Randy's Summer: A Story for Girls

The occupants of one wagon would chat merrily with those in the wagon behind them; and so, with sunny and shady roads, with laughter and song, they at last reached the grove.

The horses were unharnessed and tethered with a rope long enough to permit them to graze. The baskets of lunch were all placed in one large wagon which stood in the shade of a huge tree. Then intimate friends and neighbors formed little groups and sat under the trees and chatted together, delighted to have this little outing. The children played hide-and-seek behind the tree trunks, and those farmers who had left their work to enjoy the holiday talked over their crops, their cattle, and the price of produce when disposed of at the village store.

The Babson girls were each trying in an awkward fashion to win favor in the eyes of Reuben Jenks, who Phœbe Small declared “had a hull basketful of maple sugar stored away under the seat of his father’s wagon.”

When Reuben had spoken of the picnic his mother, who was, to express it mildly, a frugal woman, had said that she, for one, didn’t approve of picnics. “Folks eat four times as much at a picnic as they do at home, and ain’t no better satisfied,” she declared; but after much urging she consented to go, saying: “A lot of maple sugar’ll be all I’ll take. Sweets take away folks’ appetites, and folks that eat my maple sugar won’t want much else.”

But try as they would, neither Belinda’s nor Jemima’s blandishments brought forward any of the desired sugar. Now Reuben liked the girls well enough, and his boyish vanity was pleased by their evident liking for his society. He was a generous little fellow and would gladly have treated his friends, but his mother’s eyes were upon him, and he said afterward, he “just didn’t dare.”

Jotham Potts, hearing Helen say that she liked water cresses, gallantly offered to go and find some, assuring her that he knew just where they grew.

Helen, Randy, and Prue sat under a large tree, and Helen promised, since Randy was so charmed with fairy tales, to tell some which she knew they had never heard. She told them tales from Grimm’s wonderful book, pleasantly answering Prue’s funny questions regarding them. When she related the story of the “Gold Children,” little Prue’s eyes dilated with wonder.

“It’s just beautiful,” said Randy.

“If they were clear, solid gold how could they move or stir?” asked Prue.

Helen laughed, and patted the little girl’s cheek as she said: “Dear little girl, you mustn’t ask questions which have no answers. Remember the fairy tales are not true, only amusing.”

Having told story after story, Helen became a bit weary, and she proposed that the children should gather a few flowers, saying that she would twine them into a lovely wreath for Prue’s curly head.

Off went the children to search for the finest blossoms to heap in Helen’s lap. Soon little Prue hastened back with three large daisies and a buttercup, asking if they were quite enough to make a wreath. “No, indeed,” said Helen, “I must have ever so many more.”

Away ran Prue, shouting to the children, “Miss Dayton says it takes a nawful lot more.” Soon other children came running to Helen with little hands full of buttercups and daisies, until she cried, “Enough, more than enough!” and commenced the weaving of the wreath.

The children watched her dainty fingers, as with airy grace they fashioned it, and when she twined the ends of the garland together, and placed the finished wreath upon Prue’s head, their delight knew no bounds.

“Oh, Miss Dayton, you can do anything, can’t you?” said Belinda Babson.

“Oh, no, indeed!” said Helen, “there are many, many things which I cannot do.”

Then they spread the table-cloth upon the grass, and “put the picnic on it,” as Prue said. Prue’s idea of a picnic was a lunch out of doors, and until the luncheon made its appearance, she felt that the picnic had not even commenced. Then suddenly clapping her chubby hands, and dancing in a manner which threatened to dislodge her flower crown, she said, “May I wear this wreath while I eat my lunch?”

“Oh, do,” said Helen, “it is really very becoming.”

Every one seemed anxious that Helen should sit as guest of honor at the spread, so, with children on either side, she took her place, and deftly put each one present at ease with her bright, pleasant conversation; now saying a kind word to old Mrs. Dewing, that she might not feel neglected, or laughing lightly at Farmer Morse’s clumsy wit, noticing Randy’s gentle manner with her little sister, and at the same time, with ready tact, seeming unmindful of the practised hand with which Jack Marden handled his pie with his knife.

