hills and hunts."
"Camps out and has a good time," added daughter.
"And fishes," suggested Ted. "Cats _do_ catch fish. Sometimes. I've read
about it."
Daddy nodded. "Seems to agree with him, whatever he does."
"Vacations agree with anybody," asserted my oldest. And then, "I don't
see why we can't go along with Sir Chris. At least we might go the same
_time_ he does."
"Mother, couldn't we?"--it was a question that gathered weight and
momentum like a snowball rolling down hill, for I had always insisted
that, with a big family like mine, I could never bother to go camping. I
wanted to be where things were handy: running water from a faucet,
bathtubs and gas and linoleum, a smoothly cut lawn and a morning
postman. Go camping with a family like mine? Never.
But the thought once set going would not down. Perhaps, after all, Sir
Christopher was right and I was wrong. For people did go camping, most
people, even groups to the number of nine (the right count for our
family), and they seemed to enjoy it. They fought with mosquitoes, and
fell into creeks; they were blotched with poison oak, black from
exposure, lame from undue exercise, and looked worse than vagrant
gipsies--but they came home happy. Even those who spent days in bed to
rest up from their rest (I have known such) seemed happy. And every one
sighs and says, "We had such a good time! We're planning to go back
again next summer."
So at last I gave up--or gave in. We went to the mountains, following up
the trail along Calapooia Creek; we camped and hunted and fished to the
hearts' content. We learned to cook hotcakes out-of-doors, and how to
make sourdough biscuit, and to frizzle bacon before a bonfire, and to
bake ham in a bread pan, such as our mothers fitted five loaves of bread
in; we learned to love hash, and like potatoes boiled in their jackets,
and coffee with the cream left out. We went three miles to borrow a
match; we divided salt with the stranger who had forgotten his; we
learned that fish is good on other days than Friday and that trout
crisps beautifully in bacon grease; we found eleventeen uses for empty
lard pails and discovered the difference between an owl and a tree
toad. We gained a speaking acquaintance with the Great Dipper, and
learned where to look for the north star, why fires must be put out and
what chipmunks do for a living. We learned--
Last night we came home.
"Now, mother, aren't you really glad you went?" quizzed Daddy.
"Yes-s," said I, slowly, "I'm glad I went. It has been a new experience.
I feel like I'd gained a degree at the State University."
My understanding mate merely chuckled--and went on unpacking the
tinware. But Ted spoke up:
"Gee! Bet I make good in English III this year. Got all sorts of ideas
for themes. This trip's been bully."
"We'll go again, won't we, Mother?" asked my oldest.
"I think we'll always go again," answered I--some sober thinking I was
doing, as I folded away the blankets.
"Let me get supper"--it was Laura, my middle girl, speaking--"surely I
can cook on gas, if I can over a campfire." And Laura had never wanted
to cook! Strange tendencies develop when one lives out in the open a
space of time.
But Curlylocks was undisturbed. "Kitty--kitty--kitty! _My_ 'ittle
kitty!" he reiterated. And truly, so my neighbor told me, Sir
Christopher had beat us home by a scant twenty-four hours. He rubbed
about us in turns, happily purring.
"He's telling us all what a good time he had," said I, understanding at
last, "but he is adding, I think, that the best part of going away is
getting home again."
"But if we didn't go we couldn't get home again," said Somebody.
And somebody's cat purred his approval. Perhaps, after all, he finds us
a teachable family. Or perhaps he knows that once caught by the lure of
the hills, once having tasted the tang of mountainous ozone, we will
always go back--he has rare intuitions, has Sir Christopher. For,
already, I find myself figuring to fashion a detachable long handle for
the frying pan: Yes, next time, we shall plan to conserve both fingers
and face. Next time! That is the beauty of vacation days: We think of
them when the frost comes, when the snow drifts deep, when the arbutus
blooms again--and we plan, plan, plan! And are very happy--because of
memory, and anticipation. We have opened barred windows, and widened our
life's horizon. Does Sir Christopher guess? Wise old Sir Chris!
