A SAFE AND SANE FOURTH
"The three-legged race is what I'm dying to see," Amy declared. "It
sounds so mysterious, you know, like some new kind of quadruped. No, I
don't mean that," she added hastily, as Peggy laughed. "Quadrupeds have
to have four legs, don't they? Well, anyway, it sounds like something
queer."
The village celebration of the approaching Fourth of July had for some
days been the chief topic of conversation in Dolittle Cottage. The idea
of a picnic, with the whole community invited, was in itself a startling
innovation to girls who were city-bred, and the entertainment promised
in the shape of various contests, winding up with a baseball game
between the "Fats" and the "Leans" appealed to them all, more or less
strongly. Peggy, with that faculty for picking up information which
would have made her an unqualified success as a newspaper reporter, was
continually announcing new items of interest, that Farmer Cole's Joe was
to pitch for the "Leans," or that Jerry Morton had won the potato race
the previous Fourth, and meant to enter again, or that Rosetta Muriel
disdained the promiscuous appeal of the picnic, but thought she might
bring herself to view the fireworks in the evening.
The morning of the third was for the most part given up to preparing the
picnic luncheon, and Jerry Morton, who sampled Peggy's doughnuts still
hot from the kettle, carried away a new-born respect for the
accomplishments of that versatile young person. Mrs. Snooks, too,
arriving when the house was fragrant with the mingled odors of blueberry
turnovers, spiced cake and gingersnaps, sniffed appreciatively, and lost
no time in expressing her surprise.
"Well, I want to know. I've heard tell that city folks most generally
bought their cake and stuff, instead of baking it. Dreadful shiftless
way, I call it. I just dropped in to see if you could let me have half a
pail of lard and a table-spoonful of soda."
Even the generous Peggy rejoiced that the opportunity to say no had
arrived at last.
"I've just used up the last of the lard, Mrs. Snooks, and we haven't
thought to get any soda yet."
"You don't mean to tell me that you've been getting along without
baking-soda," exclaimed Mrs. Snooks with unconcealed disappointment.
"Well, well! Young folks are certainly thoughtless. And here you've used
up all your lard, and to-morrow the Fourth, and the store shut." From
all appearances Mrs. Snooks was having something of a struggle to
control her irritation at such evidences of short-sightedness. It was
clear, however, that her efforts had been crowned with success, when she
announced with an explosive sigh, "Well, if you haven't lard or
baking-soda, I'll take a cup of granulated sugar, and a ball of darning
cotton. Yes, black, I guess, though if you're out of black, 'most any
color will do."
It was certainly disappointing when after such preparations and
anticipations, the girls were waked on the morning of the Fourth by the
beating of rain on the roof. The most optimistic of weather prophets
could have seen no promise of clearing in the lowering sky. The girls
had roused a little early, in honor of the occasion, and they came
down-stairs with gloomy faces, and over the oatmeal and bacon exchanged
condolences. "To think that the first really rainy day had to be the
Fourth," scolded Priscilla. "And when we had made up our minds to be so
patriotic, too."
"And that three-legged race," mourned Amy. "Probably I'll never get a
chance to see another. Peggy, I warn you that when you look
so--preposterously cheerful, it makes me feel like throwing something."
Peggy laughed, and helped herself to toast. "I was only thinking that if
we were going to keep the Fourth of July indoors, we'd have to have a
flag of some sort."
"You don't mean you'd go three miles in this rain after a flag, Peggy.
And, anyway, the store would be closed for the Fourth."
"Oh, I didn't mean to buy one. I thought we'd make it."
"Make a flag!" exclaimed Claire Fendall. "Who ever heard of such a
thing?"
"Betsy Ross did it," Peggy reminded her. "Let's us hurry through the
dishes and see if we can't do as much."
Even though the prospect of emulating Betsy Ross was an unsatisfactory
substitute for the anticipated excitements of the day, Peggy's
suggestion was noticeably successful in raising the drooping spirits of
the crowd. The work of the morning was dispatched in haste, and the
girls flocked to the living-room where a fire less ambitious than their
first attempt had been kindled on the hearth. Peggy had produced a
large-sized white towel from her trunk, and she at once began to explain
her plan.
