Chapter V: A Safe and Sane Fourth

"The three-legged race is what I'm dying to see," Amy declared. "It sounds so mysterious, you know, like some new kind of quadruped. No, I don't mean that," she added hastily, as Peggy laughed. "Quadrupeds have to have four legs, don't they? Well, anyway, it sounds like something queer."

The village celebration of the approaching Fourth of July had for some days been the chief topic of conversation in Dolittle Cottage. The idea of a picnic, with the whole community invited, was in itself a startling innovation to girls who were city-bred, and the entertainment promised in the shape of various contests, winding up with a baseball game between the "Fats" and the "Leans" appealed to them all, more or less strongly. Peggy, with that faculty for picking up information which would have made her an unqualified success as a newspaper reporter, was continually announcing new items of interest, that Farmer Cole's Joe was to pitch for the "Leans," or that Jerry Morton had won the potato race the previous Fourth, and meant to enter again, or that Rosetta Muriel disdained the promiscuous appeal of the picnic, but thought she might bring herself to view the fireworks in the evening.

The morning of the third was for the most part given up to preparing the picnic luncheon, and Jerry Morton, who sampled Peggy's doughnuts still hot from the kettle, carried away a new-born respect for the accomplishments of that versatile young person. Mrs. Snooks, too, arriving when the house was fragrant with the mingled odors of blueberry turnovers, spiced cake and gingersnaps, sniffed appreciatively, and lost no time in expressing her surprise.

"Well, I want to know. I've heard tell that city folks most generally bought their cake and stuff, instead of baking it. Dreadful shiftless way, I call it. I just dropped in to see if you could let me have half a pail of lard and a table-spoonful of soda."

Even the generous Peggy rejoiced that the opportunity to say no had arrived at last.

"I've just used up the last of the lard, Mrs. Snooks, and we haven't thought to get any soda yet."

"You don't mean to tell me that you've been getting along without baking-soda," exclaimed Mrs. Snooks with unconcealed disappointment. "Well, well! Young folks are certainly thoughtless. And here you've used up all your lard, and to-morrow the Fourth, and the store shut." From all appearances Mrs. Snooks was having something of a struggle to control her irritation at such evidences of short-sightedness. It was clear, however, that her efforts had been crowned with success, when she announced with an explosive sigh, "Well, if you haven't lard or baking-soda, I'll take a cup of granulated sugar, and a ball of darning cotton. Yes, black, I guess, though if you're out of black, 'most any color will do."

It was certainly disappointing when after such preparations and anticipations, the girls were waked on the morning of the Fourth by the beating of rain on the roof. The most optimistic of weather prophets could have seen no promise of clearing in the lowering sky. The girls had roused a little early, in honor of the occasion, and they came down-stairs with gloomy faces, and over the oatmeal and bacon exchanged condolences. "To think that the first really rainy day had to be the Fourth," scolded Priscilla. "And when we had made up our minds to be so patriotic, too."

"And that three-legged race," mourned Amy. "Probably I'll never get a chance to see another. Peggy, I warn you that when you look so--preposterously cheerful, it makes me feel like throwing something."

Peggy laughed, and helped herself to toast. "I was only thinking that if we were going to keep the Fourth of July indoors, we'd have to have a flag of some sort."

"You don't mean you'd go three miles in this rain after a flag, Peggy. And, anyway, the store would be closed for the Fourth."

"Oh, I didn't mean to buy one. I thought we'd make it."

"Make a flag!" exclaimed Claire Fendall. "Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Betsy Ross did it," Peggy reminded her. "Let's us hurry through the dishes and see if we can't do as much."

Even though the prospect of emulating Betsy Ross was an unsatisfactory substitute for the anticipated excitements of the day, Peggy's suggestion was noticeably successful in raising the drooping spirits of the crowd. The work of the morning was dispatched in haste, and the girls flocked to the living-room where a fire less ambitious than their first attempt had been kindled on the hearth. Peggy had produced a large-sized white towel from her trunk, and she at once began to explain her plan.

