PICNIC PLANS
One entire day out of each month Mr. Maynard devoted to the
entertainment of his children.
This was a long-established custom, and the children looked forward
eagerly to what they called an Ourday.
The day chosen was always a Saturday, and usually the first Saturday of
the month, though this was subject to the convenience of the elders.
The children were allowed to choose in turn what the entertainment
should be, and if possible their wishes were complied with.
As there had been so much bustle and confusion consequent upon their
return from the summer vacation, the September "Ourday" did not occur
until the second Saturday.
It was Marjorie's turn to choose the sport, for, as she had been away at
Grandma Sherwood's all summer, she had missed three Ourdays.
So one morning, early in the week, the matter was discussed at the
breakfast table.
"What shall it be, Midget?" asked her father. "A balloon trip, or an
Arctic expedition?"
Marjorie considered.
"I want something outdoorsy," she said, at last, "and I think I'd like a
picnic best. A real picnic in the woods, with lunch-baskets, and a fire,
and roasted potatoes."
"That sounds all right to me," said Mr. Maynard; "do you want a lot of
people, or just ourselves?"
It was at the children's pleasure on Ourdays to invite their young
friends or to have only the family, as they chose. Sometimes, even, Mrs.
Maynard did not go with them, and Mr. Maynard took his young brood off
for a ramble in the woods, or a day at the seashore or in the city. He
often declared that but for this plan he would never feel really
acquainted with his own children.
"I don't want a lot of people," said Marjorie, decidedly; "but suppose
we each invite one. That makes a good-sized picnic."
As it was Marjorie's Ourday, her word was law, and the others gladly
agreed.
"I'll ask Dick Fulton," said Kingdon. "I haven't seen much of him since
I came home."
"And I'll ask Gladys Fulton, of course," said Midget. As Gladys was her
most intimate friend in Rockwell, no one was surprised at this.
"I'll ask Dorothy Adams," said Kitty; but Rosy Posy announced: "I won't
ask nobody but Boffin. He's the nicest person I know, an' him an' me can
walk with Daddy."
"Next, where shall the picnic be?" went on Mr. Maynard.
"I don't know whether I like Pike's Woods best, or the Mill Race," said
Marjorie, uncertainly.
"Oh, choose Pike's Woods, Mops," put in Kingdon. "It's lovely there,
now, and it's a lot better place to build a fire and all that."
"All right, Father; I choose Pike's Woods. But it's too far to walk."
"Of course it is, Mopsy. We'll have a big wagon that will hold us all.
You may invite your friends, and I'll invite a comrade of my own. Will
you go, Mrs. Maynard?"
"I will, with pleasure. I adore picnics, and this bids fair to be a
delightful one. May I assist you in planning the feast?"
"Indeed you may," said Midget, smiling at her mother. "But we can
choose, can't we?"
"Of course, choose ahead."
"Ice-cream," said Marjorie, promptly.
"Little lemon tarts," said Kitty.
"Candy," said Rosy Posy.
"Cold chicken," said Kingdon.
"That's a fine bill of fare," said Mr. Maynard, "but I'll add sandwiches
and lemonade as my suggestions, and anything we've omitted, I'm sure
will get into the baskets somehow."
"Oh, won't it be lovely!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I haven't been on a
picnic with our own family for so long. We had picnics at Grandma's, but
nothing is as much fun as an Ourday."
"Let's take the camera," said Kingdon, "and get some snapshots."
"Yes, and let's take fishlines, and fish in the brook," said Kitty.
"All right, chickabiddies; we'll have a roomy wagon to travel in, so
take whatever you like. And now I must be off. Little Mother, you'll
make a list to-day, won't you, of such things as I am to get for this
frolic?"
"Candy," repeated Rosy Posy; "don't fordet that."
As the baby was not allowed much candy, she always chose it for her
Ourday treat.
Mr. Maynard went away to his business, and the others remained at the
breakfast table, talking over the coming pleasure.
"We'll have a great time!" said Kingdon. "We'll make father play Indians
and shipwreck and everything."
"Don't make me play Indians!" exclaimed his mother, in mock dismay.
"No, indeedy! You couldn't be an Indian. You're too white-folksy. But
you can be a Captive Princess."
"Yes!" cried Marjorie; "in chains and shut up in a dungeon."
"No, no," screamed Rosy Posy; "my muvver not be shutted up in dunjin!"
"No, she shan't, Baby," said her brother, comfortingly; "and, anyway,
Mops, Indians don't put people in dungeons, you're thinking of
Mediaevals."
