A Bookful of Girls

    Miss Margaret Burtwell,” etc.

Madge read over her production with an amusement and satisfaction which quite filled, for the moment, the aching void of which she had been so painfully conscious. The letter occupied but one-half the sheet, and, as the young artist’s eye fell upon the blank third page, she was seized with an irresistible impulse to draw a picture on it.

The figure of the pickpocket was by this time so vivid to her mind, that she began making a pen-and-ink sketch of him, as a dark-browed villain in the act of rifling the pocket of a very haughty young woman proceeding along the street with an air of extreme self-consciousness. The drawing was on a very small scale, and when it was finished to her satisfaction there was still half the page unoccupied. Madge hastily wrote under the sketch the words: “The Crime,” and a moment later she was engrossed in the execution of a still more dramatic design, representing the criminal in the hands of two stalwart policemen, being ignominiously dragged through the street toward a sort of mediæval fortress, with walls some twenty feet thick, upon which was inscribed in enormous characters, “JAIL.” Still more action was given the drawing by the introduction of two or three small and gleeful ragamuffins, dancing a derisive war-dance behind the captive, and of two dogs of doubtful lineage, barking like mad on the outskirts of the group. Under this picture was inscribed, “The Consequences of Crime,” and at the bottom of the page appeared the words, “Behold and tremble!”

“What’s Artful Madge up to?” asked Ned, as he closed his Latin Dictionary with a bang.

“Writing a letter,” Madge replied, composedly.

“To the Prize Pig?”

“The what?”

“The Prize Pig! You know Eleanor said she felt like a pig to be going to Paris without you, and as she got the prize–”

“You impudent boy!”

“Not in the least. I’m only witty.”

“Witty!”

“Yes, – I’ve heard wit defined as the unexpected.”

“The dictionary doesn’t define it so, and good manners don’t define impudence as wit.”

“We’re not discussing impudence, we’re discussing wit. And I know positively that wit is defined as the unexpected.”

“Let’s have your authority,” said Mr. Burtwell, who had not heard the first part of the discussion.

“Let us see what the dictionary says,” suggested Julia, who was the scholar of the family.

“Very well; and what will you bet that I’m not right?”

“We don’t bet in this family,” said Mr. Burtwell, with decision.

“Oh, well, that’s only a form of speech. What will you do for me, Madge, if I’m right?”

“I’ll put you into an allegorical sketch.”

“Good! I always wondered that you didn’t make use of such good material in the artful line!”

The wire dictionary-stand, containing the portly form of Webster Unabridged, was instantly brought up to the light, and there was half a minute’s silence while Ned turned the leaves.

“Score me one!” he shouted, in high glee. “Listen to Webster! ‘Wit. 3. Felicitous association of objects not usually connected, so as to produce a pleasant surprise.’ Quite at your service, my artful relative, whenever you would like a sitting!”

“I protest! You haven’t won!”

“Haven’t won, indeed! I leave it to the gentlemen of the jury. Is not the name of Prize Pig for Miss Eleanor Merritt a ‘felicitous association of objects not usually connected’?”

“No! The association is infelicitous, and consequently it does not produce a ‘pleasant surprise.’”

The family listened with the amused tolerance with which they usually left such discussions to the two chief wranglers.

“I maintain,” insisted Ned, “that the association of objects is felicitous, and must be, because it was instituted by Miss Eleanor Merritt herself. She won the prize, and she said she was a pig.”

“But it doesn’t produce a pleasant surprise,” Madge objected.

“I beg your pardon! It has produced a pleasant surprise, as I can testify, for I have experienced it myself. What is your verdict, Mother?”

“My verdict is, that it’s a pity, as I always thought it was, that you are not to be a lawyer, and that Madge can’t do better than practise her drawing by making the allegorical sketch.”

That Mrs. Burtwell should be on Ned’s side was a foregone conclusion, and Madge appealed to her father.

“Father, is calling Eleanor Merritt a prize pig a form of wit?”

“Pretty poor wit I should call it!”

“Father is on my side!” shouted Ned. “He says it’s poor wit, which is only one way of saying that it is wit!”

“Can wit be poor?” asked Julia.

“Father says it can.”

“Then it isn’t wit!” Madge protested.

“I should like to know why not. Old Mr. Tanner is a poor man, but he’s a man for all that, and votes at elections for the highest bidder. And your logic’s poor, but I suppose you’d call it logic!”

“I have an idea!” cried Madge. “I’m going to make my fortune out of you! I’m going to make a pair of excruciatingly funny pictures of you! The first shall be called The Student and Logic, and the second shall be called Logic and the Student! In the first the student shall be patting Logic on the head, and in the second, – oh, it’s an inspiration!”

And forthwith Madge seized a large sheet of paper and began work.

“I’m not sure that this won’t be the beginning of a series,” she declared. “When it’s finished I shall send it to a funny paper and get fifty dollars for it, – and when I have got fifty dollars for it, Father will send me to Paris; won’t you, Daddy, dear?”

“What’s that? What’s that?” asked Mr. Burtwell.

“When I get fifty dollars, —or more!– for my Student, you will send me to Europe!”

“Oh, yes! And when you’re Queen of England I shall be presented at Court! Listen to what the paper says: ‘The Honourable Jacob Luddington and family have just returned from an extensive foreign tour. The two Miss Luddingtons were presented at the Court of St. James, where their exceptional beauty and elegance are said to have made a marked impression.’ Good for the Honourable Jacob! His father was my father’s chore-man, and here are his daughters hobnobbing with crowned heads!”

From which digression it is fair to conclude that Mr. Burtwell did not attach any great importance to his daughter’s question or to his own answer. But Madge put away the promise in the safest recesses of her memory as carefully as she had tucked the letter to her “dear pickpocket” inside the red morocco pocket-book. It seemed as if the one were likely to be called for about as soon as the other, – “which means never at all!” she said to herself, with a profound sigh.

“The throes of creation have begun,” Ned chuckled; and then, as he watched his sister’s business-like proceedings, marvelling the while at what he secretly considered her quite phenomenal skill, he let himself be sufficiently carried away by enthusiasm to remark, “I say, Madge, you’re no fool at that sort of thing, if you are a girl!”

CHAPTER III

NOAH’S DOVE

“I really think, Miss Burtwell, you might be a little more careful,” Miss Isabella Ricker wailed, in a tone of hopeless remonstrance. It was the third time that morning that Madge had knocked against her easel, and human nature could bear no more.