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MARJORIE AT SEACOTE
by
CAROLYN WELLS
Author of the "Patty" Books
[Illustration: "MOST LIEGE MAJESTY," BEGAN KING, BOWING SO LOW THAT
HIS SHOULDER CAPE FELL OFF. (_page 60_)]
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1912, by
Dodd, Mead and Company
* * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
PATTY SERIES
PATTY FAIRFIELD
PATTY AT HOME
PATTY IN THE CITY
PATTY'S SUMMER DAYS
PATTY IN PARIS
PATTY'S FRIENDS
PATTY'S PLEASURE TRIP
PATTY'S SUCCESS
PATTY'S MOTOR CAR
MARJORIE SERIES
MARJORIE'S VACATION
MARJORIE'S BUSY DAYS
MARJORIE'S NEW FRIEND
MARJORIE IN COMMAND
MARJORIE'S MAYTIME
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I KITTY'S DINNER 1
II TOM, DICK, AND HARRY 16
III THE SAND CLUB 30
IV SAND COURT 44
V "THE JOLLY SANDBOY" 58
VI TWO WELCOME GUESTS 72
VII THE GLORIOUS FOURTH 86
VIII A REVELATION 101
IX THE SEARCH 115
X JESSICA BROWN 129
XI THE REUNION 144
XII A LETTER OF THANKS 158
XIII THIRTEEN! 174
XIV QUEEN HESTER 189
XV A MOTOR RIDE 204
XVI RED GERANIUMS 218
XVII WHAT HESTER DID 232
XVIII A FINE GAME 247
XIX MORE FUN 263
XX A CELEBRATION 275
MARJORIE AT SEACOTE
CHAPTER I
KITTY'S DINNER
"Kitty-Cat Kitty is going away,
Going to Grandma's, all summer to stay.
And so all the Maynards will weep and will bawl,
Till Kitty-Cat Kitty comes home in the fall."
This affecting ditty was being sung with great gusto by King and
Marjorie, while Kitty, her mood divided between smiles and tears, was
quietly appreciative.
The very next day, Kitty was to start for Morristown, to spend the
summer with Grandma Sherwood, and to-night the "Farewell Feast" was to
be celebrated.
Every year one of the Maynard children spent the summer months with
their grandmother, and this year it was Kitty's turn. The visit was
always a pleasant one, and greatly enjoyed by the small visitor, but
there was always a wrench at parting, for the Maynard family were
affectionate and deeply devoted to one another.
The night before the departure was always celebrated by a festival of
farewell, and at this feast tokens were presented, and speeches made,
and songs sung, all of which went far to dispel sad or gloomy feelings.
The Maynards were fond of singing. They were willing to sing
"ready-made" songs, and often did, but they liked better to make up
songs of their own, sometimes using familiar tunes and sometimes
inventing an air as they went along. Even if not quite in keeping with
the rules for classic music, these airs were pleasing in their own ears,
and that was all that was necessary.
So, when King and Midget composed the touching lines which head this
chapter and sang them to the tune of "The Campbells are Coming," they
were so pleased that they repeated them many times.
This served to pass pleasantly the half-hour that must yet elapse before
dinner would be announced.
"Well, Kit," remarked Kingdon, in a breathing pause between songs,
"we'll miss you lots, o' course, but you'll have a gay old time at
Grandma's. That Molly Moss is a whole team in herself."
"She's heaps of fun, Kitsie," said Marjorie, "but she's chock-a-block
full of mischief. But you won't tumble head over heels into all her
mischiefs, like I did! 'Member how I sprained my ankle, sliding down the
barn roof with her?"
"No, of course I wouldn't do anything like that," agreed the sedate
Kitty. "But we'll have lots of fun with that tree-house; I'm going to
sit up there and read, on pleasant days."
"H'm,--lucky,--you know what, King!"
"H'm,--yes! Keep still, Mops. You'll give it away."
"Oh, a secret about a present," cried Kitty; "something for the
tree-house, I know!"
"Maybe 'tis, and maybe 'tain't," answered King, with a mysterious wink
at Marjorie.
"Me buyed present for Kitty," said Rosamond, smiling sweetly; "gold an'
blue,--oh, a bootiful present."