So with laughter and gay chatter the lunch was eaten and cleared away, and some one proposed some games.

“Let’s play ‘On the green carpet,’” said Phœbe Small, and a chorus of voices echoed: “Oh, yes! Let’s play that first;” so, joining hands, they sang the old tune as they danced about Helen, whom they insisted should first stand in the centre.

    “And  choose  the  one
    That  you  love  best,”

sang the children.

“I choose Randy,” said Helen, much to Randy’s delight.

    “Give  her  a  kiss  and  send  her  away,
    And  tell  her  you’ll  call  another  day,”

sang the gay little troop, and Helen stooped, and taking Randy’s sweet face between her hands she kissed her and slipped from the ring. Around and about Randy they circled, and then she must choose. She longed to choose Helen, and turned toward her, but Helen said, “We must not keep choosing each other, Randy, because it is more fun to change about,” so Randy turned with a puzzled face, wondering whom to choose. Seeing the little sister’s eager face, she decided at once. “I choose you, pussy,” said she.

Into the ring sprang Prue. “Oh, Randy,” said the child, “you did love me best, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” said Randy; “but now we know, Prue, that you love me best, you choose the one you love next best, because that’s the way to play it;” so, wondering much whom the child would favor, Randy left her in the circle. But it did not take dear little Prue a great while to decide.

“Next to Randy, I guess I like you, Jotham, so I choose you,” said the child. Every one laughed except Jotham, who, seeing the little girl’s lip quiver, said awkwardly, yet very kindly, “You’re a nice little girl, Prue, and I’m real proud to have you choose me;” at which Prue’s spirits rose, and, turning with one little hand in Jotham’s, she said: “You needn’t have laughed if I did choose a big boy. He’s very nice, and ’most always gives Randy candy, and she gives some to me.”

This so amused every one that they commenced to pet Prue, and, much to Jotham’s delight, the game ended, for he felt that he could have chosen none but Randy as his favorite among his friends, and he realized that this would have been a trying ordeal for his diffidence.

Many games they played that sunny afternoon, and so fast flew the hours that every one was surprised when Deacon Turnbull pulled out his great, old-fashioned “timepiece” and declared that it “wanted a quarter to six, and that they ought to be hitchin’ up and startin’ toward home.”

So the baskets and pails were packed into the wagons, the horses harnessed, and the merry, tired party started homeward.

Some of the picnickers were jolly, singing as they went along, others were too tired to sing; but all were unanimous in voting the picnic a success, many declaring that it was just wonderful how Miss Dayton planned it, and that they didn’t know when they’d had such a good time. The ride with Helen was delightful to the two children, Randy looking admiringly at Helen all the way and talking little. She was really too happy for conversation.

Not so with little Prue. She sat between Helen and Randy, and all the way home her chatter was interspersed with snatches of the songs which had been a part of their games.

    “‘On  the  green  carpet  here  we  stand,
    Take  your  true  love  by  the  hand,
    Give  her  a  kiss  and  send  her  away,
    And  tell  her—’

“That’s just the best picnic I ever saw, wasn’t it, Randy?”

Before Randy could answer, out rang the childish treble again:—

    “‘Sailor  in  er  boat  when  the  tide  runs  high,
    Sailor  in  er  boat  when  the  tide  runs  high,
    Sailor  in  er  boat  when  the  tide  runs  high,
    Waiting  for  a  pretty  girl  to—’

“Oh, Miss Dayton, don’t you think Jotham’s ’most as nice as a prince? I do,” said Prue, without waiting for an answer, although she looked up in Miss Dayton’s face expectantly.

