Marjorie's Vacation

"Indeed, I will! Oh, Jane, what lovely things! Fresh little cakes, with pink icing; and gooseberry jam! But don't go away, Jane."

"I must, Miss Midget. Yer grandma towld me not to shtay wid yez."

"But I'm so lonesome," said Marjorie, who had just seemed to realize what the main trouble was.

But Jane dared not disobey orders, and setting the tray on the stairs, she went away, with fond backward glances at the forlorn little figure sitting there.

However, the lonesomest human heart is bound to cheer up a little under the influence of a specially fine feast, and as Marjorie ate her luncheon and drank a big glass of milk, the detested stairs began to assume a rather more attractive air.

And so, when Jane came to take the tray away she found on it only empty dishes, while Marjorie, who was cuddled up in a corner, reading, looked at her with a smile.

"The day is half gone!" she announced, triumphantly. "And, Jane, won't you ask Grandma if you may bring me a glass of water so I can paint. But tell her I don't want it unless she's perfectly willing."

Grandma smiled a little at the stipulation, but sent Marjorie the glass of water, and the child filled up half an hour or more painting pictures. But the cramped position was very uncomfortable, and Marjorie grew restless and longed for exercise. Suddenly an inspiration seized her, and she concluded it would be great fun to slide down the banister. For a few times this was amusing, but it stung her hands, and finally she fell off and bumped her head rather soundly.

"It's lucky I fell on the stair side," she said to herself, rubbing the lump on her forehead, "for I promised Grandma not to leave the stairs, and if I had fallen off on the other side I should have broken my promise!"

The afternoon hours seemed to move rather more slowly than the morning. Occasionally, Marjorie's naturally cheerful disposition would assert itself and she would bravely endeavor to occupy herself pleasantly in some way. But there was so little light, and stairs are uncomfortable at best to sit on, and the silence and loneliness were so oppressive, that her efforts successively failed.

And, though Marjorie did not realize it, her spirits were depressed because of the mere fact that she was undergoing punishment. Had she been there of her own free choice she could have played happily on the stairs all day long; or had the opportunity been bestowed upon her, as a great and special treat, the hours would have flown by.

At last, exhausted, Nature conquered all else, and, seated on one step, Marjorie folded her arms on the step above, laid her head down upon them, and went to sleep.

And it was thus that Uncle Steve found her when he came home at four o'clock.

"Hello, Queen of Mischief!" he cried, gayly. "Wake up here and tell me all about it!"

"Oh, Uncle Steve!" cried Marjorie, waking, flushed from her nap, and delighted at having some one to speak to; "do you know why I'm here? Did Grandma tell you?"

"Yes, she told me; and she told me something else, too. She says that if you are properly sorry for what you did,—really, AWFULLY sorry, you know,—that you may be excused for the rest of the day and may go out driving with me."

"Well, I just rather guess I AM sorry! I'm two sorries. One, because I disobeyed Grandma and tracked up her Front Stairs; and another, because I've had this terrible, dreadful punishment."

Uncle Steve looked at his niece a little gravely. "Which are you more sorry for, Marjorie," he asked: "because you did wrong or because you were punished?"

Marjorie considered. "About equal, I think. No, I'm more sorry I did wrong, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have had the punishment; and, besides, it hurt Grandma's feelings."

"Which did?"

"Why, my running up the stairs! Of course, the punishment didn't hurt her," and Marjorie laughed merrily at the idea.

"I think it hurt her more than it did you," said Uncle Steve, but

Marjorie only stared, open-eyed, at this nonsense.

"Well, anyway, it's all over now; so bundle your belongings back where they belong and get yourself ready for a drive."

Marjorie flew to obey, but meeting Grandma in the hall, she dropped her dressful of books and toys, and flung herself into Mrs. Sherwood's waiting arms.

"Oh, Grandma!" she cried. "I AM so sorry I slam-banged upstairs, and I'll never do it again, and I had a perfectly awful, DREADFUL time, but of course you had to punish me for your own good,—I mean for my own good,—but now it's all over, and you love me just the same, don't you?"

The ardent embrace in progress left no doubt of the affection still existing between the pair, and if Marjorie's hugs were of the lovingly boisterous variety, Grandma Sherwood appeared quite willing to submit to them.