"Hush, hush, Rosy Posy, you mustn't tell," said her brother. "Presents
are always surprises. Hey, girls, here's Father!"
Mr. Maynard's appearance was usually a signal for a grand rush, followed
by a series of bear hugs and a general scramble, but to-night, owing to
festive attire, the Maynard quartette were a little more demure.
"Look out for my hair-ribbons, King!" cried Midget, for without such
warning, hair-ribbons usually felt first the effects of the
good-natured scrimmage.
And then Mrs. Maynard appeared, her pretty rose-colored gown of soft
silk trailing behind her on the floor.
"What a dandy mother!" exclaimed King; "all dressed up, and a flower in
her hair!"
This line sounded singable to Marjorie, so she tuned up:
"All dressed up, and a flower in her hair,
To give her a hug, I wouldn't dare;
For she would feel pretty bad, I think,
If anything happened to that there pink!"
Then King added a refrain, and in a moment they had all joined hands and
were dancing round Mrs. Maynard and singing:
"Hooray, hooray, for our mother fair!
Hooray, hooray, for the flower in her hair!
All over the hills and far away,
There's no one so sweet as Mothery May!"
Being accustomed to boisterous adulation from her children, Mrs. Maynard
bore her honors gracefully, and then they all went out to dinner.
As Maiden of Honor, Kitty was escorted by her father; next came Mrs.
Maynard and Kingdon, and then Marjorie and Rosy Posy. The table had
extra decorations of flowers and pink-shaded candles, and at Kitty's
place was a fascinating looking lot of tissue-papered and ribbon-tied
parcels.
"Isn't it funny," said sedate and philosophical Kitty, "I love to go to
Grandma's, and yet I hate to leave you all, and yet, I can't do one
without doing the other!"
"'Tis strange, indeed, Kit!" agreed her father; "as Mr. Shakespeare
says, 'Yet every sweet with sour is tempered still.' Life is like
lemonade, sour and sweet both."
"It's good enough," said Kitty, contentedly, looking at her array of
bundles. "I guess I'll open these now."
"That's what they're there for," said Mrs. Maynard, so Kitty excitedly
began to untie the ribbons.
"I'll go slowly," she said, pulling gently at a ribbon bow, "then
they'll last longer."
"Now, isn't that just like you, Kit!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I'd snatch
the papers off so fast you couldn't see me jerk."
"I know you would," said Kitty, simply.
The sisters were very unlike, for Midget's ways were impulsive and
impatient, while Kitty was slow and careful. But finally the papers came
off, and revealed the lovely gifts.
Mrs. Maynard had made a pretty silk workbag, which could be spread out,
or gathered up close on its ribbon. When outspread, it showed a store of
needles and thread, of buttons, hooks, tapes,--everything a little girl
could need to keep her clothes in order.
"Oh, Mother, it's _perfect_!" cried Kitty, ecstatically. "I _love_ those
cunning little pockets, with all _sewy_ things in them! And a darling
silver thimble! And a silver tape measure, and a silver-topped emery!
Oh, I do believe I'll sew _all_ the time this summer!"
"Pooh, _I_ wouldn't!" said Marjorie. "The things _are_ lovely, but I'd
rather play than sew."
"Sewing _is_ play, I think," and Kitty fingered over her treasures
lovingly. "Grandma will help me with my patterns, and I'm going to piece
a silk teachest quilt. Oh, Mother, it will be _such_ fun!"
"Call _that_ fun!" and Marjorie looked disdainfully at her sister. "Fun
is racing around and playing tag, and cutting up jinks generally!"
"For you it is," Kitty agreed, amiably, "but not for me. I like what I
like."
"That's good philosophy, Kitty," said her father. "Stick to it always.
Like what you like, and don't be bothered by other people's comments or
opinions. Now, what's in that smallish, flattish, whitish parcel?"
The parcel in question proved to be a watch, a dear little gold watch.
Kitty had never owned one before, and it almost took her breath away.
"Mine?" she exclaimed, in wonder. "All mine?"
"Yes, every bit yours," said Mr. Maynard, smiling at her. "Every wheel
and spring, every one of its three hands, every one of its twelve hours
are all, all yours. Do you like it?"
