Chapter II: Part 2

Angelina sniffed. “That was nothing,” she defended, “I shoo cats, too. Marguerite likes cats even as I do, but I often say shoo, shoo! I do it to see the cat blink its eyes and look at me. Some cats will jump and run. One does not know what they will do--and I have seen Louisa--”

But here Maria put a hand over Angelina’s mouth. “I do not care what Louisa has done,” she admonished. “Go get me the soap that is by the basin in the bedroom so that I may wash the dress. There is no use to start a quarrel. There is no money to buy valentines at all, either for Louisa’s teacher or for Marguerite Santos.”

But if the subject of valentines subsided once in a while, it was sure to start again on the next day when Maria, Louisa and Angelina passed homeward by the wonderful windows of the ten cent store. There was never time to stop. Only a hasty glimpse did Louisa and Angelina snatch. Oh, the joy of going into the store to see the piles of candy on the candy counter! Oh, the happiness of gazing at bright colored ribbons and wonderful toys! And the valentines that lay on the counter in hundreds, what fun to see them, even though one could not spend money to buy any! Alas!

But it happened that Angelina had received a good mark in spelling on the day before Valentine’s Day and Maria wished to reward it. “I promised,” she said. “It is true, Angelina--tomorrow, on Valentine’s Day, you and Louisa may stop at the store and go in while I go home. You may stay till the sun sets, but no longer. Today I must hurry home and I need you to help with the sweeping.”

The gray cat was on the doorstep in the sun as they reached the brown tenement by the roadside. Angelina lifted it in her arms and Maria turned the key in the lock. They were home again. Tomorrow would be the great day to visit the store and see all of its splendor. That night she dreamed of beautiful valentines and of Marguerite Santos’ red plush cloak.

The morning of Valentine’s Day dawned with pink and gold happiness of sunlight. On the way to school, Louisa and Angelina sang and when school was out they dashed into worn brown cloaks and caps to wait for Maria, who took her time gathering books and pencils for home-work at night. “Hurry, hurry!” they implored. “It is four o’clock. The sun will set by half past four and there will be no time to see the valentines!” And so Maria hurried. At the ten cent store they left her--joy!

Hand in hand they pressed into the crowd. “See, Louisa!” and “Look, Angelina!” they called to each other every minute. But it was Angelina who caught the first glimpse of the valentines. There at the counter was the beautiful red plush cloak of Marguerite Santos bending over the valentines!

Together they pressed past the other children who stood behind that beautiful red plush cloak and they craned their necks to see the valentines as Marguerite Santos, absorbed in the selection of the most beautiful one to be had, turned them over one by one. But there was no envy in the heart of Louisa and Angelina as they watched. It was happiness that was there--of course, if one had been rich like Marguerite Santos--but how nice it was to be where they were! How gay the music of the pianola sounded! Wasn’t it amusing to watch Marguerite Santos buy valentines! But right here she took up the one of the gray pussy-cat!

Angelina nudged Louisa. “See, see!” she whispered. “She likes the pussy-cat. It is not true what Maria said. She is not unmannerly at all. I would like to speak to her and ask her to come to play with me--she has smiled at me many times when I have met her--”

But Louisa shook her head hard. “You must not speak,” she insisted. “Maybe she would not like to have you see what it was that she bought.”

So, when Marguerite Santos wedged her way out of the crowd, she saw neither Angelina nor Louisa. She held her valentine of the pussy-cat tight in its big white envelope--tight upon the front of her red plush cloak. She was concerned with the care of it, lest some rude person bump into her and injure it.

Louisa and Angelina waited a moment and then drifted out of the door after her. The sky was all red and gold with the sunset. It was like some wonderfully bright valentine card, so beautiful! As they turned the corner in the dusky twilight and came upon the doorstone of the brown house that was home, there knelt the beautiful red plush cloak of Marguerite Santos! She was laying the valentine upon the step and was about to knock and run away!

It was Angelina who caught her as she turned. Louisa was lagging behind, with her eyes on the first evening star that flamed white in the sky.

“Is it really for me?” asked Angelina. With an arm around the beautiful red plush cloak of Marguerite Santos, she smiled at the big white envelope that lay unopened on the stone. “I guess that it is a picture of a pussy-cat like ours,” she beamed. “I have no valentine to give you but I have always liked you, Marguerite, and I have wanted you to like me. Could I not give you a share of our gray cat as a valentine, maybe? I know that you, too, like cats, though you have none.”

But here, Louisa caught up and the door opened.

“It was very mannerly of you to bring Angelina the valentine,” spoke Maria. “I thank you. Will you not come in and play for a while? It must be lonely to have no brothers and sisters. We would like you for our friend, even though we have no candy or peanuts or telephone. Angelina has for a long time wanted to know you, Marguerite Santos.”

_Buttinski, Peacemaker_

_THE MARCH SURPRISE_

_There was a St. Patrick’s Day shamrock favor in the pocket that was labelled:_

“_Open on the 17th of March at 6 A. M._”

_Marjorie was afraid she might oversleep and so miss opening that pocket entirely till the next March 17th should come around. But Dotty saw to that. She was always wide awake, bright and early. She woke Marjorie up even before 6 A. M._

_The story pocket that came next was marked:_

“_Open in March when the wind blows hard and you have to stay
indoors._”

_As March came in like a lamb, Dotty kept putting off the reading of this story to tease Marjorie. When Marjorie begged to know if she might open it, Dot would chuckle. “The wind doesn’t blow hard enough yet,” she would say._

_But finally it did blow so hard that Marjorie insisted. Then, together, they read the story of “Buttinski, Peacemaker.”_

_V_

_Buttinski, Peacemaker_

Nobody would have expected it of them. They were the very best of friends, and Miss Allen, who was the grade teacher, used to call them David and Jonathan.