Homing-It in an Apartment
By Ernest L. Thurston
There were four of them--all girls employed in great offices. Alone, far
away from their home towns and families, they were all suffering from
attacks of too-much-boarding-house. Each was longing for a real, home-y
place to live in. And out of that longing was born, in time, an idea,
which developed, after much planning, figuring and price-getting, into a
concrete plan and a course of action. They were good friends, of
congenial tastes, and so they decided to "home-it" together.
Now this is nothing new, in itself. It was the thorough way they went
about it that was not so common. They applied the rules of their
business life, and studied their proposed path before they set foot in
it. They looked over the field, weighed the problems, decided what they
could do, and then arranged to put themselves on a sound financial basis
from the start.
All had occupied separate rooms in sundry boarding houses. Each had
experience in "meals in" and "meals out." Each could analyze fairly
accurately her expenses for the preceding six months. After study, they
decided that, without increasing their combined expense, they could have
comfortable quarters of their own and more than meet all their needs.
"Freedom, food, furniture, fixing and _friends_," said Margaret,
"without the boarding house flavor."
They longed for a little house and garden of their own. But they were
busy people, and this would mean extra hours of care and labor, more
demands on their strength, and a longer travel distance--a load they
felt they could not carry. So they sought an apartment.
The search was long but they found it. It was in a small structure, on a
quiet street, and several flights up, without elevator. But, as Peggy
said, "Elevators have not been in style in our boarding houses, and
flights of stairs have--so what matters it?" The suite, when you arrived
up there, was airy and comfortable. It provided two bedrooms, a cheery
living room, a dining room and a kitchenette. Clarice remarked, "The
'ette' is so small we can save steps by being within hand's reach of
everything, no matter where we stand."
The rent was less than the combined rental of their four old rooms. Heat
and janitor service were provided without charge, but they were obliged
to meet the expense of gas for the range and of electric lights.
They might have lived along happily in their new nest without a budget,
and without specific agreements as to expense. But they were business
girls. So they sat right down and decided every point, modifying each,
under trial, to a workable proposition. Then they stuck to it and _made_
it work.
There was the matter of furnishing. Each partner, while retaining
personal title to her property, contributed to general use such articles
of furniture she possessed as met apartment needs. From one, for
example, came a comfortable bed, from another, chairs and a reading
lamp, from a third a lounge chair, and from the fourth her piano and
couch. Of small rugs, sofa pillows, pictures and miscellaneous small
furnishings there were sufficient to make possible a real selection.
Then the four determined on further absolute essentials to make the rooms
homelike. There were needed comfortable single beds for each, dressing
tables, bed linen, dining-room equipment, kitchen ware, a chair or two,
and draperies. Their decisions were made in committee-of-the-whole,
and nothing was done that could not meet with the willing consent of all.
To meet the first cost they each contributed fifty dollars from their
small savings, and assessed themselves a dollar and a quarter per week
thereafter. They then bought their equipment, paying part cash and
arranging for the balance on time. And be sure it was fun getting it!
Then there was the question of meals. It was determined to prepare their
breakfasts and dinners and to put up lunches. To allow a certain
freedom, it was agreed that each should pack her own lunch, and that
regular meals should be cooked and served, turn and turn about, each
partner acting for a week. A second member washed the dishes and took
general care of the apartment. Thus a girl's general program reduced to,
First week Cooking
Second week Free
Third week Dishes, etc.
Fourth week Free
Fifth week Cooking
Etc.
During an experimental period, the cost of provisions and ice was summed
up weekly and paid by equal assessment. Later a fixed assessment of
seven dollars, each, was agreed to, and proved sufficient. There were
even slight surpluses to go into the mannikin jar on the living room
mantel, which Clarice called the "Do Drop Inn", because it provided from
its contents refreshment for those who dropped in of an evening.
Naturally there was a friendly rivalry, not only in making the most of
the allotment, but in providing attractive meals and dainty special
dishes. Clarice's stuffed tomatoes won deserved fame, and Margaret made
a reputation on cheese souffle. Peggy, too, was a wizard with the
chafing dish.
Consideration was given the matter of special guests, either for meals,
or for over-night. The couch in the living room provided emergency
sleeping quarters. As for meals, separate fixed rates were set for
breakfasts and for dinners. This was paid into the regular weekly
provision fund by the girl who brought the guest, or by all four
equally, if she were a "general" guest. The girl who brought a guest
also "pitched in" and helped with the work.