"Well, I don't care," said Midget, happily; "we'll have a lovely time,
whatever we play. I'm going over to ask Gladys now. May I, Mother?"
"Yes, Midget, run along. Tell Mrs. Fulton that Father and I are going,
and that we'd be glad to take Gladys and Dick."
Away skipped Marjorie, hatless and coatless, for it was a warm day, and
Gladys lived only across the street.
"It's so nice to have you back again, Mopsy," said Gladys, after the
invitation had been given and accepted. "I was awful lonesome for you
all summer."
"I missed you, too; but I did have a lovely time. Oh, Gladys, I wish you
could see my tree-house at Grandma's! Breezy Inn, its name is, and we
had _such_ fun in it."
"Why don't you have one here? Won't your father make one for you?"
"I don't know. Yes, I suppose he would. But it wouldn't seem the same.
It just _belongs_ at Grandma's. And, anyway, I'm busy all the time here.
There's so much to do. We play a lot, you know. And then I have my
practising every day, and, oh dear, week after next school will begin. I
just hate school, don't you, Gladys?"
"No, I love it; you know I do."
"Well, I don't. I don't mind the lessons, but I hate to sit cooped up at
a desk all day. I wish they'd have schools out of doors."
"Yes, I'd like that, too. I wonder if we can sit together, this year,
Mops?"
"Oh, I hope so. Let's ask Miss Lawrence that, the very first thing. Why,
I'd die if I had to sit with any one but you."
"So would I. But I'm sure Miss Lawrence will let us be together."
Gladys was a pretty little girl, though not at all like Marjorie. She
was about the same age, but smaller, and with light hair and blue eyes.
She was more sedate than Midget, and more quiet in her ways, but she had
the same love of fun and mischief, and more than once the two girls had
been separated in the schoolroom because of the pranks they concocted
when together.
Miss Lawrence, their teacher, was a gentle and long-suffering lady, and
she loved both little girls, but she was sometimes at her wits' end to
know how to tame their rollicking spirits.
Gladys was as pleased as Marjorie at the prospect of the picnic. Often
the Maynard children had their Ourdays without inviting other guests,
but when outsiders were invited they always remembered the happy
occasions.
All through the week preparations went on, and on Friday Ellen, the
cook, gave up most of the day to the making of cakes and tarts and
jellies. The next morning she was to get up early to fry the chicken and
prepare the devilled eggs.
Mr. Maynard brought home candies and fruit from the city, and a huge can
of ice-cream was ordered from the caterer.
The start was to be made at nine o'clock Saturday morning, for it was a
long drive, and everybody wanted a long day in the woods.
Friday evening was fair, with a beautiful sunset, and everything boded
well for beautiful weather the next day.
Rosy Posy, after her bread-and-milk supper, went happily off to bed, and
dropped to sleep while telling her beloved Boffin of the fun to come.
The other children dined with their parents, and the conversation was
exclusively on the one great subject.
"I don't think it _could_ rain; do you, Father?" said Kitty, looking
over her shoulder, at the fading sunset tints.
"I think it _could_, my dear, but I don't think it will. All signs point
to fair weather, and I truly believe we'll have a perfect Ourday and a
jolly good time."
"We always do," said Midge, happily. "I wonder why all fathers don't
have Ourdays with their children. Gladys' father never gets home till
seven o'clock, and she has to go to bed at eight, so she hardly sees him
at all, except Sundays, and of course they can't play on Sundays."
"They must meet as strangers," said Mr. Maynard. "I think our plan is
better. I like to feel chummy with my own family, and the only way to do
it is to keep acquainted with each other. I wish I could have a whole
day with you every week, instead of only every month."
"Can't you, Father?" said Kitty, wistfully.
"No, daughter. I have too much business to attend to, to allow me a
holiday every week. But perhaps some day I can manage it. Are you taking
a hammock to-morrow, King?"
"Yes, sir. I thought Mother might like an afternoon nap, and Rosy Posy
always goes to sleep in the morning."
"Thoughtful boy. Take plenty of rope, but you needn't bother to take
trees to swing it from."
"No, we'll take the chance of finding some there."
"Yes, doubtless somebody will have left them from the last picnic. Your
young friends are going?"
"Yes," said Marjorie. "King and I asked the two Fultons, and Kitty asked
Dorothy Adams. With all of us, and Nurse Nannie, that makes just ten."