When mental arithmetic and English classes had head and foot, Laura and Mary made it a point not to know answers of questions that came to them. So they kept together at the foot of the class, side by side. Miss Allen never said a word to them or to anybody else, but she understood. Then the classes stopped having head and foot. But she let them sit side by side. Even their desks were together.

Mary was always ready to laugh at a joke. Laura couldn’t even see one a mile off. That was how the trouble started and how little Betty Peters started to play peacemaker. Everybody called Betty Peters “Buttinski” because she was always as interested in other people’s affairs as she was in her own--perhaps a little too much interested. She would interrupt conversations and ask “What’re you talking about?” Some of the girls resented it.

It was in beginning German that Betty Peters sat next to Mary. Laura took French and wasn’t in the class at all. She did not know one word of German from another. It used to be one of Mary’s jokes to pretend that she could speak fluently so she would rattle off a long string of vocabulary with conversational intonations to make Laura believe she knew a great deal. Of course, Laura only half believed, though she didn’t understand the joke. Sometimes she really thought that it was a German conversation and she didn’t like to have Mary talk German to her because she did not study it and couldn’t understand. Betty Peters always helped Mary. She used to enjoy the fun.

But one day, it ceased to be fun. Laura always was a little jealous of Betty Peters. She used to wait at the door of the German room with Mary’s lunch-box because she herself had a study-hour just before recess and she could be there as soon as Mary’s class was dismissed. Then Mary would always call out to Betty Peters a long list of German words that meant nothing and Betty Peters would reply. On the memorable Friday when this stopped being amusing, Laura was there waiting when the two came out. Mary had been full of mischief that day. “Promise not to tell--I’m going to have a joke,” she whispered as the class filed out into the hall, Betty behind her.

Laura caught the words and saw Betty’s nod of promise. Then Mary launched out, “_Die, der, der, die; das, des, dem, das_,” she jabbered to Betty. Of course, everybody knows that this is feminine and neuter declension of the definite article, but Laura thought it was something confidential and jumped to the conclusion that it was a personal remark about _her_.

She turned upon her heel and walked straight off downstairs. Mary simply hooted with laughter and ran after her, but the harder she and Betty Peters laughed, the more indignant Laura grew. She put Mary’s lunch-box down upon a bench and left it and pushed Mary’s hand off her shoulder. Mary fell back to get the box. “You’ve done it!” declared Betty Peters.

“Nonsense!” replied Mary. “She ought to know I was just joking. Maybe she’s merely pretending to be angry.” But she wasn’t at all sure.

“I think she is really angry,” insisted Betty Peters.

“Well, what could she _think_ I said?” inquired Mary. “I didn’t say anything at all.”

“Perhaps she thought you said something about her--”

“She ought to know me better,” declared Mary. Then she carried her lunch-box to the lunch-room with Betty Peters. There was a crowd there. At first they did not see Laura but when they did, there was no chance to reach her in the crowd. “She did that on purpose,” suggested Betty Peters. Mary called to her, but either Laura didn’t hear or pretended not to, even though some of the other girls spoke to her and Betty Peters was sure Laura _must_ have been aware of the calls. Such a thing as a quarrel between Mary and Laura had never before happened. Nobody knew what to make of it. Mary was mortified and determined to reach Laura so as to explain and make it all right, but when Betty Peters and Mary reached her, Laura walked right in the opposite direction. Mary called after her that it was only a joke, but Laura was icy. So at last, Mary decided that Laura would have to find out for herself what “_Die, der, der, die_ and _das, des, dem, das_” meant. “Two can play at that game,” she snapped, as Laura disappeared. “If she won’t speak to me, neither will I speak to her!” Betty Peters ate her lunch in the lunch-room but Mary took hers out into the garden. It was snowy there and she was all alone. It couldn’t have been a very nice place to eat lunch! Where Laura went, nobody knew. She was busy studying all the last part of the recreation period. When Mary came in as the bell rang, she never moved. Her back was twisted around toward Mary’s seat. Everybody in the class noticed it, but Miss Allen said nothing. Perhaps she thought that it would pass off by and by.

But the next week they did not speak either! It was worse. Mary had to rub the chalk off the blackboard with her handkerchief because Laura, who was next to her, had the blackboard eraser; and Laura kept it on her side and Mary wouldn’t ask her for it. Miss Allen took Mary’s book to give to a visitor who came into history class, but Laura wouldn’t pass half of hers over to Mary. When Miss Allen saw that she said, “Laura!” in a sharp voice. So Laura put the book upon the desk between them and it stayed there. Nobody turned its pages.

