Marjories Vacation | Page 2

new boathouse, you know, since you were there."
"I haven't been there for three years," said Marjorie, "and I suppose there'll be lots of changes."
"I was there two years ago," said Kitty, "but Arabella has never been."
"I'se never been, eever," said Rosy Posy, wistfully, "and so Boffin hasn't, too. But we don't want to go, us wants to stay home wiv Muvver."
"And I say, Mops, look out for the Baltimore oriole," went on Kingdon. "He had a nest in the big white birch last year, and like as not he'll be there again."
"There was a red-headed woodpecker two years ago," said Kitty; "perhaps he'll be there this summer."
"I hope so," said Marjorie; "I'm going to take my big Bird book, and then I can tell them all."
It was the custom in the Maynard household for one of the children to go each summer to Grandma Sherwood's farm near Morristown. They took turns, but as Rosy Posy was so little she had not begun yet.
The children always enjoyed the vacation at Grandma's, but they were a chummy little crowd and dreaded the separation. This was the reason of their subdued and depressed air to-day.
It was Marjorie's turn, and she was to leave home the next morning. Mrs. Maynard was to accompany her on the journey, and then return, leaving Marjorie in the country for three months.
"I wonder how Puffy will like it," she said, as she picked up the kitten, and looked into its blue eyes.
"She'll be all right," said Kingdon, "if she doesn't fight with Grandma's cats. There were about a dozen there last year, and they may object to Puff's style of hair-dressing. Perhaps we'd better cut her hair before she starts."
"No, indeed!" cried Marjorie, "not a hair shall be touched, unless you'd like a lock to keep to remember her while she's gone."
"No, thank you," said King, loftily; "I don't carry bits of cat around in my pockets."
"I'd like a lock," said Kitty; "I'd tie it with a little blue ribbon, and keep it for a forget-me-not. And I'll give you a little curl of Arabella's, and you can keep that to remember her by."
"All right," said Marjorie; "and I'll take a lock of Boffin Bear's hair too. Then I'll have a memento of all the family, because I have pictures of all of you, you know."
With the Maynards to suggest was to act. So the four scrambled out of the swing, and ran to the house.
The Maynard house was a large square affair, with verandas all around. Not pretentious, but homelike and comfortable, and largely given over to the children's use. Though not often in the drawing- room, the four young Maynards frequently monopolized the large living-room, and were allowed free access to the library as well.
Also they had a general playroom and a nursery; and Kingdon had a small den or workroom for his own use, which was oftener than not invaded by the girls.
To the playroom they went, and Kingdon carefully cut small locks from the kitten, the doll, and the bear, and Marjorie neatly tied them with narrow blue ribbons. These mementoes the girls put away, and carefully treasured all through the summer.
Another Maynard custom was a farewell feast at dinner, the night before vacation began. Ordinarily, only the two older children dined with their parents, the other two having their tea in the nursery. But on this occasion, all were allowed at dinner, and the feast was made a special honor for the one who was going away. Gifts were made, as on a birthday, and festival dress was in order.
A little later, then, the four children presented themselves in the library, where their parents awaited them.
Mr. Maynard was a man of merry disposition and rollicking nature, and sometimes joined so heartily in the children's play that he seemed scarcely older than they.
Mrs. Maynard was more sedate, and was a loving mother, though not at all a fussy one. She was glad in many ways to have one of her children spend the summer each year with her mother, but it always saddened her when the time of departure came.
She put her arm around Marjorie, without a word, as the girl came into the room, for it had been three years since the two had been parted, and Mrs. Maynard felt a little sad at the thought of separation.
"Don't look like that, Mother," said Marjorie, "for if you do, I'll begin to feel weepy, and I won't go at all."
"Oh, yes, you will, Miss Midge," cried her father; "you'll go, and you'll stay all summer, and you'll have a perfectly beautiful time. And, then, the first of September I'll come flying up there to get you, and bring you home, and it'll be all over. Now, such a short vacation as that isn't worth