Whenever the group went out for a meal, as they did now and then for a
change, or for amusement, or recreation, each girl paid her own share at
once.
Finally, there was the factor of laundry. After a little experimenting,
household linen was worked out on an "average" basis, so that a regular
amount could be assessed each week. Of course each girl met the expense
of her own private laundry.
As a result of this planning, each member of the household found herself
obligated to meet a weekly assessment containing the following items:
Rent, furniture tax, household laundry, extras ($1.00) and personal
laundry. Of these, the only item not positively fixed, as to amount, was
the last. Each girl, naturally, paid all her strictly private expense,
including clothes, and medical and dental service.
One of the number was chosen treasurer for a three-months' term, and was
then, in turn, succeeded by another, so that each of the four served
once a year. The treasurer received all assessments, gave the weekly
allotment to the housewife, and paid other bills. Minor deficiencies
were met from "surplus." Moreover, she kept accurate accounts.
Once settled comfortably in their quarters, with boarding-house memories
receding into the background, it took but little time for a happy,
home-y atmosphere to develop. Of course, with closer intimacy, there
were temperamental adjustments, as always, but they came easily. The
household machinery ran smoothly, almost from the first, because there
_was_ a machine, properly set up, operated and adjusted--rather than an
uncertain makeshift.
To Express Personality
By Dana Girrioer
"'Keep house?' I should say not!" answered Anne, who had journeyed out
into the suburbs to "tell" her engagement to Burt Winchester to the home
folks before she "announced" it. "I'm going to retire to the Kensington,
or some nice apartment hotel, at the ripe old age of twenty-four. What'd
you think, we're back in the dark ages, B. F.?"
"'B. F.'?" repeated Aunt Milly.
"Before Ford," said Anne, laughing. "Oh, it was the thing for you,
Auntie, you couldn't have brought up your own big family in a city
apartment, to say nothing of stretching your wings to cover Little
Orphant Annie, besides, everybody kept house when you were married!"
"And now nobody does, except a few Ancient Mariners?" inquired Cousin
Dan.
Anne blushed. "Of course it suits some people, now," she amended,
hastily. "Perhaps it's all right to keep house, if you have a big
family, or lots of money and can hire all the fussing done."
"You don't need to hire fussing, if you've a big family," said Aunt
Milly, her eyes twinkling behind the gold-bowed spectacles. "You'll keep
on with the drawing--illustrating?"
"Surely," answered Anne. "Burt will keep right on being a lawyer."
"I see," said George. "Well, Queen Anne, I suppose when we want to visit
you we can hire a room in the same block, I mean, hotel. I thought,
perhaps, having so far conformed to the habits of us Philistines as to
take a husband, you might go the whole figure and take a house!"
"Please!" begged Anne. In that tone, it was a catchword dating back to
nursery days which the elf-like Anne had shared with a whole brood of
sturdy cousins, and meant, "Please stop fooling; I want to be taken
seriously."
"I love to draw--but my people don't look alive, somehow," said little
Milly, wistfully.
Cried Anne: "Keep trying, Milly; there is nothing so lovely as to have
even a taste for some sort of creative work, and to develop it; to
express your own personality in something tangible, and to be encouraged
to do so. Do understand me, Auntie and the rest; it isn't that I want to
shirk, but I do want to specialize on what I do best! I'll wash dishes
if it's ever necessary, but why must I wish a whole pantry on myself
when either Burt or I could pay our proportionate share of a hotel
dish-washer, or butler, or whatever is needed?"
At the studio it was much easier.
"Some time in the early fall," Anne told her callers, who arrived by
two's, three's and four's, as the news began to circulate among her
friends.
"No, I won't keep this," with a jerk of her thumb towards the big, bare
room which had been hers since she left Aunt Milly and the little home
town. "There's a room at the top of the Kensington I can have, with a
light as good as this, and that settles the last problem. I'd hate to
have to go outdoors for meals, when I'm working."
"Nan Gilbert!" exclaimed her dearest friend. "You have the best luck!
You can do good work, and get good pay for it, and be happy all by
yourself; and now you're going to be happier, with a husband who'll let
you live your own life; you'll be absolutely free, not even a percolator
to bother with, nothing to take your mind from your own creative work,
free to express your own personality!"