At lunch hour, Mary avoided Betty Peters. Laura disappeared and Sallie Overton found her eating her lunch off on the studio stairs--away from everything. Mary ate hers alone in the cold garden. It must have been that Miss Allen realized how silly they were behaving, for she tried to set matters right. She found out from Betty where Mary was and she put on her long blue cloak and went into the garden after her. What happened in the garden, nobody knew, though some of the girls watched out of the windows and saw Miss Allen talking and Mary using a handkerchief. They came in together. Sallie Overton told Miss Allen where Laura was and the class thought Miss Allen had talked to her, too. It was circulated that Miss Allen had asked them to meet each other and shake hands. But neither of them seemed to have done it, for in class things went on as on previous days. It seemed worse than a Chinese puzzle to solve the difficulty. Some of the girls talked to Mary and some talked to Laura and begged them to make it up. Both declared the other wrong and refused to take the first step. “Please,” begged Betty Peters, the Buttinski. “Please, Laura.” But still nothing happened. Both seemed to feel dreadfully. Both were about as blue as Blue Monday. Miss Allen took time from study hour and talked to the class about friendship and what it meant in terms of self-sacrifice, generosity and loyalty. Both Mary and Laura wept, but still, after dismission, they did not shake hands or speak. And both walked home alone every day.

Miss Allen was correcting papers at her desk as Betty Peters walked down the aisle to go home. Betty Peters seemed as depressed as Miss Allen. Indeed, she almost acted as if she had been to blame for the whole thing and she tried and tried to get Mary to let her tell Laura what “_Die, der, der, die_ and _das, des, dem, das_” meant. Mary wouldn’t let her tell. She said that Laura could find out herself.

“Well, Betty?” smiled Miss Allen, looking up from the papers she was correcting. It seemed to Betty almost as if Miss Allen were thinking of Laura and Mary. It sounded so.

“It seems a dreadfully hard problem to solve, if two halves are separated,” suggested Betty Peters, thoughtfully. She stopped beside Miss Allen’s desk and watched the blue pencil that was marking a cross upon Laura’s written work.

“Do you mean David and Jonathan?” inquired Miss Allen, with a twinkle in her eye as she looked at Betty.

Betty nodded.

“How did they go home?”

“On different sides of the street.”

“Oh.”

“It’s really dreadful, isn’t it--and they were such friends!”

“I asked them to overlook the mistake and make it up without explanations--and with them, if need be.”

“But they won’t do it. The girls have tried to help and I’m sure I have, too!”

“Well,” smiled Miss Allen. “What’s at the bottom of it, do you know, Betty?”

Betty nodded. Then Miss Allen pushed aside the papers, “Frankly,” she said, “I don’t know what to do. They’re both such splendid girls but neither one of them will be the first to make an apology. They’re very childish, aren’t they?”

“It’s just a misunderstanding,” explained Betty. “I can tell you. It was all because Mary made a joke and Laura thought it was a personal one. Mary said ‘_die, der, der, die_ and _das, des, dem, das_.’ Laura thought she said something about her to me. Mary wouldn’t let me explain. She said if Laura thought that, she’d have to find out what the words meant herself.”

“What sillies!” declared Miss Allen. “I suppose they’ll keep this up eternally. I’ve tried all manner of ways to stop it; have you anything to suggest, Betty?”

Betty pondered. “I was wondering,” she mused, “whether if you counted three and told them both to speak when you came to that, they’d speak?”

“I never thought of that,” laughed Miss Allen. “We’ll try it.”

Next day, she did. She made both of the girls stand and she told each one to say, “I’m sorry” when she counted three and came to the end. It really was a disgrace to the class to have the quarrel go on and on. The girls thought it horrid. But when Miss Allen said, “Three,” all was silence. The two stood up in the class and neither said a word! The plan did not work! “Speak!” ordered Miss Allen--but there was nothing but silence.

But Miss Allen was not going to give up, “Mary,” said she, “you may decline for me the feminine and neuter of the definite article in German.”

Mary looked surprised but she said it, “‘_die, der, der, die, das, des, dem, das_.’”

“Did you ever hear anything like that before?” asked Miss Allen of Betty Peters.

“Yes,” replied Betty.

“Did you?” asked Miss Allen of Laura.

Laura said she thought so.

“Was that what Mary said on the memorable day when she came out of German class?”

“I think so,” replied Laura, a little ashamed.

“Was it, Mary?”

“Yes,” said Mary, loudly. She was glad to say it, too. Some of the girls giggled.

“Take out your English books for grammar, oral,” commanded Miss Allen. “Betty Peters, you may conjugate the verb ‘to love.’”

So Betty began: “Present tense, indicative mood: I love; thou lovest; he loves; we love; you love,” and then with her eyes upon Mary and Laura she ended, “they love.”

Everybody in the class laughed for there was Laura with her arm around Mary and both of them were laughing and crying, too.

“Buttinski did it,” smiled Miss Allen. “I hope nobody else in this class will have a quarrel. Now, we’re going to forget that there ever was such a thing, aren’t we, Laura and Mary?”

Together they both said, “Yes, I’m sorry!”

_Angelina’s Bird-Flower_

THE APRIL SURPRISE

_Marjorie’s surprise for April was, first, a fluffy Easter chicken card. The Easter story pocket was another story about Angelina. The pocket said:_

“_Open on the afternoon of Easter Day at four o’clock._”

_The two little girls let Mother read it aloud to them. It was called “Angelina’s Bird-Flower.”_

_VI_

_Angelina’s Bird-Flower_

Where the little brown bird came from, neither Maria nor Louisa nor Angelina knew, but he doubtless lived near, for he came every day to the window of the old brown house where the little Italian girls lived, lonely without their mother. It was a year since she had died and the days were long for Maria, Louisa and Angelina after their father left for work at six in the morning.

