Mrs. Maynard opened the front door just as the children approached with the baby-carriage.
"Come along, girlies!" she cried. "Marjorie, wheel the carriage right into the hall."
"The baby's asleep, Mother," said Midget, as she and Gladys brought the carriage over the door-sill.
"Oh, is she? Totty's asleep, Mildred," she called, in a stage whisper, to Mrs. Harrison, who was upstairs.
"I thought she would be," responded that lady. "Just throw back her veil, and leave her as she is. She often takes her nap in her carriage, and there's no use waking her."
Gently, Mrs. Maynard turned back the veil from the little sleeping face, and, as she had no thought of anything being wrong, she did not notice any difference in the baby features.
"Gladys, we'd like to have you stay to luncheon," she said. "So you and Midge run upstairs and tidy your curls at once." With demure steps, but with dancing eyes, the girls went upstairs.
"I'm afraid it's mischief," whispered Gladys to Marjorie, as she tied her hair-ribbon for her.
"No, it isn't!" declared Midge, stoutly. "It's only a joke, and it can't do any harm. Mother didn't know it was a different baby, and I don't believe Mrs. Harrison will know either."
Trim and tidy once more the two friends went downstairs.
As they were on the stairs they heard the sound of the telephone bell.
Mrs. Maynard answered it, and in a moment Gladys realized that her own mother was talking at the other end of the wire.
After a short conversation, Mrs. Maynard hung up the receiver, and said:
"Mrs. Fulton says that Mr. Fulton has come home quite unexpectedly and that they are going for an afternoon's motor ride. She wants both of you girls to go, but she says you must fly over there at once, as they're all ready to start. Shetried to tell us sooner, but couldn't get a connection on the telephone."
"But we haven't had luncheon," said Marjorie, "and I'm fairly starving."
"They're taking luncheon with them," explained Mrs. Maynard. "And you must go at once, not to keep Mr. Fulton waiting. Of course, you needn't go if you don't want to, Midge."
"Oh, I do! I'm crazy to go! And luncheon in baskets is such fun! What shall I wear, Mother?"
"Go just as you are. That frock is quite clean. Put on your hat and coat, and I'll get a long veil for you."
Gladys had already run off home, and Marjorie was soon equipped and ready to follow.
As she flew out of the door, she remembered the joke about the babies.
"Oh, Mother, I've something to tell you!" she cried.
"Never mind now," said Mrs. Maynard, hurrying her off. "It will keep till you get back. And I hate to have you keep the Fultons waiting. They're in haste to start. So kiss me, and run along."
Even as she spoke, Dick Fulton appeared, saying he had been sent to hurry Marjorie up; so taking Dick's hand, the two ran swiftly down the path to the gate. Mrs. Maynard watched Marjorie's flying feet, and after she was out of sight around the corner, the lady returned to the house.
With a glance at the sleeping child, she turned to Mrs. Harrison, who was just coming downstairs.
"Totty is sleeping sweetly," she said, "so come at once to luncheon, Mildred."
"In a moment, Helen. I think I'll take off her cap and coat; she'll be too warm."
"You'll waken her if you do."
"Oh, well, she'll drop right to sleep again; she always does. And anyway, it's time she had a drink of milk."
"Very well, Mildred. You take off her wraps, and I'll ask Sarah to warm some milk for her."
Mrs. Maynard went to speak to Sarah, and Mrs. Harrison lifted the sleeping baby from the carriage.
She sat the blinking-eyed child on her knee while she unfastened her coat. Then she took off theveil and cap, and then,—she stared at the baby, and the baby stared at her.
Suddenly Mrs. Harrison gave a scream.
"Helen, Helen!" she called to her friend, and Mrs. Maynard came running to her side.
"Whatisthe matter, Mildred? Is Totty ill?"
By this time the baby too had begun to scream. Always afraid of strangers, Miss Dotty Curtis didn't know what to make of the scenes in which she found herself, nor of the strange lady who held her.
"Mildred, dear, what is the matter? You look horror-stricken! And what ails Totty?"
"This isn't my child!" wailed Mrs. Harrison.
"Totty isn't your child! Whatdoyou mean?"
"But this isn't, Totty! It isn't my baby! I don't know who it is."
"Mildred, you're crazy! Of course this is Totty. These are her blue kid shoes. And this is her coat and cap."
"I don't care if they are! It isn't Totty at all. Oh, where is my baby?"
Mrs. Harrison was on the verge of hysterics, and Mrs. Maynard was genuinely alarmed.
"Behave yourself, Mildred!" she said, sternly."Gather yourself together. Here, sip this glass of water."
"I'm perfectly sensible," said Mrs. Harrison, quieting down a little, as she noticed her friend's consternation. "But I tell you, Helen, this isnotmy baby. Doesn't a mother know her own child? Totty's hair is a little longer, and her eyes are a little larger. I don't know who this baby is, but she isn't mine."
"I believe you're right," said Mrs. Maynard, looking more closely at the screaming baby.
"There, there!" she said, taking the frightened little one in her own arms.
"Ma-ma!" cried the baby.