"And the driver of the wagon makes eleven," said Mr. Maynard. "I suppose
we've enough rations for such an army?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling. "Enough for twenty, I think,
but it's well to be on the safe side."
The children went to bed rather earlier than usual, in order to be up
bright and early for the picnic.
Their play-clothes, which were invariably of blue and white striped
seersucker, were laid out in readiness, and they fell asleep wishing it
were already morning.
But when the morning did come!
Marjorie wakened first, and before she opened her eyes she heard an
ominous sound that sent a thrill of dismay to her heart.
She sprang out of bed, and ran to the window.
Yes, it was not only raining, it was simply _pouring_.
One of those steady, determined storms that show no sign of speedy
clearing. The sky was dark, leaden gray, and the rain came down in what
seemed to be a thick, solid volume of water.
"Oh!" said Marjorie, with a groan of disappointment from her very heart.
"Kitty," she said, softly, wondering if her sister were awake.
The girls had two beds on either side of a large room, and Midget
tiptoed across the floor, as she spoke. Kitty opened her eyes sleepily.
"What is it, Midget? Time to get up? Oh, it's picnic day!"
As Kitty became broad awake, she smiled and gaily hopped out of bed.
"What's the matter?" she said, in alarm, for Marjorie's face was
anything but smiling.
For answer, Midget pointed out of the window, toward which Kitty turned
for the first time.
"Oh!" said she, dropping back on the edge of the bed.
And, indeed, there seemed to be nothing else to say. Both girls were so
overwhelmed with disappointment that they could only look at each other
with despondent faces.
Silently they began to draw on their stockings and shoes, and though
determined they wouldn't do anything so babyish as to cry, yet it was no
easy matter to keep the tears back.
"Up yet, chickabiddies?" called Mr. Maynard's cheery voice through the
closed door.
"Yes, sir," responded two doleful voices.
"Then skip along downstairs as soon as you're ready; it's a lovely day
for our picnic."
Midge and Kitty looked at each other. This seemed a heartless jest
indeed! And it wasn't a bit like their father to tease them when they
were in trouble. And real trouble this surely was!
They heard Mr. Maynard tap at King's door, and call out some gay
greeting to him, and then they heard King splashing about, as if making
his toilet in a great hurry. All this spurred the girls to dress more
quickly, and it was not long before they were tying each other's
hair-ribbons and buttoning each other's frocks.
Then they fairly ran downstairs, and, seeing Mr. Maynard standing by the
dining-room window, they both threw themselves into his arms, crying
out, "Oh, Father, isn't it _too_ bad?"
"What?" asked Mr. Maynard, quizzically.
"Now, Daddy," said Midget, "don't tease. Our hearts are all broken
because it's raining, and we can't have our picnic."
"Can't have our picnic!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard, in apparent excitement.
"Can't have our picnic, indeed! Who says we can't?"
"I say so!" exclaimed Kingdon, who had just entered the room. "Nobody
but ducks can have a picnic to-day."
"Oh, well," said Mr. Maynard, looking crestfallen, "if King says so that
settles it. _I_ think it's a beautiful picnic day, but far be it from me
to obtrude my own opinions."
Just here Mrs. Maynard and Rosy Posy came in. They were both smiling,
and though no one expected the baby to take the disappointment very
seriously, yet it did seem as if Mother might have been more
sympathetic.
"I suppose we can eat the ice-cream in the house," said Marjorie, who
was inclined to look on the bright side if she could possibly find one.
"That's the way to talk!" said her father, approvingly. "Now you try,
Kingdon, to meet the situation as it should be met."
"I will, sir. I'm just as disappointed as I can be, but I suppose
there's no use crying over spilt milk,--I mean spilt raindrops."
"That's good philosophy, my boy. Now, Kitty, what have you to say by way
of cheering us all up?"
"I can't see much fun in a day like this. But I hope we can have the
picnic on the next Ourday."
"That's a brave, cheerful spirit. Now, my sad and disheartened crew,
take your seats at the breakfast table, and listen to your foolishly
optimistic old father."
The children half-heartedly took their places, but seemed to have no
thought of eating breakfast.
"Wowly-wow-wow!" said Mr. Maynard, looking around the table. "_What_ a
set of blue faces! Would it brighten you up any if I should prophesy
that at dinner-time to-night you will all say it has been the best
Ourday we've ever had, and that you're glad it rained?"
"Oh, Father!" said Marjorie, in a tone of wondering reproach, while
Kitty and King looked blankly incredulous, and Mrs. Maynard smiled
mysteriously.