THE FUN BEGINS
‟SAVED! I have fallen into a grotto!” exclaimed Millicent, dashing
through the hall and into the parlor, where she flung herself into a big
wicker rocker.
“What do you mean by that?” said Hester, who always liked to have
everything explained.
“Why, don’t you remember that ridiculous hero in one of Jules Verne’s
stories who fell thousands of miles down into the earth, and landed in a
beautiful grotto, which caused him delight but no surprise? Those are
exactly my sensations.”
“Well, your grotto is full of unused atmosphere. Let’s turn it out and
get some fresh.” And swish! up went the shades, and bang! up went the
windows, and in came the air and sunlight; and after eight girls had
flung down their hats and wraps and bags and bundles the place began to
look quite homelike.
“Here are the trunks and bicycles,” cried Helen, as a wagon stopped
before the cottage.
“Oh, dear,” said Marjorie, “we haven’t chosen our rooms yet! Two will
have to sleep downstairs. Who wants to?”
“I will,” said Betty. “I’m not afraid; are you, Jessie?”
“No, indeed!” And the Invincibles immediately appropriated the pretty
bedroom that opened off the parlor.
Haven’t I told you about these two girls yet? Well, Betty was fifteen, a
very tall girl, with that kind of tallness that is called overgrown. She
was fond of all outdoor sports, and strong, athletic, and muscular, she
strode through life regardless of conventions, but making friends as she
went. Jessie was of directly opposite type in most ways. A chubby little
maiden with a happy-go-lucky disposition, she had a positive genius for
getting her own way. Always amiable and acquiescent, and very generous,
she yet managed never to do anything she didn’t wish to do. She was a
frivolous little creature, devoted to finery and dress, but so winning
and affectionate that it was really impossible to interfere with her
wishes. And so Betty’s determination and Jessie’s persistency had won
them the name of the Invincibles, and whatever they agreed on always
came to pass. But as they rarely agreed on anything this was not so
disastrous as it might have been.
The social economy of the eight was very clearly defined. The Octave, as
they called themselves, divided very naturally into two quartets or four
duets whenever occasion required. And just now occasion did require; so,
leaving Betty and Jessie, the other six flew upstairs, and Marjorie and
Millicent took one room, Nan and Marguerite another, and Helen and
Hester the third, so that when the trunks were sent up they were put at
once where they belonged. The wheels were stacked in the hall—only five
of them, for Millicent, Nan, and Marguerite didn’t ride. Then the trunks
were unpacked, shelves divided fairly, hooks counted out, top bureau
drawers tossed up for, and the settling process had begun.
Soon Betty’s voice was heard from below: “Don’t fiddle with your finery
any longer now, girls; come on down and let’s see about supper.”
The six upstairs, feeling a responsive thrill, suspended operations at
once and skipped down.
Then they all flocked out to the kitchen, and great and joyous were the
exclamations of the Blue Ribbon Cooking Club when they beheld the
completeness of the furnishings thereof.
The old corner cupboard disclosed griddles and gridirons, saucepans and
frying-pans; rows of shining tins hung over the sink; egg-beaters and
syllabub-churns smiled out at them from the shelves; and a big fat
pudding-mold beamed a welcome from its corner.
Betty seized two tin kettle-covers, and, clashing them like cymbals,
broke into the club’s “battle-song,” which they sang on every possible
occasion. Marjorie played an accompaniment on the coffee-mill, Nan
whisked in some trills with the egg-beater, and they all sang:
Rub-a-dub-dub!
Rub-a-dub-dub!
Hurrah for the girls of the Blue Ribbon Club!
And whether we’re beating,
Or heating,
Or eating,
We always have fun at the Blue Ribbon Club!
A loud knock at the back door made them all jump.
“You go, Marjorie,” said Nan.
So Marjorie opened the door and faced again the persistent crowd of
venders. The Parkins butcher, the grocer, the baker, milkman,
vegetable-man, fish-man, all stood, beaming and expectant.
“The club will please come to order!” said Marjorie, turning to the
girls. “These claimants must be satisfied. _What_, ladies of the Blue
Ribbon Cooking Club, _what_, I ask you, do you want to eat?”
A serious silence fell on the crowd. They realized that at last they
must cope with the great question.
“We’ll divide forces and appoint committees,” went on the president.
“Betty, you and Jessie order the meat—whatever you like; Nan, do up the
baker; Marguerite, the milkman; Helen and Hester, reason with the
vegetarian; and Millikens and I will attend to the grocer.”
Nan soon despatched the baker with a standing order of two loaves per
day, subject to amendment. Marguerite discussed the milk problem at
length with good-natured old Farmer Hobbs, and wound up by deciding on
two quarts every morning, or three quarts if there was a clothes-pin on
the pail which he would find on the back steps; also a quart of cream
each morning, with a like understanding of the clothes-pin. “For,” said
the sagacious Matron, “what with whips and charlottes, we’ll need a lot
of cream.”