"Hear her voice!" exclaimed Mrs. Harrison. "That isn't the way my Totty talks. Oh, Helen, what has happened?"
"I don't know," said Mrs. Maynard, her face very white. "It doesn't seem possible that any marauder should have slipped into the house and put this child in Totty's place. Why, it was only about a half-hour ago that the girls brought Totty in. Mildred, are yousurethis isn't Totty?"
"Am I sure! Yes, I am. Wouldn't you knowyour own children from strangers? Helen, a dreadful crime has been committed. Somehow this baby has been substituted for mine. Oh, Totty, whereareyou now?"
"What shall I do, Mildred? Shall I call up Mr. Maynard on the telephone, or shall I ring up the police station?"
"Yes, call the police. It's dreadful, I know, but how else can we find Totty?"
Meantime Sarah appeared with a cup of warm milk.
The baby stretched out eager little hands, and Mrs. Maynard carefully held the cup for her to drink.
"She's a nice little thing," observed that lady. "See how prettily she behaves."
"Helen, you'll drive me crazy. I don't care how she behaves, she isn't Totty. Why, that isn't even Totty's little dress. So you see the kidnapper did change her shoes and wraps, but not her frock."
Mrs. Harrison showed signs of hysterics, and Mrs. Maynard was at her wits' end what to do.
"I suppose I'd better call the police," she said. "Here, Mildred, you hold this baby."
Mrs. Harrison gingerly took the baby thatwasn't hers, and looked like a martyr as she held her.
But comforted by the warm food, the baby pleasantly cuddled up in Mrs. Harrison's arms and went to sleep.
Mrs. Maynard, greatly puzzled, went to the telephone, but before she touched it there was a furious peal at the front-door bell.
The moment the door was opened, in rushed a pretty, but frantic and very angry, little lady, carrying a child.
"Where's my baby?" she demanded, as she fairly stamped her foot at Mrs. Maynard.
"That's my child!" she went on, turning to Mrs. Harrison. "What are you doing with her?"
"I don't want her!" cried Mrs. Harrison. "But what areyoudoing withmybaby?"
Totty, in the visitor's arms, held out her hands to her mother, and gurgled with glee.
"Ma-ma!" said the other baby, waking up at all this commotion and holding out her hands also.
The exchange was made in a moment, and, stillunpacified, Mrs. Harrison and Mrs. Curtis glared at each other.
Mrs. Maynard struggled to suppress her laughter, for the scene was a funny one; but she knew the two ladies were thoroughly horrified at the mystery, and mirth would be quite out of place.
"Let me introduce you," she said. "Mrs. Curtis, this is my dear friend, Mrs. Harrison. Your little ones are the same age, and look very much alike."
"Not a bit alike," said both mothers, at once.
"I confess," went on Mrs. Maynard, "that I can't understand it at all, but you certainly each have your own babies now; so, my dear Mrs. Curtis, won't you tell me what you know about this very strange affair?"
Mrs. Curtis had recovered her equilibrium, and, as she sat comfortably holding Dotty, she smiled, with a little embarrassment.
"Dear Mrs. Maynard," she said, "I'm afraid I understand it all better than you do; but I'm also afraid, if I explain it to you, you will,—it will make——"
Suddenly Mrs. Maynard saw a gleam of light.
"Marjorie!" she exclaimed.
"Yes," said Mrs. Curtis; "I think it was dueto Miss Mischief. When I returned home from an errand, Lisa said that your Marjorie and Gladys Fulton had had Dotty out in her carriage, and had also another baby who was visiting you. The girls had left Dotty—or rather, Lisa supposed it was Dotty—asleep in her coach, and Nurse let her stay there, asleep, until my return. Then the child wakened—and it wasn't Dotty at all! The baby had on Dot's slippers, cap, coat, and veil, but the rest of her clothes I had never seen before. I felt sure there had been foul play of some sort, but Lisa was sure those girls had exchanged the babies' clothes on purpose. I hoped Lisa was right, but I feared she wasn't, so I picked up the baby and ran over here to see."
Mrs. Maynard was both grieved and chagrined.
"How could Marjorie do such a thing!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, don't be too hard on her, Mrs. Maynard," said Mrs. Curtis. "It's all right, now, and you know Marjorie and Gladys are a mischievous pair."
"But this is inexcusable," went on Mrs. Maynard. "Mrs. Harrison nearly went frantic, and you were certainly greatly alarmed."
Mrs. Curtis smiled pleasantly. "I was," she admitted, "but it was only for a few moments. I was mystified rather than alarmed, for Lisa said the carriage had not been out of her sight a moment, except when the girls had it."
Mrs. Curtis took her leave, and, carrying with her her own baby, went away home.
Mrs. Maynard made sincere apologies to her friend for naughty Marjorie's mischief.
"Never mind, Helen," said Mrs. Harrison. "I can see now it was only a childish prank, and doubtless Marjorie and Gladys expected a good laugh over it; then they ran off unexpectedly and forgot all about the babies."
Mrs. Maynard remembered then that Midget had said at the last moment that she had something to tell her, but that she had hurried the child off.
"Still," she thought to herself, "that was no excuse for Midge. She should have told me."