"This will do for a foundation, girls. It's soft and it will drape nicely. Now all we need is a blue patch in one corner, and red stripes. Who's got any red ribbon?"

"I've got that red ribbon I use for a sash," responded Amy. "But I'd hate to have it cut."

"Oh, we won't need to cut it. You see, this flag is going to be draped over the fireplace, so its shortcomings won't be in evidence, and we'll turn the ribbon on the side that doesn't show. Bring me all the red ribbons in the house. Amy's sash won't be enough."

So with much animated discussion, the flag grew apace. Nobody was exactly sure whether the outer stripe should be red or white, and for economical reasons, Peggy decided on the latter. "We'll begin with white, girls, for that will make seven white stripes and only six red ones. And we've got plenty of white towel, while red ribbon is a little scarce."

Another perplexing question arose when Peggy had sacrificed the dark blue sailor collar of an old blouse, to form the blue field in the upper corner of the flag. "Now we can cut white stars out of paper and sew them on," exclaimed Peggy, standing back to admire her handiwork. "How many are there, anyway?"

Nobody was able to answer. Peggy gazed around the circle with a mingling of indignation and incredulity.

"What! All of us high school girls and not know how many states there are in the Union! This is really awful. Aunt Abigail, _you_ must know."

"Dear me, child," replied Aunt Abigail serenely, "I have an impression that there were in the neighborhood of thirty-six at the time of the Centennial Exposition. And since then I've lost track."

"I wonder if we could count them up," mused Peggy, wrinkling her forehead. "Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont--"

"What's the use?" protested Amy. "Who counts the stars on the flag, anyway? We'll crowd in forty or fifty, enough to pretty well cover the blue, and it will look all right."

Ruth had a suggestion to offer. "As long as this is a sort of Betsy Ross flag, why not have thirteen stars, just as she had?"

As this proposal afforded a satisfactory solution to the difficulty, the thirteen stars were promptly cut from white paper and sewed in place, and the finished flag was draped above the fireplace. Peggy's anticipations in regard to its shortcomings had been realized. The red stripes were not of uniform width, or of the same shade, and the blue field was a trifle small in proportion to the size of the flag, owing to the limitations of the original sailor collar. Yet when it was in place, with the stripes composed of Dorothy's hair-ribbons drawn up artistically, so that the wrinkles didn't show, the effect was most impressive. And along with their pride in their success, the girls experienced that indescribable thrill which is the heart's response to the challenge of our national emblem.

"Now, girls," Peggy was looking at the clock, "we've got time for just one thing more before we start to get dinner. Each one of us must write a patriotic conundrum, and then we'll put them around at each other's plates, and we'll have to guess them before we can eat a mouthful."

The girls groaned in a dismay half real, half assumed. "I don't see how a conundrum _can_ be patriotic," objected Claire.

"Oh, if it's about your native land, or George Washington, or the flag, it'll do," conceded Peggy, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when Amy made a dart for the writing desk. "Oh, let me have a pencil, quick," she begged, "before I forget it."

"You don't mean that you've thought of one already!" Ruth cried, but the radiant satisfaction on Amy's countenance was answer enough. With an expression of mingled wonder and envy, Ruth found a pencil and scrap of paper, and set to work to produce her own conundrum in the allotted half hour. With the exception of Amy, none of the girls could boast of any inspiration for the task. Every face wore an expression of stern and relentless absorption, in striking contrast to Amy's air of carefree content.

The ample provision made for a picnic dinner the previous day rendered the preparation of the midday meal unusually easy, and the girls gathered at the dinner-table less eager to sample the pressed meat and potato chips than to examine the folded slips of paper placed under each plate. Peggy was the first to unfold hers.

"Why is Peggy like Betsy Ross?" she read aloud. "Oh, Amy Lassell! No wonder it only took a half minute." Her tone was reproachful, but Amy beamed upon the company with no decrease of complacency.

"That's what I call a good conundrum," she declared; "it's patriotic, and it's easy to guess. The trouble with most conundrums is that nobody can guess them except the people who make them."

