APPLIED PHILANTHROPY
“DADDY, please fasten me up,” said Barbara.
The doctor thrust two large hands inside of her gown, in the man’s
way, using them as fulcrums over which to pull the fragile fabric with
all the force of two strong thumbs. “Pretty snug, isn’t it?” he said.
“Where are you going in your Sunday best?—mill or meeting?”
Barbara shook out the folds of her violet gown. “Meeting,” she
responded. “The Woman’s Club has asked me to give them a paper to-day.”
“The Woman’s Club! What has become of the A. L. L. A.?”
“The Auburn Ladies’ Literary Association is still in existence,
unfortunately. But it isn’t going to be long.”
“Why not?” asked her father.
“It’s going to have its name changed, if I have any influence with its
members,” said Barbara. “Isn’t it absurd for it to go on calling itself
‘_Ladies’_ Literary Association,’ just because it has been used to
the title for thirty years, when every other women’s organization in
the country is ‘Woman’s Club’? And ‘_Literary_’! Did you ever hear of
anything so pretentious! Nobody is literary nowadays, but Tolstoi and
Maeterlinck. Besides, the name debars the members from philanthropic
and civic work, which are the moving factors in all club life. I shall
certainly make an effort to have the other members change the name,
this very day.”
“You’d better keep your hands off,” laughed the doctor. “The A. L.
L. A. is Auburn’s Holy of Holies. What are you going to ‘stand and
deliver’ before it?”
“One of my college papers. I haven’t had time to write anything new
since the Duchess left. It’s on the ‘Psychology of the Child in
Relation to Club Work.’ I had to piece on half the title to make it
appropriate.”
The suspicion of a twinkle lurked about the doctor’s eyes. “Well, good
luck to you,” he said; “the Literary Association may not approve of
your paper, but it can’t find fault with your dress.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Jack. “That garb
is like all the rest of Barbara,—it’s too irritatingly new to pass
unscathed in Auburn. Is that churn effect the Umpire Style, Barb?”
“It can’t rouse any more criticism than it has already had,” said his
sister. “I shan’t care what they say about the gown, if they only hear
my message.”
* * * * *
With subdued swish of black silk skirts, and a decorous silencing
of whispers, the Auburn Ladies’ Literary Association came to order.
Barbara, with veiled amusement, looked about the familiar “parlors”
of the Presbyterian church. The standard and banner, with the legend
“Honor Class,” had been moved into a corner, the melodeon, stripped
of its green cover, stood in walnut nakedness on the platform,
and a sprawling bunch of carnations and a gavel ornamented the
superintendent’s desk. The map of Palestine, done in colored chalk, had
been partially erased from the blackboard at the head of the room, and
beneath it was written the following
PROGRAM
_Roll Call._ Answered by quotations from Shakespeare.
_Instrumental Solo._ “Murmuring Zephyrs.”
MISS MARTHA CRARY.
_Recitation._ “Queen of the Flowers.”
MISS HYPATIA HARRISON.
_Paper._ “Geo. Eliot’s Life, Character, and Position as a Novelist.”
MRS. ABBIE PENFOLD.
_Vocal Solo._ “Night Sinks on the Wave.”
MISS LIBBIE DARWIN.
_Address._ “The Literary Atmosphere of Our Club.”
MRS. ANGIE BANKSON.
_Readings._ { _a._ Macbeth.
{ _b._ Daisy’s Daisies.
MISS COLEMAN.
_Paper._ “Psychology of the Child in Relation to Club Work.”
MISS BARBARA PRENTICE GRAFTON.
“It’s to be hoped that Abbie’s and Angie’s are not so long as mine,”
thought Barbara, irreverently, “or there’ll be no one to put the
Grafton mackerel to soak to-night; to say nothing of all the winds and
waves that must be passed through before they come to me.”
It was the “wind and wave” part of the program that appealed to the
audience. The papers were accorded polite attention, as befitted
Auburn manners, but the musical numbers and readings were followed by
the subdued hum that is an expression of club delight. For Barbara,
the entire entertainment of the day was not furnished by the program.