After a refreshing luncheon, Mrs. Harrison was able to view the matter more calmly.
"Don't punish Marjorie for this, Helen," shesaid. "Children will be children, and I daresay those girls thought it would be a fine joke on me."
"I certainly shall punish her, Mildred. She is altogether too thoughtless, and too careless of other people's feelings. She never does wilful or malicious wrong, but she tumbles into mischief thoughtlessly. She will be honestly grieved when she learns how frightened and upset you were, and she'll never do such a thing again. But, the trouble is she'll do some other thing that will be equally naughty, but something that no one can foresee or warn her against."
"Well, just for my sake, Helen, don't punish her this time; at least, not much. I really oughtn't to have gone to pieces so; I ought to have realized that it could all be easily explained."
But Mrs. Maynard would not promise to condone Midget's fault entirely, and argued that she really ought to be punished for what turned out to be a troublesome affair.
Mrs. Harrison went home about four o'clock, and it was five before Marjorie returned.
Her mother met her at the door.
"Did you have a pleasant time, Marjorie?" shesaid.
"Oh, yes, Mother; we had a lovely time. We went clear to Ridge Park. Oh, Idolove to ride in an automobile."
"Go and take off your things, my child, and then come to me in my room."
"Yes, Mother," said Marjorie, and she danced away to take off her hat.
"Here I am, Mother," she announced, a little later. "Now shall I tell you all about my afternoon?"
"Not quite yet, dear. I'll tell you all about my afternoon first. Mrs. Harrison had a very unhappy time, and of course that made me unhappy also."
"Why, Mother, what was the trouble about?"
Mrs. Maynard looked into the clear, honest eyes of her daughter, and sighed as she realized that Marjorie had no thought of what had made the trouble.
"Why did you put Dotty Curtis' cloak and hat on Totty?"
Then the recollection came back to Marjorie.
"Oh, Mother!" she cried, as she burst into aringing peal of laughter. "Wasn't it a funny joke! Did Mrs. Harrison laugh? Did she know her own baby?"
"Marjorie, I'm ashamed of you. No, Mrs. Harrison did not laugh. Of course she knew that the child you left in the carriage was not her little Totty, and as she didn't know what had happened, she had a very bad scare, and her nerves were completely unstrung."
"But why, Mother?" said Marjorie, looking puzzled. "I thought she wouldn't know the difference. But if she did know right away it wasn't Totty, why didn't she go over to Mrs. Curtis' and change them back again?"
"She didn't know Totty was at Mrs. Curtis'. Neither did I. We never dreamed that you couldn't be trusted to take a baby out to ride and bring her home safely. She thought some dreadful thing had happened to her child."
"Oh, Mother, did she? I'm so sorry. I never meant to tease her that way. I only thought it would be a funny joke to see her think Dotty was Totty."
"But, my little girl, you ought to have realized that it was a cruel and even a dangerous joke.You cannot carelessly dispose of little human beings as if they were dolls, or other inanimate things."
"I never thought of that, Mother. And, anyway, I started to tell you about it, just as I went away, and you told me to run along, and tell you what I had to tell after I came home."
"I thought you'd say that; but of course I thought you meant you wanted to tell me some trifling incident, or something of little importance. Can't you understand that what you did was not a trifle, but a grave piece of misbehavior?"
"Mischief, Mother?"
Mrs. Maynard bit her lip to keep from smiling at Marjorie's innocent request for information.
"It was mischief, I suppose. But it was more than that. It was real wrong-doing. When little girls are trusted to do anything, they ought to be very careful to do it earnestly and thoroughly, exactly as it is meant to be done. If you had stopped to think, would you have thought either of those motherswantedyou to exchange their babies?"
Marjorie pondered.
"No," she said, at last; "but, truly, if I hadthought ever so hard I wouldn't have thought they'd mind it so much. Can't they take a joke, Mother?"
"Marjorie, dear, you have a fun-loving disposition, but if it is to make you joy and not sorrow all your life, you must learn what constitutes a desirable 'joke.' To begin with, practical jokes are rarely, if ever, desirable."
"What is a practical joke?"
"It's a little difficult to explain, my dear; but it's usually a well-laid plan to make somebody feel foolish or angry, or appear ridiculous. I think you hoped Mrs. Harrison would appear ridiculous by petting another child while thinking it was her own. And you meant to stand by and laugh at her."
This was putting it rather plainly, but Marjorie could not deny the truth of her mother's statement.
"And so," went on Mrs. Maynard, "that was a very wrong intent, especially from a little girl to a grown person. Practical jokes among your playmates are bad enough, but this was far worse."
"I understand, Mother, now that you've explained it; but, truly, I didn't mean to do anything so awfully dreadful. How are you going to punish me?"
"Mrs. Harrison was very forgiving, and begged me not to punish you severely. But I think you deserve a pretty hard penance; don't you?"
"Why, the way you tell me about it, I think I do. But the way I meant it, seems so different."
"Well, I've thought it over, and I've decided on this. You dislike to sew; don't you?"
"Yes, I do!" said Marjorie, emphatically.