Helen took Prue’s little dimpled hand in her own as she said: “All princes are not good, although many of them are very, very good indeed. Jotham has a good face, and I am sure when I really know him I shall like him very much. If he grows to be a good, brave, true man, that is worth much more than being a prince.”

“Yes’m,” said Prue, not quite catching Helen’s meaning, yet vaguely understanding that Jotham was fully appreciated. Prue’s curly head swayed a little, like a tired flower; and Helen, slipping her arm around her, drew her toward her, and soon the little girl’s head lay against her new friend.

Still she sang, although drowsily:—

    “‘Oh,  what  a  beautiful  choice  you’ve  made,
    Don’t  you  wish  you’d  longer  stayed?’”

The last line was drawled out so slowly that Randy said, “Oh, wake up, Prue, you’re asleep.”

“I guess I ain’t sleepy, but my eyes feel ’s if—” she was now really asleep just as they reached Farmer Gray’s door.

Mr. Weston was waiting in the dooryard with his own team to take the children home, and, after an exchange of remarks with Mr. Gray regarding the weather and bluff, but hearty thanks to Miss Dayton for the children’s day of pleasure, he took little Prue in his arms, and, placing her in Randy’s lap, gathered up the reins, and with a resounding “g’lang there” the old mare ambled toward home.

Mrs. Weston was at the door when they arrived. “Well, Randy,” said she, smiling.

“Oh, mother!” cried Randy, “it was just splendid, and we had such good times all day.”

“What! Prue asleep?”

“No,” said little Prue, “I ain’t asleep, but my eyes feel funny, and we had gingerbread and peppermints, and cold sausage and lemonade, and ‘On the—green—carpet,’ and I chose Jotham, and I had a wreath and some maple sugar, and it was all made of daisies and butter—cups—and—and,” but here she lost the thread of her story, and was carried upstairs and put in her bed.

CHAPTER VII—RANDY OUTWITS JASON MEADE

“Well,” said Randy, “I’m just going to bring in towels and aprons from the line and sprinkle and iron them, so’s you can sit down awhile after dinner.”

Mrs. Weston looked at the bright, flushed face a moment, then said: “I do declare, Randy, you’re a real help. There ain’t a better daughter in this town, if I do say it.”

“Oh, mother,” said Randy, “I’d ’most work my fingers off just to hear you say that. I help you because I love you, though somehow I never ’til now could say it.”

Mrs. Weston wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron, then, turning to Randy, she kissed her, saying: “Why, Randy, it does me good to hear you say it, and, child, ye must know I’m all bound up in you and Prue. We busy folks sometimes forget to show how much we really feel.”

“I mean,” said Randy, “to make you and father happy, always; sometimes I forget to help, but always I mean to.”

“I know ye do,” said her mother.

Randy moved about the kitchen with a subtle sense of exhilaration. Her mother had always been kind and good, but to have her speak of her affection and say a word of approval for her helpfulness, what more could be needed to make a young girl happy? thought Randy.

She sang little snatches of melody while she cleared the dinner table, and grasped the first leisure moment to steal out under the apple tree, thence toward the brook to the old stone wall. A large stone had toppled from the wall, and Randy sat down upon it to rest. She had intended to make a little call upon Miss Dayton, to talk over the events of the picnic, and to hear what her new friend had to tell her; for Helen had hinted that she had another good time planned, and she promised to tell Randy all about it when next they met.

Tall alders grew luxuriantly almost the entire length of the wall, which served as a fence for one side of the pasture; and Randy, a bit tired with the forenoon’s work, easily fell into one of her day-dreams, when she was aroused by hearing voices behind the alders. There seemed to be two voices, and Randy heard them mention her father’s name. She was an honest girl who, under ordinary circumstances, would have scorned to listen; but something in the tone of the speaker’s voice seemed distinctly unfriendly when he spoke of her father, and Randy seemed, against her will, riveted to the spot and obliged to listen. She must have taken her place on the big stone when the conversation was well under way, but the sound of her own footsteps, while unheard by the earnest talkers, had prevented her from hearing their voices. She was invisible to them as they were to her, separated as they were by the alders.