Helen and Hester decided they would attend to their department in an
orderly and systematic manner. Taking the index of a cookery-book for a
guide, they decided they would eat their vegetables alphabetically.
“Have you any artichokes?” said Hester.
“No, mum,” replied the man, looking as if she had asked for a
salamander.
“Any Brussels sprouts?” asked Helen.
“No, mum.”
“Any celery?”
“Yis, mum; fine celery indeed. Will ye look at it, mum?”
“We oughtn’t to have celery until day after to-morrow,” said Helen,
dubiously, as they went out to the wagon, “but I guess we’ll have to
give up the alphabet plan. Let’s order celery and potatoes. And oh, look
at that big pumpkin! Wouldn’t a pumpkin-pie be grand?”
“Gay,” said Hester. “We’ll take that—and that’s enough for to-day;
you’ll call to-morrow, won’t you?”
“Yis, mum,” replied the man; and when the purchases were deposited on
the kitchen table Helen and Hester felt proud of their choice.
Jessie had disappeared, but the stray notes of song floating out from
her room made it an open secret that the attractions of her trinkets and
fripperies had charmed her away from the culinary pastures. So Betty
faced the butcher alone. She was very decided and businesslike. “We want
meat for supper to-night,” said she, looking at Mr. Parkins’s card as if
for inspiration. “‘Beef, Veal, Mutton, Lamb, Pork, and Poultry’—h’m!
Well, we’ll begin at the beginning. Beefsteak, I think; you may send two
nice porterhouse-steaks, and please send them as soon as possible. Then
we’ll have a roast for to-morrow—a two-rib roast of beef; you may send
that to-morrow morning.” The butcher noted down her orders, and went
away.
Then the only committee still out was Marjorie and Millicent. When
Betty, having finished her course, turned to them, they were in a wild
state of excitement. They had decided to suggest things alternately,
while the grocer wrote the list.
The grocer was a lanky, raw-boned young man with bushy red hair, and,
seated in a chair with his pad and pencil, looked for all the world like
a district schoolmaster; while the two girls stood before him, looking
like a very animated spelling-match.
Marjorie, dancing on one foot, was twisting up the corners of her apron
into knots, which she tied and untied with unconscious rapidity.
Millicent stood firmly facing her, with folded arms and screwed-up
forehead.
“Flour,” said Marjorie.
“Butter,” said Millicent.
“Sugar,” said Marjorie.
“Salt,” said Millicent.
“Pepper.”
“Mustard.”
“Ketchup.”
“Sardines.”
“Olives.”
“Oh, we must get staples! Molasses.”
“Buckwheat.”
“No; we don’t want buckwheat. Kerosene.”
“Oh, yes; and candles.”
“Matches.”
“Starch.”
“We don’t need starch. Corn-starch.”
“Eggs.”
“Vanilla.”
“Worcestershire sauce.”
[Illustration: MARJORIE AND MILLICENT ORDERING THINGS ALTERNATELY.]
“Dear! I’m sure we’ve forgotten the most important things. Lard.”
“Rice.”
“We ought to have some canned things.”
“Well, let him bring what we’ve ordered, and then we can remember what
we’ve forgotten. Soap.”
“Ammonia.”
“Salad-oil.”
“Now one thing suggests another! Lemons.”
“Cheese.”
“Macaroni.”
“Macaroons.”
“He doesn’t keep those; the baker does. Don’t let’s order any more
things now; I’m all mixed up.”
Mr. Fenn went away well pleased with his order, and Millicent dropped
into a kitchen chair exhausted.
“Girls,” said Hester, “you’ve run up an awful big order; _do_ you
suppose it will cost all our money?”
“Oh, no,” said the wise and matronly Marguerite, shaking her halo; “and,
besides, most of those things won’t need to be ordered again; the
staples will last us all the time we’re here. Now when they bring the
bills I’ll fix up my accounts. I have a little red book, real Russia,
and I’ll have a page for each department. Are these committees standing
ones, Miss President?”
“Oh, _no!_” said Marjorie, “we’ll take turns at things. I don’t want to
order groceries again. I’m quite worn out.”
“Poor Margy! ‘Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,’” sang Nan,
catching Marjorie about the waist and dancing round the kitchen with
her.
“Oh, I am _so_ hungry!” pleaded Betty. “Can’t we get out the silver and
table-cloth and set the table now?”
“Yes, come on; I love to set a table,” said Nan. “But oh, _how_ I hate
to wash dishes! I thought we were going to have an Irish lady to do
that, eh, Marjorie?”
“Aunt Molly says there’s a nice Irish girl who lives up the beach
somewhere who would come and help us for a consideration. You and
Marguerite go and hunt her up. Her name is Rosie O’Neill.”
