DISTURBED CITIZENS
"And I've got one that my boy says is in Dick Fulton's writin'!"
declared another angry citizen.
"Here comes Dick's father now," said Mr. Maynard, as he advanced a step
to meet Mr. Fulton. "They tell me our sons have been writing
miscellaneous letters," he said to Mr. Fulton, and, though there was a
twinkle in his eye, Mr. Fulton saw at once that there was some serious
matter in hand.
"Not only your sons, but your girls, too," growled another man. "My kid
says this is your Marjorie's fist."
"Well, well, what are the letters all about?" asked Mr. Fulton, who did
not like the attitude of the complainants.
"Read 'em, and see!" was the quick response, and half a dozen letters
were thrust toward the two gentlemen.
Mr. Fulton adjusted his glasses, and both he and Mr. Maynard quickly
scanned the notes that were only too surely the work of their own
children.
"The signature is misleading," said Mr. Fulton, who was inwardly shaking
with laughter at the absurd epistles, but who preserved a serious
countenance; "but I feel sure it means 'The Village Improvement
Society.' I have often thought such a society would be a good thing for
our town, but I didn't know one had been started."
"But who _is_ the society? A lot of youngsters?" demanded John Kellogg.
"Ahem! These documents would lead one to think so, wouldn't they?" said
Mr. Fulton, suavely.
But the offended men were not to be so easily placated.
"See here," said one of them, assuming a threatening tone, "these 'ere
letters is insults; that's what I call 'em!"
"And I!" "Me, too!" said several others.
"And as they is insults," went on the first speaker, "we wants
satisfaction; that's what we wants!"
"Yes, yes!" "We do!" chorused the crowd.
Mr. Fulton and Mr. Maynard were decidedly nonplussed. It was difficult
to take the matter seriously, and yet, as these men were so incensed, it
might make an unpleasant publicity for the two families, unless they
placated the angry recipients of those foolish letters.
Mr. Maynard was a quick thinker, and a man of more even disposition and
affable demeanor than Mr. Fulton. So Mr. Maynard, with a nod at his
friend, jumped up on a chair and began to address the crowd, as if he
were on a public platform.
"My friends and fellow-townsmen," he said: "in the first place, Mr.
Fulton and I want to admit that these letters which you have received
are without doubt the work of our own children. They were written
entirely without our knowledge or consent, and they represent a childish
endeavor to do well, but they do not show experience, or familiarity
with grown people's ways of dealing with these matters. We, therefore,
apologize to you for the offence our children have caused you, and
trust that, as most of you have children of your own, you will
appreciate the facts of the case, and forgive the well-meaning, but
ill-doing, little scamps."
Mr. Maynard's pleasant voice and genial smile went far to establish
good-feeling, and many voices murmured, "Aw, that's all right," or,
"Little scalawags, ain't they?"
"And now," Mr. Maynard went on, "since we are gathered here, I would
like to make a suggestion that may lead to a good work. Several of our
prominent business men have thought that a Village Improvement Society
could do a great and good work in our town. I, myself, have not
sufficient leisure to take this matter in charge, but I wish that a
committee of our citizens might be appointed to consider ways and means,
with a view to organizing a society in the near future. Should this be
done, I stand ready to contribute one thousand dollars to the general
fund of the society, and I've no doubt more will be subscribed by
willing hearts."
Mr. Maynard stepped down from the chair, and Mr. Fulton immediately
mounted it.
"I, too, will gladly subscribe the same amount as Mr. Maynard," he said;
"this project has for some time been in my mind, and I am pretty sure
that it was because of overhearing some of my conversations on the
subject that my young people took it up, and earnestly, if in a mistaken
manner, endeavored to start such a society."
The sentiment of the meeting had entirely changed. The men who had been
most angry at their letters were now enthusiastic in their desire for
the immediate formation of the society.
"Land sakes!" said old Mr. Bolton, "them children didn't mean nothin'
wrong. They jest didn't know no better."
"That's so," said John Kellogg. "Like's not, some of our kids might 'a'
done a heap worse."
After the election of a chairman for the provisional committee, and a
few more preliminary moves in the matter, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Fulton
went away, leaving it all in the hands of their fellow-townsmen.
"You did good work," said Mr. Fulton, appreciatively. "I confess I was
afraid of an unpleasant turn of affairs. But you won their hearts by
your tact and genial manner."
