Marjorie at Seacote

"She loves any make-believe game," said King. "You write to her, Midget; I've got to write up The Jolly Sandboy paper."

"I should think you had! You haven't done one for two weeks."

"I know it; but it's because nobody sends in any contributions. I can't make it all up alone."

"'Course you can't. When I write to Kitty, I'll ask her if she hasn't some things we could put in it. She and Uncle Steve are always making up poetry and stories."

"Good idea, Mops! Tell her to be sure to send me a lot of stuff, first thing she does!"

"Well, I will;" and Marjorie set to work at her letter.

It was finished by dinner time, for Marjorie's letters to her sister were not marked by any undue precision of style or penmanship, and as Marjorie laid it on the hall table to be mailed, she told King that she had given Kitty his message.

"Father," said Midget, at dinner, that night, "what day did Cousin Jack say was Pocahontas' birthday?"

"I don't remember, my dear; but I'm quite sure he doesn't really know, nor any one else. I fancy he made up that date."

"Well, do you know of anybody, anybody nice and celebrated, whose birthday comes about now?"

"The latter part of July? No, Midget, I don't. Why?"

"Oh, 'cause I think it would be nice to have a celebration, and you can't celebrate without a hero."

"Do you call Pocahontas a hero?" asked King, quizzically.

"Well, she's a heroine,—it's all the same. When do you s'pose her birthday was, Father?"

"I've no idea, Midget; and Cousin Jack hasn't, either. But if you want to celebrate her, you can choose any day. You see, it isn't like a birthday that's celebrated every year, Washington's, Lincoln's, or yours. If you're just going to celebrate once, you can take one day as well as another."

"Oh, can I, Father? Then, we'll have it next week. I'll choose August first,—that's a nice day."

"What's it all about, Midge?" asked King.

"Oh, nothing; only I took a notion for a celebration. We had such good times on Fourth of July and on my birthday, I want another birthday."

"I think it's a good idea to choose some uncelebrated person like Pocahontas," said Mrs. Maynard; "for if you don't celebrate her I doubt if anybody ever will."

"And you see we can have it all sort of Indian," went on Midget. "You know we've a good many Indian baskets and beads and things,—and, Father, couldn't you build us a wigwam?"

"Oh, yes, a whole reservation, if you like."

"No, just one wigwam. And we'll only have the Sand Club. I don't mean to have a party."

"All right, I'm in for it," declared King, and right after dinner, the two set to work making plans for the celebration.

"Cousin Jack will help, I know," said Marjorie; "remember how he played Indians with us, up in Cambridge, last year?"

"Yep, 'course I do. He'll be fine! He always is."

"Let's telephone, and ask him right away."

"All right;" and in a few moments Cousin Jack's cheery "Hello!" came over the wire.

"Well!" he exclaimed, "if it isn't those Maynard scamps again! Now, see here, Mehitabel, it's time you and Hezekiah went to bed. It's nearly nine o'clock."

"But, Cousin Jack, I just want to ask you something."

"Not to-night, my Angel Child. Whatever you ask me to-night, I shall say no to! Besides, I'm reading my paper, and I can't be disturbed."

"But, Cousin Jack–"

"The Interstate Commerce Commission has to-day handed down a decision in favor of–"

"Oh, King, he's reading out of his newspaper, just to tease us! You try him."

King took the telephone. "Please, Cousin Jack, listen a minute," he said.

But all the reply he heard was:

"Ephraim Hardenburg has been elected chairman of the executive committee of the Great Coal Tar Company, to succeed James H.–"

King hung up the receiver in disgust.

"No use," he said; "Cousin Jack just read more of that newspaper stuff! Never mind, Midget, we can wait till we see him. I guess I will scoot to bed, now; I'm awful sleepy."

But when Cousin Jack heard of their project, a day or two later, he was more than willing to help with the celebration.

"Well, I just guess!" he cried. "We'll have a jamboree that'll make all the good Indians wish they were alive now, instead of four hundred thousand years ago! We'll have a wigwam and a wampum and a tomahawk and all the ancient improvements! Hooray for Pocahontas!"

"Gracious, Jack! you're the biggest child of the lot!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard, who sat on the veranda, watching the enthusiasm going on.

"Of course, I am, ma'am! I'm having a merry playtime this summer with my little friends, and as I have to work hard all winter, I really need this vacation."

"Of course you do! But don't let those two energetic children wear you out."

"No, ma'am! More likely I'll wear them out. Now, for the wigwam, kiddies. Have you a couple of Navajo blankets?"

"Yes, we have! and a Bulgarian one, or whatever you call it, to piece out," cried Midget, as she ran to get them.

"Just the thing!" declared Cousin Jack. "Put them aside, we won't use them till the day of the show. 'Cause why? 'Cause it might rain,—but, of course it won't. Now, for feathers,—we want lots of feathers."

"Old hat feathers?" asked Midget.

"Ostrich plumes? Nay, nay, me child. Good stiff quill feathers,—turkey feathers preferred. Well, never mind those,—I'll fish some up from somewhere. Now, blankets for the braves and fringed gowns for the squaws. I'll show you how, Mehitabel, and you and your respected mother can do the sewing act."

Well, Cousin Jack planned just about everything, and he and the children turned the house upside down in their quest for materials. But Mrs. Maynard didn't mind. She was used to it, for the Maynard children would always rather "celebrate" than play any ordinary game.

CHAPTER XX