"This will do for a foundation, girls. It's soft and it will drape
nicely. Now all we need is a blue patch in one corner, and red stripes.
Who's got any red ribbon?"
"I've got that red ribbon I use for a sash," responded Amy. "But I'd
hate to have it cut."
"Oh, we won't need to cut it. You see, this flag is going to be draped
over the fireplace, so its shortcomings won't be in evidence, and we'll
turn the ribbon on the side that doesn't show. Bring me all the red
ribbons in the house. Amy's sash won't be enough."
So with much animated discussion, the flag grew apace. Nobody was
exactly sure whether the outer stripe should be red or white, and for
economical reasons, Peggy decided on the latter. "We'll begin with
white, girls, for that will make seven white stripes and only six red
ones. And we've got plenty of white towel, while red ribbon is a little
scarce."
Another perplexing question arose when Peggy had sacrificed the dark
blue sailor collar of an old blouse, to form the blue field in the upper
corner of the flag. "Now we can cut white stars out of paper and sew
them on," exclaimed Peggy, standing back to admire her handiwork. "How
many are there, anyway?"
Nobody was able to answer. Peggy gazed around the circle with a mingling
of indignation and incredulity.
"What! All of us high school girls and not know how many states there
are in the Union! This is really awful. Aunt Abigail, _you_ must
know."
"Dear me, child," replied Aunt Abigail serenely, "I have an impression
that there were in the neighborhood of thirty-six at the time of the
Centennial Exposition. And since then I've lost track."
"I wonder if we could count them up," mused Peggy, wrinkling her
forehead. "Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont--"
"What's the use?" protested Amy. "Who counts the stars on the flag,
anyway? We'll crowd in forty or fifty, enough to pretty well cover the
blue, and it will look all right."
Ruth had a suggestion to offer. "As long as this is a sort of Betsy Ross
flag, why not have thirteen stars, just as she had?"
As this proposal afforded a satisfactory solution to the difficulty, the
thirteen stars were promptly cut from white paper and sewed in place,
and the finished flag was draped above the fireplace. Peggy's
anticipations in regard to its shortcomings had been realized. The red
stripes were not of uniform width, or of the same shade, and the blue
field was a trifle small in proportion to the size of the flag, owing to
the limitations of the original sailor collar. Yet when it was in place,
with the stripes composed of Dorothy's hair-ribbons drawn up
artistically, so that the wrinkles didn't show, the effect was most
impressive. And along with their pride in their success, the girls
experienced that indescribable thrill which is the heart's response to
the challenge of our national emblem.
"Now, girls," Peggy was looking at the clock, "we've got time for just
one thing more before we start to get dinner. Each one of us must write
a patriotic conundrum, and then we'll put them around at each other's
plates, and we'll have to guess them before we can eat a mouthful."
The girls groaned in a dismay half real, half assumed. "I don't see how
a conundrum _can_ be patriotic," objected Claire.
"Oh, if it's about your native land, or George Washington, or the flag,
it'll do," conceded Peggy, and the words were hardly out of her mouth
when Amy made a dart for the writing desk. "Oh, let me have a pencil,
quick," she begged, "before I forget it."
"You don't mean that you've thought of one already!" Ruth cried, but the
radiant satisfaction on Amy's countenance was answer enough. With an
expression of mingled wonder and envy, Ruth found a pencil and scrap of
paper, and set to work to produce her own conundrum in the allotted half
hour. With the exception of Amy, none of the girls could boast of any
inspiration for the task. Every face wore an expression of stern and
relentless absorption, in striking contrast to Amy's air of carefree
content.
The ample provision made for a picnic dinner the previous day rendered
the preparation of the midday meal unusually easy, and the girls
gathered at the dinner-table less eager to sample the pressed meat and
potato chips than to examine the folded slips of paper placed under each
plate. Peggy was the first to unfold hers.
"Why is Peggy like Betsy Ross?" she read aloud. "Oh, Amy Lassell! No
wonder it only took a half minute." Her tone was reproachful, but Amy
beamed upon the company with no decrease of complacency.
"That's what I call a good conundrum," she declared; "it's patriotic,
and it's easy to guess. The trouble with most conundrums is that nobody
can guess them except the people who make them."