Maria was always up at five. In the early winter, mornings are dark and it takes courage to get up in a cold room and light the lamp and make the fire and cook breakfast. Maria was but twelve. She took her mother’s place as best she could. She helped her father. She tended Louisa and Angelina and if it had not been that the aunts took the two babies, she would have cared for them gladly too.

Angelina and Louisa were, for the time, Maria’s “babies.” She let them play and she did the work herself. She had little time for amusement; it was always either school or housekeeping for her. There was breakfast and clearing up in the morning; washing and cleaning after school; dinner-getting and cleaning again at night, beside a hundred and one little things that a mother must see to, mending, tidying, straightening all things. At seven, the father came home tired. Then there was bed in the cold rooms and a new day of responsibility. Louisa and Angelina wore washed and ironed hair-ribbons and well done-up gingham dresses, mended as best Maria could. They took off their shoes and stockings when at home, to save the wear, and did in general as Maria told them except for the little brown bird. They would save their crusts for him in spite of Maria’s scoldings.

He came first on one of the lonely mornings before school time, when Maria was busy with housework and Louisa and Angelina were thawing the frosted window pane with their warm breath to look out at the chilly snow-bound road that led past the old brown house. Louisa had thrown out a crust because she had not wanted to eat it and there--why, there was a little brown bird tugging at it in the snow!

“What’re you two laughing at so?” demanded Maria, looking up from dishwashing. “Take a-hold somebody and help here! I can’t take time to stand by the window an’ laugh at nothing when there’s work to be done!” But, dish-rag in hand, curiosity got the better of scolding and she peeped over Louisa’s shoulder and saw the little brown bird and his breakfast.

At first she smiled, too, then she frowned. “Louisa,” said she, “you are bad. It is you who threw out the crust of bread!”

There was no denial.

“And when bread costs money--and we cannot get enough to buy Angelina new shoes!”

“I would rather the bird had the crust,” defended Angelina. “The holes are not yet very big.”

But even as mother would have done, Maria watched the family purse, and Louisa ate crusts under her elder sister’s vigilant eye each meal time. But there were always very big crumbs at Angelina’s plate and medium sized ones at Louisa’s. When it came time to clear the table, Louisa and Angelina, with a glance at each other, picked these up quickly and threw them out on the snow. It was exciting. Nobody knew when Maria would call either little sister to account: “Louisa, give me those crumbs. I will save them and make a pudding.” Always there seemed to be breakfast for the little brown bird in spite of this. He came regularly. Sometimes Louisa and Angelina had to pick the crumbs from the coal-hod where Maria’s over hasty housekeeping threw little ones; but always, always, always, they kept watch for the little brown bird. And the mornings before school time were less lonely because of his cheer. Indeed, as the days went by, he became very tame--tame enough to hop close to the pane as Louisa and Angelina breathlessly watched.

The mornings gradually grew lighter and the days passed on to the latter part of February. Louisa and Angelina talked much of their pet. Where did the little brown bird live? Could they make him so tame he would come upon their hands? Would he learn to eat from their fingers? Perhaps there might be a nest with little bits of brown birds somewhere near the house next spring! Then, Angelina and Louisa might tame these perhaps! Maria, busy with housework, had no time to answer such questions. She merely sniffed.

“You two are forever talking about that little brown bird,” she said, “I have to think of other things: I think whether there is wood for the fire and whether there is enough food in the house. You, too, Louisa and Angelina, you have mouths to feed!”

It was true. There was not always enough. Louisa and Angelina knew it. They could well understand the little brown bird’s joy at finding plenty to eat. It was good to have a hearty meal. Then one day, before it was time to go to school, Louisa and Angelina missed the little brown bird! “Did you see him this morning?” they asked each other. “Maybe he has gone away and is making a nest.”

But the next day came and no little brown bird appeared. Another morning passed and still no little brown bird! On their way home from school that day Louisa whispered to Angelina that she was going to hunt for him. And when Maria was busy, they crept out of the door and, barefoot in the cold mud, they searched for nests by the roadside bushes.

They found none.

The search led them hither and thither on and on up the hill near the brown house and toward a cluster of cottages where the Irish immigrants had formed a colony. Maria, shaking her finger violently, as she did when she wished to enforce a command, insisted always that neither Angelina nor Louisa should make friends or play with the Irish children there. “They throw stones--they are badly brought up,” she declared.

Up to this time, good little Angelina and Louisa had never come so close to these other tenements. But they wandered closer in their search for the little brown bird. It was Angelina who first spoke to the little boys that they met flinging stones there. “Have you seen a little brown bird?” she asked. “It might be our little bird that we have lost. Have you seen one anywhere, perhaps?”

But the little boys simply made up faces and stuck out their tongues. No, they had not seen any brown birds to tell of--nor did they care. They would have thrown stones, had not a little smile from Angelina prevented it. Angelina felt sorry for the bad little boys who were rude.

Louisa drew her away. “Come, Ange, we will look in another place,” she urged. “If he has been hurt we will find him, maybe. I do not think they have hurt him,” she comforted. But in her heart she feared it.

So they pattered back toward home through the black chilly mud, searching the roadside. Quite suddenly Louisa came upon him lying limp and cold under a tree by the way. He would never twitter or chirp again. He would never come to the window or eat from their fingers or build a nest in spring. The two little sisters sat there by the roadside and cried and then they carried the little brown bird home and cried some more. Maria stopped her work and tried to be comforting. There was little to say. She did not scold very hard about the trip abroad in bare feet.