Between the swaying fans she caught glimpses of Mrs. Enderby’s placid
face, relaxed in sleep; from the church kitchen came the rattle of
paper napkins and the clink of Miss Pettibone’s tray, and from the
rear of the room sounded, at intervals, the cough of Mrs. Crampton, a
genteel warning to speakers that their voices did not “carry.”
“Was there ever a human being more frightfully out of her element than
I am here!” thought Barbara. “If the House-Plant could only see Mrs.
Enderby! But she’s no more asleep than all the rest of them. What _am_
I going to do to wake them up!”
This thought was uppermost in her mind as the afternoon was tinkled
and applauded away. It was more than ever prominent as the precise,
ladylike voice of Mrs. Bankson was raised a half-tone higher in her
closing paragraph:—
“But, however, after all is said and done, it is the _literary_
atmosphere that makes our club what it is. The dearly-loved paths
that we have followed for many years have led us to lofty summits
and ever-widening vistas, but never away from our original goal. The
Ever-Womanly has always been our aim, and, while less substantial
ambitions have fluttered by on airy wing, and the thunder of the new
woman has rolled even upon our peaceful horizon, we have never faltered
in our footsteps.
“On, on we go in our devotion to literature. And, as one of the most
notable of our lady poets has so aptly expressed it,—
Still forever yawns before our eyes
An Utmost, that is veiled.”
A ladylike patter of applause, and a more active flutter of fans,
greeted the end of the speech. The back door creaked violently, and
Miss Pettibone’s round face appeared in the opening to see if time for
refreshment had come. It disappeared suddenly as Miss Coleman mounted
the platform to impersonate, first a bloody Macbeth, and then a swaying
field daisy. And, finally, Barbara Prentice Grafton and the Empire gown
faced the Literary Association.
Later, when she recalled the afternoon, Barbara was surprised to
remember how little of her original paper she had used. The triviality
of the program had supplied her with text enough, and the “Psychology
of the Child” was partially diverted into a sermon upon the aimlessness
of a purely literary club. In her earnestness she was carried beyond
caution.
“I call you to new things,” rang out her resolute voice, in conclusion.
“Literary effort in club life is outworn. You _can_ read your Homer
alone, but it takes concentrated, combined interest to accomplish the
_vital_ things of living. You have read too long. It is philanthropy we
need in Auburn,—civic improvement, educational effort that shall be for
the masses rather than our selfish selves. I call you to this. I ask
you to work with me for the good of our town and our people.”
The effect of Barbara’s personal magnetism was never more strongly
evidenced than by the genuine applause that greeted her effort. The
Literary Association might disapprove her theories and her violet
gown, but her sincerity was inspiring. The Auburn mothers caught the
contagion in her voice, and were interested, if not convinced.
There was a momentary pause as the applause subsided. Then Barbara said
earnestly: “I’m afraid I may have been too abstract in my statements.
But I have very definite ideas of what might be done in Auburn that
would be most beneficial to our children and ourselves. The crêche that
I spoke of is one of them. If any of you care to ask any questions, I
shall be glad to answer them. If I can,” she added more modestly.
Mrs. Enderby, who had been aroused from her nap just in time to hear
Barbara’s ringing close, rose to the occasion. To her a question was
a question. “Miss Barbara,” she inquired, an interested expression on
her rested face, “do you believe in children going barefoot this hot
weather?”
Barbara looked surprised. “W-why, n-no,” she said.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Enderby, conversationally, “I was wondering.”
There was another pause. Then Mrs. Bellows rose in her place. “Did I
understand you to say _Kreysh_?”
“Yes,” said Barbara. “A day-nursery would be the first form of
philanthropy I should advise for Auburn.”
“What need, if I may ask,” inquired Mrs. Bellows, impressively, “has
Auburn for a day-nursery?”
Barbara explained the relief to the mother and the good to the child.
“It seems to me,” remarked Mrs. Bellows, “that a Kretch is about as
necessary here as two tails to a cat. If there’s a death or sickness in
the family, I send the children over to Lib’s. Otherwise, I’d rather
have them at home. They gad enough as it is.”
“Do you mean that the mothers are to take turns in taking care of all
the children in town?” asked Mrs. Penfold.