"I don't know," she thought to herself, after Marjorie had gone for her drive, "whether that child is impervious to discipline or whether she is unusually capable of receiving and assimilating it."

But at any rate, Marjorie never went up or down the front stairs again, except on the occasions when it was distinctly permissible.

The drive with Uncle Steve was a succession of delights. This was partly because it was such a sudden and pleasant change from the abominable staircase and partly because Uncle Steve was such an amiable and entertaining companion.

The two were alone in an old-fashioned, low basket-phaeton; and Uncle Steve was willing to stop whenever Marjorie wished, to note an especially beautiful bird on a neighboring branch or an extra-fine blossom of some wild flower.

Also, Uncle Steve seemed to know the names of all the trees and flowers and birds they chanced to see. Greatly interested in these things, Marjorie learned much nature-lore, and the lessons were but play. Tying the horse to a fence, the two cronies wandered into the wood and found, after much careful search, some Indian Pipes of an exquisite perfection. These fragile, curious things were Marjorie's great delight, and she carried them carefully home for her Memory Book.

"They won't be very satisfactory as mementoes," warned Uncle Steve, "for they will turn brown and lose their fair, white beauty."

Marjorie looked regretful, but an inspiration came to her.

"I'll tell you what, Uncle Steve, I'll get Stella to draw them in my book and paint them. She's so clever at copying flowers, and I'm sure she can do it."

"Let her try it, then, and if she doesn't succeed I'll photograph them for you, so you'll have at least a hint of the lovely things."

Hand in hand they walked through the wood, spying new beauties here and there. Sometimes they sat on a fallen log to rest a bit or to discuss some new marvel in Nature's kingdom.

At last, as the sun was sinking low in the west, they left the wood, untied old Betsy, who was patiently waiting for them, and jogged along homeward.

"Punishment is a strange thing," said Marjorie to Grandma, as they were having their little "twilight talk" that evening, before the child went to bed.

"Why?" asked Grandma.

"Because it makes you remember," said Marjorie, slowly; "I don't see why I couldn't remember to keep off the Front Stairs, just because you told me to, but somehow I couldn't. Now, after to-day, I'm sure I shall never forget again."

"That's the difference, my child, between youth and age. You are young and careless of other people's wishes. I want you to learn to consider others before yourself, and to remember to do so without a dreadful punishment to fix it in your memory."

"It's lucky, isn't it, that I don't get punished for all the naughty things I do? It would keep me busy being punished most of the time."

"You ARE a mischievous child, Marjorie; but your mischief is always the result of carelessness or forgetfulness. I have never known you purposely to disobey me or deliberately to cut up some naughty trick."

"No, I don't, Grandma; often I'm being just as good as an angel and as quiet as a mouse, when suddenly something pops into my head that would be fun to do; and I fly and do it, before I think, and just about every time it's something wrong!"

"Then suppose you try to act more slowly. When you think of some piece of fun, pause a moment, to make sure that it isn't mischief. There's quite enough innocent fun in the world to keep you busy all day, and every day."

"I 'spect there is; and truly, Grandma, after this, when I want to cut up jinks, I'll wait until I can think it out, whether they're good jinks or bad jinks! Will that do?"

"That will do admirably," said Grandma, smiling as she kissed the little girl; "if you go through life on that principle and if you have judgment enough—and I think you have—to tell 'good jinks' from 'bad jinks,' you will probably have plenty of good times without any necessity for punishment."

"Then that's all right," said Marjorie, and feeling that her life problems were all settled, she dropped off to sleep.

CHAPTER XI

THE DUNNS

"Marjorie," said Mrs. Sherwood, one morning, "do you know where Mrs.

Dunn lives?"

"Yes, Grandma; down the river-road, toward the blacksmith's."

"Yes, that's right; and I wish you would go down there for me and carry a small basket. There isn't any one else I can send this morning and I have just heard that she is quite ill."

"They're awfully poor people, aren't they? Are you sending them something nice?"

"Yes; some food. Mrs. Dunn scalded her hands severely last night, and I fear she will not be able to work for several days. So if you will carry them these things for their dinner, I will try to get down there myself this afternoon."

"Of course I will, Grandma; I'm glad to help the poor people. May I ask

Molly to go with me?"

"Why, yes; I don't care. If there are two of you, you can carry more things. Run over after her, and I'll have the baskets ready by the time you get back."