"I know you do. But I think you ought to learn to sew, and, moreover, I think this would be an appropriate thing to do. I want you to make a little dress for Totty. I will do the more difficult parts, such as putting it together, but you must run the tucks, and hem it, and overhand the seams. And it must be done very neatly, as all babies' dresses should be dainty and fine. You may work half an hour on it every day, and, when it is finished, it will be a pretty little gift for Mrs. Harrison, and it will also teach you something of an old-fashioned but useful art."
Marjorie drew a deep sigh. "All right, Mother. I'll try to do it nicely; but oh, how Ihate a thimble! I never again will mix up people's babies. But I didn't think it was such an awful, dreadful thing to do."
"You're a strange child, Midget," said her mother, looking at her thoughtfully. "I never know what you're going to do next."
"I never know myself," said Marjorie, cheerfully, "but you can always punish me, you know."
"But I don't want to. I want you to behave so you won't need punishment."
"I'll try real hard," said Midge, as she kissed her mother, again and again.
The Jinks Club was having its weekly meeting, and all of the members were present.
"I think," the President was saying, "that we ought to do something that's of some use. It's all very well to cut up jinks to have fun, and we did have a lot of fun on the straw ride last week; but I mean we ought to do some real good in the world."
"But how could we, King?" said Marjorie, looking at her brother in awe.
"There are lots of ways!" declared King. "We might do something public-spirited or charitable."
"I think so, too," said Dick Fulton. "My father was talking last night about the selfishness of citizens."
"Goodness, Dick," said his sister, "we're not citizens!"
"Yes, we are, Gladys. Why aren't we? Everybody born in America is a citizen, whether old or young."
"I never dreamed I was a citizen," said Gladys, giggling. "Did you, Kit?"
"No," said Kitty; "but I'd just as lieve be. Wouldn't you, Dorothy?"
"Yes, indeed. It's nice to be citizens. Sort of patriotic, you know."
"Well," said Midget, "if we're citizens, let's do citizens' work. What do they do, King?"
"Oh, they vote, and——"
"But we can't vote. Of course we girls never can, but you boys can't for years yet. Don't be silly."
"Well, there are other things besides voting," said Dick. "Some citizens have big meetings and make speeches."
"Nowyou'resilly," said Kingdon. "We can't make speeches any more than we can vote. But there must be things that young folks can do."
"We could have a fair and make money for the heathen," volunteered Gladys.
"That's too much like work," said King. "Besides, we're all going to be in the Bazaar in December, and we don't want to copy that! And, anyway, I mean something more—more political than that."
"I don't know anything about politics," declared Marjorie, "and you don't, either!"
"I do, too. Father told me all about the different parties and platforms and everything."
"Let's have a platform," said Kitty. "You boys can build it."
King laughed at this, but, as the others had only a hazy idea of what a political platform was, Kitty's suggestion was not heeded.
"I'll tell you," said Dick. "When Father was talking last night, he said if our citizens were public-spirited, they'd form a Village Improvement Society, and fix up the streets and beautify the park and the common, and keep their lawns in better order."
"Now you're talking!" cried King. "That's the sort of thing I mean. And we children could be a little Village Improvement Society ourselves. Of course we couldn't do much, but we could make a start, and then grown-up people might take the notion and do it themselves."
"I think it would be lovely," said Marjorie."We could plant flowers in the middle of the common, and we'd all water them and weed them, and keep them in lovely order."
"We couldn't plant flowers till next spring," said Gladys. "October's no time to plant flowers."
"It's not a very good time for such work, anyway," said Dick, "for most of the improvement is planting things, and mowing grass, and like that. But there are other things, 'cause Father said that such a society could make all the people who live here keep their sidewalks clean and not have any ashes or rubbish anywhere about."
"I think it's great," said King. "I move we go right bang! into it, and that we first change the name of the Jinks Club to the Village Improvement Society. Then let's keep just the same officers, and everything, and go right ahead and improve."
"Yes," said Marjorie, "and then whenever we want to turn back again to the Jinks Club, why, we can."
"Oh, we won't want to turn back," said King, confidently; "the other'll be more fun."
"All right," said Dick. "I'm secretary, so I'llmake out a list of what we can do. How much money is there in the treasury, Midget?"
"Sixty cents," said Marjorie, promptly.
"Huh! Just what we paid in to-day."
"Yes, you know we spent last week's money going on a trolley ride."
"So we did. Well, we'll have to have more cash, if we're going to improve this town much."
"Then I can't belong," said Marjorie, decidedly. "I've got to begin now to save money for Christmas. I'd rather have it for that than plant flower beds."
"A nice citizen you are!" growled King. "But," he added, "I haven't any extra money, either. Christmas is coming, and that's a fact!"
"Father'll give us Christmas money," said Kitty.
"Yes; but he likes to have us save some of our allowance, too. He says it makes better gifts."
"Well," said Dick, "let's do things that don't cost money, then. Father said the streets and lanes ought to be kept in better order. Let's go around and pick up the old cans and things."
"No, thank you," said Marjorie, turning upher small nose. "I'm no ragpicker."
