AN ENDLESS CHAIN OF LETTERS
Peace closed the magazine with a reluctant sigh. "That," she said with
decided emphasis on the pronoun, "is a good story. If all _orthers_
wrote like that, 'twould make int'resting reading."
"What was it about?" asked Allee, looking up from a gorgeous splash of
water-colors which she was pleased to call a painting.
"About a girl named Angelica Regina, who started an endless chain of
letters to help the Ladies' Aid of her uncle's church c'lect scraps for
silk quilts."
"Did the ladies ask her to?"
"Mercy, no! They didn't have an idea that she'd done such a thing, and
they kept wondering where in the world all those scraps were coming
from. Fin'ly it got so bad that the Post Office man was real mad and the
husbands of the Ladies' Aid got mad, and the ladies themselves got mad
and wouldn't take any more bundles that came through the mail. 'Twasn't
till then that anyone knew 'bout the endless chain of letters. But at
last one lady s'spected Angelica Regina had done the whole thing, and
she made her own up to it."
"What is an endless chain of letters? I can't see how she worked it."
"Why, don't you 'member the letter Hope got last Christmas asking her
to write five more just like it and send them to friends of hers?"
"Well, but that's only five letters."
"Yes, 'twould be if it stopped there, but each of those five people had
to write five letters more and give them to _their_ friends. Five times
five is twenty-five, and then those twenty-five would write five
letters. Don't you see how it would keep growing till there would be
hundreds and hundreds of letters written?"
Allee nodded solemnly, and Peace fell into a brown study. Presently she
announced decidedly, "I b'lieve I'll do it. I like the scheme."
"Do what? What scheme?" inquired Allee, somewhat absently, as she
critically surveyed her brilliant splotch of color, and wondered if she
had added enough red to her sunset.
"I'll start an endless chain myself."
"What do _you_ want silk scraps for?" Allee's brush fell unheeded from
her hand, and the blue eyes shot an amazed glance up at the figure in
the wheel-chair.
"I don't want any silk scraps, but I can ask for something else, can't
I?"
"What shall you choose?" Allee was now alive with curiosity.
"Well,--I don't really know--just yet," Peace was obliged to confess.
"It wouldn't be right to ask 'em each for a dime, like Hope's letter
did, to _endower_ a hospital bed, 'cause I haven't got the bed, and
anyway I don't need money. Grandpa's got enough for us all. Now if we'd
just known of this plan in Parker, p'raps we could have paid off our
mortgage without any trouble."
"But then Grandpa wouldn't have found us, and we prob'ly would still be
living in the little brown house on that farm," responded Allee, with a
frown.
"That's so. I hadn't thought of that. Well, it can't be money that I'll
ask for, and I don't want silk scraps. Just now I can't think of a thing
I want real bad which Grandpa can't get for me,--'nless it is buttons."
"Buttons!" repeated Allee, wondering if Peace had lost her senses
altogether. "What do you want buttons for? What kind of buttons? Ain't
your clothes got enough buttons on 'em now? Grandma--"
"Sh!" Peace cautioned, for in her surprise Allee had unconsciously
raised her voice almost to a yell. "I don't mean that kind of buttons. I
mean fancy ones just for a c'lection."
"But what good will a c'lection of _buttons_ be?" demanded Allee, more
puzzled than before. "What can you use 'em for?"
"What can you use any c'lection for?" sarcastically retorted Peace,
exasperated at the little sister's stupidity. "What does Henderson
Meadows use his c'lection of stamps for? Just to brag about and see how
many more kinds he can get than the other boys."
"But--I never heard of such a thing as a c'lection of _buttons_,"
persisted Allee, privately worried for fear Peace was going crazy. "No
one that I know has got one."
"They will have as soon as I get mine started," the other girl stoutly
maintained. "You wait and see."
Allee shook her head doubtfully and slowly reached out her hand for her
gorgeous sunset which strongly resembled a rainbow in convulsions.
"You don't seem to like the plan," suggested Peace, more than ever
determined to make the venture, just to prove to this skeptical creature
that she knew what she was talking about.
"I--don't think--it will work," replied truthful Allee.
"Well, I'll show you. Miss Edith said when she was a girl it was a fad
one winter to see who could get the biggest and prettiest string of
buttons, and when I was telling Grandma she laughed and said they had
the same thing a-going when she was a girl."