“Now, I’ve tried and tried ’til I’m tired er tryin’ to sell Mr. Weston that piece er medder land er mine, ’n’ it would a been sold long ago if I hadn’t been bound to swap land instead er taking cash.”

“Yes, but I don’t see the great pint er not takin’ cash ef he’s fool enough to pay it,” said the second voice.

“Just listen to this, Jim. My wife’s just got back from a visit to her folks, I forgit the name of the town, ’though it’s on my tongue’s end this minute, and while she was there she heard say that they’re goin’ to run a railroad through this part of the town, next summer, jest a sort er branch road from the one that goes through the centre, and my wife never let on that she was much interested; but she asked ’nough questions, kinder keerful like, and she found that ef they do build the road, and she says the folks down that way say they do really mean to, it’ll be straight across that little bit er rocky field, back er Weston’s barn. Now, I argy that Weston’s got money ’nough, and I mean ter keep at him ’til he agrees ter swap that ’ere little pesky, rocky field er his’n fer my piece er medder land. The more I urge him the less he seems ter want ter swap, an’ I even offered to throw in a good young steer to boot, an’ all the satisfaction I could git out er him was, ‘Wal’, I dunno what makes yer so anxious fer that little piece er land er mine.’

“He don’t know nothin’ ’bout the railroad yet, but there’s no knowin’ how soon he will. My wife’s naggin’ me to make him swap, but I’d like to see her try to hurry Weston when he don’t intend to hurry; but I tell ye now, ef that ’ere road does run through his field, I mean ter own it fust, an’ I’m goin’ up ter night ter talk him inter it.”

Randy now realized that the speaker’s voice was no other than Jason Meade’s. She was but fifteen, but she knew that if her father yielded to his neighbor’s urging, it would in some way mean loss to him. All thought of her call upon Helen vanished, and in its place lay a great fear that she might be seen before she could get away from her hiding place and rush home.

She was a bit cramped with her crouching pose behind the wall. Slowly she arose to her feet, glided along upon the grass, lest her footsteps should be heard, and, once in the grove, she sprang across the brook, dashed through the fields, up the path, and into the kitchen door, where she dropped upon a chair and tried to speak.

“Why, Randy Weston! whatever ails ye? Ye look ’s if ye’d seen a ghost. Why, father,” as the girl did not speak, “jest come look at Randy. She’s been runnin’ ’til she’s clean tuckered out, ’n’ can’t seem to speak.”

Mr. Weston came hastening in from the well with a pail of water, which he set down when he saw Randy.

“Why, Randy, child, what—”

“Oh, father,—the little rocky field behind the barn,—don’t sell it, don’t swap it; the railroad’s going through it; and oh, father, that’s why Jason Meade wants to make you swap it. It’s going to be worth lots and lots of money; he can’t make you swap it, can he, father?” and in her anxiety she sprang up and put her hands upon her father’s shoulders.

“There, there, Randy, you’ve done your father a good turn this time, sure enough, ef it’s true. Sit down and tell me where ye heard all this.”

So Randy, having regained her breath, told her anxious listeners the tale, beginning with her intended call upon Miss Dayton; how she strolled through the grove and across the brook, and sat down to rest upon the big stone by the wall, with the great alders behind her; how she had, at first sound of the voices, tried not to listen, and, on hearing an unfriendly voice mention her father’s name, she had, although afraid of detection, crept close to the wall, to hear if the men really meant to harm him.

Then she had told all that she had heard, word for word, finishing with, “And, father, he can’t make you swap, can he? he seemed so determined.”

Then Mr. Weston did a very unusual thing. Putting his arm around Randy, he drew her down upon his knee, where she had not sat since she was a little girl like Prue, and as he looked at her, with just a suspicion of moisture in his kind, blue eyes, he said, “Mother, we’ve got a girl to be proud of.”