"Mercy," said Anne, closing the door upon this last caller. "If I don't
set the North River, at least, on fire, pretty soon, they'll all call me
a slacker."
She hung her card, "Engaged," upon the door leading into the hall (some
one had scrawled "Best Wishes" underneath the printed word), and
proceeded to get her dinner in a thoughtful frame of mind. The tiny
kitchenette boasted ice-box, fireless, and a modest collection of
electric cooking appliances; in a half-hour Anne had evolved a cream
soup, a bit of steak, nearly cubical in proportions, slice of graham
bread, a salad of lettuce and tomato with skilfully tossed dressing, a
muffin split ready to toast, with the jam and spreader for it, and
coffee was dripping into the very latest model of coffee-pots. Anne had
never neglected her country appetite, and was a living refutation of the
idea that neatness and art may not dwell together. She moved quietly and
with a speed which had nothing of haste; her mind was busy with a
magazine cover for December, she believed she'd begin studying camels.
After dinner came Burt Winchester, a steady-voiced, olive-skinned young
man, in pleasant contrast to Anne's vivacious fairness, and together
they journeyed uptown and then west to the Kensington, for a final
decision upon the one vacant apartment. The rooms were of fair size,
they were all light, and the agent had at least half a yard of
applicants upon a printed slip in his pocket.
Burt studied the apartment not at all, but his fiancee with quiet
amusement. He was much in love with Anne, but he understood her better
than she had yet discovered.
"I don't think we'll ever find anything better," she was saying to him.
"Perhaps he'd have it redecorated for us, with a long lease--"
The agent coughed discreetly. "The leases are for one year, with
privilege of renewal," he said to Burt. "It has just been redecorated;
is there anything needed?"
"It would all be lovely, if one liked blue," murmured Anne. "Just the
thing for some girl, but not for me, all that pale blue and silver, it
doesn't look a bit like either of us, Burt. I had worked out the most
stunning scheme, cream and black, with a touch of Kelly green--"
Another cough, somewhat louder, and accompanied by an undisguised look
of sympathy for Burt. "The owner prefers to decide the decorations,
Madame," said the agent. "Tastes differ so, you understand."
"Please hold the suite for me until tomorrow night," said Burt,
decisively. "I suppose we'll take it; if not, I'll make it right with
you."
"I should say, 'tastes differ,'" laughed Anne, tucking her arm into
Burt's, as they began the long walk down-town. "Do you know, Aunt Milly
and the girls thought, of course, we'd keep house, and Dan and George
are going to pick out girls that will keep house, I saw it in their
eyes. You--you're going to be satisfied, Burt?"
"I think so," answered Burt, judiciously, and then with a change of
tone, "Nan, you precious goose, you've always told me you were not
domestic."
"And you've always said you were no more domestic than I was," finished
Anne, happily. She entirely missed the quizzical expression of the brown
eyes above her. "Nuff said.--Are we going to Branton tomorrow, Burt,
with the crowd? Can you take the day?"
Anne's "crowd," the half-dozen good friends among the many
acquaintances she had formed in the city, were invited for a day in the
country. She and Burt now talked it over, agreeing to meet in time to
take the nine-thirty train, with the others.
But at nine, next morning, Burt had not appeared at the studio; instead,
Miss Gilbert had a telephone message that Mr. Winchester was delayed,
but would call as soon as possible. It was unlike Burt, but Anne,
sensibly, supposed that business had intervened, and, removing her hat,
was glad to remember that she had not definitely accepted the invitation
when it was given. The "crowd" were sure enough of each other and of
themselves to appear casual: Burt and she could take a later train, and
have just as warm a welcome.
At nine-thirty Burt appeared, explaining briefly, "Best I could do.
There's a train in twenty minutes, we'll catch it if we hurry."
Anne hurried, which proved to be unnecessary, as the train seemed late
in starting; during the trip there was little conversation, as Anne was
tactful, and Burt preoccupied.
"Branton!" called the conductor, at least it sounded like Branton, Burt
came out of his revery with a start, and Anne followed him down the
aisle. They stood a moment upon the platform of the quiet little station
and watched the train pull out; as they turned back into what seemed the
principal street, Anne craned her neck to look around an inconvenient
truck piled with baggage, and made out the sign, Byrnton.