“Beautiful name!” said Nan.
“A lady named Rosie O’Neill
I’m sure will be loyal and leal;
Fulfilling our wishes,
She’ll wash up our dishes,
And our apples and onions she’ll peel.
There! we forgot to order apples.”
“Let’s have a slate on the kitchen table and write down orders whenever
they occur to us.”
“Come on, Matron; we’ll go and hunt the radiant Rosie. Where does she
live, Duchess?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Stop in and ask Aunt Molly; she’ll direct you.”
“’Tis well, O chief! We will return in triumph with our enchainèd
captive!”
“Now,” said Marjorie, as the door banged behind Nan and Marguerite,
“those rattle-pated girls are sure to get lost, and we’ll never see them
again. Meantime let’s get to work. We haven’t explored the cellar yet.
Perhaps the people who’ve been in the cottage all summer left a lot of
good things.”
Down cellar they went; but a thorough search revealed nothing of
interest but a basket of onions, a refrigerator, and an old trunk, which
attracted Hester’s attention at once.
“Why, that’s a real old English trunk!” she cried. “Where did it come
from? It’s locked, and the lock is all rusty. What do you find,
Marjorie?”
“Nothing but onions and flour; but the flour looks queer—I don’t
believe it’s good.”
“That isn’t flour, you goose; it’s Indian meal. It’ll be gay for
corn-bread.”
“Who can make corn-bread? _I_ can’t,” confessed Betty.
“Oh, yes, you can, if you try,” declared Marjorie. “Your cooking always
turns out all right. Now, as we’re going to have steak for supper, what
do you say to having fried onions? There are plenty here, and I do love
’em, don’t you?”
“Yes; and we never have them at home, they’re so—so intrusive. Let’s do
it!”
“All right, Betty; and as you’ve announced yourself Peeler, you can
begin your vocation. Oh, you’ve got a future before you!”
Betty looked a little dubious, but bravely picked up the basket, saying:
“Very well; I’ll peel them, if some one else will fry them.”
“I’ll fry them,” returned Marjorie. “In my capacity of chief cook I’ll
do all the cooking for this first supper. Now let me see; what are we
going to have?”
The others, as usual, all began to talk at once.
Marjorie seized a long iron spoon, and, rapping on the table, said:
“This meeting will please come to order. If you don’t we’ll never have
any supper. Now don’t all talk at once, but if you’ve any sensible
propositions to make, make them when you’re called on. Betty the Peeler,
have you any suggestions to offer?”
But Betty was speechless. She held a great pan filled with water in her
lap, in which the onions were bobbing up and down. She was peeling away
vigorously, but her eyes were very red and the tears were rolling down
her cheeks.
“‘With a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye,’” quoted Marjorie,
laughing.
“She’s more like Niobe—_all_ tears,” said Helen; “come, Hester, let’s
wipe her weeping eyes for her”; and the two stationed themselves on
either side of Betty, with their handkerchiefs in readiness.
“Now!” said Helen,“left! right! left! right!” And they dabbed poor
Betty’s eyes so energetically that they were redder than ever.
“Clear out, girls, or you’ll soon weep with those that weep,” cried
Betty. “Go away; these are nearly done. Who’ll carry out the pan of
skins?”
“‘Oh, promise me—oh, _prom_ise me-e-e!’” came floating out from the
bedroom where Jessie was still arranging and rearranging her cherished
belongings.
“Jessie ought to do _some_ work,” said Millicent. “She’s too dainty and
dressy for any use. She ought to be disciplined. Let’s make her come out
here and be Scullery-maid.”
So they all crowded in at Jessie’s doorway, and found her sitting on the
floor by her open trunk, surrounded by laces and ribbons and fans, and
still musically begging the required promise.
“We’ll promise you nothing until you come out and do some work for it,”
said Marjorie. “So get up at once.” Then, picking up an elaborate little
Swiss apron, she tied its ribbons round Jessie’s waist. “There!” she
said. “Now you’re appropriately decorated, and I herewith appoint you
Scullery-maid of this institution. Now skip along and empty that pan of
onion-skins.”
“Oh, _don’t_ let her spoil that pretty apron,” said Hester the
practical, and she took off her own big gingham one and tied it over the
dainty affair.
“Is this a game?” said Betty, taking off her own apron and tying it over
Hester’s on Jessie.
Like a flash the three other aprons came off their owners and were piled
on the luckless Jessie—round her waist, round her neck, before and
behind, until Millicent declared she looked like Tweedledee prepared for
his fight with Tweedledum.
Good-natured Jessie trotted off with the pan, and on her return was
seized by Betty the Peeler, who peeled off the numerous aprons and
restored them to their owners.
[Illustration: “MILLICENT DECLARED SHE LOOKED LIKE TWEEDLEDEE PREPARED
FOR HIS FIGHT WITH TWEEDLEDUM.”]