"That's the case with this one, I think," said Aunt Abigail,
scrutinizing her conundrum through her lorgnette. "What do you make of
this? At the top of the paper are the letters W. P. H. and underneath is
the question 'Why are these letters like the Father of his country?'"
It was some time before any ray of light was thrown on this dark
mystery. "Whoever made it up will have to explain it," Amy declared for
the tenth time. "It's Peggy, of course, for she hasn't helped in the
guessing. Now, my conundrum--"
"Wait," cried Priscilla, sitting up suddenly, "I know. First in war--"
"To be sure _W_ is first in war, and _P_ first in peace. A
little far-fetched, but not bad for a beginner," said Aunt Abigail
patronizingly, while Ruth patted Priscilla's tall head, not without
difficulty, and Amy read aloud. "'What is the most important of the
United States?' New York, I suppose, though of course I like my own
state lots better."
"No, it's _matrimony_." In her haste to explain, Ruth forgot to
wait for the guesses that might come nearer the mark. "But I can't see
that it's particularly patriotic, though it is about our native land,
and I'm dreadfully afraid it's not so very original."
"Original enough. Even in Solomon's time there was nothing new under the
sun," Peggy consoled her. "Now, Priscilla." But Priscilla had colored
fiercely on unfolding her paper and crumpled it in her hand. Even if she
had not instantly recognized the handwriting she would have had no
difficulty in ascribing the sentiment to its rightful source.
"Who is it that I love better than my native land? Can my dearest
Priscilla guess?"
"Read yours, Claire," Peggy said hastily, interrupting Amy who was about
to protest against the suppression of a single conundrum, and Claire
read obediently, "Why was Martha Washington like the captain of a ship?"
It was Peggy who distinguished herself by suggesting, "Because
Washington was her second mate," and Priscilla, whose flushed cheeks
were rapidly regaining their natural hue, pronounced the answer correct.
"Rather suspicious," Amy declared. "Priscilla guesses Peggy's, and
Peggy, Priscilla's. Looks as if it was all fixed up beforehand. Well,
Ruth, yours is the last."
The last conundrum proved to be the most puzzling. "What battle of the
Revolution is like a weather-cock?" Various explanations of the
mysterious affinity were offered, and each in turn rejected. Aunt
Abigail, the author, was finally appealed to.
"Why, dear me!" Aunt Abigail smiled upon the circle of interested faces.
"I haven't the slightest idea, but I was sure that if _any_ battle
of the Revolution was the least bit like a weather-cock, one of you
smart young folks would find it out."
After this auspicious beginning, the cheeriness of the midday meal was
in pleasing contrast to the gloom of breakfast. Even Amy forgot to mourn
over missing the three-legged race, and Ruth, who, under Graham's
tutelage, had become an ardent devotee of baseball, was reconciled to
her failure to witness the unique contest between the Fats and the
Leans. The morning had passed so rapidly, and so pleasantly on the
whole, that every one was inclined to be hopeful regarding the remainder
of the day, and to wait with tranquillity the further unfoldment of
Peggy's plans.
When dinner was over, the dining-room in order, and the last shining
dish replaced on the cupboard shelves, expectant eyes turned in Peggy's
direction, as if to ask "What next?" And Peggy, as was her custom,
promptly rose to the occasion.
"Now for this afternoon--"
A reverberating rap immediately behind her, caused Peggy to turn with a
start and throw open the door, whereupon the figure on the step entered
without waiting for an invitation. It was Jerry Morton, but a Jerry
startlingly unlike his every-day self. Even the fact that he was
dripping with rain could not obscure the magnificence of his toilet,
including very pointed tan shoes, and a hand-painted necktie. Under his
coat was partially concealed some bulging object which gave him an
appearance singularly unsymmetrical.
Peggy was the first to recover herself. "Why, good afternoon, Jerry. But
I guess we shan't want any fish to-day."
"You don't suppose I'd sell fish on the Fourth, do you?" demanded Jerry
with the impressive scorn of a patriot misjudged. "I thought maybe you'd
like--like a little music, seeing it's raining cats and dogs." He had
thrown apart his soaked coat as he spoke, and the bulging object proved
to be a banjo, in a little flannel case, which Jerry hastily removed,
twanging the strings of the instrument in his anxiety to ascertain the
effect of the dampness on their constitution.
