Marjorie Dean, High School Junior. Chase Josephine
and envelopes bearing her monogram in silver. Picking up a card she steadied her voice and read:
“You say, of course, ‘I’ll surely write,’
But when you’ve traveled out of sight,
This nice white box may then remind you
Of Jerry Macy, far behind you.”
“I truly will write you, Jerry. Thank you.” Mary beamed affectionately on the stout girl. “It’s a lovely present, and my own monogram, too.”
“See that you do,” nodded Jerry gruffly. She loved to give, but she did not relish being thanked.
“Next,” smilingly ordered Marjorie. “If you don’t hurry and open them, we shall all starve.”
The next package disclosed a dainty little leather combination purse and vanity case from Muriel Harding with the succinct advice:
“Don’t lose your ticket or your money,
To be stone broke is far from funny.
When wicked cinders seek your eye,
Consult your mirror on the sly.”
After Muriel had been thanked and her practical, poetic advice lauded, Mary went on with her delightful investigation. An oblong bundle turned out to be a box of nut chocolates from Susan, who offered:
“In time of homesick tribulation,
Turn to this toothsome consolation.
To eat it up will be amusin’ —
Here’s sweet farewell from giggling Susan.”
“Giggling Susan’s” effort brought forth a ripple of giggles from all sides.
“That’s my present,” squealed Charlie, as Mary fingered a tiny package ornamented with a huge red bow. “It’s a – ”
“Shh!” warned Constance, placing prompt fingers on the too-willing lips.
Mary cast the child a tender glance as she glimpsed a tiny leather violin case, partially obscured by a card. In this instance it was Uncle John Roland who had played poet, after receiving Charlie’s somewhat garbled instructions regarding the sentiment.
“Say it s’loud as you can,” commanded the excited youngster.
Mary complied, reading in a purposely loud tone that must have been intensely gratifying to the diminutive giver:
“Once when away from home I ranned
To play my fiddle in the band,
You comed and finded me, ’n then
I never ranned away again.
So now I’m always nice and good
An’ do as Connie says I should,
And ’cause you’re going to run away
You’d better write to me some day!
Inside the little fiddle box
There is a fountain pen that talks
On paper – it’s for you from me,
The great musishun; your friend, C.”
As Mary read the last line she slipped from her place to Charlie and kissed the gleeful, upturned face. “You darling boy,” she quavered. “Mary won’t forget to write.”
“Mine’s the best of all,” observed Charlie with modest frankness, as he enthusiastically returned the kiss.
Back in her place again, Mary finished the affectionate inspection of the tokens her friends had taken so much pleasure in giving. There was a book from Harriet, a folded metal drinking cup in a leather case from Esther Lind, a hand-embroidered pin and needle case from Irma, a pair of soft, dark-blue leather slippers from Constance, and a wonderful Japanese silk kimono from Mrs. Dean. The remembrances had all been selected as first aids to Mary during her long journey across the country. With each one went a humorous verse, composed with more or less effort on the part of the givers.
But one package now remained to be opened. Its diminutive size and shape hinted that it might have come from the jeweler’s. Mary knew it to be Marjorie’s farewell token to her. She would have liked to examine it in private. She was almost sure that she was going to cry. She thrust back the inclination, however, flashing a tender, wavering smile at her chum as she untied the silver cord that bound the box. It bore the name of a Sanford jeweler and when the lid was off revealed a round, gold monogrammed locket, gleaming dully against its pale blue silk bed. In a tiny circular groove of the box was a fine-grained gold chain.
Mary’s changeful face registered many emotions as she took the locket in her hands and stared at it in silence. Acting on a swift, overwhelming impulse she sprang mutely from her chair and rushed out of the room. Marjorie half rose from her place, then sat down again. “Lieutenant will come back soon,” she said fondly. “She hasn’t really deserted from the army, she’s only taken a tiny leave of absence. I remember just how I felt when some of the boys and girls of Franklin High gave me a surprise party. That was the night this came to me.” She patted the butterfly pin that had figured so prominently in her freshman year at Sanford. “I almost cried like a baby. I remember that the whole table blurred while Mary was making a speech to me about my beautiful pin.” Marjorie talked on with the kindly object of centering the guests’ attention on herself until Mary should return.
Meanwhile, in the living room Mary Raymond was engaged in the double task of trying to suppress her tears and open the locket at the same time. Her eyes brimming, she worked at the refractory gold catch with insistent fingers. Opened at last, she beheld Marjorie’s lovely face smiling out at her. On the inside of the upper half of the locket was engraved, “Mary from Marjorie.” Below was the beautiful Spanish phrase, “Para siempre,” literally translated, “for always,” but meaning “forever.”
Within a brief space of time, following her flight, the runaway reappeared, her eyelids slightly pink. “I hope you will all pardon me,” she apologized prettily. “I – I – couldn’t help it. You’ve been so sweet to me. I can’t ever thank you as you deserve to be thanked for giving me so many lovely things; the very ones I shall need most when I’m traveling. I am sure you must know how dear you all are to me; dearer even than my Franklin High friends. I hope each one of you will write to me. I’ll truly try hard not only to be a good correspondent, but always to be worthy of your friendship.”
Mary’s earnest words met ready responses of good fellowship from those whom she had once scorned. Everything was so different now. The new Mary Raymond was an entire opposite to the sullen-faced young person who had once flouted all overtures of friendship on the part of Marjorie’s particular cronies. Beyond an eloquent hand clasp and, “My picture locket is wonderful, Lieutenant. Thank you over and over,” Mary had reserved further expression of her appreciation until the two chums should be entirely by themselves.
The delightful dinner ended with a general distribution of fancy cracker bon-bons, which the guests snapped open with a will, to find cunning caps representing the flags of various nations. They donned these with alacrity and trooped into the living room for an evening of stunts in which music played an important part. Constance lifted up her exquisite voice untiringly, weaving her magic spell about her eager listeners. Jerry sang a comic song, mostly off the key, merely to prove the impossibility of her vocal powers. Charlie Stevens, who