“My goodness!” murmured Mrs. Enderby.
“It saves the children from the moving-picture shows and the cheap
theatres that are among the most pernicious of evil influences,” said
Barbara. “It keeps them off the street and out of bad company”—
“Not if she lets that Charles attend,” whispered Mrs. Bellows to the
woman in the next chair. “I’ve forbidden Sydney to play with him.”
“And gives the mothers a vacation. Instead of the care of their little
ones every day, they have charge of them possibly two afternoons a
summer.”
“I’d hate to trust my boys to Bertha Enderby,” whispered Mrs. Bellows
again.
In the discussion that followed, Barbara offered her most convincing
inducement. “I’m not a mother,” she said, “but I am willing to do my
part toward furthering the work. If I can have coöperation in the
establishment of the nursery, I’ll give my time, in turn, to it. And I
think—I’m not certain about it, but I think I may be able to furnish
the room for the purpose.”
The novelty of the idea carried the day with the younger members of the
club, and when Barbara took her place again, the seed of the enterprise
had been planted. But her second mission to the Association met with
less favorable result. The suggestion for the change of name met with
decided opposition.
“It doesn’t seem ladylike to call it _Woman’s_ Club,” objected Mrs.
Angie Bankson.
“The name has been good enough for us for thirty years,” said Mrs.
Bellows, with acerbity.
“A. L. L. A. makes such a good monogram,” sighed Miss Lillie Beckett,
who designed the programs for the club on state occasions.
Mrs. Enderby’s sleep had filled her with good-will toward the world,
and she amiably proposed a compromise. “Why not keep our old initials,”
she said, “and take another name, each word beginning with the same
letter as the old one?”
“What, for instance?” demanded Mrs. Bellows. “Do you happen to think of
any?”
The sarcasm of the speech was lost on Mrs. Enderby.
“Well, Auburn for the first word,” she suggested mildly.
But when put to vote, the motion was lost. The Auburn Ladies’ Literary
Association triumphed, and the “Woman’s Club” died before it was born.
“That snip of a Barbara Grafton!” said Mrs. Bellows to her neighbor, as
the pink sherbet and the paper napkins went around. “The idea of her
being invited to address us, and then giving that fool advice to women
that knew her when she should have been spanked! I’d never send a child
of mine to college, if I had all the money in the world. Normal school
can do enough harm. I didn’t know she could be such a fool! _Kretch!_”
Susan leaned over from the next chair. “Barbara isn’t a fool, Mrs.
Bellows,” she said warmly; “she’s the cleverest girl I ever knew.”
“In books, maybe,” sniffed Mrs. Bellows.
“No, in everything,” said Susan. “It is in books that she’s had the
most training, but she is just as clever in other things. She’s had an
awful time this summer with sickness, and poor help, and housework, and
no experience in any of them. Any one else would have been discouraged
long ago. But she has stuck it out, and been big and brave and cheerful
about it, to give her mother a chance to get well. I can’t let any one
say anything against Barbara.”
The two women looked their surprise at the warm defense from quiet
Susan.
“It’s her theories I object to, not her,” said Mrs. Bellows.
“She won’t keep them all,” said Susan. “She’ll always be loyal to her
own convictions, just as she is now; but she’ll find out later that
some of them are not so worth while as she is herself. Then she’ll sift
them out.”
“I wish she’d hurry up with her sifting, then,” said Mrs. Bellows.
Barbara, in the meantime, had not waited for her sherbet but had
hurried home to prepare the meal. In the evening she laid the matter of
the nursery before her father, and was surprised to be met with some of
the same objections that had been advanced at the woman’s club.
“But mayn’t I _try_?” she pleaded finally.
“I see your heart is set on it,” said the doctor. “I’m not going to
refuse you the carriage-house for the use of your children, though I
do think you won’t need it more than once. Auburn has no real _poor_,
you know. Only, Barbara, _don’t_ take any more upon yourself this hot
weather! The Kid is a whole day-nursery, himself.”
