outside of our own country was by no means small.
"Who are the people on the platform beside the speakers?" Helen asked Mrs. Hancock who sat next her.
"The officers and trustees of the Institution, almost all of the 'old originals' and some people of distinction who happen to be on the grounds."
Then they left the Amphitheatre to go to the lake front for the fireworks and found themselves passing through a forest of brilliant lanterns swinging from the trees and casting their soft light on the paths and grass. Thousands of happy people, some wet-eyed with memories, some wide-eyed with wonder, walked beneath them, talking of days gone by and days to come.
So large was the Morton-Emerson-Hancock group that Mrs. Morton did not notice until she was almost at her own door that the Ethels were not near her.
"They were in the Amphitheatre," she said.
"I saw them coming out," cried Margaret.
"We'll wait a few minutes and then if they don't come Roger must look for them," said Mrs. Morton anxiously.
But before she had had many minutes of anxiety the two girls came running up to the porch. They were laughing happily now, and in quite a different mood from that in which they had left the house earlier in the evening.
"What in the world have you been doing, children?" asked Grandmother Emerson. "Your dresses are covered with dirt."
"Mother knows."
"Aunt Marion can guess."
"I'm sure I don't and I can't. What have you been up to?"
"It's all right about our ticket," nodded Ethel Brown gleefully.
"How can that be?"
"We were so worried about the punching coming out wrong that as soon as we left the Amphitheatre we ran up to that hole in the fence and crawled out again, and then we ran down the road as fast as we could to the trolley gate and came in properly, so now our tickets punch all right."
"But there's still a hurt in my girls' consciences, isn't there?" asked Mrs. Morton, drawing them to her and kissing them "Good-night."
"You see," she went on, "when you broke a law of the Institution you were not law-abiding citizens."
"But we weren't wicked, because we had our tickets—we weren't cheating."
"That's true, but laws are made to help communities to run smoothly. If you do not obey them you are not co-operating with the people who are working for the happiness of the whole body."
"'Co-operation'—that's just team-work," mused Roger.
"Right," confirmed Mr. Emerson. "Co-operation is what makes life easy to live, it's what produces results, it's what makes the world better. Be a co-operator."
"Me a co-op," agreed Roger cheerfully, while the Ethels sat silently on the steps and thought about it.