CHAPTER III
PICNIC PLANS
One entire day out of each month Mr. Maynard devoted to theentertainment of his children.
This was a long-established custom, and the children looked forwardeagerly to what they called an Ourday.
The day chosen was always a Saturday, and usually the first Saturday ofthe month, though this was subject to the convenience of the elders.
The children were allowed to choose in turn what the entertainmentshould be, and if possible their wishes were complied with.
As there had been so much bustle and confusion consequent upon theirreturn from the summer vacation, the September "Ourday" did not occuruntil the second Saturday.
It was Marjorie's turn to choose the sport, for, as she had been away atGrandma Sherwood's all summer, she had missed three Ourdays.
So one morning, early in the week, the matter was discussed at thebreakfast table.
"What shall it be, Midget?" asked her father. "A balloon trip, or anArctic expedition?"
Marjorie considered.
"I want something outdoorsy," she said, at last, "and I think I'd like apicnic best. A real picnic in the woods, with lunch-baskets, and a fire,and roasted potatoes."
"That sounds all right to me," said Mr. Maynard; "do you want a lot ofpeople, or just ourselves?"
It was at the children's pleasure on Ourdays to invite their youngfriends or to have only the family, as they chose. Sometimes, even, Mrs.Maynard did not go with them, and Mr. Maynard took his young brood offfor a ramble in the woods, or a day at the seashore or in the city. Heoften declared that but for this plan he would never feel reallyacquainted with his own children.
"I don't want a lot of people," said Marjorie, decidedly; "but supposewe each invite one. That makes a good-sized picnic."
As it was Marjorie's Ourday, her word was law, and the others gladlyagreed.
"I'll ask Dick Fulton," said Kingdon. "I haven't seen much of him sinceI came home."
"And I'll ask Gladys Fulton, of course," said Midget. As Gladys was hermost intimate friend in Rockwell, no one was surprised at this.
"I'll ask Dorothy Adams," said Kitty; but Rosy Posy announced: "I won'task nobody but Boffin. He's the nicest person I know, an' him an' me canwalk with Daddy."
"Next, where shall the picnic be?" went on Mr. Maynard.
"I don't know whether I like Pike's Woods best, or the Mill Race," saidMarjorie, uncertainly.
"Oh, choose Pike's Woods, Mops," put in Kingdon. "It's lovely there,now, and it's a lot better place to build a fire and all that."
"All right, Father; I choose Pike's Woods. But it's too far to walk."
"Of course it is, Mopsy. We'll have a big wagon that will hold us all.You may invite your friends, and I'll invite a comrade of my own. Willyou go, Mrs. Maynard?"
"I will, with pleasure. I adore picnics, and this bids fair to be adelightful one. May I assist you in planning the feast?"
"Indeed you may," said Midget, smiling at her mother. "But we canchoose, can't we?"
"Of course, choose ahead."
"Ice-cream," said Marjorie, promptly.
"Little lemon tarts," said Kitty.
"Candy," said Rosy Posy.
"Cold chicken," said Kingdon.
"That's a fine bill of fare," said Mr. Maynard, "but I'll add sandwichesand lemonade as my suggestions, and anything we've omitted, I'm surewill get into the baskets somehow."
"Oh, won't it be lovely!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I haven't been on apicnic with our own family for so long. We had picnics at Grandma's, butnothing is as much fun as an Ourday."
"Let's take the camera," said Kingdon, "and get some snapshots."
"Yes, and let's take fishlines, and fish in the brook," said Kitty.
"All right, chickabiddies; we'll have a roomy wagon to travel in, sotake whatever you like. And now I must be off. Little Mother, you'llmake a list to-day, won't you, of such things as I am to get for thisfrolic?"
"Candy," repeated Rosy Posy; "don't fordet that."
As the baby was not allowed much candy, she always chose it for herOurday treat.
Mr. Maynard went away to his business, and the others remained at thebreakfast table, talking over the coming pleasure.
"We'll have a great time!" said Kingdon. "We'll make father play Indiansand shipwreck and everything."
"Don't make me play Indians!" exclaimed his mother, in mock dismay.
"No, indeedy! You couldn't be an Indian. You're too white-folksy. Butyou can be a Captive Princess."
"Yes!" cried Marjorie; "in chains and shut up in a dungeon."
"No, no," screamed Rosy Posy; "my muvver not be shutted up in dunjin!"
"No, she shan't, Baby," said her brother, comfortingly; "and, anyway,Mops, Indians don't put people in dungeons, you're thinking ofMediaevals."
