Peggy Raymond's Vacation Part 7

The morning of the third was for the most part given up to preparing the picnic luncheon, and Jerry Morton, who sampled Peggy's doughnuts still hot from the kettle, carried away a new-born respect for the accomplishments of that versatile young person. Mrs. Snooks, too, arriving when the house was fragrant with the mingled odors of blueberry turnovers, spiced cake and gingersnaps, sniffed appreciatively, and lost no time in expressing her surprise.

"Well, I want to know. I've heard tell that city folks most generally bought their cake and stuff, instead of baking it. Dreadful shiftless way, I call it. I just dropped in to see if you could let me have half a pail of lard and a table-spoonful of soda."

Even the generous Peggy rejoiced that the opportunity to say no had arrived at last.

"I've just used up the last of the lard, Mrs. Snooks, and we haven't thought to get any soda yet."

"You don't mean to tell me that you've been getting along without baking-soda," exclaimed Mrs. Snooks with unconcealed disappointment.

"Well, well! Young folks are certainly thoughtless. And here you've used up all your lard, and to-morrow the Fourth, and the store shut." From all appearances Mrs. Snooks was having something of a struggle to control her irritation at such evidences of short-sightedness. It was clear, however, that her efforts had been crowned with success, when she announced with an explosive sigh, "Well, if you haven't lard or baking-soda, I'll take a cup of granulated sugar, and a ball of darning cotton. Yes, black, I guess, though if you're out of black, 'most any color will do."

It was certainly disappointing when after such preparations and antic.i.p.ations, the girls were waked on the morning of the Fourth by the beating of rain on the roof. The most optimistic of weather prophets could have seen no promise of clearing in the lowering sky. The girls had roused a little early, in honor of the occasion, and they came down-stairs with gloomy faces, and over the oatmeal and bacon exchanged condolences. "To think that the first really rainy day had to be the Fourth," scolded Priscilla. "And when we had made up our minds to be so patriotic, too."

"And that three-legged race," mourned Amy. "Probably I'll never get a chance to see another. Peggy, I warn you that when you look so--preposterously cheerful, it makes me feel like throwing something."

Peggy laughed, and helped herself to toast. "I was only thinking that if we were going to keep the Fourth of July indoors, we'd have to have a flag of some sort."

"You don't mean you'd go three miles in this rain after a flag, Peggy.

And, anyway, the store would be closed for the Fourth."

"Oh, I didn't mean to buy one. I thought we'd make it."

"Make a flag!" exclaimed Claire Fendall. "Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Betsy Ross did it," Peggy reminded her. "Let's us hurry through the dishes and see if we can't do as much."

Even though the prospect of emulating Betsy Ross was an unsatisfactory subst.i.tute for the antic.i.p.ated excitements of the day, Peggy's suggestion was noticeably successful in raising the drooping spirits of the crowd. The work of the morning was dispatched in haste, and the girls flocked to the living-room where a fire less ambitious than their first attempt had been kindled on the hearth. Peggy had produced a large-sized white towel from her trunk, and she at once began to explain her plan.

"This will do for a foundation, girls. It's soft and it will drape nicely. Now all we need is a blue patch in one corner, and red stripes.

Who's got any red ribbon?"

"I've got that red ribbon I use for a sash," responded Amy. "But I'd hate to have it cut."

"Oh, we won't need to cut it. You see, this flag is going to be draped over the fireplace, so its shortcomings won't be in evidence, and we'll turn the ribbon on the side that doesn't show. Bring me all the red ribbons in the house. Amy's sash won't be enough."

So with much animated discussion, the flag grew apace. n.o.body was exactly sure whether the outer stripe should be red or white, and for economical reasons, Peggy decided on the latter. "We'll begin with white, girls, for that will make seven white stripes and only six red ones. And we've got plenty of white towel, while red ribbon is a little scarce."

Another perplexing question arose when Peggy had sacrificed the dark blue sailor collar of an old blouse, to form the blue field in the upper corner of the flag. "Now we can cut white stars out of paper and sew them on," exclaimed Peggy, standing back to admire her handiwork. "How many are there, anyway?"

n.o.body was able to answer. Peggy gazed around the circle with a mingling of indignation and incredulity.

"What! All of us high school girls and not know how many states there are in the Union! This is really awful. Aunt Abigail, _you_ must know."

"Dear me, child," replied Aunt Abigail serenely, "I have an impression that there were in the neighborhood of thirty-six at the time of the Centennial Exposition. And since then I've lost track."

"I wonder if we could count them up," mused Peggy, wrinkling her forehead. "Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont--"

"What's the use?" protested Amy. "Who counts the stars on the flag, anyway? We'll crowd in forty or fifty, enough to pretty well cover the blue, and it will look all right."

Ruth had a suggestion to offer. "As long as this is a sort of Betsy Ross flag, why not have thirteen stars, just as she had?"

As this proposal afforded a satisfactory solution to the difficulty, the thirteen stars were promptly cut from white paper and sewed in place, and the finished flag was draped above the fireplace. Peggy's antic.i.p.ations in regard to its shortcomings had been realized. The red stripes were not of uniform width, or of the same shade, and the blue field was a trifle small in proportion to the size of the flag, owing to the limitations of the original sailor collar. Yet when it was in place, with the stripes composed of Dorothy's hair-ribbons drawn up artistically, so that the wrinkles didn't show, the effect was most impressive. And along with their pride in their success, the girls experienced that indescribable thrill which is the heart's response to the challenge of our national emblem.