"Oh, Burt, what were we thinking of?" she exclaimed. "This isn't the
right place at all! We were to take the road up past a brick church--and
there isn't any here--this is Byrnton, and we wanted Branton. What shall
we do--why don't you say something?"
"Fudge!" said Burt, soberly, but in his eyes the dancing light he
reserved for Anne. "I'll ask the ticket-agent."
He came out of the station, smiling. "This isn't the Branton line at
all, but a short branch west of it," he informed her. "We took the wrong
train, but he says lots of people make the same mistake, and they are
going to change one name or the other, eventually. I am to blame, Nan,
for I know this place, Byrnton; I have, or used to have, an Aunt Susan
here, somewhere--shall we look her up? We have nearly three hours to
kill. It will be afternoon before we can get to Branton--and Aunt Susan
will give us nourishment, at least, if she's home."
"Very well," Anne assented. If Burt's business absorbed him like this,
she must learn to take it philosophically.
"What a pretty place, Burt! Do see those wonderful elms!"
Byrnton proved to be an old-fashioned village, which had had the good
fortune to be remodelled without being modernized. Along the main street
many of the houses were square, prim little boxes, with front yards
bright with sweet williams, marigolds, and candytuft; these had an iron
fence around the garden, and, invariably, shutters at the front door. An
occasional house stood flush with the brick or flagged sidewalk; in that
case there were snowy curtains at the window, and a glimpse of
hollyhocks at the back. The newer houses could be distinguished by the
wide, open spaces around them; the late comers had not planned their
homes to command the village street, and neighbors, as an older
generation had done, but these twentieth century models did not begin
until one had left the little railway station well behind.
"What a homely, homey place," said Anne, noting everything with the eye
of an artist. "I don't see how you could forget it, if you have an aunt
living here."
"That's the question," answered Burt. "Have I an aunt living here? She
may be in California; however, in that case, the key will be under the
mat."
Anne continued to look about her, with sparkling eyes. "If Aunt Milly
had lived in a place like this, I'd be there yet," she told him. "The
factories spoiled the place for me, but they made business good for
Uncle Andy and the boys, and Aunt Milly likes the bustle, she'd think
this was too quiet.--Isn't it queer how people manage to get what they
want--in time?"
"It is, indeed," smiled Burt. "There, Nan, that low white cottage at the
very end, the last before you come to open fields. That's Aunt Susan's."
They quickened their pace; Anne was conscious of an intense wish that
Aunt Susan might be home. She wanted to see the inside of the white
house, bungalow, it might almost be called, if one did not associate
bungalows with stucco or stained shingles. This cottage was of white
wood, with the regulation green blinds. There was an outside chimney of
red bricks; a pathway of red bricks in the old herringbone pattern led
up to the front door, with its shining brass knocker. A row of white
foxgloves stood sentinel before the front of the house, on each side the
entrance, their pointed spires coming well above the window-sills;
before them the dark foliage of perennial lupins, tossing up a white
spray of flowers, and then it seemed as if every old-fashioned flower of
white, or with a white variety, ran riot down to a border of sweet
alyssum. Above all the fragrance came the unmistakable sweetness of
mignonette.
"Oh, Burt!" called Anne, "I do hope she's home. What a woman she must
be, I can guess some things about her, just from the outside of her
house. I hope she'll show me the inside of it."
Burt shook his head. "She'd have seen us before this and been out here,"
he suggested. "Come 'round to the back."
The back of the premises proved no less fascinating; there was the
neatest of clothes-yards, a vegetable garden, and a small garage, after
which Anne regarded the silent cottage with wistful eyes.
"Those beautiful, old-fashioned flowers, no petunias but the white
frilled kind,--she's an artist--and has the wash done at home," she
enumerated, "and runs her automobile herself, I am sure, for she's a
practical person as well; if she were just a sentimental flower-lover,
she'd have had something or other climbing up the house, and it spoils
the woodwork."
"It's safe to say Aunt Susan's in California," said Burt, disregarding
this. "No joke, Nan, she has a married daughter who has been trying to
get her out there for years, and Aunt Susan's always threatening to go.
Never thought she would, but we can soon find out; I know who'll have
the key."