"But I don't see any sense to it," protested the younger sister, still
unconvinced.
"I never saw a c'lection yet that had any _sense_ to it, when it comes
to that," Peace reluctantly admitted. "What _sense_ is there in saving
up a lot of dead bugs like Cherry's been doing all summer, or a bunch of
horrid, nasty, dirty old pipes, like Len Abbott was so proud of; or even
all those _queeriosities_ that Judge Abbott kept in his library and said
was worth so much money! I ain't a-going to do it for the _sense_ there
is in it, but it'll be awful lonesome for me when you girls go back to
school this fall, 'specially as the doctor says I mustn't have a teacher
of my own yet, and I can't do any real studying all by myself."
Privately, Peace was much pleased with this verdict, but she thought it
unnecessary to say so. "That's why I thought it would be a good plan to
get something like this started which would help fill up the time while
you and Cherry were shut up in school, and Grandma was too busy to pay
attention to me."
Allee's antagonism and skepticism vanished as if by magic. She had
opposed this beautiful plan which would mean so much to her crippled
sister! In deepest contrition she enthusiastically proposed, "Let's
write the letter now and send it off so's your answers will begin coming
in as soon as they can. I guess I didn't 'xactly see what you meant at
first. I think it'll be a nice plan."
"All right," Peace replied, quick to take advantage of favorable
circumstances. "You get the paper and ink. I've used mine all up out
here. And say, s'posing we keep this endless chain plan a secret among
our two selves. You can have half the buttons that come in; but if
Cherry should know, she would prob'ly want a share, too."
"Maybe 'twould be better," Allee agreed, as she ran away to the house
for writing materials.
Then began the task of composing a letter which should cover their
wants; but so many obstacles presented themselves to the inexperienced
writers, that the afternoon had waned before a satisfactory epistle had
resulted.
"There," sighed Peace at length, "I guess that will do. It is short
enough so's it won't take anyone long to make five copies, and it's long
enough so's no one can be mistaken about what we mean. I wish I knew
whether Hope kept the one she got. Maybe we could have gone by that and
made a better letter of ours. This one in the magazine didn't help very
much 'cause it talks about the Ladies' Aid, and we couldn't use that,
for everybody would know a Ladies' Aid would want something besides
buttons in their work. Do you think ours will do?"
"Yes, it's perfectly elegant," the younger child replied, lovingly
fingering the inky page of tipsy letters which she had just finished.
"Now who are you going to send them to?"
"I've been thinking of that all the while we were writing, and I've
already got a list of more'n five."
"Who?"
"Well, there's Lorene Meadows for a starter. She lives in Chicago and is
acquainted with slews of kids which we don't know. Then there's Mrs.
Grinnell in Parker, and Hec Abbott and Tessie and Effie and Jessie and
Miss Dunbar and Annette Fisher and Mrs. Bainbridge and Mrs. Hartman and
oh--all the Parker folks."
"Then s'posing we write more'n five to begin with."
"I hadn't thought of that. There's no reason why we shouldn't. Let's
make it ten,--that's all the stamps I've got."
"All right."
Both girls set to work laboriously scribbling the ten copies of their
chain letter, then sealed and addressed them, and Allee dropped them
into the mail box on the corner just as the dinner bell pealed out its
summons to the dining-room.
School began the next Monday. The following day the first link in the
endless chain was received from Lorene, who enclosed twelve handsome
buttons and asked full particulars about the button collection, as she
desired to start one for herself, and could Peace send her twelve
buttons in exchange for hers? This was an unforeseen development, but
Peace was so delighted with this first dozen that she set Allee to
hunting up stray buttons about the house with which to satisfy the
demands of any other youthful collectors. On Wednesday two more answers
were received, one from Mrs. Grinnell, containing forty of the oddest
looking buttons the girls had ever seen; and one from a stranger in
Chicago, probably a friend of Lorene's, for she, too, asked for buttons
in return.
Peace sighed, divided the contents of the two packages with an impartial
hand, and remarked, "It's lucky Mrs. Grinnell don't want forty in
exchange. We had only thirty-six to begin with, and Lorene's twelve and
this girl's eight leaves us only sixteen, s'posing we get many more
answers asking for some."