"Music! Why, that's very nice of you, Jerry. Come into the next room and
let me introduce you to Mrs. Tyler." Peggy was a little in doubt as to
the light in which Aunt Abigail would regard this unceremonious call
from the youthful fish-vender. But the shrewd old lady was familiar with
the customs of too many lands, not to be able to accommodate herself to
the democratic simplicity of a country community. She gave Jerry her
hand, insisted that he should take a seat by the fire, where his damp
clothing would gradually dry, and forthwith called for "Dixie." And
hardly was the stirring melody well under way before the girls were
keeping time with toes and fingers, and a general animation was
replacing the temporary frigidity induced by Jerry's advent. Jerry
really played surprisingly well, and on a stormy day such an
accomplishment stands its possessor in good stead.
But it was not left to Jerry to uphold the reputation of the community
for sociability. The ringing of the front-door bell interrupted "The
Suwannee River," and Peggy, who was nearest the door, jumped up to
answer the summons, while Hobo, a little ahead of her as usual, stood
with his nose to the crack, gravely attentive, as if to satisfy himself
as to the intentions of the new arrival. This time the open door
revealed Rosetta Muriel, struggling to lower a refractory umbrella, with
her hat tipped rakishly over one eye.
"Why, how do you do?" exclaimed Peggy, attempting to conceal her
surprise under an effusive cordiality. "Come right in." But Rosetta
Muriel was not to be hurried. She closed her umbrella, righted her hat,
and began fumbling in a little beaded bag which dangled from her wrist.
All the heads were turned wonderingly toward the open door before she
produced the object of her search, a gilt-edged card, upon which was
written with many elaborate flourishes, "Miss Rosetta Muriel Cole."
Peggy gazing upon this work of art, began to realize the importance of
the occasion. Rosetta Muriel was making a call. "Will you walk in?"
Peggy repeated, this time with proper decorum, and the caller entered
and was presented to each of the company in order.
"Pleased to meet you," said Rosetta Muriel, primly, in acknowledgment of
each introduction, but when Jerry's turn came, both she and Peggy varied
from the usual formula. "Of course you know Jerry Morton," Peggy said,
and Rosetta Muriel admitted the impeachment, with the stiffest of bows.
If not pleased at meeting Jerry, it was evident that she was surprised
to find him in Dolittle Cottage, and apparently quite at home.
The music ceased temporarily and conversation took its place. Rosetta
Muriel, invited to lay aside her hat, declined with dignity and
commented on the weather. After full justice had been done to that
serviceable theme, Peggy introduced another.
"We've met such a nice girl several times when we've been picking
berries. I suppose you know her?--Lucy Haines."
"I know who you mean," replied Rosetta Muriel coldly. "She ain't in
society, you know."
"Not in--"
"Not in society," firmly repeated Rosetta Muriel. "She used to come to
my house sometimes, but that was before I came out. After you come out
you've got to be more careful about who you associate with."
An awestruck silence followed the enunciation of this social law, and
Rosetta Muriel addressed herself to Priscilla, whose aristocratic
bearing seemed to impress her favorably. "Do you know Mrs. Sidney
Dillingham?"
Priscilla stared at this familiar mention of one of the society leaders
in her own city. "Why, I never met her, if that's what you mean. I know
her by sight. I've seen her at several concerts."
"I suppose you know she's entertaining Sir Albert Driscoll at her
Newport house this summer. Quite a feather in her cap, ain't it?"
Priscilla replied with a gasp that she supposed it was, and looked
appealingly at Peggy. Peggy's responsive attempt to bring the
conversation back to normal levels, proved quite unsuccessful. Rosetta
Muriel was determined to impress her new acquaintances with her
knowledge of customs of the Four Hundred, and indeed it was evident that
she had studied the society columns of the New York papers, with an
industry worthy a better cause. Peggy at length grew desperate.
"As long as it's Fourth of July, wouldn't it be nice to sing some
patriotic songs? You can play 'America,' can't you, Jerry?"