It took all Barbara’s leisure time from Monday until Thursday, which
was the appointed day for the opening, to get the deserted, dusty
carriage-house in order; to coax sulky Sam, the stable-boy, to move
the accumulation of broken-down sleighs and phaetons into a corner; to
hire two women to sweep, scrub, and dust floors, windows, and walls,
in order to make the carriage-house fit for an afternoon’s habitation
by the many clean, starched children whom she hoped to see. But it
was worth it,—oh, yes, it was worth it!—and Barbara’s heart glowed
with enthusiasm at the idea of driving the entering wedge of civic
improvement into the flinty heart of staid Auburn.
Meanwhile the house suffered. Dr. Grafton was called away at meal-times
with conspicuous frequency. Gassy, David, and the Kid did not
object greatly, for their imaginations were fired by the elaborate
preparations for the “party,” which the Kid firmly believed to be
held in honor of his birthday, three months past. But Jack protested
bitterly.
“Another ‘walk-around’!” he ejaculated, coming in at six o’clock
Wednesday evening, and gazing blankly at the bare dining-room. “Say,
Barb, a fellow that’s been canoeing all afternoon has an appetite that
reaches from Dan to Beersheba. I don’t want to make you mad, but I feel
mighty like Mother Hubbard’s dog.”
Barbara looked up nervously. “Now, Jack, what difference does it make
to you whether you sit at table with the others and use up hundreds of
dishes, or eat in the kitchen and save my time? The bread is in the
pantry with butter and raspberries, and there is some cold meat in the
ice-box. Cut all you want. Besides, I have sent Charles over to Miss
Pettibone’s for a blueberry pie.”
Jack looked unwontedly cross. “Sometimes I think you are the camel
that edged himself into the tent and crowded out his master,” he said.
“These walk-arounds on Sunday nights were pleasant enough at first with
everything piled on the kitchen table, so that we walked around with a
sandwich in each hand; but it comes so often now that it seems as if
‘every day’ll be Sunday by and by.’”
Barbara’s reply was checked by the sudden appearance of the Kid,
bearing a disk in both hands. The paper covering was torn and spotted
with blue patches, and a broad stain extended the full length of
his blouse. He put his burden carefully on the table, and turned
apologetically to Barbara.
“I may have dropped that pie; I don’t remember,” he said.
“N. P., no pie for me!” declared Jack. “Au revoir, Miss Grafton. Peter
asked me over to supper, and there’s still time to overtake him.”
Away went Jack, lustily chanting “The Roast Beef of Old England.”
Barbara fed the Kid to the brim, feeling somewhat guilty when she met
his clear young eyes full of affectionate trust in his big sister. It
was too bad to offer up the family on the altar of philanthropy. The
Infant’s cruel prediction as to a Jellyby future came back to her, but
the ends justified the means in this case.
The next morning was so clear, warm, and bright, that Barbara’s spirits
rose to fever heat. This was the day of her opportunity to loosen the
bondage of Auburn mothers, and to take the first step toward raising
them to higher standards of ease and culture. Her face beamed as she
sped downstairs to do the daily tasks which awaited her. Breakfast was
ready long before any one appeared to partake of it; dishes were washed
in haste, beds made in a trice,—just this once!—and dusting passed over
entirely.
All Barbara’s morning was spent in planning games, in decorating the
carriage-house with flags, in going to Miss Pettibone’s for the dozens
of cookies which she had ordered, and in finding cool space in the
refrigerator for twelve bottles of milk. The children were to come at
two; and at half-past one Barbara sat on the porch, dressed in a simple
white gown, waiting for the first arrival and for her assistant, Mrs.
Enderby.
At five minutes after two, there were no children. At ten minutes past,
still no children. At fifteen minutes after two, Mrs. Enderby’s fat,
placid self waddled up to the doctor’s gate.
“My children are coming along,” she said. “It’s awful warm. I’ve
brought a palm-leaf fan. I can fan the children, if you want me to. Any
come yet?”
“No, not yet,” replied Barbara. She had been awaiting the arrival of
Mrs. Enderby with that desire for moral support which a new undertaking
always brings upon its authors. Mrs. Enderby, as the mother of six
children, might well be expected to furnish any amount of support
derived from experience; but somehow, as Barbara looked at her, she
felt that she had made a great mistake. A cushion cannot serve as a
propelling-board; and poor Mrs. Enderby looked very cushiony.