"Now, girls," Peggy was looking at the clock, "we've got time for just one thing more before we start to get dinner. Each one of us must write a patriotic conundrum, and then we'll put them around at each other's plates, and we'll have to guess them before we can eat a mouthful."

The girls groaned in a dismay half real, half a.s.sumed. "I don't see how a conundrum _can_ be patriotic," objected Claire.

"Oh, if it's about your native land, or George Washington, or the flag, it'll do," conceded Peggy, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when Amy made a dart for the writing desk. "Oh, let me have a pencil, quick," she begged, "before I forget it."

"You don't mean that you've thought of one already!" Ruth cried, but the radiant satisfaction on Amy's countenance was answer enough. With an expression of mingled wonder and envy, Ruth found a pencil and sc.r.a.p of paper, and set to work to produce her own conundrum in the allotted half hour. With the exception of Amy, none of the girls could boast of any inspiration for the task. Every face wore an expression of stern and relentless absorption, in striking contrast to Amy's air of carefree content.

The ample provision made for a picnic dinner the previous day rendered the preparation of the midday meal unusually easy, and the girls gathered at the dinner-table less eager to sample the pressed meat and potato chips than to examine the folded slips of paper placed under each plate. Peggy was the first to unfold hers.

"Why is Peggy like Betsy Ross?" she read aloud. "Oh, Amy La.s.sell! No wonder it only took a half minute." Her tone was reproachful, but Amy beamed upon the company with no decrease of complacency.

"That's what I call a good conundrum," she declared; "it's patriotic, and it's easy to guess. The trouble with most conundrums is that n.o.body can guess them except the people who make them."

"That's the case with this one, I think," said Aunt Abigail, scrutinizing her conundrum through her lorgnette. "What do you make of this? At the top of the paper are the letters W. P. H. and underneath is the question 'Why are these letters like the Father of his country?'"

It was some time before any ray of light was thrown on this dark mystery. "Whoever made it up will have to explain it," Amy declared for the tenth time. "It's Peggy, of course, for she hasn't helped in the guessing. Now, my conundrum--"

"Wait," cried Priscilla, sitting up suddenly, "I know. First in war--"

"To be sure _W_ is first in war, and _P_ first in peace. A little far-fetched, but not bad for a beginner," said Aunt Abigail patronizingly, while Ruth patted Priscilla's tall head, not without difficulty, and Amy read aloud. "'What is the most important of the United States?' New York, I suppose, though of course I like my own state lots better."

"No, it's _matrimony_." In her haste to explain, Ruth forgot to wait for the guesses that might come nearer the mark. "But I can't see that it's particularly patriotic, though it is about our native land, and I'm dreadfully afraid it's not so very original."

"Original enough. Even in Solomon's time there was nothing new under the sun," Peggy consoled her. "Now, Priscilla." But Priscilla had colored fiercely on unfolding her paper and crumpled it in her hand. Even if she had not instantly recognized the handwriting she would have had no difficulty in ascribing the sentiment to its rightful source.

"Who is it that I love better than my native land? Can my dearest Priscilla guess?"

"Read yours, Claire," Peggy said hastily, interrupting Amy who was about to protest against the suppression of a single conundrum, and Claire read obediently, "Why was Martha Washington like the captain of a ship?"

It was Peggy who distinguished herself by suggesting, "Because Washington was her second mate," and Priscilla, whose flushed cheeks were rapidly regaining their natural hue, p.r.o.nounced the answer correct.

"Rather suspicious," Amy declared. "Priscilla guesses Peggy's, and Peggy, Priscilla's. Looks as if it was all fixed up beforehand. Well, Ruth, yours is the last."

The last conundrum proved to be the most puzzling. "What battle of the Revolution is like a weather-c.o.c.k?" Various explanations of the mysterious affinity were offered, and each in turn rejected. Aunt Abigail, the author, was finally appealed to.

"Why, dear me!" Aunt Abigail smiled upon the circle of interested faces.

"I haven't the slightest idea, but I was sure that if _any_ battle of the Revolution was the least bit like a weather-c.o.c.k, one of you smart young folks would find it out."

After this auspicious beginning, the cheeriness of the midday meal was in pleasing contrast to the gloom of breakfast. Even Amy forgot to mourn over missing the three-legged race, and Ruth, who, under Graham's tutelage, had become an ardent devotee of baseball, was reconciled to her failure to witness the unique contest between the Fats and the Leans. The morning had pa.s.sed so rapidly, and so pleasantly on the whole, that every one was inclined to be hopeful regarding the remainder of the day, and to wait with tranquillity the further unfoldment of Peggy's plans.

When dinner was over, the dining-room in order, and the last shining dish replaced on the cupboard shelves, expectant eyes turned in Peggy's direction, as if to ask "What next?" And Peggy, as was her custom, promptly rose to the occasion.

"Now for this afternoon--"

A reverberating rap immediately behind her, caused Peggy to turn with a start and throw open the door, whereupon the figure on the step entered without waiting for an invitation. It was Jerry Morton, but a Jerry startlingly unlike his every-day self. Even the fact that he was dripping with rain could not obscure the magnificence of his toilet, including very pointed tan shoes, and a hand-painted necktie. Under his coat was partially concealed some bulging object which gave him an appearance singularly unsymmetrical.

Peggy was the first to recover herself. "Why, good afternoon, Jerry. But I guess we shan't want any fish to-day."