Fortunately for her peace of mind, however, only one other letter made
such a request, but a new dilemma arose. Packages began to arrive with
insufficient postage, and the crippled girl's pocket money vanished with
alarming rapidity. The letter carrier always delivered the daily budget
of mail to the little maid under the trees when the weather permitted of
her being at her post, and it chanced that for a fortnight after the
answers to her endless chain began pouring in, she received her own
mail, so no one but Allee knew her secret, and there was no one but
Allee to help her out with her heavy postage bills.
"I never s'posed anyone would send out packages without enough stamps on
'em," she complained to her loyal supporter one night, after an
unusually heavy mail and a correspondingly heavy drain on her
pocketbook. "And the trouble is, the letters that have the most money to
pay on them hold the ugliest buttons. I spent twelve cents for stamps
today. That's the worst yet. Yesterday it was ten, and seven the day
before. There won't be much of my monthly dollar left if it keeps on
this way. The postman got sassy this morning and asked me if I'd started
a--a correspondence school, or if I was having a birthday shower every
day. I'm tired of the sight of buttons!"
"Already?" cried Allee. "Why, I think they are fine. If your dollar is
all spent before the month is up, you can use mine. I ought to pay half
the stampage anyway, as long as I get half the buttons. All the girls at
school are wild to know where we get so many, but I won't tell. There's
eight hundred on your string and seven hundred and fifty on mine."
"But I divided 'em even--"
"I know you did, but you see, I traded some, and Dolly Thomas cried
'cause she had only twenty buttons on her string, so I gave her a few of
mine."
"Well, I wish we had some way to make the chain end," sighed Peace
disconsolately. "I've got as big a c'lection as I want now and still
they keep a-coming. That's just the way those silk scraps did to the
Ladies' Aid in the story. O, dear, don't I get into the worst messes! I
wouldn't mind if they'd pay their own stamps, but I want my money for
Christmas, and if this keeps up I'll have to break into my bank. I
thought it would be such fun to get mail every day, but the very sight
of the postman now makes me sick."
"We might tell Grandpa. He'd know what to do," suggested Allee, seeing
that Peace was really heartily tired of this deluge of buttons.
"I--I hate to do that. He'd think we were little sillies and I guess we
are."
"'Twas your plan," Allee briefly informed her, for she did not care to
be called a "silly" by anyone.
"Of course it was," Peace hastily acknowledged. "And I'm tired of it.
Maybe--don't you think Miss Edith could tell us what to do?"
"I b'lieve she could. Ask her tomorrow. She'll be sure to pass, even if
she doesn't have time to stop awhile. O, see who's coming!"
"Elspeth!" cried Peace, almost bouncing out of her chair in her
eagerness to greet the dear friend whose face she had not seen for many
weeks.
"My little girlies!" The woman's sweet face bent over the eager one
among the pillows and lingered there. It was the first time she had seen
the crippled child since the doctors had pronounced her case hopeless,
and she had feared that her presence might recall to Peace's mind the
great misfortune, and bring on a deluge of tears. But Peace was thinking
of other things than wheel-chairs. This was the first time she had seen
her Elspeth since the Angel Baby had slipped away to its Maker, and she
glanced apprehensively into the tender blue eyes above her, expecting to
find them dim with tears of grief for the little one she had lost.
Instead, they were smiling serenely. She had locked her sorrow deep down
in her heart, and only God and her good St. John knew what a heavy ache
throbbed in her breast.
So the brown eyes smiled bravely back, and after a moment the eager
voice asked reproachfully, "Didn't you bring the b--the children? I
haven't seen Baby Elspeth yet, and she is--"
"Two months old tomorrow," proudly answered the mother. "Yes, we brought
her. We call her Bessie to avoid confusion of names. St. John has her
now, but he happened to meet our postman on the street back there and
stopped to tell him about some mail that he doesn't want delivered any
longer."
"What kind of mail?" Peace breathlessly demanded, suddenly remembering
her endless chain of letters.
"O, some cheap magazines that keep coming. He wrote the publishers two
or three times to discontinue them, but it didn't do any good, so now he
is telling the postman not to bring them any more."
"Is that all you have to do?" The brown eyes were glowing with
eagerness.
"Yes. Refuse to accept them when the postman brings them and they will
soon stop coming."
"Will it work with packages?"
"With anything, I guess."