"I wouldn't do that, either," said Gladys; "that is, unless I had a horse and cart. A pony-cart, I mean; not a dump-cart. But, Dick, I heard Father talking last night, too; and he said a society like that would send out letters to the citizens, asking them to keep their yards in better order."
"That's the ticket, Gladys!" cried Kingdon, admiringly. "You've struck it now. Of course that's the way to accomplish what we are after, in a dignified manner. Let's write a lot of those letters, and then when the people fix their places all up, we'll say that we started the movement."
"All right," said Dick, "I think that's just what Father meant. But he said 'a circular letter.' That means have it printed."
"Oh, well, we can't afford to have it printed. Why, we can't scrape up postage for very many letters. Sixty cents; that would mail thirty letters."
"We can't write more than that," said Marjorie. "That would be five apiece for all ofus. And I don't know as Kit and Dorothy write well enough, anyway."
"Dorothy does," said Kitty, generously. "But I write like hen's tracks."
"Well, you can write those that don't matter so much," said Midge, kindly. "I'll tell you, Kitty, you can write the one to Father."
"Pooh, Father doesn't need any. Our place is always in order."
"So is ours!" cried Dick. "And ours!" piped up Dorothy.
"But don't the citizens all have to have letters?" asked Gladys. "If you just pick out the ones who don't keep their lawns nice, they'll be mad."
"No, they won't," said Dick; "or, if they are, why, let 'embemad."
"I say so, too," agreed King. "If we write to the ones that need writing to, we'll have all we can do. Make out a list of 'em, Dick."
"Put down Mr. Bolton first," said Gladys. "He hasn't mowed his grass all summer. Father says his place is a disgrace to the comminity."
"Community, child," corrected her brother. "But old Bolton's placeisawful. So is Crane's."
"Let's write their letters now, and see how theysound," suggested King, who was always in favor of quick action.
The club was meeting in the Maynards' big playroom, so paper and pencils were handy.
"It ought to be in ink, I s'pose," said King, "but I hardly ever use it, it spills about so. Let's take pencil this time."
After many suggestions and corrections on the part of each of the interested members the following letter was achieved:
"Mr. Bolton,"Dear Sir: We wish kindly to ask you to keep your place in better order. We are trying to improve our fair city, and how can we do it when places like yours are a disgrace to the community? We trust you will be nice about this, and not get mad, for we mean well, and hope you are enjoying the same blessing."
"Mr. Bolton,
"Dear Sir: We wish kindly to ask you to keep your place in better order. We are trying to improve our fair city, and how can we do it when places like yours are a disgrace to the community? We trust you will be nice about this, and not get mad, for we mean well, and hope you are enjoying the same blessing."
"That's all right," said Marjorie, as Dick read it aloud. "Now, what do we sign it?"
"Just sign it 'The Village Improvement Society,' that's all," said Gladys.
"Wait a minute," said King. "In all lettersof this sort they always abbreviate some words; it looks more business-like."
"Mother hates abbreviations," said Marjorie; "she won't let me say 'phone for telephone, or auto for motor-car."
"That's different," said King. "She means in polite society; talking, you know, or writing notes to your friends."
"Isn't a Village Improvement Society a polite society?" asked Kitty.
"Yes, of course, sister. But I don't mean that. I mean, in a business letter like this they always abbreviate some words."
"Well, abbreviate 'community,' that's the longest word," suggested Dick.
"No, that isn't the right kind of a word to abbreviate. It ought to be something like acc't for account."
"Oh, that kind? Well, perhaps we can use that word in some other letter. But can't we do the abbreviating in the signature? That's pretty long."
"So we can," said King. "Let's sign it, 'The Village Imp. Society.'"
This was adopted, as it didn't occur to any ofthe children that the abbreviated word might convey an unintended meaning.
Mr. Crane was attended to next, and, as they warmed to their subject, his letter was a little more peremptory. It ran:
"Mr. Crane,"Dear Sir: We're improving our village, and, unless you fix up your place pretty quick, we will call and argue with you. On no acc't let it go another week looking as disreputibil as it now does. We mean well, if you do; but if you don't,—beware!"The Village Imp. Society."
"Mr. Crane,
"Dear Sir: We're improving our village, and, unless you fix up your place pretty quick, we will call and argue with you. On no acc't let it go another week looking as disreputibil as it now does. We mean well, if you do; but if you don't,—beware!
"The Village Imp. Society."
"That's fine!" exclaimed Gladys, as this effusion was read out. "Now, let's do two more, and then we can each take one for a copy, and make a lot of them, just put different names at the top, you know."
"Let's make a more gentle one," said Marjorie. "Those are all right for men, but there's old Mrs. Hill, she ought to be told pleasantly to fix up hergarden and keep her pigs and chickens shut up. We almost ran over a lot of them the other day."
So a gentle petition was framed:
"Dear Mrs. Hill:"Won't you please be so kind as to straighten out your garden a little? We'd like to see it look neat like Mr. Fulton's, or Mr. Maynard's, or Mr. Adams'. Don't go to too much trouble in this matter, but just kill or shut up your pigs and chickens, and we will all help you if need be."Lovingly yours,"The Village Imp. Society."