They put him in the beautiful box that was Maria’s treasure--a box with a picture on its cover, a beautiful picture all red roses. They took him to a sunny spot near the roadside and gathered last autumn’s leaves to cover him. One could see the place from the window.

The mornings that came after the little brown bird went away, Ange and Louisa tried to enthuse over paper dolls that father had brought them, cut from a Sunday newspaper--but somehow they always drifted toward the window, even though they knew he would never come again.

And so time passed, long mornings, school and home-coming. It began to be spring. Grass came by the roadside bushes that showed wee buds to break into soft colors. Maria left the kitchen door open of a morning and Angelina sat on the stone before the doorway, thinking. Her eyes rested for a moment upon the place where they had placed the little brown bird under the leaves. She called to Louisa, “Oh, come--come! Let us see what the bird-flower is! We put him under the leaves in the earth, and there is grown from him a flower! It is a bird-flower--a bird-flower, Louisa!”

They ran out to look at the little flower that grew over the spot where the little brown bird had been. “Is it so, Ange?” asked Louisa, willing to believe.

Full of excitement, they ran back to busy Maria. “Our little brown bird is grown to be a bird-flower,” they cried. “Come, Maria, come quickly and see! It is such a pretty flower, all like a star and white!”

Maria shook her head. “There are no bird-flowers,” she declared. But she followed them out to the sunny spot where the grass was growing green over the dead leaves and she thought it a beautiful flower. She let Louisa and Angelina talk of their bird-flower, but she smiled to herself.

But why should not little birds who have been stoned waken, with the flowers, in the spring sunlight? Louisa and Angelina believed in their bird-flower and they wondered, too, if all spring flowers came from little birds. At night when their father came home, they asked him. At first he laughed and did not understand. Maria explained.

“They are children,” she smiled, “and they think a bird is like a bulb or seed. They cannot understand the difference. They watched the little brown bird all winter, and Louisa gave it crusts that she ought to have eaten. And they found it by the roadside where the rude children up the hill had killed it. We put the little bird under the leaves there and now that a flower has come in the place, they call it their bird-flower, father!”

Then he put a hand on each little head. “My little girls,” he said, “is it true--then call it your bird-flower if it comforts you. I will tell you what I think: they say that there are no little birds in heaven, for their souls do not live, they say. Yet I know there are children up there and that wherever the children are there must be birds to sing to them--even the angel children would want them. And I know that your mother would miss them, too, were they not there.”

In the stillness they heard a song sparrow trill from the bushes on the hillside.

“I would like to have our little brown bird sing to our mother,” Angelina suggested softly.

“He might sing of us,” whispered Louisa.

But Maria was still.

“There are many birds left, my children. You too should sing and not be sad, for that is what is best. We will make happiness and brightness, you, my Angelina, and you, my Louisa. We will make a garden there in the place where you have found your star flower! I will get seeds. We will take Maria from her kitchen to help and there will be plenty to do in the early mornings before school then. Such weeds as you will have to watch for, to care for the beautiful flowers that I will plant! Ah, then your mornings will be so glad among the flowers!”

The three little girls smiled.

And the garden that grew up around Ange’s bird-flower all three of them called the garden of the little brown bird.

_Marjorie’s Mystery_

_THE MAY SURPRISE_

_Marjorie’s May surprise was a paper May basket, of course. You know all about that. And the story pocket that came in May, Dotty had labelled:_

“_Open on May Day, too._”

_Marjorie opened it right after the first pocket, but she had to keep the story till afternoon to read. She read it to Dotty after they came home. “I chose it because the little girl in the story was named after you,” smiled Dot. And so they had the funny story of “Marjorie’s Mystery.”_

_VII_

_Marjorie’s Mystery_

Upon Marjorie’s list of good resolutions, not-to-be-too-curious was a failing hard to remember and conquer. In the first place, Marjorie was very wide awake. She always saw everything that was happening. In the second place and in the third place as well as the tenth and thirteenth place, Marjorie couldn’t bear not to know everything that she wanted to know. Sometimes, she went quite too far in her attempts to find out. At any rate, Daddy and Mother and Mark and Dotty made fun of the failing and Marjorie, when she stopped to think twice--which wasn’t so very often--tried hard to overcome unnecessary curiosity. Sometimes it is a fine thing to be curious and again, it’s bad. But upon a very memorable day in May, once upon a time, something mysterious came to pass at Marjorie’s home and this is to be the story of The Great Mystery of Curiosity, Unanswered.

It happened this way: Daddy was away; Mark had gone off since Friday to make a visit at a boy friend’s just out of town a little way; Dotty had also gone away. She spent the night with the little girl next door and had not yet come home. It was a Monday morning and May Day.

Marjorie had prepared a May Day basket for her special friend, Mabel. She had been out in the woods on Sunday afternoon and as soon as she was through breakfast, the bowl of May Day flowers came out--and in arranging them they scattered all over the floor as Marjorie selected the unwilted ones to put into Mabel’s basket.

“Look out,” warned Mother. “Somebody came last night when you were abed. Somebody may be down to breakfast by and by--better pick up, Marjorie! We don’t want a disorderly floor.”

“Oh, did Daddy come home?” questioned Marjorie.

“No, not Daddy.”

“Who?”

“Oh, just somebody who wants to keep quiet this morning and rest.”

Wasn’t that enough to make a person curious! Of course it was! Who? Who could it be? “Is it uncle or aunt?” she insisted. “Who’s ‘company’?”