"What happens to the things you refuse?"
"O, some of them are returned to the sender, some go to the dead-letter
office, and others are just destroyed, I guess."
"Oh!" Peace had received all the information she needed, and as St. John
now appeared at the gate with Glen in tow and Baby Bessie in his arms,
she turned her attention to her guests, who, as a special surprise for
the invalid, had been invited to stay for dinner.
The next day, however, when the postman made his appearance with his
arms bulging with packages, and a grin of amusement stretching his mouth
from ear to ear, he was astounded to hear the little lady in the
wheel-chair say crisply, "Take 'em all back. I won't receive another
one you bring me. I s'pose there is postage to pay on most of 'em, too,
ain't there?"
"Fifteen cents," he acknowledged.
"Well, this is the time you don't get your fifteen cents," she announced
calmly but with decision.
"But I can't deliver these packages until that is paid."
"Goody! I'm tired of the sight of them. The very looks of you coming up
the walk gives me a pain. Don't bring me another single package. Take
them back to the--the letter undertaker--"
"The what?" His eyes were twinkling, and he had hard work to keep his
twitching lips from breaking into an audible chuckle.
"The place you send mail when it ain't wanted by the person it's
supposed to go to. I've had all I care to do with chain letters. I
really didn't think they were _endless_ or I never would have started
mine. We've got buttons enough to start a department store already."
The light of understanding broke over the postman's rugged features. "So
it was a chain letter, was it?"
"Yes."
"And you don't want any more packages?"
"I won't _accept_ any more." She bobbed her head emphatically and set
all the short curls to dancing.
"All right, Miss Peace. I'll see that you aren't bothered with any more
packages."
Peace heaved a great sigh of relief, and turned energetically back to
her basket weaving, which had been sadly neglected of late. The parcels
actually did cease coming, and the two conspirators hugged themselves
with delight that it had not been necessary to tell their secret so no
one knew what sillies they were. By common consent they barred chain
letters as a topic of conversation, and had almost forgotten the hateful
packages when one morning Peace received a letter from Miss Truman,
still a teacher in the Parker School, saying that she had just mailed a
large box addressed to the little invalid, and hoped that Peace would
enjoy its contents. The girl was wild with anticipation, but the parcel
did not put in appearance that afternoon, nor the next day, nor the
next.
"I am afraid it has gone astray," said Grandpa Campbell when the third
morning passed without it coming.
"And won't I ever get it?" asked Peace disconsolately.
"Such things sometimes happen, though Parker is such a short distance
from here that it seems almost impossible for it to have been lost. I
will call at the Post Office and inquire. Perhaps for some reason it is
stalled there."
That afternoon he appeared with the coveted parcel in his hand and a
mystified look in his eyes.
"You got it?" shrieked Peace in ecstasy.
"Yes, I got it, but if the Postmaster had not been a very good friend of
mine, you would never have seen it."
"Why not?" Peace was genuinely amazed. "What right had the Postmaster
to my package? Did he want to keep it?"
"He tells me that you issued orders two weeks or more ago not to deliver
any more packages to your address."
"He--oh, that was buttons! I didn't mean this kind of packages."
"Buttons!" the President looked even more puzzled.
"O, dear," sighed Peace unhappily. "Now I've got to tell what a
silly-pate I've been." So she poured out the tale of the endless chain
to the astonished man, ending with the characteristic remark, "And I
told the letter-carrier to send all the rest of the button packages to
the letter graveyard at Washington, but I s'posed of course he'd bring
me packages like this."
"He has no way of distinguishing between them, my dear," the President
gravely informed her, trying hard to keep his face straight. "You
ordered _all_ parcels addressed to you stopped. You refused to accept
them, and there will be no more delivered to you."
"_Never?_" gasped Peace.
"Well,--not for months and months and months. I don't know exactly how
we can get the matter fixed up now."
"And will they keep all my _Christmas_ packages, too?"
"If they come addressed to you."
"Where's my pencil and postcards?" She began a wild, scrambling search,
through the drawers of the table which always stood beside her chair.
"What do you want of them?" the man inquired with considerable
curiosity.
"Why, I've got to write everyone I know and tell 'em if they want to
send me anything for Christmas or my birthday, or any other time, to
address it on the outside to Allee," she retorted, scribbling away
energetically.