"That's the case with this one, I think," said Aunt Abigail, scrutinizing her conundrum through her lorgnette. "What do you make of this? At the top of the paper are the letters W. P. H. and underneath is the question 'Why are these letters like the Father of his country?'"

It was some time before any ray of light was thrown on this dark mystery. "Whoever made it up will have to explain it," Amy declared for the tenth time. "It's Peggy, of course, for she hasn't helped in the guessing. Now, my conundrum--"

"Wait," cried Priscilla, sitting up suddenly, "I know. First in war--"

"To be sure _W_ is first in war, and _P_ first in peace. A little far-fetched, but not bad for a beginner," said Aunt Abigail patronizingly, while Ruth patted Priscilla's tall head, not without difficulty, and Amy read aloud. "'What is the most important of the United States?' New York, I suppose, though of course I like my own state lots better."

"No, it's _matrimony_." In her haste to explain, Ruth forgot to wait for the guesses that might come nearer the mark. "But I can't see that it's particularly patriotic, though it is about our native land, and I'm dreadfully afraid it's not so very original."

"Original enough. Even in Solomon's time there was nothing new under the sun," Peggy consoled her. "Now, Priscilla." But Priscilla had colored fiercely on unfolding her paper and crumpled it in her hand. Even if she had not instantly recognized the handwriting she would have had no difficulty in ascribing the sentiment to its rightful source.

"Who is it that I love better than my native land? Can my dearest Priscilla guess?"

"Read yours, Claire," Peggy said hastily, interrupting Amy who was about to protest against the suppression of a single conundrum, and Claire read obediently, "Why was Martha Washington like the captain of a ship?" It was Peggy who distinguished herself by suggesting, "Because Washington was her second mate," and Priscilla, whose flushed cheeks were rapidly regaining their natural hue, pronounced the answer correct. "Rather suspicious," Amy declared. "Priscilla guesses Peggy's, and Peggy, Priscilla's. Looks as if it was all fixed up beforehand. Well, Ruth, yours is the last."

The last conundrum proved to be the most puzzling. "What battle of the Revolution is like a weather-cock?" Various explanations of the mysterious affinity were offered, and each in turn rejected. Aunt Abigail, the author, was finally appealed to.

"Why, dear me!" Aunt Abigail smiled upon the circle of interested faces. "I haven't the slightest idea, but I was sure that if _any_ battle of the Revolution was the least bit like a weather-cock, one of you smart young folks would find it out."

After this auspicious beginning, the cheeriness of the midday meal was in pleasing contrast to the gloom of breakfast. Even Amy forgot to mourn over missing the three-legged race, and Ruth, who, under Graham's tutelage, had become an ardent devotee of baseball, was reconciled to her failure to witness the unique contest between the Fats and the Leans. The morning had passed so rapidly, and so pleasantly on the whole, that every one was inclined to be hopeful regarding the remainder of the day, and to wait with tranquillity the further unfoldment of Peggy's plans.

When dinner was over, the dining-room in order, and the last shining dish replaced on the cupboard shelves, expectant eyes turned in Peggy's direction, as if to ask "What next?" And Peggy, as was her custom, promptly rose to the occasion.

"Now for this afternoon--"

A reverberating rap immediately behind her, caused Peggy to turn with a start and throw open the door, whereupon the figure on the step entered without waiting for an invitation. It was Jerry Morton, but a Jerry startlingly unlike his every-day self. Even the fact that he was dripping with rain could not obscure the magnificence of his toilet, including very pointed tan shoes, and a hand-painted necktie. Under his coat was partially concealed some bulging object which gave him an appearance singularly unsymmetrical.

Peggy was the first to recover herself. "Why, good afternoon, Jerry. But I guess we shan't want any fish to-day."

"You don't suppose I'd sell fish on the Fourth, do you?" demanded Jerry with the impressive scorn of a patriot misjudged. "I thought maybe you'd like--like a little music, seeing it's raining cats and dogs." He had thrown apart his soaked coat as he spoke, and the bulging object proved to be a banjo, in a little flannel case, which Jerry hastily removed, twanging the strings of the instrument in his anxiety to ascertain the effect of the dampness on their constitution.