“And to be thankful for,” said Mrs. Weston.

“Amen!” said Randy’s father, and he added, “Always be as brave and quick to do what’s right, Randy, as you have been to-day, even forgetting your own pleasure, and I will trust you anywhere.”

Here little Prue, who had been awed into silence by the earnestness of the conversation, found her tongue once more, and piped in with, “Why, pa, my big sister Randy’s been good again. How can she be always good?”

They all laughed, and Randy, catching little Prue and giving her a tight hug, said: “I know who’s got the best little sister in all the world. I have, just as sure as your name is Prudence.”

“I like you to love me lots, Randy dear, but don’t you call me anything but Prue. ‘Prudence’ makes me think of Aunt Prudence, and she looked all so,” and here Prue drew down her wee mouth, and puckered up her fair little forehead and brows into such a scowling imitation of Aunt Prudence, that even her father, who did not at all approve, could not help smiling at the dimpled copy of that lady’s unpleasant face.

Soon Mrs. Weston had tea ready, and the family had but just finished the evening meal when a loud tap at the door announced some neighbor’s arrival. Mr. Weston looked at his wife, with a twinkle in his eye, as he arose to answer the knock.

“Well, well, Jason, come in, come in!” Thus Mr. Weston welcomed his crafty neighbor.

“How are ye, Square Weston? I thought I’d jist drop in an’ see if you’d made up yer mind about that piece er land er mine.”

“Well, yes, I hev,” said Mr. Weston, looking his neighbor squarely in the face; “I told ye, a month ago, I’d give ye two hundred dollars in cash fer that big medder of yourn.”

“I know it, I know you did; but the thing is, I’ve took a reel fancy to that little rocky pasture er yourn, and I feel ’s if I’d lots rather have it, little as it is, than the cash, ’f you’ll believe me.”

Jason Meade sat back in his chair with the bland air of a man who had done a good deed in praising his neighbor’s property.

Mrs. Weston came out of the closet where she had been placing the dishes and stood by her husband’s chair, anxiously awaiting his answer. She knew his generous nature, but she believed that this time he would be firm.

Randy, who after tea had taken the fairy book to the table to read, now leaned forward with parted lips.

Slowly Mr. Weston turned toward his neighbor, and a faint smile played about his lips as he said, “I’ll tell ye, Jason, I jist thought that while it ain’t so very val’able now, I’ve ’bout decided to keep it, for when the railroad comes clean through it, I’m thinkin’ I’ll be reel pleased to think it’s my property.”

Jason Meade’s mouth opened to its widest extent, and to say that he was amazed, astonished, or surprised, would be expressing it very mildly indeed. He cleared his throat and blinked once or twice, then, as no suitable remark seemed to suggest itself he arose, and pushing back his chair, he said “he’d reely have to go as he’d got an arrant to do at Mrs. Gray’s.” He sheepishly made his way toward the door, and mumbling something about the weather, he dejectedly stalked out with the air of a disappointed man.

“Why, father,” said Randy, “he didn’t even ask you how you knew about the railroad.”

Mr. Weston laughed as he said: “I guess he didn’t care how I knew. That I knew at all was what worried him.”

CHAPTER VIII—TABLEAUX

“Why, yes indeed,” said her mother; “there is less than usual to do to-day, and nothing at all after dinner. Fly ’round and get cleared up, and you can put on your clean red and white gingham and your new hat and go over early.”

“Fly ’round!” Randy did fly, and by two o’clock she was off down the road, walking as fast as her feet and her enthusiasm would take her.

What could Miss Dayton be planning, thought Randy, as she hastened toward the farm-house where Helen was staying.

Helen saw her coming and opened the door, smiling at Randy’s questioning face, which expressed a world of interest in Helen’s scheme, whatever it might be.

