A Daughter of the Rich. Mary Ella Waller
till, with a big "cheese," she sat down almost breathless by Chi. Was this Hazel? The members of the N.B.B.O.O. looked at one another in amazement, and March's eyes flashed again, as they had done once before during the afternoon.
"Now all listen to me," she said, as if, after a month of silence, she had found her tongue. "I 've an idea, and when I have one, papa says it's worth listening to,–which is n't often, I 'm sure. We 'll pick the strawberries, and get Mrs. Blossom to show Rose how to do them up; and I 'll write to papa and Doctor Heath's wife and to our housekeeper and Cousin Jack, and see if they don't want some of those delicious preserves that they can't get in the city. I 'll find out from Mrs. Scott–that's the housekeeper–how much she pays for a jar in New York, and then we 'll charge a little more for ours because the strawberries are a little rarer. Are n't there any other kinds of berries that grow around here?"
"Guess you 'd better stop 'n' take breath, Lady-bird; there 's a mighty lot of plannin' in all that. What 'd I tell you, Budd?" Chi asked again.
Budd looked at Hazel in boyish admiration, but said nothing.
"I think that's splendid, Hazel," said Rose, "if they'll only want them."
"I know they will; but are there any other berries?"
"Berries! I should think so; raspberries and blackberries by the bushel on the Mountain, and they say they 're the best anywhere round here," said March.
"Oh, dear!" sighed Cherry, "I wish we could go to work right now."
"Well, so you can," said Chi, "only you can't go berryin' just yet. You can begin to drop that corn this very afternoon: better be inside the ground pretty soon, with all those four hundred chickens waitin' to join the Thanksgivin' procession."
"Oh, Chi, you 're making fun of us," laughed Rose.
"Don't you believe it, Rose-pose; never was more in earnest in my life. Come along, 'n' I 'll show you."
VIII
A LIVELY CORRESPONDENCE
It was a trial of patience to have to wait twenty-one days before the first of the "four hundred" could be expected to appear.
"You 'll have to be kind of careful 'bout steppin' round in the dark, Mis' Blossom, 'n' you, too, Ben," said Chi, "for you 'll find a settin' hen most anywheres nowadays."
Mrs. Blossom laughed. "Oh, Chi, what dear children they are, even if they aren't quite perfect."
"Can't be beat," replied Chi, earnestly. "Look at them now, will you?"
Mrs. Blossom stepped out on the porch, and looked over to the south slope and the corn-patch. "What if her father were to see her now!" She laughed again, both at her thoughts and the sight.
"'T would give him kind of a shock at first," Chi chuckled, "but he 'd get over it as soon as he 'd seen that face."
"It is wonderful how she has improved. I shouldn't be surprised if he came up here soon to see Hazel."
"Well, he 'll find somethin' worth lookin' at. See there, now!"
The girls had been making scarecrows to protect the young corn, stuffing old shirts and trousers with hay and straw, while March and Budd had been getting ready the cross-tree frames. In dropping and covering the corn that Saturday afternoon after the initiation, the girls had found their skirts and petticoats not only in the way as they bent over their work, but greatly soiled by contact with the soft, damp loam. So they had begged to wear overalls of blue denim like Chi's and the boys'. The request had been gladly granted. "It will save no end of washing," said Mrs. Blossom, and forthwith made up three pairs on the machine.
The girls found it great fun. They tucked in their petticoats and buttoned down their shoulder-straps with right good will. Then Mr. Blossom presented them with broad, coarse straw hats, such as he and Chi used, and with these on their heads they rushed off to the corn-patch. There now they were,–five good-looking boys with hands joined, dancing and capering around a scarecrow, that looked like a gentleman tramp gone entirely to seed, and singing at the top of their voices Budd's favorite, "I won't play in your back yard."
At that very hour, when the gentleman scarecrow of the corn-patch was looking amiably, although slightly squint-eyed, out from under his tattered straw hat (for March had drawn rude features on the white cloth bag stuffed with cotton-wool which served for a head, and on it Rose had sewed skeins of brown yarn to imitate hair) at the antics of the five pairs of blue overalls, Mr. Clyde, having finished his nine o'clock breakfast, asked for the mail.
"Yes, Marse John" (so Wilkins always called Mr. Clyde when they were alone), "'spect dere 's one from Miss Hazel by de feel an' de smell."
Mr. Clyde smiled. "How can you tell by the 'feel and the smell,' Wilkins?"
"Case it's bunchy lake in de middle, an' de vi'lets can't hide dere bref."
"Well, we 'll see," said Mr. Clyde, willing to indulge his faithful servant's childish curiosity. Wilkins busied himself quietly about the breakfast-room.
As Mr. Clyde opened the envelope, the crushed blue and white violets fell out. Suddenly he burst into such a hearty laugh that Wilkins had hard work to suppress a sympathetic chuckle.
"I shall have to carry this letter over to the Doctor, Wilkins," he said, still laughing. "I shall be in time to find him a few minutes alone before office hours." He rose from the table.
Wilkins followed him out to give his coat a last touch with the brush; he was fearful Mr. Clyde might leave without revealing anything of the contents of the letter from his beloved Miss Hazel.
"'Sense me, Marse John," he said in desperation, as Mr. Clyde went towards the front door, "but Miss Hazel ain't no wusser case yo' goin' to de Doctah's?"
"Oh, Wilkins, I forgot; you want to know how Miss Hazel is. She is doing finely; as happy as a bird, and sends her love to you in a postscript. I think I 'll run up and see her soon."
Wilkins ducked and beamed. "'Pears lake dis yere house ain't de same place wif de little missus gone."
"You 're right, Wilkins," said Mr. Clyde, earnestly. "I shall not open the Newport cottage this year; it would be too lonesome without her."
"Well, Dick," he said gayly, as he entered the Doctor's office, "I shall hold you responsible for some of the lives of the 'Four Hundred.' Here, read this letter."
MOUNT HUNGER, MILL SETTLEMENT, BARTON'S
RIVER, VERMONT, May 19, 1896.
DEAREST PAPA,–Good-morning! I am answering your long letter a little sooner than I expected to, because I want you to do something for me in a business way; that's the way March says it must be.
I don't know how to begin to tell you, but I 've joined the N.B.B.O.O. Society and one of the by-laws is that we must help others all we can and just as much as we can. I wish you'd been at the initiashun. (I don't know about that spelling, and I 'm in a hurry, or I 'd ask.) I had the hand of fellowship from a supposed corpse's hand first, and then I was branded on the arm. And afterwards they all took me in, and now we 're raising four hundred chickens to help others; I 'll tell you all about it when you come. Chi, that's the hired man, but he is really our friend, took me sitting-hen hunting day before yesterday, for I am to own some myself; and we drove all over the hills to the farmhouses and found and bought twelve, or rather Chi did, for I had to borrow the money of him, as I felt so bad when I kissed you good-bye that I forgot to tell you my quarterly allowance was all gone, and I know you won't like my borrowing of Chi, for you have said so many times never to owe anybody and I've always tried to pay for everything except when I had to borrow of Gabrielle, or Mrs. Scott, when I forgot my purse.
But truly the hens were in such an awful hurry to sit, that it did seem too bad to keep them waiting even three days till I could get some money from you; and then, too, we 've all of us, March and Rose and Budd and Cherry and me, bet on which hen would get the first chicken, and that chicken is going to be a prize chicken and especially fatted, and of course, if I waited for the money to come from you, I could n't stand a chance of coming out ahead in our four hundred chicken race, so I borrowed of Chi. The hens came to just $4 and eighty cents. I'll pay you back when I earn it, and