"Music! Why, that's very nice of you, Jerry. Come into the next room and let me introduce you to Mrs. Tyler." Peggy was a little in doubt as to the light in which Aunt Abigail would regard this unceremonious call from the youthful fish-vender. But the shrewd old lady was familiar with the customs of too many lands, not to be able to accommodate herself to the democratic simplicity of a country community. She gave Jerry her hand, insisted that he should take a seat by the fire, where his damp clothing would gradually dry, and forthwith called for "Dixie." And hardly was the stirring melody well under way before the girls were keeping time with toes and fingers, and a general animation was replacing the temporary frigidity induced by Jerry's advent. Jerry really played surprisingly well, and on a stormy day such an accomplishment stands its possessor in good stead.

But it was not left to Jerry to uphold the reputation of the community for sociability. The ringing of the front-door bell interrupted "The Suwannee River," and Peggy, who was nearest the door, jumped up to answer the summons, while Hobo, a little ahead of her as usual, stood with his nose to the crack, gravely attentive, as if to satisfy himself as to the intentions of the new arrival. This time the open door revealed Rosetta Muriel, struggling to lower a refractory umbrella, with her hat tipped rakishly over one eye.

"Why, how do you do?" exclaimed Peggy, attempting to conceal her surprise under an effusive cordiality. "Come right in." But Rosetta Muriel was not to be hurried. She closed her umbrella, righted her hat, and began fumbling in a little beaded bag which dangled from her wrist. All the heads were turned wonderingly toward the open door before she produced the object of her search, a gilt-edged card, upon which was written with many elaborate flourishes, "Miss Rosetta Muriel Cole."

Peggy gazing upon this work of art, began to realize the importance of the occasion. Rosetta Muriel was making a call. "Will you walk in?" Peggy repeated, this time with proper decorum, and the caller entered and was presented to each of the company in order.

"Pleased to meet you," said Rosetta Muriel, primly, in acknowledgment of each introduction, but when Jerry's turn came, both she and Peggy varied from the usual formula. "Of course you know Jerry Morton," Peggy said, and Rosetta Muriel admitted the impeachment, with the stiffest of bows. If not pleased at meeting Jerry, it was evident that she was surprised to find him in Dolittle Cottage, and apparently quite at home.

The music ceased temporarily and conversation took its place. Rosetta Muriel, invited to lay aside her hat, declined with dignity and commented on the weather. After full justice had been done to that serviceable theme, Peggy introduced another.

"We've met such a nice girl several times when we've been picking berries. I suppose you know her?--Lucy Haines."

"I know who you mean," replied Rosetta Muriel coldly. "She ain't in society, you know."

"Not in--"

"Not in society," firmly repeated Rosetta Muriel. "She used to come to my house sometimes, but that was before I came out. After you come out you've got to be more careful about who you associate with."

An awestruck silence followed the enunciation of this social law, and Rosetta Muriel addressed herself to Priscilla, whose aristocratic bearing seemed to impress her favorably. "Do you know Mrs. Sidney Dillingham?"

Priscilla stared at this familiar mention of one of the society leaders in her own city. "Why, I never met her, if that's what you mean. I know her by sight. I've seen her at several concerts."

"I suppose you know she's entertaining Sir Albert Driscoll at her Newport house this summer. Quite a feather in her cap, ain't it?"

Priscilla replied with a gasp that she supposed it was, and looked appealingly at Peggy. Peggy's responsive attempt to bring the conversation back to normal levels, proved quite unsuccessful. Rosetta Muriel was determined to impress her new acquaintances with her knowledge of customs of the Four Hundred, and indeed it was evident that she had studied the society columns of the New York papers, with an industry worthy a better cause. Peggy at length grew desperate.

"As long as it's Fourth of July, wouldn't it be nice to sing some patriotic songs? You can play 'America,' can't you, Jerry?"