"Well, I don't care," said Midget, happily; "we'll have a lovely time,whatever we play. I'm going over to ask Gladys now. May I, Mother?"
"Yes, Midget, run along. Tell Mrs. Fulton that Father and I are going,and that we'd be glad to take Gladys and Dick."
Away skipped Marjorie, hatless and coatless, for it was a warm day, andGladys lived only across the street.
"It's so nice to have you back again, Mopsy," said Gladys, after theinvitation had been given and accepted. "I was awful lonesome for youall summer."
"I missed you, too; but I did have a lovely time. Oh, Gladys, I wish youcould see my tree-house at Grandma's! Breezy Inn, its name is, and wehad _such_ fun in it."
"Why don't you have one here? Won't your father make one for you?"
"I don't know. Yes, I suppose he would. But it wouldn't seem the same.It just _belongs_ at Grandma's. And, anyway, I'm busy all the time here.There's so much to do. We play a lot, you know. And then I have mypractising every day, and, oh dear, week after next school will begin. Ijust hate school, don't you, Gladys?"
"No, I love it; you know I do."
"Well, I don't. I don't mind the lessons, but I hate to sit cooped up ata desk all day. I wish they'd have schools out of doors."
"Yes, I'd like that, too. I wonder if we can sit together, this year,Mops?"
"Oh, I hope so. Let's ask Miss Lawrence that, the very first thing. Why,I'd die if I had to sit with any one but you."
"So would I. But I'm sure Miss Lawrence will let us be together."
Gladys was a pretty little girl, though not at all like Marjorie. Shewas about the same age, but smaller, and with light hair and blue eyes.She was more sedate than Midget, and more quiet in her ways, but she hadthe same love of fun and mischief, and more than once the two girls hadbeen separated in the schoolroom because of the pranks they concoctedwhen together.
Miss Lawrence, their teacher, was a gentle and long-suffering lady, andshe loved both little girls, but she was sometimes at her wits' end toknow how to tame their rollicking spirits.
Gladys was as pleased as Marjorie at the prospect of the picnic. Oftenthe Maynard children had their Ourdays without inviting other guests,but when outsiders were invited they always remembered the happyoccasions.
All through the week preparations went on, and on Friday Ellen, thecook, gave up most of the day to the making of cakes and tarts andjellies. The next morning she was to get up early to fry the chicken andprepare the devilled eggs.
Mr. Maynard brought home candies and fruit from the city, and a huge canof ice-cream was ordered from the caterer.
The start was to be made at nine o'clock Saturday morning, for it was along drive, and everybody wanted a long day in the woods.
Friday evening was fair, with a beautiful sunset, and everything bodedwell for beautiful weather the next day.
Rosy Posy, after her bread-and-milk supper, went happily off to bed, anddropped to sleep while telling her beloved Boffin of the fun to come.The other children dined with their parents, and the conversation wasexclusively on the one great subject.
"I don't think it _could_ rain; do you, Father?" said Kitty, lookingover her shoulder,
at the fading sunset tints.
"I think it _could_, my dear, but I don't think it will. All signs pointto fair weather, and I truly believe we'll have a perfect Ourday and ajolly good time."
"We always do," said Midge, happily. "I wonder why all fathers don'thave Ourdays with their children. Gladys' father never gets home tillseven o'clock, and she has to go to bed at eight, so she hardly sees himat all, except Sundays, and of course they can't play on Sundays."
"They must meet as strangers," said Mr. Maynard. "I think our plan isbetter. I like to feel chummy with my own family, and the only way to doit is to keep acquainted with each other. I wish I could have a wholeday with you every week, instead of only every month."
"Can't you, Father?" said Kitty, wistfully.
"No, daughter. I have too much business to attend to, to allow me aholiday every week. But perhaps some day I can manage it. Are you takinga hammock to-morrow, King?"
"Yes, sir. I thought Mother might like an afternoon nap, and Rosy Posyalways goes to sleep in the morning."
"Thoughtful boy. Take plenty of rope, but you needn't bother to taketrees to swing it from."
"No, we'll take the chance of finding some there."
"Yes, doubtless somebody will have left them from the last picnic. Youryoung friends are going?"
"Yes," said Marjorie. "King and I asked the two Fultons, and Kitty askedDorothy Adams. With all of us, and Nurse Nannie, that makes just ten."