But Mother only smiled. “You’ll find out sometime,” she said. “Not now. If I told you, you’d run right up to Mark’s room and the person who came last night felt sick and mustn’t be disturbed.”

Hump! The flowers were pushed into the paper May basket and she began to pick up the leaves and buds that had fallen on the floor. “I think you might tell me,” she begged. “I want to know who came.”

But Marjorie got no answer. She knew it wasn’t much use to continue to tease, but she resolved to find out who it was.

At school the question still pursued Marjorie. Would Mark come home and want his room and, if he did, would _he_ know who was there? After school she dashed home and burst through the back door and up the back stairs. Mark’s door was closed. There was a paper pinned upon it. It was Mother’s writing and it said, “Please don’t disturb.”

So Marjorie passed by the door. She went into Mother’s room and found Mother sewing. “Isn’t company ever going to wake up?” she asked. “Am I _never_ to know who is there?”

But she received no answer only a smile.

Dotty was home now. Dotty didn’t know who was in Mark’s room, but she wasn’t curious about things. She was occupied in cutting out paper dolls, sitting on the floor in the sun beside the window.

“What happened at luncheon?” asked Marjorie of Dotty who went to kindergarten and came home at noon. “Did anybody _talk_ in Mark’s room when Mother took up the tray? Did you hear anything?”

Dotty shook her head.

Deary me! Oh, dear! And the door was _closed_! Marjorie decided to walk by it again. She waited and she listened. She heard nothing at all--no, not a sound, _not a sound_! Then the telephone bell rang and she ran down to answer it. The telephone call was from Mabel. Mabel had been at school and she wanted to know if Marjorie had solved the mystery.

“Who came? Who is it?” she asked.

But Marjorie did not know. Mabel suggested that it must be Marjorie’s aunt who came from the West. “Probably that’s it,” she said. “Why don’t you make a May basket and go tie it on the door and--and say something. You could tell from the voice, if it answered you, whether it was your aunt or not.” That was a good thought. Marjorie set about making a paper May basket. She heard Mother go up the front stairs and cross to the back where Mark’s door was. Then, having made the basket, she decided to try Mabel’s suggestion. Mother went into Mark’s room, came out and went downstairs again. Marjorie waited.

Then she went upstairs softly. Mother was in the living-room with Dotty now, playing and helping her cut the dolls out of a big magazine sheet. They seemed occupied.

May basket in hand, Marjorie tiptoed toward Mark’s door and saw that the paper had been taken off it. She hung the May basket on the knob and knocked. There was no answer. “May I come and bring you a May Day gift?” she softly suggested to the closed door.

But right here, _who should appear but Mother_! “I’ll take the basket in for you, dear,” she smiled. Marjorie was quite aware of the wicked twinkle in her eye. “Dotty wants you to help her downstairs,” she said.

So downstairs went Marjorie. She stopped half way as Mother opened the mysterious door and passed in with the May basket. She saw nothing. She heard nothing. Now, wasn’t that just dreadful! Marjorie’s curiosity was much bigger than ever but she went down to help darling little sister, Dotty, cut paper dolls out of the fashion sheet.

But while she cut for Dotty, she kept wondering and wondering and _wondering_. She decided that she’d write a note upon some paper and slip it under the door and say on the paper:

Who are you, mysterious stranger? Please answer? Are you Auntie?
If you are Auntie, let me know, please. I want to see you. If you
are Mother’s friend, Miss Phelps, please tell me? Mother says you
want to be quiet, so I can’t come in, but I want to know who you
are--please, please put an answer under your door for me.

MARJORIE.

That was what she did do as soon as the last doll had been cut out. At the time, Mother was busy in the kitchen, getting tea. Dotty was still playing with the dolls. Marjorie slipped upstairs and tucked the paper beneath the crack. As she came to the end of the paper, she gave it a wiggle to attract attention. She hadn’t dared to speak again as Mother said the mysterious person must not be troubled.

As the paper disappeared under the door Mother appeared! She came bringing a napkin and tray with something hot upon it. She was going to take this into Mark’s room.

“Marjorie,” she reproved. “Are you still so curious? Well, run away now.”

Marjorie waited in the hall and heard Mother speaking--but nothing else! She was almost ashamed to pursue the mystery so openly but when Mother at last came out bringing the tray and the empty dishes, she laughingly handed Marjorie an answer to the letter. It said in strange scrawls that betrayed nothing of who had written them:

Please, I feel sick. You’ll see me sometime when I am better. I
just want to sleep now.
THE MYSTERIOUS MYSTERY.

Marjorie laughed and then she frowned. Now, _why_ couldn’t that person-whoever-it-was have signed a name! Why not!

“How long before the person in Mark’s room will be well?” she asked.

“Oh, soon,” replied Mother. “I hope very soon.”

“What time? Will I know who it is by tea-time?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, deary me!” Marjorie sighed. “Well, I’ve tried every way I can to find out,” she said. “Perhaps I’d better forget about it. I’m going to do my home-work for school so I can forget about it.” And she sat down at the library table with pencil, paper and books. But still, nothing happened!

Then it grew twilight and the light was lit in the dining-room. Marjorie rose and set the supper-table as usual. “How many places shall I set, Mother?” she inquired. “I don’t really mean to be curious any more--but you see, I must know. Mark will be home tonight and there will be Daddy--he’ll be here--and there’s you and there’s me and, I _suppose_ The Mystery will be down, will it?”