With a hop and a skip, Marjorie took the shortcut across the fields to Molly's house. It was a beautiful summer morning, and Marjorie didn't stop more than half a dozen times, to watch the crows or the bees or the clouds or a hop-toad.

She captured Molly, and after waiting for that dishevelled young person to scramble into a clean frock, the two girls hopped and skipped back again.

Marjorie was somewhat inexperienced in the practical matters of charity, and looked with surprise at the large quantity of substantial viands.

"There is a large family of the Dunns," observed Grandma, "and they're all blessed with healthy appetites. These things won't go to waste."

"Are there children?" asked Marjorie.

"Yes, indeed, four of them. You must see how Mrs. Dunn is and find out if she's badly hurt. Ask her what she wants especially, and tell her I am coming this afternoon, and I'll carry it to her."

The girls trotted away with the well-filled baskets, and Grandma Sherwood looked after them a little uncertainly, as she saw how preoccupied they were in their own conversation, and remembered how careless Marjorie was, and how prone to mischief.

"Thim scalawags'll be afther havin' a picnic wid thim baskets," prophesied Eliza, as she too watched the children's departure.

Grandma Sherwood laughed. "I hardly think they'll do that," she said; "but they're liable to set down the baskets, and go hunting for wild flowers or something, and never think of their errand again."

But, on the contrary, the children were quite interested in their mission.

"Your grandma is an awful good woman," observed Molly.

"Yes, she is," agreed Marjorie; "it's lovely of her to send all these good things to poor people. It must be awful to be so poor that you don't have enough to eat!"

"Yes, but it must be lovely when the baskets come in."

"But they don't always come in," said Marjorie.

"They must," declared Molly, with an air of conviction; "if they didn't, the poor people would have nothing to eat, and then they would die; and you know yourself, we never hear of anybody dying of starvation around here."

"No; not around here, maybe. But in China they drop off by millions, just from starvation."

"Well, they wouldn't if your grandmother was there. She'd send baskets to every one of them."

"I believe she would," said Marjorie, laughing; "she'd manage it somehow."

By this time they had reached the Dunns' domain. At least they had come to a broken-down gate in a tumble-down fence, which Marjorie knew was the portal of their destination. In their endeavors to open the rickety gate the girls pushed it over, and nearly fell over, themselves.

But carefully holding their baskets they climbed over the pile of fallen pickets and followed the grass-grown path to the house.

And a forlorn enough house it was. Everything about it betokened not only poverty but shiftlessness. Marjorie was not experienced enough to know how often the former is the result of the latter, and her heart was full of pity for people who must live in such comfortless surroundings. The little old cottage was unpainted, and the front porch was in such a dilapidated condition that one step was entirely missing and several floor-boards were gone.

"It's like walking a tight-rope," said Marjorie, as she picked her way carefully along what she hoped was a sound plank. "But it's rather exciting. I wonder if we can get in."

There was no bell, and she tapped loudly on the door.

Almost instantly it was opened by a child whose appearance almost made

Marjorie scream out with laughter.

A little girl of about ten, dressed in a bright pink skirt and a bright blue waist, stood before them. This startling color combination was enhanced by a red sash, which, though faded in streaks, was wide and tied at the back in a voluminous bow. The girl's naturally straight hair had apparently been urged by artificial means to curl in ringlets, but only a part of it had succumbed to the hot iron. The rest fairly bristled in its stiff straightness, and the whole mop was tied up with a large bow of red ribbon.

This rainbow-hued specimen of humanity opened the door with a flourish and bowed to the visitors with an air of extreme elegance.

Marjorie looked at her in astonishment. The gorgeous trappings and the formal demeanor of the child made her think she must have mistaken the house.

"Is this Mrs. Dunn's house?" she inquired, with some hesitation.

"Yes; I'm Miss Dunn," said the child, with such a ridiculous air of affectation that Molly giggled outright.

"Yes," Miss Dunn went on, "I am the eldest daughter. My name is Ella.

They call me the Elegant Ella, but I don't mind."

"I am Marjorie Maynard and Mrs. Sherwood is my grandmother. She heard your mother was ill and she sent her these baskets."

"How kind of her!" exclaimed the Elegant Ella, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes. "Won't you come in?"

As Marjorie and Molly had been with difficulty balancing themselves on the broken boards of the porch, they were glad to accept the invitation.