She sat rocking slowly and evenly on the porch. “If no one comes by
three o’clock,” she said, “I think I’ll leave and go over to Main
Street to see the new moving pictures. I forgot about them when I
promised to help.”
“Oh, I am sure some children will come,” Barbara replied hastily. “It
is such a fine chance for the mothers to rest.”
At quarter of three, it seemed to the confused girl that all Auburn
was invading her lawn in a body. Streams of small children, dragged
along by elder brothers, sisters, nurses, and mothers, descended upon
the house like a flood. The air resounded with the shrieks of suddenly
deserted youngsters, with the threats and warnings of their departing
guardians, with the consolations of Barbara, Mrs. Enderby, and Gassy
herself. Just as suddenly as they had come, all the natural protectors
left, with singular unanimity, Barbara thought. It was not at all
as she had planned. There had been no grateful approach of a mother
at a time to meet the white-robed, calm hostess; no pleasant chat,
no graceful reassurance of a child’s safety. But an enormous wave
had broken upon the Grafton house and as quickly retreated, leaving
thirty-nine pebbles of assorted sizes on the shore. Thirty-nine!
Barbara gasped.
Her first step was to sweep the children to the carriage-house in a
body. Mrs. Enderby led the procession, waddling along like a very fat
hen, with innumerable little chickens running after. Barbara brought
up the rear, anxiously counting thirty-nine over and over to herself.
Loyal little Gassy kept her eyes upon the children as if she had been
transformed into a faithful watch-dog. And the Kid himself seemed to
exercise a remarkable amount of oversight; he was waiting for the
presents which were, of course, the object of a birthday party.
Barbara’s whole subsequent recollection of the afternoon lay in
a picture,—the one which greeted her as she stepped into the
carriage-house, gently pushing the last of the flock before her.
The large room seemed to her bewildered eyes fairly decorated with
children. Every broken-down buggy and sleigh was filled with more than
its quota, and prancing steeds were tugging at the ancient shafts in
vain. In a corner of the room, ten boys were fighting for possession of
a dilapidated harness. Shrieks of delight were rising from the hay-mow
above her head, and thin little legs were running up and down the
upright ladder with spider-like agility.
Barbara gasped. “Mrs. Enderby!” she exclaimed. “How shall we ever get
them together again!”
Mrs. Enderby did not answer. She stood in the middle of the room with
her fan idle in her hand and her head turned backward as far as it
would go. Involuntarily following her gaze, Barbara looked up and saw a
sight which haunted her in dreams forever after.
Fifteen feet above the floor, a long, narrow beam extended horizontally
from one edge of the hay-mow to the opposite wall. Sitting on the beam,
with legs dangling down, sat seventeen children, one behind another,
so tightly wedged that there would not have been space for even half a
child more. Wriggling, twisting, turning upon one another,—and at any
instant the slender beam might break!
It was little Gassy who saw the look of frozen horror on Barbara’s
face, and took action first. Without a word she sprang up the ladder
and out to the edge of the hay-mow. There she called out:—
“Each kid that comes back _now_, slowly and carefully, gets a cookie!”
No one moved. Mrs. Enderby down below dropped her fan and began walking
up and down beneath the beam, with her ample skirts outspread to catch
any child overcome by dizziness.
“A raisin cookie!” cried Gassy.
No one stirred.
“With nuts in it!”
The child nearest the hay-loft began to wriggle backwards. “I get first
choice!” she said.
“Second!”
“Third!”
The line took up the slow wriggle, and Barbara below watched, with her
skirts also extended. She could think of nothing else to do.
“Slowly!” shouted Gassy militantly. “Keep below there, Mrs. Enderby.
Each kid has to go down the ladder to Barbara for the cookie, an’
_stay_ down. Then we’ll play down there.”
Children respond quickly to an appeal to the stomach. In less than
five minutes, seventeen children were munching seventeen cookies,
and a rousing game of “Drop the Handkerchief” had been started by a
now thoroughly alert Barbara. Most of the children joined in with
gusto. Mrs. Enderby picked up her palm-leaf, and tapped Gassy with it
approvingly.