“The Mystery will be down,” answered Mother, “but we’ll only need four places.”

But right here into the room came Mark. “Hello,” he greeted Marjorie. “Say, that’s one on you for curiosity, Marj! But the May basket was a peach! I’d have called to you only Mother said I mustn’t else you’d be in and talk to me and I felt pretty sick, I tell you! I got sick at Jimmie’s house and they telephoned home here the night I went away after you were asleep. Mother thought I’d better come right home, if I was going to be sick, so they sent me home late at night in their car--it’s a joke on you, Marjorie. How about a Mysterious Stranger?”

Mother laughed. And so, too, did Marjorie.

_The Two Little Bates Girls_

_THE JUNE SURPRISE_

_The four-leaf clover that came in June’s first pocket was a pressed four-leaf clover marked, “To help in examination time.” The story that came in the other June pocket was “The Two Little Bates Girls” and it was labelled:_

“_Read and open after your arithmetic examination is over._”

_VIII_

_The Two Little Bates Girls_

They were not at all alike and they were not even sisters--those two little Bates girls. One had curly light hair and the other had bobbed-off black hair. One was slender and the other was plump. One had blue eyes and the other had brown ones and both were as different as different could be, though the names of both came upon Miss Kennedy’s school roll one after the other; first Mamie and then Mary.

Mary had light curls that bobbed in a lively way even in arithmetic class, where everything was rather subdued by hard problems that Miss Kennedy set. Mamie Bates had bobbed black hair that had a way of falling over her forehead when she was bending over work--in brief, Mary Bates was lively and Mamie Bates was not. Mamie Bates acknowledged that arithmetic was about the hardest thing in school but Mary Bates said it was easy, even though Miss Kennedy’s blue pencil went over her paper and made big blue crosses that meant “Wrong” as often as they crossed the papers of Mamie in the same way.

It ought not to have been so. Nevertheless the first quarterly report that Miss Kennedy made out for Mamie and Mary Bates ranked them side by side--seventy-six percent! That’s not a high mark; Miss Kennedy shook her head over both marks. It was surely nothing to be proud of!

Mary Bates refused to show her report.

Mamie Bates hung her head woefully and explained that she had tried the best she knew how--which was right. Both of them decided to try even harder next quarter. And they did try. Mamie Bates mounted up to eighty percent, and in one examination, she achieved eighty-three! “Next time,” urged Miss Kennedy, “see if you can’t make it eighty-five!” Mary Bates did not tell her mark. It may have been that she was ashamed of it or it may have been that she did not want to brag. Nobody knew which.

But when Mamie Bates went home, she told her daddy all about that eighty-three percent and her daddy smiled and said, “Well, if you’ll make the next one ninety instead of eighty-five, and if you’ll keep all the other marks above eighty-three after that, by the end of the next quarter you shall have--What do you want most?”

“A pony and a cart,” laughed Mamie.

“A pony and a cart,” repeated daddy. “A real live pony and a basket cart!”

Hooray! Think of it! Think of it--a pony and a pony cart! That was the way things stood with Mamie Bates during the last quarter of the year in Miss Kennedy’s room. The black bobbed hair fell over her eyes more industriously than ever as she bent over her problems in arithmetic. In the margins of Mamie Bates’s examination and test papers each Friday there began to appear such delectable written words as, “Well done, Mamie.” But the big blue crosses didn’t quite disappear--oh, no!

Mary Bates continued to keep her marks to herself. Very rarely did she show any. Those that she did show weren’t so bad as some of the other girls’ papers. But there never seemed to be “Well done, Mary,” on any one of them. Even though there was nothing of this kind, Mary Bates seemed contented with them. She said she had received ninety-five in deportment and that was about the best mark that anybody could ever receive. Miss Kennedy would never give a higher deportment mark. Even Sallie Roberts who was noted throughout the whole class room for being “awfully good” never received a higher mark than ninety-five--but then, only the very bad scholars received less. Mary Bates also said that she had a splendid report in spelling. She didn’t say what, but everybody knew that she could spell. So could Mamie.

And so the time went by each week nearer and nearer to Mamie Bates’s excited anticipation of that pony! The marks, so far, had been all right. Daddy would have to keep the promise! Toward the end of the quarter every girl in the class was wondering if she were going to pass herself. It all depended upon the final tests. Even Mary Bates admitted that she was a little shaky but not much. She thought she knew it all.

Mercy! How Miss Kennedy’s class did drill! Over the old, old stumbling blocks they went with long pieces of yellow scratch paper. It did seem as if everybody must pass the arithmetic test! Then the week of examinations came and with it the worst dreaded of all, _arithmetic examination_!

Over this, Mary Bates shook her curls soberly. Mamie Bates struggled with black hair falling over her forehead. And then the time was up and papers had to be handed in. Mamie Bates gave in her paper reluctantly. Her cheeks were flushed. As soon as it had gone, she asked if she might look at it again, just for a minute. Miss Kennedy smiled. She didn’t let her. “Time’s up, Mamie,” she admonished. “What’s done must stay--it isn’t fair to the rest, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” returned Mamie, “but you see the pony and pony cart depend upon it. The others aren’t working for so much.” But Miss Kennedy passed on. Everybody in the class knew of daddy’s promise and hoped Mamie would win that percent in her arithmetic--everybody.