“Come right in, take off your hat, and sit down and I will tell you all about my plan for an evening’s pleasure. You know I promised when I first met you that I would try to make this summer just a bit gay during my stay here. Now I believe we shall all enjoy an evening of tableaux,” but here Helen was obliged to pause and explain just what tableaux were, “and,” she continued, “I think that any one of the large girls who attended the picnic, and a few of the little ones, will make a very nice set of pictures.”

“Oh, I should think it would be lovely, but,” Randy added doubtfully, “what could we wear that would be nice enough for pictures or tab—”

“Tableaux,” said Helen.

“Yes, tableaux,” said Randy.

“I will agree to furnish the costumes,” said Miss Dayton; “they will not have to be very fine to look extremely pretty in the frame. Mr. Gray has made me a fine frame which you and I will cover with evergreen. Then Mrs. Gray has two bracket lamps which we will fasten to the back of the frame to light up the pictures, and I have a lot of odds and ends of pretty things in my trunks which will be sufficiently bright and gay for costumes. Now let us go at once to the barn and decorate the frame.”

Mr. Gray’s man, Roger, had just brought in an immense load of evergreen. Randy was all eagerness to help, and together they worked all the afternoon.

When she left for home the frame was thickly covered. There was evergreen and asparagus over the pictures in the “best room” where they were to exhibit to the townspeople their tableaux, and Randy had seen her costume which Helen had designed.

Miss Dayton was an ardent admirer of Greuze, and she possessed many photographic reproductions of his paintings. She also owned a number of photographs of Sir Joshua Reynold’s portraits of beautiful women and children, and knowing the bareness of the walls in the average New England farm-house, she had brought these pictures with her to decorate her room during her stay. She intended to copy these beautiful pictures in the list of tableaux which she arranged.

Randy was spellbound when she saw the photographs. “Oh, Miss Dayton,” cried she, “do you really think any of us will do?”

“Why, yes indeed,” laughed Helen, “I have you all selected now. You are to be the girl with the broken pitcher in the painting by Greuze. Would you like to see your costume?”

“I guess I should like to,” answered Randy, excitedly clapping her hands; so Helen showed her a waist with large, loose sleeves, a kerchief or scarf, and a wide ribbon “to tie up her bonny brown hair.”

Randy went home in a fever of excitement. Think of a girl of fifteen who had never witnessed an entertainment of any kind, and you will understand with what delight she looked forward to an evening of tableaux in which she would take part.

Miss Dayton called upon those girls who she thought would like to pose for the tableaux, and every one was invited to be present.

The girls, both large and small, were delighted, and their elders were quite as pleased with the promise of an evening’s enjoyment, and every invitation was enthusiastically accepted. Mrs. Gray’s attic proved a perfect treasure room. She generously offered the contents of all the old trunks to Helen, saying, “If you see anything which you can make use of, I shall be truly glad.” Mrs. Gray had been a city girl, and had spent the greater part of her married life there, and she brought to the farm-house many trunks containing faded finery, which, while far too good to be thrown away, were of but little use in that small country town. Helen chose those things which she could best utilize and carried them down to the front room, where she deposited them behind an improvised screen.

Randy thought the evening would never come; so did little Prue, for she, too, was to be one of the “tab things,” as she called them. She could not remember the word “tableaux.”

But the evening did arrive, and with it all the girls whom Helen had drilled for the proper posing, all of the boys who were curious to see the girls “fixed up for pictures,” as Reuben Jenks had expressed it, and all of the farmers and their wives, who were nearly as excited as the young people.

Mrs. Gray and Helen received the friends and neighbors as they arrived, showing them the photographs on the walls and telling them that the girls, correctly dressed, would look very much like pictures when seen in the frame.

The frame was in place with a dark background behind it, and stretching from either side of the frame to the side walls of the room were some old brocatelle curtains which Helen had found in Mrs. Gray’s attic. These curtained spaces served as dressing rooms.

Besides the tableaux Helen had planned quite a little programme, and although much drilling had been necessary, each performer was perfect in her part.