"And the driver of the wagon makes eleven," said Mr. Maynard. "I supposewe've enough rations for such an army?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Maynard, smiling. "Enough for twenty, I think,but it's well to be on the safe side."
The children went to bed rather earlier than usual, in order to be upbright and early for the picnic.
Their play-clothes, which were invariably of blue and white stripedseersucker, were laid out in readiness, and they fell asleep wishing itwere already morning.
But when the morning did come!
Marjorie wakened first, and before she opened her eyes she heard anominous sound that sent a thrill of dismay to her heart.
She sprang out of bed, and ran to the window.
Yes, it was not only raining, it was simply _pouring_.
One of those steady, determined storms that show no sign of speedyclearing. The sky was dark, leaden gray, and the rain came down in whatseemed to be a thick, solid volume of water.
"Oh!" said Marjorie, with a groan of disappointment from her very heart.
"Kitty," she said, softly, wondering if her sister were awake.
The girls had two beds on either side of a large room, and Midgettiptoed across the floor, as she spoke. Kitty opened her eyes sleepily."What is it, Midget? Time to get up? Oh, it's picnic day!"
As Kitty became broad awake, she smiled and gaily hopped out of bed.
"What's the matter?" she said, in alarm, for Marjorie's face wasanything but smiling.
For answer, Midget pointed out of the window, toward which Kitty turnedfor the first time.
"Oh!" said she, dropping back on the edge of the bed.
And, indeed, there seemed to be nothing else to say. Both girls were sooverwhelmed with disappointment that they could only look at each otherwith despondent faces.
Silently they began to draw on their stockings and shoes, and thoughdetermined they wouldn't do anything so babyish as to cry, yet it was noeasy matter to keep the tears back.
"Up yet, chickabiddies?" called Mr. Maynard's cheery voice through theclosed door.
"Yes, sir," responded two doleful voices.
"Then skip along downstairs as soon as you're ready; it's a lovely dayfor our picnic."
Midge and Kitty looked at each other. This seemed a heartless jestindeed! And it wasn't a bit like their father to tease them when theywere in trouble. And real trouble this surely was!
They heard Mr. Maynard tap at King's door, and call out some gaygreeting to him, and then they heard King splashing about, as if makinghis toilet in a great hurry. All this spurred the girls to dress morequickly, and it was not long before they were tying each other'shair-ribbons and buttoning each other's frocks.
Then they fairly ran downstairs, and, seeing Mr. Maynard standing by thedining-room window, they both threw themselves into his arms, cryingout, "Oh, Father, isn't it _too_ bad?"
"What?" asked Mr. Maynard, quizzically.
"Now, Daddy," said Midget, "don't tease. Our hearts are all brokenbecause it's raining, and we can't have our picnic."
"Can't have our picnic!" exclaimed Mr. Maynard, in apparent excitement."Can't have our picnic, indeed! Who says we can't?"
"I say so!" exclaimed Kingdon, who had just entered the room. "Nobodybut ducks can have a picnic to-day."
"Oh, well," said Mr. Maynard, looking crestfallen, "if King says so thatsettles it. _I_ think it's a beautiful picnic day, but far be it from meto obtrude my own opinions."
Just here Mrs. Maynard and Rosy Posy came in. They were both smiling,and though no one expected the baby to take the disappointment veryseriously, yet it did seem as if Mother might have been moresympathetic.
"I suppose we can eat the ice-cream in the house," said Marjorie, whowas inclined to look on the bright side if she could possibly find one.
"That's the way to talk!" said her father, approvingly. "Now you try,Kingdon, to meet the situation as it should be met."
"I will, sir. I'm just as disappointed as I can be, but I supposethere's no use crying over spilt milk,--I mean spilt raindrops."
"That's good philosophy, my boy. Now, Kitty, what have you to say by wayof cheering us all up?"
"I can't see much fun in a day like this. But I hope we can have thepicnic on the next Ourday."
"That's a brave, cheerful spirit. Now, my sad and disheartened crew,take your seats at the breakfast table, and listen to your foolishlyoptimistic old father."
The children half-heartedly took their places, but seemed to have nothought of eating breakfast.
"Wowly-wow-wow!" said Mr. Maynard, looking around the table. "_What_ aset of blue faces! Would it brighten you up any if I should prophesythat at dinner-time to-night you will all say it has been the bestOurday we've ever had, and that you're glad it rained?"
"Oh, Father!" said Marjorie, in a tone of wondering reproach, whileKitty and King looked blankly incredulous, and Mrs. Maynard smiledmysteriously.