"Dear Mrs. Hill:
"Won't you please be so kind as to straighten out your garden a little? We'd like to see it look neat like Mr. Fulton's, or Mr. Maynard's, or Mr. Adams'. Don't go to too much trouble in this matter, but just kill or shut up your pigs and chickens, and we will all help you if need be.
"Lovingly yours,"The Village Imp. Society."
"That's sweet," said Marjorie; "I like that 'Lovingly yours'; it shows we have no hard feelings."
One more was framed, with a special intent toward the shopkeepers:
"Mr. Green:"We wish to goodness you'd keep your goods in better order. In front of your store, on sidewalkand gutter, are old fruits, potatoes, and sundry other things too old to be quite nice. So spruce things up, and you will be surprised at the result."Yours in good fellowship,"The Village Imp. Society."
"Mr. Green:
"We wish to goodness you'd keep your goods in better order. In front of your store, on sidewalkand gutter, are old fruits, potatoes, and sundry other things too old to be quite nice. So spruce things up, and you will be surprised at the result.
"Yours in good fellowship,"The Village Imp. Society."
"That's a good business one," said Dick. "Sort of 'man to man,' you know."
"I don't like it as well as some of the others," said Marjorie. "You copy that, Dick, and I'll copy the 'lovingly' one."
Each took a model, and all set to work, except Kitty and Dorothy, who were exempt, as their penmanship was not very legible.
"I'm tired," announced Dick, after an hour's work. "Let's stop where we are."
"All right," said King. "We've enough for the first week, I think. If these work pretty good, we'll do more next Saturday."
They had sixteen letters altogether, addressed to the best and worst citizens of Rockwell, and in high glee they started to the post-office to buy their stamps.
Mrs. Maynard willingly gave permission forthem to go the short distance to the post-office, and watched the six well-behaved children as they walked off, two by two.
After the stamps were bought, and the letters posted, they found they still had enough in the treasury for soda water all round, lacking two cents. King generously supplied the deficit, and the six trooped into the drug store, and each selected a favorite flavor.
The club meeting broke up after that, and the children went to their homes, feeling that they had greatly gained in importance since morning. And indeed they had.
That same evening many of the Rockwell people strolled down to the post-office for their mail.
In the small town there were no carriers, and the short trip to the post-office was deemed a pleasure by most.
When Mr. Maynard arrived he was surprised to find men gathered into small groups, talking in loud and almost angry voices.
The pretty little stone building was not large enough to hold them all, and knots of people were on the steps and on the small grass plot in front.
"It's outrageous!" one man was saying. "Inever heard of such impudence in a civilized town!"
"Here comes Mr. Maynard now," said another, "let's ask him."
Mr. Maynard smiled pleasantly as the belligerent ones approached him.
They were men whom he knew by name, but they were not of his own social circle.
"Look here," said John Kellogg, "I've just got this 'ere note, and some kid yonder says it's the handwritin' of your son, and I want ter know ef that's so!"
"It certainly looks like my son's writing," said Mr. Maynard, still smiling pleasantly, though his heart sank as he wondered what those children had been up to now.
"And I've got one that my boy says is in Dick Fulton's writin'!" declared another angry citizen.
"Here comes Dick's father now," said Mr. Maynard, as he advanced a step to meet Mr. Fulton. "They tell me our sons have been writing miscellaneous letters," he said to Mr. Fulton, and, though there was a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Fulton saw at once that there was some serious matter in hand.
"Not only your sons, but your girls, too," growled another man. "My kid says this is your Marjorie's fist."
"Well, well, what are the letters all about?" asked Mr. Fulton, who did not like the attitude of the complainants.
"Read 'em, and see!" was the quick response,and half a dozen letters were thrust toward the two gentlemen.
Mr. Fulton adjusted his glasses, and both he and Mr. Maynard quickly scanned the notes that were only too surely the work of their own children.
"The signature is misleading," said Mr. Fulton, who was inwardly shaking with laughter at the absurd epistles, but who preserved a serious countenance; "but I feel sure it means 'The Village Improvement Society.' I have often thought such a society would be a good thing for our town, but I didn't know one had been started."
"But whoisthe society? A lot of youngsters?" demanded John Kellogg.
"Ahem! These documents would lead one to think so, wouldn't they?" said Mr. Fulton, suavely.
But the offended men were not to be so easily placated.
"See here," said one of them, assuming a threatening tone, "these 'ere letters is insults; that's what I call 'em!"
"And I!" "Me, too!" said several others.
"And as they is insults," went on the firstspeaker, "we wants satisfaction; that's what we wants!"
"Yes, yes!" "We do!" chorused the crowd.
Mr. Fulton and Mr. Maynard were decidedly nonplussed. It was difficult to take the matter seriously, and yet, as these men were so incensed, it might make an unpleasant publicity for the two families, unless they placated the angry recipients of those foolish letters.
Mr. Maynard was a quick thinker, and a man of more even disposition and affable demeanor than Mr. Fulton. So Mr. Maynard, with a nod at his friend, jumped up on a chair and began to address the crowd, as if he were on a public platform.