Mary Bates brought her paper to Miss Kennedy’s desk without even waiting for it to be collected. “I’m sure I got everything right,” she chirped. “It was easy! I think I’ll get ninety-five! There’s only one thing that might be wrong.”

Sallie Overton nudged her neighbor. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “She always thinks that she knows everything. I think it was hard, don’t you?”

Oh, dear! Everybody seemed depressed as they left for home that afternoon--everybody but Mary Bates who was _quite_ sure of herself always. Everybody compared notes with everybody else on the way home but nobody seemed sure. One had to wait till the reports came in. It was dreadful to wait--at least dreadful for little Mamie Bates who was thinking about daddy’s promise and the pony. One always made more mistakes than one knew of, somehow, yet she had tried ever so hard. She hoped she was right. She had tried not to get excited. She had tried to stop and think over rules and she thought she ought to have done something she hadn’t done, of course. It was fearfully hard to wait till Monday. On Monday the report cards were to be given out. Almost everybody was expecting some kind of a surprise that day, but the surprise that Miss Kennedy’s class anticipated was one of percents, not of teachers. When the class assembled, there in Miss Kennedy’s chair and right at her desk making out the report cards sat--a substitute teacher! She would tell nobody what the marks were and she just snapped. Really, Miss Kennedy would have told Mamie Bates, at least. _She_ knew about the pony. But the substitute teacher only said that there was no hurry, they’d know fast enough. She didn’t like to be asked questions at all. She said Miss Kennedy might not come back at all--no, of course not! Why should she? (At this everybody looked more worried than ever. All the class loved Miss Kennedy. Sallie Overton had openly said that she didn’t want to pass because if she did, next year, she’d have to leave Miss Kennedy’s room.) But at the end of the study period, before being finally dismissed, the report cards were given out, _at last_!

Mamie Bates grasped hers. She hardly dared to look, but when she did, tears sprang to her eyes and she had to shake the brown bobbed hair over them. There it was _seventy-six percent_! The schoolroom blurred--only seventy-six percent! And how hard she had tried to please daddy--and how she did want that pony! Yet all hope was gone now because the final mark had fallen below! Mechanically she stood to be dismissed. Mechanically she went to the cloak room, and mechanically she walked toward home.

Seventy-six--not even eighty-three! And the pony--the pony!

Daddy didn’t ask about reports. Mamie Bates decided to wait and give the bad news out when she herself was a little more used to it. Perhaps next day, she could do it. Of course, seventy-six would promote one into the next grade, but it wouldn’t give the pony! If Miss Kennedy had been there, she would have explained to Mamie Bates all about her mistakes, but the substitute kept the papers. She didn’t seem to think much of anybody’s mark--but substitutes never do seem to care. Mamie hoped Miss Kennedy would come back next day. She’d explain everything.

And the next day, sure enough, there was Miss Kennedy at her desk, smiling. As Mamie came in and passed her, she smiled. “Mamie,” she smiled, “I’m glad about your arithmetic. Are you?”

Mamie hung her head. “It wasn’t good, Miss Kennedy,” she stated, trying hard not to cry. “I thought I was doing it right but I must have been careless. I really knew about everything!”

“Let’s see your paper,” asked Miss Kennedy--but the substitute had the paper. Miss Kennedy didn’t know of any very bad trouble. “Let’s see your card, then,” she asked.

Mamie took it out of her book where it was hidden, unsigned as yet by daddy. “It’s too bad,” she sighed. “There can’t be any pony at all now!”

“No pony? Why not?” And then Miss Kennedy saw the seventy-six percent upon the report card! “Why, why, Mamie Bates!” exclaimed Miss Kennedy. “Your mark is ninety-six, not seventy-six! I’ve just seen it in the teacher’s book. That must be a mistake! Wait a minute and I’ll see.” Off she dashed to get the examination papers in the next room. Mamie Bates’s heart went pit-pat. She was sure Miss Kennedy was right--oh, _the pony_!

Yes, of course, it was a mistake--a mistake made by the substitute. She had mixed the marks of the two little Bates girls, who were no more alike than their arithmetic marks!

Mary Bates said she didn’t care so long as she passed, so perhaps the change of her mark didn’t matter so much. It was really Mamie Bates who had worked hardest, anyhow.

But the really lovely thing that happened, happened at the close of school that day. When Mamie Bates came out of school, there was a pony and a pony cart waiting by the curb and daddy was in the cart! He--how did _he_ know about the arithmetic reports being all right? But it didn’t take Mamie Bates long to claim the pony! She wanted to know if he had a name and when daddy said he didn’t think so, he was called Arithmetic right then and there. Miss Kennedy came out to see him and had the first ride behind him.

_Arne’s Fourth of July Battle_

_THE JULY SURPRISE_

_The July pocket that came first was opened on July third at noon. It held a wee American flag. The story pocket came later and it held a Fourth of July story. They read it sitting in the hammock on the porch. It was called, “Arne’s Fourth of July Battle.”_

_IX_

_Arne’s Fourth of July Battle_

Arne drove the white horse, Christopher, into Danville every morning to take the milk to the creamery. He started from the farm as soon as the milk was in the cans, just as Lyman or Leslie--whichever it might happen to be--took the cows to the wood pasture. It was a long drive over the Prairie Road into Danville Creamery. Most usually it was uneventful. And every day, now that the last of June had come, grew warmer and warmer. Some days it was decidedly hot on the Prairie Road, even though Arne and Christopher started so early of a morning.