Their first glance at the interior of the cottage showed that the rest of the family and the ways of the house did not at all harmonize with the manner and appearance of the eldest daughter.

Everything was of the poorest, and there was no attempt at order or thrift.

Mrs. Dunn sat in a rockerless rocking-chair, her left hand wrapped in bandages and her right hand holding a book which she was reading.

As the girls entered she threw the book on the floor and smiled at them pleasantly.

"Walk right in," she said, "and take seats if you can find any. Hoopsy Topsy, get off that chair this minute and give it to the ladies! Dibbs, you lift Plumpy out of the other one, quick! There! Now you girls set down and rest yourselves! Did you bring them baskets for us? Lawsee! What a good woman Mis' Sherwood is, to be sure! Now ain't that just like her! She's so kind and gen'rous-hearted that she makes it a pleasure fer folks to get all scalted with hot water! Ella, you fly round and empty them baskets so's the young ladies can take them home again. But you set a while, girls, and visit."

"Are you much hurt, Mrs. Dunn?" asked Marjorie. "And how did it happen?"

"Hurt! Land sakes, I guess I am! Why, the hull kittle of boilin' water just doused itself on my hand and foot!"

"That's why Ma didn't rise to greet you," explained the Elegant Ella, and again Molly had hard work to keep her face straight as she noted the girl's comical efforts at etiquette.

"Aw, you keep still, Ella," said her mother; "you ain't got no call to talk to the young ladies."

But although Mrs. Dunn apparently tried to subdue her elegant daughter, yet it was plain to be seen that she greatly admired the flower of the family, and spoke thus merely from a pretended modesty.

"Ella's so fond of dress," said Mrs. Dunn, "that she jest don't hev time to bother with housekeepin'. So Hoopsy Topsy does it, and that's why we ain't so slick as we might be. But fer a child of eight, I must say Hoopsy Topsy does wonderful well."

Mrs. Dunn's pride in her offspring was unmistakable, and Hoopsy Topsy, who quite understood she was being complimented, smiled and looked happily self-conscious.

The novelty of the scene quite fascinated Marjorie. She had expected that abject poverty would leave its victims a despondent, down-hearted set of people; and instead of that she found them not only pleasant and amiable, but seemingly happy and care-free.

"My grandmother said, Mrs. Dunn," said Marjorie, "that if you would tell me of anything you specially want she would come this afternoon and bring it to you."

"My! ain't she good!" said Mrs. Dunn. "Well, if she don't mind, I'd like some old linen to wrap around the burns. You see, I am scalted pretty bad and it'll be a while 'fore I kin get to work again. But, of course, the children are right handy, an' ef we jest have a stove an' a bed we can scratch along somehow. Ella, she's more hifalutin. She'd like red plush sofys and lace curtings. But I say, 'Land, child! What's the use of worrying? If you can't have them things, you can't!' So, Ella, she makes the best of what she has, and I must say she doos have wonderful fine taste."

Marjorie looked at the Elegant Ella, and, though she didn't agree with Mrs. Dunn as to Ella's taste, she felt sorry for the poor child, who wanted the refinements of life, yet was doomed to live without them.

"It is of no consequence," said Ella, tossing her head; "we are very comfortable; and though I should like a piano, I am in no haste to procure one."

"Lucky you ain't," observed her mother, "as I don't see none runnin' this way. What's the matter, Dibbsy dear?"

Dibbs, who was a baby of four years, was sitting on the floor digging both his fists into his eyes. And though not audibly crying, he evidently was not entirely happy.

"Wants to know what's in de bastick!" he announced without hesitation.

"So you shall," declared his fond mother. "Hoopsy Topsy, lift Dibbs up so he can see what the young ladies brought."

Nothing loath, Hoopsy Topsy lifted up her brother, who at once forgot his grief, and, smiling broadly, began to investigate the baskets.

"Land sake, Ella," said Mrs. Dunn, "I told you to empty them baskets long ago. Whatever have you been a-doin' all this time?"

"I was retying my sash, Ma," exclaimed Ella, reappearing from the next room; "I think it has more of an air tied on the side."

"Ain't she the airy piece!" exclaimed the proud mother, looking at her daughter with undisguised admiration.

But it seemed to Molly and Marjorie that, if anything could be funnier than the Ella who first met them, it was the Ella of the retied sash!