"My friends and fellow-townsmen," he said: "in the first place, Mr. Fulton and I want to admit that these letters which you have received are without doubt the work of our own children. They were written entirely without our knowledge or consent, and they represent a childish endeavor to do well, but they do not show experience, or familiarity with grown people's ways of dealing with these matters. We, therefore, apologize toyou for the offence our children have caused you, and trust that, as most of you have children of your own, you will appreciate the facts of the case, and forgive the well-meaning, but ill-doing, little scamps."
Mr. Maynard's pleasant voice and genial smile went far to establish good-feeling, and many voices murmured, "Aw, that's all right," or, "Little scalawags, ain't they?"
"And now," Mr. Maynard went on, "since we are gathered here, I would like to make a suggestion that may lead to a good work. Several of our prominent business men have thought that a Village Improvement Society could do a great and good work in our town. I, myself, have not sufficient leisure to take this matter in charge, but I wish that a committee of our citizens might be appointed to consider ways and means, with a view to organizing a society in the near future. Should this be done, I stand ready to contribute one thousand dollars to the general fund of the society, and I've no doubt more will be subscribed by willing hearts."
Mr. Maynard stepped down from the chair, and Mr. Fulton immediately mounted it.
"I, too, will gladly subscribe the same amountas Mr. Maynard," he said; "this project has for some time been in my mind, and I am pretty sure that it was because of overhearing some of my conversations on the subject that my young people took it up, and earnestly, if in a mistaken manner, endeavored to start such a society."
The sentiment of the meeting had entirely changed. The men who had been most angry at their letters were now enthusiastic in their desire for the immediate formation of the society.
"Land sakes!" said old Mr. Bolton, "them children didn't mean nothin' wrong. They jest didn't know no better."
"That's so," said John Kellogg. "Like's not, some of our kids might 'a' done a heap worse."
After the election of a chairman for the provisional committee, and a few more preliminary moves in the matter, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Fulton went away, leaving it all in the hands of their fellow-townsmen.
"You did good work," said Mr. Fulton, appreciatively. "I confess I was afraid of anunpleasant turn of affairs. But you won their hearts by your tact and genial manner."
"That's the best way to manage that sort of an uprising," returned Mr. Maynard. "Of course we are, in a way, responsible for our children's deeds, and there's a possibility that some of those letters could make trouble for us. But I think it's all right now. The next thing is to choke off the children before they go any further. Whatdoyou suppose possessed them to cut up such a trick?"
"What possesses them to get into one sort of mischief after another, as fast as they can go?"
"Well, this isn't really mischief, is it? They meant well, you know. But I'll reserve judgment until after I talk with my young hopefuls."
The two men separated at the corner, and Mr. Maynard went directly to his own home.
He found Mrs. Maynard and the three older children in the living-room, variously engaged with books or games.
"Well," he said, as he entered the room. "I'd like an immediate interview with The Village Imps."
Each of the three gave a start of surprise.
"What do you mean, Father?" cried Marjorie.
"Why, if you belong to an Imp Society you must be Imps; aren't you?"
"Who told you about it?" asked Kitty, disappointedly. "It was to be a secret, until all the town was stirred up."
"The town is pretty well stirred up now, my girl. But I don't want reports of my children's doings from other people. Tell me all about it, yourselves."
"We will, Father," said Marjorie, evidently glad of the chance. "You tell, King; you're president."
Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave a full account of their desire to do something that would be a public benefit of some sort. He told of Dick's suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton's remarks about a Village Improvement Society. He explained that they wrote letters because they hadn't money enough for any more expensive proceeding, and he wound up by proudly stating that they had mailed sixteen letters already, and hoped to send more the following week.
So earnest was the boy in his description ofthe work, and so honest his pride in their efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted the necessity of changing his view of the matter.
"Kingdon," he said, "you're fourteen years old, and I think you're old enough to know that you ought not to engage in such important affairs without getting the advice of older people."
"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie. "Was this wrong, too? Iseverythingmischief? Can't we do anything at all without we have to be punished for it? We thought this was truly a good work, and we thought we were doing our duty!"
Like a little whirlwind, Marjorie flew across the room, and threw herself, sobbing, into her father's arms.
"My dear child," he said, kissing her hot little brow, "wait a moment till I explain. We want to talk over this matter, and get each other's ideas about it."
"But you're going to say it was wrong,—I know you are! And I was trying so hardnotto do naughty things. Oh, Father, how can I tell what I can do, and what I can't?"
"There, there, Midget, now stop crying. You're not going to be punished; you don't deserve to be. What you did was not wrong in itself,—at least it would not have been for older people. But you children are ignorant of the ways of the grown-up world, and so you ought not to have taken the responsibility of dictating to or advising grown people. That was the wrong part."
"But we meant it for their good, sir, more than for our own," said King, by way of justification.
"That's just it, Kingdon, my boy. You're too young yet to know whatisfor the good of grown men and women who are old enough to be your parents and grandparents. You wouldn't think of dictating to your mother or myself 'for our good,' would you? And all grown people ought to be equally free from your unasked advice."
"But, Father," insisted King, "if you kept this place looking like a rubbish-heap, wouldn't I have a right to ask you not to?"
