Polly Olivers Problem | Page 9

and held it
for an hour while I sorted the berries. Result: a hideous stain a foot and
a half in diameter, to say nothing of the circumference. Mr. Greenwood
suggested oxalic acid. I applied it, and removed both the stain and the
dress in the following complete manner;" and Polly put her brilliant
head through an immense circular hole in the front breadth of the skirt.
"It 's hopeless, is n't it? for of course a patch won't look well," said
Margery.
"Hopeless? Not a bit. You see this pretty yellow and white striped lawn?
I have made a long, narrow apron of it, and ruffled it all round. I pin it

to my waist thus, and the hole is covered. But it looks like an apron,
and how do I contrive to throw the public off the scent? I add a yoke
and sash of the striped lawn, and people see simply a
combination-dress. I do the designing, and my beloved little mother
there will do the sewing; forgetting her precious Polly's carelessness in
making the hole, and remembering only her cleverness in covering it."
"Capital!" said Margery; "it will be prettier than ever. Oh dear! that
dress was new when we had our last lovely summer in the cañon. Shall
we ever go again, all together, I wonder? Just think how we are all
scattered,--the Winships traveling in Europe (I 'll read you Bell's last
letter by and by); Geoffrey Strong studying at Leipsic; Jack Howard at
Harvard, with Elsie and her mother watching over him in Cambridge;
Philip and I on the ranch as usual, and you here. We are so divided that
it does n't seem possible that we can ever have a complete reunion,
does it?"
"No," said Polly, looking dreamily at the humming-birds hovering over
the honeysuckle; "and if we should, everything would be different.
Bless dear old Bell's heart! What a lovely summer she must be having!
I wonder what she will do."
"Do?" echoed Margery.
"Yes; it always seemed to me that Bell Winship would do something in
the world; that she would never go along placidly like other girls, she
has so many talents."
"Yes; but so long as they have plenty of money, Dr. and Mrs. Winship
would probably never encourage her in doing anything."
"It would be all the better if she could do something because she loved
it, and with no thought of earning a living by it. Is n't it odd that I who
most need the talents should have fewer than any one of our dear little
group? Bell can write, sing, dance, or do anything else, in fact; Elsie
can play like an angel; you can draw; but it seems to me I can do
nothing well enough to earn money by it; and that is precisely what I
must do."

"You 've never had any special instruction, Polly dear, else you could
sing as well as Bell, or play as well as Elsie."
"Well, I must soon decide. Mamma says next summer, when I am
seventeen, she will try to spend a year in San Francisco and let me
study regularly for some profession. The question is, what?--or whether
to do something without study. I read in a magazine the other day that
there are now three hundred or three thousand, I can't remember which,
vocations open to women. If it were even three hundred I could
certainly choose one to my liking, and there would be two hundred and
ninety-nine left over for the other girls. Mrs. Weeks is trying to raise
silkworms. That would be rather nice, because the worms would be
silent partners in the business and do most of the work."
"But you want something without any risks, you know," said Margery
sagely. "You would have to buy ground for the silkworms, and set out
the mulberries, and then a swarm of horrid insects might happen along
and devour the plants before the worms began spinning."
"'Competition is the life of trade,'" said Polly. "No, that is n't what I
mean--'Nothing venture, nothing have,' that's it. Then how would hens
do? Ever so many women raise hens."
"Hens have diseases, and they never lay very well when you have to
sell the eggs. By the way, Clarence Jones, who sings in the choir,--you
know, the man with the pink cheeks and corn-silk hair,--advertises in
the 'Daily Press' for a 'live partner.' Now, there 's a chance on an
established hen-ranch, if he does n't demand capital or experience."
"It's a better chance for Miss Ferguson. But she does n't like Mr. Jones,
because when he comes to call, his coat-pockets are always bulging
with brown paper packages of a hen-food that he has just invented. The
other day, when he came