"That's the best way to manage that sort of an uprising," returned Mr.
Maynard. "Of course we are, in a way, responsible for our children's
deeds, and there's a possibility that some of those letters could make
trouble for us. But I think it's all right now. The next thing is to
choke off the children before they go any further. What _do_ you suppose
possessed them to cut up such a trick?"
"What possesses them to get into one sort of mischief after another, as
fast as they can go?"
"Well, this isn't really mischief, is it? They meant well, you know. But
I'll reserve judgment until after I talk with my young hopefuls."
The two men separated at the corner, and Mr. Maynard went directly to
his own home.
He found Mrs. Maynard and the three older children in the living-room,
variously engaged with books or games.
"Well," he said, as he entered the room. "I'd like an immediate
interview with The Village Imps."
Each of the three gave a start of surprise.
"What do you mean, Father?" cried Marjorie.
"Why, if you belong to an Imp Society you must be Imps; aren't you?"
"Who told you about it?" asked Kitty, disappointedly. "It was to be a
secret, until all the town was stirred up."
"The town is pretty well stirred up now, my girl. But I don't want
reports of my children's doings from other people. Tell me all about it,
yourselves."
"We will, Father," said Marjorie, evidently glad of the chance. "You
tell, King; you're president."
Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave a full account of their
desire to do something that would be a public benefit of some sort. He
told of Dick's suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton's remarks about a
Village Improvement Society. He explained that they wrote letters
because they hadn't money enough for any more expensive proceeding, and
he wound up by proudly stating that they had mailed sixteen letters
already, and hoped to send more the following week.
So earnest was the boy in his description of the work, and so honest his
pride in their efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted the
necessity of changing his view of the matter.
"Kingdon," he said, "you're fourteen years old, and I think you're old
enough to know that you ought not to engage in such important affairs
without getting the advice of older people."
"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie. "Was this wrong, too? Is _everything_
mischief? Can't we do anything at all without we have to be punished for
it? We thought this was truly a good work, and we thought we were doing
our duty!"
Like a little whirlwind, Marjorie flew across the room, and threw
herself, sobbing, into her father's arms.
"My dear child," he said, kissing her hot little brow, "wait a moment
till I explain. We want to talk over this matter, and get each other's
ideas about it."
"But you're going to say it was wrong,--I know you are! And I was trying
so hard _not_ to do naughty things. Oh, Father, how can I tell what I
can do, and what I can't?"
"There, there, Midget, now stop crying. You're not going to be punished;
you don't deserve to be. What you did was not wrong in itself,--at least
it would not have been for older people. But you children are ignorant
of the ways of the grown-up world, and so you ought not to have taken
the responsibility of dictating to or advising grown people. That was
the wrong part."
"But we meant it for their good, sir, more than for our own," said King,
by way of justification.
"That's just it, Kingdon, my boy. You're too young yet to know what _is_
for the good of grown men and women who are old enough to be your
parents and grandparents. You wouldn't think of dictating to your mother
or myself 'for our good,' would you? And all grown people ought to be
equally free from your unasked advice."
"But, Father," insisted King, "if you kept this place looking like a
rubbish-heap, wouldn't I have a right to ask you not to?"
"You'd have only the right of our relationship. A child has many
privileges with his parents that he hasn't with any one else in the
world. But to come right down to the facts: the letters that you wrote
were ill-advised, arrogant, and impertinent."
Kitty looked frankly bewildered at these big Words, Marjorie buried her
face on her father's shoulder in a renewed burst of tears, while Kingdon
flushed a deep red all over his honest, boyish face.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said; "we didn't mean them to be, and we didn't
think they were. We thought they were straightforward and
business-like."
"That shows your ignorance, my son. Until you have been in business, you
cannot really know what grown men and women consider business-like. I
can tell you John Kellogg and Tom Bolton didn't consider them
masterpieces of business-like literature."
"How do you know?" said Marjorie, lifting her wet face from its
hiding-place.
"I saw them, dearie; both the men and the letters, at the post-office
to-night. There were many others,--a dozen or more,--and they were, one
and all, extremely angry at the letters they had received. Mr. Fulton
and I were both there, and, when we were told that the letters were the
work of our children, we could scarcely believe it."