"Like it! I can't think of any words to tell you how much I like it."
"I'll think of some for you," said the accommodating Marjorie. "You
could say it's the grandest, gloriousest, gorgeousest, magnificentest
present you ever had!"
"Yes, I could say that," Kitty agreed, "but I never should have thought
of it. I 'most always say a thing is lovely. Now, what in the world is
this?"
"This" proved to be a well-stocked portfolio, the gift of King. There
were notepaper and envelopes and a pen and pencils and stamps and
everything to write letters with.
"I picked out all the things myself," King explained, "because it's
nicer that way than the ready furnished ones. Do you like it, Kit?"
"Yes, indeedy! And I shall write my first letter to you, because you
gave it to me."
"Oh, Kitty-Cat Kit, a letter she writ,
And sent it away, to her brother one day,"
chanted Marjorie, and, as was their custom, they all sang the song after
her, some several times over.
"Now for mine," Midget said, as Kitty slowly untied the next parcel. It
was two volumes of Fairy Tales, which literature was Kitty's favorite
reading.
"Oh, lovely!" she exclaimed. "On summer afternoons you can think of me,
sitting out in the tree-house reading these. I shall pretend I'm a Fairy
Princess. These are beautiful stories, I can see that already."
Kitty's quick eye had caught an interesting page, and forgetting all
else, she became absorbed in the book at once. In a moment, the page was
turned, and Kitty read on and on, oblivious to time or place.
"Hi, there, Kitsie! Come out o' that!" cried King. "You can read all
summer,--_now_ you must associate with your family."
"I didn't mean to," said Kitty, shutting the book quickly, and looking
round apologetically; "but it's all about a fairy godmother, and a
lovely princess lady,--oh, Mopsy, it's _fine_!"
A pair of little blue enamelled pins was Rosamond's present, and Kitty
pinned them on her shoulders at once, to see how they looked. All
pronounced the effect excellent, and Rosy Posy clapped her little fat
hands in glee.
"Mine's the prettiest present!" she said. "Mine's the booflest!"
"Yes, Babykins," said Kitty, "yours is the booflest,--but they're all
lovely."
The Farewell Feast included all of Kitty's favorite dishes, and as most
of them were also favorites with the other children, it was satisfactory
all round.
"You must write to us often, Kit," said King; "I gave you those writing
things so you'd be sure to."
"Yes, I will; but I don't know yet where you're all going to be."
"I don't know yet myself," said Mr. Maynard, "but it will be somewhere
near the sea, if possible. Will you like the seashore, Kiddies,--you
that are going?"
"I shall," said Marjorie, promptly. "I'll _love_ it. May we go bathing
every day? And can I have a bathing suit,--red, trimmed with white?"
"I 'spect you can," said her mother, smiling at her. "What color do you
want, King?"
"Oh, I think dark blue would suit my manly beauty! What are you going to
have, Father?"
"I think dark blue will be our choice, my boy. It swims better than
anything else. But first we must find a roof to cover our heads. I've
about decided on one,--if I can get it. It's a bungalow."
"What's a bungalow?" asked Marjorie. "I never heard of such a thing."
"Ho, ho! Never heard of a bungalow!" said King. "Why, a bungalow is
a,--is a,----"
"Well, is a what?" asked Midget, impatiently.
"Why, it's a bungalow! That's what it is."
"Fine definition, King!" said his father. "But since you undertook to do
so, see if you can't give its meaning better than that. What _is_ a
bungalow?"
"Well, let me see. It's a house,--I guess it's a low, one-storied house,
and that's why they call it bungalow. Is that it?"
"You're right about the one story; the rest is, I think, your own
invention. Originally, the bungalow was the sort of a house they have in
India, a one-storied affair, with a thatched roof, and verandas all
round it. But the ones they build now, in this country, are often much
more elaborate than that. Sometimes they have one story, sometimes
more. The one I'm trying to get for the summer is at Seacote, and it's
what they call a story and a half. That is, it has an upper floor, but
the rooms are under a slanting roof, and have dormer windows."
"Sounds good to me," said King. "Do you think you'll catch it, Dad?"
"I hope so. Some other person has the refusal of it, but he's doubtful
about taking it. So it may yet fall to our lot."