"You'd have only the right of our relationship. A child has many privileges with his parents that he hasn't with any one else in the world. But to come right down to the facts: the letters that you wrote were ill-advised, arrogant, and impertinent."
Kitty looked frankly bewildered at these big Words, Marjorie buried her face on her father's shoulder in a renewed burst of tears, while Kingdon flushed a deep red all over his honest, boyish face.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said; "we didn't mean them to be, and we didn't think they were. We thought they were straightforward and business-like."
"That shows your ignorance, my son. Until you have been in business, you cannot really know what grown men and women consider business-like. I can tell you John Kellogg and Tom Bolton didn't consider them masterpieces of business-like literature."
"How do you know?" said Marjorie, lifting her wet face from its hiding-place.
"I saw them, dearie; both the men and the letters, at the post-office to-night. There were manyothers,—a dozen or more,—and they were, one and all, extremely angry at the letters they had received. Mr. Fulton and I were both there, and, when we were told that the letters were the work of our children, we could scarcely believe it."
"And we thought you'd be so proud of us," said Kitty, in such a dejected voice that Mrs. Maynard caught up the little girl and held her in her arms.
Of course, this was the first Mrs. Maynard had heard of the whole affair, but, as Mr. Maynard was conducting the discussion, she said little.
"What ought we to have done, Father?" said King, who was beginning to see that they had done wrong.
"When you first thought of the plan, my son, you should have realized that it concerned grown people entirely; and that, therefore, before you children undertook its responsibilities you should confer with your mother or me. Surely you see that point?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
"When your plans include only children, andare not disobedience to rules either actual and implied, then you are usually free to do pretty much as you like."
"But we thought this would do the town good."
"That was a worthy sentiment, and a true one, too. But the matter of a town improvement is not a matter for children to attend to,unlessthey are working under the direction of older people. Had I advised you to write these letters, which, of course, I never should have done, for you are not the proper ones to write them, but had I done so, I would have shown you how to word them that they might not offend. Inexperienced letter-writers cannot expect to write a sort of letter which requires special delicacy, tact, and graciousness."
"Father," said Marjorie, solemnly, "I'm never going to do anything again, but go to school and eat my meals and go to bed. Anything else I ever do is wrong."
"Now, Mopsy Midget, don't talk nonsense. You're twelve years old. You've a lot to learn before you're a grown-up, and most of it must be learned by experience. If you never do anything,you'll never get any experience, and at twenty you'll only know as much as you did at twelve! How would you like that?"
"Not much," said Marjorie, whose spirits rose as her father adopted a lighter tone.
"Then just go on and have your experiences. Cut up jinks and have all the fun you can; but try to learn as you go along to discriminate between the things you ought to do and the things you oughtn't. You won't always guess right, but if you keep on living you can always guess again."
"What did those men say?" asked King, who was brooding over the scene in the post-office.
"Oh! they were pretty mad at first, and I think they were quite ready to come after you children with tomahawks and war-whoops. But Mr. Fulton and I patted them fondly on the shoulder, and told them you were harmless lunatics and they mustn't mind you."
"We're not crazy, Father," said Kitty, who was inclined to be literal.
"No, Kitsie, you're not; and I don't want you to drive me crazy, either. You're three of themost delightful children I ever met, and whenever I can pull you out of your scrapes I'm only too glad to do so. I may as well tell you at once that Mr. Fulton and I fixed up this Imp Society matter very satisfactorily; and if you don't start in to lay a new asphalt road, or build a cathedral, I think I can keep up with you."
"How did you fix it, Father?" asked Marjorie, brightening with renewed interest, as she learned that the trouble was over.
"Oh! I told the gentlemen who were most interested that if they didn't like the way my children improved this village that they'd better do the improving themselves. And they said they would."
"Really, Father?"
"Really, King. So now you're all well out of it, and I want you to stay out. Unless they ask for your assistance, later on; and I doubt if they'll do that, for between you and me they don't seem to approve of your methods."
"I think it was dreadful for the children to write those letters," said Mrs. Maynard. "And I don't think, Ed, that you've quite explained to them how very wrong it was."
"Perhaps not," said Mr. Maynard, "but can'twe leave that part of the subject till some other time? For my part, I'm quite exhausted scolding these young reprobates, and I'd like a change to smiles instead of tears. And somehow I have a growing conviction that they'll never do it again. Will you, chickabiddies?"
"No, sir!" came in a hearty chorus.
"Of course they won't," said Mrs. Maynard, laughing. "It will be some other ridiculous freak. But I'll be glad to drop the subject for the present, too, and have a pleasant half-hour before it's bedtime for babes."
"And aren't we to be punished?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.
"Not exactly punished," said her father, smiling at her. "I think I shall give you a severe scolding every night for a week, and then see if you're not little paragons of perfection, every one of you."
"I'm not afraid of your scolding," said Marjorie, contentedly cuddling close to her father; "but I thought maybe—perhaps—you'd want us to apologize to those people who were so angry."
"I did that for you, dearie. What's the use ofhaving a father if he can't get you out of a scrape now and then? And now let's roast some chestnuts, and pop some corn, and have all sorts of fun."