“Now you can just keep on helping by counting thirty-nine over and over
again,” she said.
Game succeeded game. London Bridge fell down in weary repetition for
Barbara. The players assured themselves unto seventy times seven times
that “King Willyum was King George’s Son.” A trousers button had to
be pressed into each child’s hand as a hiding-place. Six children
at different times were hurt, and cried. Mrs. Enderby, now that the
danger was over, took her chair into a corner and went to sleep behind
her fan. But faithful Gassy remained at the front, singing with rare
abandon and helping to lead each game.
Barbara herself was so engrossed in wiping away youthful tears, and in
singing, that she did not notice the gradual diminution of her forces
until Gassy suddenly took her aside.
“Barbara,” she said anxiously, “there are only twenty-seven kids in
this room; where are the others?”
Barbara counted hastily; looked up in the hay-mow; gave a wild glance
into the abandoned vehicles. It was true; the Kid himself was missing.
Then she crossed over to Mrs. Enderby and touched her shoulder.
“Mrs. Enderby,” she said, “I am afraid you will have to take ‘King
William’ with Gassy, while I look for twelve children who seem to be
missing.”
She flung open the door, and looked around. No children. Some odd
instinct led her towards her own house. As she approached, the
dining-room door facing the carriage-house suddenly opened, and a
swarm of little boys issued forth. Little boys they were, but little
goblins they looked to be, so impish were their faces, so bedraggled
their appearance. Each boy held in one hand a milk-bottle, which he
was applying to his lips in infant fashion; each blouse was bulging
with rapidly disappearing cookies. Barbara’s refreshments were almost a
thing of the past.
As she rushed over to the group, it disintegrated, and in the centre,
deserted by all his fellows in crime, stood the guilty Kid.
There were no words suitable for the occasion, and therefore Barbara
said nothing. Under her stern gaze, the Kid visibly shrunk. His
milk-bottle dropped from his hand and splashed them both. He began to
weep most violently.
“Oh, I don’t like birthday parties,” he sobbed. “They didn’t bring
any presents this time; I asked ’em. An’ we got tired o’ games, so we
went wading in the creek an’ got all wet. An’ nen we were hungry an’ I
thought you did forget the supper—”
Wading! Barbara glanced around at the little boys, and at the rest
of the troop which had filtered from the carriage-house. Were these
the children that had come to her house several hours before—these
unrecognizable _gamins_? The boys were the most torn; but even the
girls seemed lost in dirt and disorder.
Mrs. Enderby made her leisurely way up to Barbara, and began to fan
her placidly. “They’re all here,” she said; “I’ve just counted the
thirty-nine of ’em. And here comes the mothers again, so our labors are
over.”
Again the strange influx of parents and guardians, which had so puzzled
Barbara before. Again the receding wave, carrying the pebbles back this
time.
Barbara was vaguely conscious of choruses of remarks singularly alike
in character. “James Greenleaf, _where_ is your hat?”—“Robbie, you
dirty boy, come here”—“Martha, how did you tear your apron so?” She
realized that she was not being thanked as much as was her proper
due. But all she wished to do on earth was to get to her own room to
rest—not to think.
It was not until next morning, however, that the final blow fell. A
very relaxed Barbara sat at the head of the breakfast-table, and
around its corner Jack was looking at her quizzically.
“What beats me,” he said, “is why you should have been willing to do
all that work in order that the mothers of the enlightened A. L. L. A.
should be enabled to go almost in a body to see the opening of the new
moving-picture theatre. Do you believe so heartily in the ‘culchah’ of
those things?”
“Jack!” cried Barbara, starting from her seat. “Jack, they _didn’t_ do
that, did they?”
“They sure did,” responded her cruel brother. “Nineteen maternal
parents of the thirty-nine were visible to me from my seat in the back
row. They had the time of their lives.”
Barbara’s eyes filled with tears at this disappointment of her hopes.
As she struggled hard to keep them back, she caught the glance of her
father,—so apprehensive, so tender, and yet so amused, that, although
the tears came from her eyes, laughter also sounded from her lips.
“‘Here endeth the first lesson,’” she said.