Jotham Potts had, after much urging, agreed to read the programme, and Helen had promised to contribute a song, and a piano solo which should be the opening number.

The hum of conversation rose loud and cheery, and so lively did it become that it was impossible to hear a completed sentence.

“They say your Phœbe’s goin’ to be a dreadful pretty picture to-night.”

“What’s she goin’ to—”

“Wal’, I dunno, seems Miss Dayton thinks our Jotham has a good voice, so she asked him to read the—I forgit what you call it, but anyhow I guess—”

“Yes, Miss Dayton says my hair is auburn and not red, and she says—”

“Why, ef here isn’t Mis’ Weston’s little Prue!”

“Yes’m, I’m going to be one of the tab things, and sing a little tune what Miss Dayton learned—no, taught me,” said the little girl, very proud to think that she had remembered the correction.

“Well, I think she’s real nice to come up here and plan such good times,” but here Helen tapped upon the piano, and the conversation ceased so abruptly that one might think that the audience held its breath.

The girls rushed behind the curtains on either side of the frame, and Jotham Potts, clearing his throat, read the first number for the evening.

Helen had drilled him in pronouncing those names which he found difficult, and very clearly he read,—

“Our first number will be a piano solo by Miss Dayton, entitled, ‘Marche Militaire.’”

Mr. Potts nudged his wife, saying, in a loud whisper, “Our Jotham did that just like a city feller, didn’t he?” His wife ejaculated “Sh—,” but she smiled and nodded, for she was of the same opinion.

Helen in her white muslin looked very beautiful, as she took her seat at the piano. That piano was the only one in town, and the only one that many of the audience had ever heard. Helen was a good musician, and the piece, grand in itself, rang out brilliantly, to the great delight of every one present, and many were the words of praise which reached her ears when she arose. One voice, bolder than the others, said, “That’s what I call great; just one more piece, Miss Dayton, ef it ain’t asking too much.”

This was an honest if unceremonious encore, so Helen seated herself once more, and for those simple country people played a brilliant polacca.

“Wal’, ’twas all I could do to keep from dancin’, I dew declare,” said old Deacon Turnbull, which made every one laugh, as the deacon was a very dignified old man.

Helen rose and saying, “Now, Jotham,” she stepped behind the curtains. “Our next number,” announced Jotham, “will be a tableau as nearly as possible like the painting entitled ‘The Age of Innocence.’”

“That’s it over there,” said Mrs. Buffum to her husband, pointing at the photograph on the wall, and every one looked that way. When the curtain was drawn aside, there was chubby little Hitty Buffum, her hands clasped upon her breast, a wee bit of a smile on her parted lips—a very good counterpart of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s picture.

“Oh! oh my! She looks just like it. Isn’t she cunnin’?” and similar remarks greeted the little girl in the first tableau. She had done her very best for Miss Dayton. Then the curtain swung across the frame and Jotham announced, “The next number will be a song by little Miss Weston.”

“I didn’t know as the Weston children could sing, did you?” queried one neighbor, but there was no time for an answer, for little Prue had taken her place on the improvised platform, and Helen was playing a little prelude.

Mrs. Weston laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. Would Prue, her little Prue, get through the song without faltering? She need not have feared. Out rang the childish treble in the song which Miss Dayton had taught her. How fresh and clear the little voice sounded!

 
    “Sometimes  I  am  a  daisy  bloom,
    I  make  believe  ’tis  true,
    I  play  that  all  I  ever  eat
    Is  early  morning  dew.
 
    “Sometimes  I  am  a  butterfly,—
    Just  see  my  gauzy  wings!
    Sometimes  I  play  I  am  a  bird,
    Who  only  sits  and  sings.
 
    “But  always  I  am  mama’s  girl,
    And  papa’s  girlie,  too,
    And  next  to  them  I  love  the  best,
    I  love  each  one  of  you.”