"Well, I guess," said Jerry, with unfeigned relief, and he struck a resounding chord. After Rosetta Muriel, and the atmosphere of tawdry pretense surrounding her, it was a relief to every one to launch into the splendid words,

"My country, 'tis of thee."

Amy, who did not know one tune from another, sang at the top of her voice. Aunt Abigail hummed the air in a cracked soprano, with traces of bygone sweetness. Priscilla's silvery notes soared flute-like above the others, and even Rosetta Muriel joined after a brief hesitation, probably due to her uncertainty as to whether this was customary in the best society, on the occasion of a formal call.

"That went splendidly," declared Peggy, her face aglow, when the last verse had filled the room with melody. "Now, what about 'The Star Spangled Banner?' Can you play that, Jerry? It's a lot harder than the other."

"You bet it's harder, but I can play it all right." Jerry instantly proved his boast by striking the introductory chords, winding up with an ambitious flourish. "Now," he said, with a nod, and the chorus burst out lustily, Priscilla's voice leading.

"O, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming."

The chorus, strong on the first line, weakened on the second. Priscilla sang through the third alone, and then came to a full stop. Jerry drummed a few further chords, and broke off to demand, "What's the matter?"

"Why, I've forgotten just how that goes," cried Priscilla. "What is the next, anyway?"

After a protracted struggle, in which each girl racked her memory and contributed such fragments as she could recall, four lines were patched into comparative completeness. But, beyond this, their allied efforts could not carry them. For the second time that day, Peggy included herself in her stern denunciation.

"It's perfectly appalling. We didn't know how many states there were, we didn't know about the stripes on the flag, and now we don't know 'The Star Spangled Banner.' It's a disgrace. Not a single person in this room knows 'The Star Spangled Banner.'"

"I do," said Jerry Morton.

"Oh, all right. You can teach it to the rest of us, then," declared Peggy, and for the next hour the drilling went forward relentlessly. The company repeated each verse in chorus till there was no sign of doubt or hesitation, and then sang it through. When the verses had been mastered separately, the entire song was rendered with telling effect. Aunt Abigail clapped her hands.

"I've often wondered why the English and the Germans were so much better posted on their national songs than we are. If all patriotic young Americans took this sensible way of spending a rainy Fourth of July, our critics would have one less arrow in their quiver."

The afternoon was well advanced, and Rosetta Muriel rose to make her farewells, expressing an enjoyment which was perhaps a concession to her sense of propriety, rather than a perfectly spontaneous expression of feeling. Rosetta Muriel found the girls of Dolittle Cottage strangely puzzling. She had prepared herself to meet these city visitors on their own ground, and instead of holding her own, she had it all her own way. Apparently she was the only one of the company who could claim with any show of reason, to be an authority on the doings of the smart set.

After supper, while the rain still pounded unweariedly on the roof, Aunt Abigail told the story of a high-spirited young ancestress, who had lived back in the colonial times, and in the stirring days of '76 had pitted her wits against one of King George's officers, and won from him a concession which was perhaps equally a tribute to her beauty and her brains. It was one of the stories which cannot be re-told too often, full of the audacious courage of gallant youth, and the listening girls felt a vicarious pride in the daring of their countrywoman of bygone days. As for Amy, she straightened herself so as to give the effect of having grown suddenly taller.

"_My_ ancestress," she observed with fitting pride. "How many times my great-grandmother was she, Aunt Abigail? It's no wonder I'm a little out of the ordinary."

In spite of a disheartening beginning, it had been a very satisfactory Fourth. Up-stairs, as the girls made ready for bed, Ruth voiced the general opinion. "For a safe and sane Fourth, it hasn't been half bad."

Peggy who had crossed the hall, to combine sociability with the ceremony of taking down her hair, brushed her refractory locks with energy.

"I wish they'd never tacked that on to the Fourth of July," she said. "So many things are safe and sane, darning stockings, for instance. The Fourth of July ought to be a lot more. It ought to be jolly, and to teach you something, and make you think. And this Fourth has come pretty near all three."