"And we thought you'd be so proud of us," said Kitty, in such a dejected
voice that Mrs. Maynard caught up the little girl and held her in her
arms.
Of course, this was the first Mrs. Maynard had heard of the whole
affair, but, as Mr. Maynard was conducting the discussion, she said
little.
"What ought we to have done, Father?" said King, who was beginning to
see that they had done wrong.
"When you first thought of the plan, my son, you should have realized
that it concerned grown people entirely; and that, therefore, before you
children undertook its responsibilities you should confer with your
mother or me. Surely you see that point?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
"When your plans include only children, and are not disobedience to
rules either actual and implied, then you are usually free to do pretty
much as you like."
"But we thought this would do the town good."
"That was a worthy sentiment, and a true one, too. But the matter of a
town improvement is not a matter for children to attend to, _unless_
they are working under the direction of older people. Had I advised you
to write these letters, which, of course, I never should have done, for
you are not the proper ones to write them, but had I done so, I would
have shown you how to word them that they might not offend.
Inexperienced letter-writers cannot expect to write a sort of letter
which requires special delicacy, tact, and graciousness."
"Father," said Marjorie, solemnly, "I'm never going to do anything
again, but go to school and eat my meals and go to bed. Anything else I
ever do is wrong."
"Now, Mopsy Midget, don't talk nonsense. You're twelve years old. You've
a lot to learn before you're a grown-up, and most of it must be learned
by experience. If you never do anything, you'll never get any
experience, and at twenty you'll only know as much as you did at twelve!
How would you like that?"
"Not much," said Marjorie, whose spirits rose as her father adopted a
lighter tone.
"Then just go on and have your experiences. Cut up jinks and have all
the fun you can; but try to learn as you go along to discriminate
between the things you ought to do and the things you oughtn't. You
won't always guess right, but if you keep on living you can always guess
again."
"What did those men say?" asked King, who was brooding over the scene in
the post-office.
"Oh! they were pretty mad at first, and I think they were quite ready to
come after you children with tomahawks and war-whoops. But Mr. Fulton
and I patted them fondly on the shoulder, and told them you were
harmless lunatics and they mustn't mind you."
"We're not crazy, Father," said Kitty, who was inclined to be literal.
"No, Kitsie, you're not; and I don't want you to drive me crazy, either.
You're three of the most delightful children I ever met, and whenever I
can pull you out of your scrapes I'm only too glad to do so. I may as
well tell you at once that Mr. Fulton and I fixed up this Imp Society
matter very satisfactorily; and if you don't start in to lay a new
asphalt road, or build a cathedral, I think I can keep up with you."
"How did you fix it, Father?" asked Marjorie, brightening with renewed
interest, as she learned that the trouble was over.
"Oh! I told the gentlemen who were most interested that if they didn't
like the way my children improved this village that they'd better do the
improving themselves. And they said they would."
"Really, Father?"
"Really, King. So now you're all well out of it, and I want you to stay
out. Unless they ask for your assistance, later on; and I doubt if
they'll do that, for between you and me they don't seem to approve of
your methods."
"I think it was dreadful for the children to write those letters," said
Mrs. Maynard. "And I don't think, Ed, that you've quite explained to
them how very wrong it was."
"Perhaps not," said Mr. Maynard, "but can't we leave that part of the
subject till some other time? For my part, I'm quite exhausted scolding
these young reprobates, and I'd like a change to smiles instead of
tears. And somehow I have a growing conviction that they'll never do it
again. Will you, chickabiddies?"
"No, sir!" came in a hearty chorus.
"Of course they won't," said Mrs. Maynard, laughing. "It will be some
other ridiculous freak. But I'll be glad to drop the subject for the
present, too, and have a pleasant half-hour before it's bedtime for
babes."
"And aren't we to be punished?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.
"Not exactly punished," said her father, smiling at her. "I think I
shall give you a severe scolding every night for a week, and then see if
you're not little paragons of perfection, every one of you."
"I'm not afraid of your scolding," said Marjorie, contentedly cuddling
close to her father; "but I thought maybe--perhaps--you'd want us to
apologize to those people who were so angry."
"I did that for you, dearie. What's the use of having a father if he
can't get you out of a scrape now and then? And now let's roast some
chestnuts, and pop some corn, and have all sorts of fun."