Putting up her dimpled hands she daintily kissed her finger tips, made a very cunning little bow, and tripped back to Miss Dayton, saying, “Did I do it nice?”

“Just splendid, little Prue,” said Jotham.

“Couldn’t have been better,” said old Mrs. Green.

Then Prue crept up on her father’s lap to see “all the other tabs,” she said.

“The ‘Chapeau Blanc,’ which Miss Dayton says means the White Hat,” announced Jotham. This time the curtain swept aside to disclose Phœbe Small’s little face beneath a hat with white gauzy ruffles upon the brim, and a feather held in place by a knot of blue ribbon. A pearly kerchief about the shoulders was most becoming to Phœbe, whose usually expressionless face looked almost piquant under the saucy white hat and feather.

“Don’t she look like a photograph?” whispered Mrs. Small, “and a good deal nicer, if I do say it as shouldn’t,” and Mrs. Small looked around with a sniff at those present who possibly thought their daughters prettier.

Now, Phœbe’s principal defects were an abundance of freckles, and an absence of character in her small face; but the costume was becoming, and the freckles not apparent in the light in which she was posed; so her heart was delighted with words of commendation, and she hoped that Jotham Potts had seen her tableau.

As a matter of fact, Jotham had not seen her; for, having announced that number, he had sat down and waited for Miss Dayton to appear. The next number on the programme was his, and now Helen stepped from behind the curtain to announce it.

“We will now listen to a solo by Jotham Potts.”

“Oh! oo! oo! Does your Jotham sing?” asked Mrs. Brimblecom of Mrs. Potts.

“Why, no; leastways I never heard him,” said Jotham’s mother, with a twinkle in her eyes, for did she not know of Jotham’s evenings spent in practising this very solo with Miss Dayton’s accompaniment?

Randy had said one day to Helen, “You’d ought to hear Jotham Potts whistle. He does it just splendid. It sounds just like the brook rippling.”

When Helen made her plans for the entertainment, she invited him to give a whistling solo.

“Oh, I’d do anything to ’blige you, Miss Dayton, but who’d want to hear me whistle?” said Jotham.

Then Helen told the boy how many people gave whistling solos in the city, with a piano accompaniment, and Jotham consented to “jest try it” with the piano.

After announcing the number, Helen seated herself, and played a pretty little prelude, and then Jotham commenced to whistle a simple piece which Helen played, called “The Alpine Echo,” in which there was an imitation of an Alpine horn, followed by echoing notes an octave higher.

Jotham was, indeed, a charming whistler, and as his courage rose, his notes sounded true and flutelike, making the song and echoes, the piano ever aiding him, until with a final thrill and flourish he finished his solo, and, blushing and bowing, retired.

The little assembly was much excited and there were repeated calls for one more whistling solo, and cries of “fine,” and “that beats all,” and “whistle just once more, Jotham.” So Helen resumed her seat at the piano, and this time Jotham whistled a medley in which were heard “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” “Yankee Doodle,” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“Well, I must say, she is,” said Mrs. Potts. “She’s always a pretty girl, but I do declare to-night she’s nothin’ short of handsome.”

“So I say,” said Jotham, and even Randy’s parents were surprised at her beauty. The tableau was recalled, and this time Randy blushed most becomingly because of the encore.

“Oh, do see my Randy!” called little Prue, who had been nodding when the tableau was first shown, and awoke with a start to see her dear Randy looking out from the frame.

“The next number will be a solo by Katie Buffum.” Immediately wee Katie was in position. She was not diffident in the least, and clasping her chubby hands she at once piped up with cheery voice:—

    “Once  there  was  a  little  mouse
    No  bigger  than  my  fumb;
    He  crept  into  my  pocket,
    Where  he  hunted  for  a  crumb.
 
    “I  put  my  finger  in  there,
    Just  to  see  what  there  was  in  it;
    But  the  little  mouse  was  naughty,
    And  he  bit  me  in  a  minute.”