Having arranged her finery to her satisfaction, Ella proceeded with her work of taking the things from the baskets, and, as she lifted out a large piece of cold beef, a delicious pie, some tea and sugar, and various parcels of bread and butter, and a jar of apple-sauce, the little Dunns all gathered round, quite unable to refrain from noisy expressions of glee and delight.

"Jiminy Christmas!" cried Hoopsy Topsy, quite upsetting Dibbs as she made a rush for the pie. And then Plumpy, the baby, wiggled his fat little self across the floor and joined the crowd about the pie, and aided by the Elegant Ella, in a few moments there wasn't any pie at all.

"Just look at them," said Mrs. Dunn, placidly; "you'd think they didn't have no manners! But they're that fond of pie, you wouldn't believe! They don't never get none, you know, and so it's a novelty."

"We'd like it if we had it every day," announced Hoopsy Topsy, with her mouth full.

"Pie ev'y day!" agreed Dibbs, as he contentedly munched his piece. The whole scene made a great impression on the two visitors, but they were affected quite differently. Marjorie felt a strong inclination to get away as soon as she could, for, though she felt very sorry for the poor people and was glad to give them things, yet the situation was not at all attractive, and having done her errand, she was quite ready to go.

Not so Molly. That active and energetic young person was dismayed at the untidiness and discomfort all about, and felt a strong desire at least to alleviate it.

"Mrs. Dunn," she said, "of course with your injured hand and foot you can't sweep. Mayn't I just take a broom and brush up a little? You'd be so much more comfortable."

"Land sakes, child, 'taint fer you to be sweepin' our house! Ella here, she can sweep; and Hoopsy Topsy's a good fist at it."

"I shall tidy up the room to-morrow," said Ella, with an air of haughty apology, "but to-day I have a hat to trim and I can't be bothered with household matters."

"Ella's just great on trimmin' hats," observed her mother, "and Mis' Green, she giv' her her last year's straw; and Ella, she'll trim it up so Mis' Green herself couldn't recognize it!"

Marjorie didn't doubt this in the least, and as Molly's suggestion had put an idea into her own head, she began to look upon an acquaintance with the Dunns as a new sort of entertainment.

CHAPTER XII

THE BAZAAR

"Mrs. Dunn," Marjorie said, "please let Molly and me fix up this room a little bit. Now, I'll tell you what: you and the children take these baskets of things out into the kitchen and put them away, or eat them, or do what you please. And then you all stay out there until we tell you you may come back. Ella can trim her hat if she chooses, and Hoopsy Topsy can take care of the children, and you can go on with your reading which we interrupted."

"Now, ain't you kind," said Mrs. Dunn; "I do declare that would be jest lovely! I ain't had a good rest like that in I don't know when! Hoopsy Topsy, you and Ella'll have to shove me out in this here chair. I can hobble some, but I can't walk."

With the children's assistance, Mrs. Dunn was transferred to the other room, her children followed, and Midge and Molly were left to their own devices.

"It's hopeless," said Marjorie, as she looked around at the untidy room.

"Not a bit of it!" declared Molly; "if I only had a decent broom instead of this old stub! Now, I'll sweep, Mopsy, and you find something that'll do for a duster, and we'll straighten up the place in less than no time."

Molly was a brave little housekeeper, and though Marjorie knew less about it, she was an apt pupil, and the whole performance seemed great fun. In less than an hour the two girls had quite transformed the room. Everything was clean and tidy, and Marjorie had scampered out and picked a bunch of daisies and clover to decorate the mantel.

"They haven't any pretty things," she said, as she scowled at the effect of her bouquet in an old cracked jar. "I'll tell you what, Molly, let's come back to-morrow and bring some little traps to decorate with. I can spare a number of things out of my own room; and Grandma will give me some, I know; and Uncle Steve will give me some, too."

"Yes, I can bring a lot," said Molly, with enthusiasm; "let's make this family all over. Let's make them be neat and tidy and thrifty."

"Do you suppose we can?" said Marjorie, doubtfully.

"Well, we can try," said Molly. "Now let's call them in, and then let's go home. It must be dinner-time, and I'm nearly starved."

They opened the door and found the Dunn family apparently happy and contented; and in no wise disturbed by the unusual occupation of their visitors.

"Come in," cried Marjorie, "come in all of you, and see how nice your room looks!"