"I hope so!" cried Marjorie. "At the seashore for a whole summer! My!
what fun! Can we dig in the sand?"
"Well, rather, my child! That's what the sand is there for. Kitty, you
were at the seashore last summer. Did you dig in the sand?"
"Yes, every day; and it was lovely. But this year I'm glad I'm going to
Grandma's. It's more restful."
They all laughed at Kitty's desire for rest, and Marjorie said:
"_I_ didn't have such a restful time at Grandma's. Except when I
sprained my ankle,--I rested enough then! But you won't do anything like
that, Kit!"
"I hope not, I'm sure. Nor I won't fall down the well, either!"
"Oh, we didn't _fall_ down the well. We just _went_ down, to get cooled
off."
"Well, I'm not going to try it. I shall sit in the tree-house and read
every afternoon, and sew with Grandma in the mornings."
"Kit, you're a dormouse," said Kingdon; "I believe you'd like to sleep
half the year."
"'Deed I wouldn't. Just because I don't like rambunctious play doesn't
mean I want to sleep all the time! Does it, Father?"
"Not a bit of it. But you children must 'like what you like' and not
comment on others' 'likes.' See?"
"Yes, sir," said King, understanding the kindly rebuke. "Hullo, Kit,
here's one of your best 'likes'! Here's pink ice-cream coming!"
This was indeed one of Kitty's dearest "likes," and as none of the
Maynards disliked it, it rapidly disappeared.
"Now, we'll have an entertainment," said King as, after dinner, they all
went back to the pleasant living-room. "As Kitty is the chief pebble on
the beach this evening, she shall choose what sort of an entertainment.
Games, or what?"
"No, just a real entertainment," said Kitty; "a programme one, you know.
Each one must sing a song or speak a piece, or something like that.
_I'll_ be the audience, and you can all be performers."
"All right," said King; "I'll be master of ceremonies. I'll make up the
programme as I go along. Ladies and gentlemen, our first number will be
a speech by the Honorable Edward Maynard. Mr. Maynard will please step
forward."
Mr. Maynard stepped. Assuming a pompous air, he made a low bow, first to
Kitty, and then to the others.
"My dear friends," he said, "we are gathered here together this evening
to extend our farewells and our hearty good wishes to the lady about to
leave us. Sister, thou art mild and lovely, and we hate to see thee go;
but the best of friends must sever, and you'll soon come back, you know.
Listen now to our advices. Kitty, dear, for pity's sake, do not tumble
in the river,--do not tumble in the lake. Many more things I could tell
you as I talk in lovely rhyme, but I think it is my duty to let others
share the time."
Mr. Maynard sat down amid great applause, and Kitty said, earnestly,
"You are a lovely poet, Father. I wish you'd give up your other
business, and just write books of poetry."
"I'm afraid, Kitsie, we wouldn't have enough money for pink ice-cream in
that case," said Mr. Maynard, laughing.
"The next performeress will be Mrs. Maynard," announced the master of
ceremonies.
Mother Maynard rose, smiling, and with all the airs and graces of a
prima donna, went to the piano. Striking a few preliminary chords, she
began to sing:
"Good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty,
You're going to leave us now.
Merrily we say good-bye,
Say good-bye, say good-bye;
Merrily we say good-bye
To sister Kitty-Kit."
This had a pleasant jingle, and was repeated by the whole assembly with
fine effect and a large volume of noise.
"Miss Marjorie Maynard will now favor us," was the next announcement.
"This is a poem I made up myself," said Midget, modestly, "and I think
it's very nice:
"When Kitty goes to Grandma's
I hope she will be good;
And be a lady-girl and do
Exactly as she should.
'Cause when _I go_ to Grandma's,
I act exceeding bad;
I track up 'Liza's nice clean floor,
And make her hopping mad!"
Marjorie's poem was applauded with cheers, as they all recognized its
inherent truth.
"We next come to Miss Rosamond Maynard," King went on, "but as she has
fallen asleep, I will ask that the audience kindly excuse her."
The audience kindly did so, and as it was getting near everybody's
bedtime,--at least, for children,--the whole quartette was started
bedward, and went away singing:
"Good-bye, Kitty, you're going to leave us now"--