"Well, I guess," said Jerry, with unfeigned relief, and he struck a
resounding chord. After Rosetta Muriel, and the atmosphere of tawdry
pretense surrounding her, it was a relief to every one to launch into
the splendid words,
"My country, 'tis of thee."
Amy, who did not know one tune from another, sang at the top of her
voice. Aunt Abigail hummed the air in a cracked soprano, with traces of
bygone sweetness. Priscilla's silvery notes soared flute-like above the
others, and even Rosetta Muriel joined after a brief hesitation,
probably due to her uncertainty as to whether this was customary in the
best society, on the occasion of a formal call.
"That went splendidly," declared Peggy, her face aglow, when the last
verse had filled the room with melody. "Now, what about 'The Star
Spangled Banner?' Can you play that, Jerry? It's a lot harder than the
other."
"You bet it's harder, but I can play it all right." Jerry instantly
proved his boast by striking the introductory chords, winding up with an
ambitious flourish. "Now," he said, with a nod, and the chorus burst out
lustily, Priscilla's voice leading.
"O, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming."
The chorus, strong on the first line, weakened on the second. Priscilla
sang through the third alone, and then came to a full stop. Jerry
drummed a few further chords, and broke off to demand, "What's the
matter?"
"Why, I've forgotten just how that goes," cried Priscilla. "What is the
next, anyway?"
After a protracted struggle, in which each girl racked her memory and
contributed such fragments as she could recall, four lines were patched
into comparative completeness. But, beyond this, their allied efforts
could not carry them. For the second time that day, Peggy included
herself in her stern denunciation.
"It's perfectly appalling. We didn't know how many states there were, we
didn't know about the stripes on the flag, and now we don't know 'The
Star Spangled Banner.' It's a disgrace. Not a single person in this room
knows 'The Star Spangled Banner.'"
"I do," said Jerry Morton.
"Oh, all right. You can teach it to the rest of us, then," declared
Peggy, and for the next hour the drilling went forward relentlessly. The
company repeated each verse in chorus till there was no sign of doubt or
hesitation, and then sang it through. When the verses had been mastered
separately, the entire song was rendered with telling effect. Aunt
Abigail clapped her hands.
"I've often wondered why the English and the Germans were so much better
posted on their national songs than we are. If all patriotic young
Americans took this sensible way of spending a rainy Fourth of July, our
critics would have one less arrow in their quiver."
The afternoon was well advanced, and Rosetta Muriel rose to make her
farewells, expressing an enjoyment which was perhaps a concession to her
sense of propriety, rather than a perfectly spontaneous expression of
feeling. Rosetta Muriel found the girls of Dolittle Cottage strangely
puzzling. She had prepared herself to meet these city visitors on their
own ground, and instead of holding her own, she had it all her own way.
Apparently she was the only one of the company who could claim with any
show of reason, to be an authority on the doings of the smart set.
After supper, while the rain still pounded unweariedly on the roof, Aunt
Abigail told the story of a high-spirited young ancestress, who had
lived back in the colonial times, and in the stirring days of '76 had
pitted her wits against one of King George's officers, and won from him
a concession which was perhaps equally a tribute to her beauty and her
brains. It was one of the stories which cannot be re-told too often,
full of the audacious courage of gallant youth, and the listening girls
felt a vicarious pride in the daring of their countrywoman of bygone
days. As for Amy, she straightened herself so as to give the effect of
having grown suddenly taller.
"_My_ ancestress," she observed with fitting pride. "How many times
my great-grandmother was she, Aunt Abigail? It's no wonder I'm a little
out of the ordinary."
In spite of a disheartening beginning, it had been a very satisfactory
Fourth. Up-stairs, as the girls made ready for bed, Ruth voiced the
general opinion. "For a safe and sane Fourth, it hasn't been half bad."
Peggy who had crossed the hall, to combine sociability with the ceremony
of taking down her hair, brushed her refractory locks with energy.
"I wish they'd never tacked that on to the Fourth of July," she said.
"So many things are safe and sane, darning stockings, for instance. The
Fourth of July ought to be a lot more. It ought to be jolly, and to
teach you something, and make you think. And this Fourth has come pretty
near all three."