CHAPTER XV
DISTURBED CITIZENS
"And I've got one that my boy says is in Dick Fulton's writin'!"declared another angry citizen.
"Here comes Dick's father now," said Mr. Maynard, as he advanced a stepto meet Mr. Fulton. "They tell me our sons have been writingmiscellaneous letters," he said to Mr. Fulton, and, though there was atwinkle in his eye, Mr. Fulton saw at once that there was some seriousmatter in hand.
"Not only your sons, but your girls, too," growled another man. "My kidsays this is your Marjorie's fist."
"Well, well, what are the letters all about?" asked Mr. Fulton, who didnot like the attitude of the complainants.
"Read 'em, and see!" was the quick response, and half a dozen letterswere thrust toward the two gentlemen.
Mr. Fulton adjusted his glasses, and both he and Mr. Maynard quicklyscanned the notes that were only too surely the work of their ownchildren.
"The signature is misleading," said Mr. Fulton, who was inwardly shakingwith laughter at the absurd epistles, but who preserved a seriouscountenance; "but I feel sure it means 'The Village ImprovementSociety.' I have often thought such a society would be a good thing forour town, but I didn't know one had been started."
"But who _is_ the society? A lot of youngsters?" demanded John Kellogg.
"Ahem! These documents would lead one to think so, wouldn't they?" saidMr. Fulton, suavely.
But the offended men were not to be so easily placated.
"See here," said one of them, assuming a threatening tone, "these 'ereletters is insults; that's what I call 'em!"
"And I!" "Me, too!" said several others.
"And as they is insults," went on the first speaker, "we wantssatisfaction; that's what we wants!"
"Yes, yes!" "We do!" chorused the crowd.
Mr. Fulton and Mr. Maynard were decidedly nonplussed. It was difficultto take the matter seriously, and yet, as these men were so incensed, itmight make an unpleasant publicity for the two families, unless theyplacated the angry recipients of those foolish letters.
Mr. Maynard was a quick thinker, and a man of more even disposition andaffable demeanor than Mr. Fulton. So Mr. Maynard, with a nod at hisfriend, jumped up on a chair and began to address the crowd, as if hewere on a public platform.
"My friends and fellow-townsmen," he said: "in the first place, Mr.Fulton and I want to admit that these letters which you have receivedare without doubt the work of our own children. They were writtenentirely without our knowledge or consent, and they represent a childishendeavor to do well, but they do not show experience, or familiaritywith grown people's ways of dealing with these matters. We, therefore,apologize to you for the offence our children have caused you, andtrust that, as most of you have children of your own, you willappreciate the facts of the case, and forgive the well-meaning, butill-doing, little scamps."
Mr. Maynard's pleasant voice and genial smile went far to establishgood-feeling, and many voices murmured, "Aw, that's all right," or,"Little scalawags, ain't they?"
"And now," Mr. Maynard went on, "since we are gathered here, I wouldlike to make a suggestion that may lead to a good work. Several of ourprominent business men have thought that a Village Improvement Societycould do a great and good work in our town. I, myself, have notsufficient leisure to take this matter in charge, but I wish that acommittee of our citizens might be appointed to consider ways and means,with a view to organizing a society in the near future. Should this bedone, I stand ready to contribute one thousand dollars to the generalfund of the society, and I've no doubt more will be subscribed bywilling hearts."
Mr. Maynard stepped down from the chair, and Mr. Fulton immediatelymounted it.
"I, too, will gladly subscribe the same amount as Mr. Maynard," he said;"this project has for some time been in my mind, and I am pretty surethat it was because of overhearing some of my conversations on thesubject that my young people took it up, and earnestly, if in a mistakenmanner, endeavored to start such a society."
The sentiment of the meeting had entirely changed. The men who had beenmost angry at their letters were now enthusiastic in their desire forthe immediate formation of the society.
"Land sakes!" said old Mr. Bolton, "them children didn't mean nothin'wrong. They jest didn't know no better."
"That's so," said John Kellogg. "Like's not, some of our kids might 'a'done a heap worse."
After the election of a chairman for the provisional committee, and afew more preliminary moves in the matter, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Fultonwent away, leaving it all in the hands of their fellow-townsmen.
"You did good work," said Mr. Fulton, appreciatively. "I confess I wasafraid of an unpleasant turn of affairs. But you won their hearts byyour tact and genial manner."
"That's the best way to manage that sort of an uprising," returned Mr.Maynard. "Of course we are, in a way, responsible for our children'sdeeds, and there's a possibility that some of those letters could maketrouble for us. But I think it's all right now. The next thing is tochoke off the children before they go any further. What _do_ you supposepossessed them to cut up such a trick?"
"What possesses them to get into one sort of mischief after another, asfast as they can go?"
"Well, this isn't really mischief, is it? They meant well, you know. ButI'll reserve judgment until after I talk with my young hopefuls."
The two men separated at the corner, and Mr. Maynard went directly tohis own home.
He found Mrs. Maynard and the three older children in the living-room,variously engaged with books or games.
"Well," he said, as he entered the room. "I'd like an immediateinterview with The Village Imps."
Each of the three gave a start of surprise.
"What do you mean, Father?" cried Marjorie.
"Why, if you belong to an Imp Society you must be Imps; aren't you?"
"Who told you about it?" asked Kitty, disappointedly. "It was to be asecret, until all the town was stirred up."
"The town is pretty well stirred up now, my girl. But I don't wantreports of my children's doings from other people. Tell me all about it,yourselves."
"We will, Father," said Marjorie, evidently glad of the chance. "Youtell, King; you're president."
Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave a full account of theirdesire to do something that would be a public benefit of some sort. Hetold of Dick's suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton's remarks about aVillage Improvement Society. He explained that they wrote lettersbecause they hadn't money enough for any more expensive proceeding, andhe wound up by proudly stating that they had mailed sixteen lettersalready, and hoped to send more the following week.
So earnest was the boy in his description of the work, and so honest hispride in their efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted thenecessity of changing his view of the matter.
"Kingdon," he said, "you're fourteen years old, and I think you're oldenough to know that you ought not to engage in such important affairswithout getting the advice of older people."
"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie. "Was this wrong, too? Is _everything_mischief? Can't we do anything at all without we have to be punished forit? We thought this was truly a good work, and we thought we were doingour duty!"
Like a little whirlwind, Marjorie flew across the room, and threwherself, sobbing, into her father's arms.
"My dear child," he said, kissing her hot little brow, "wait a momenttill I explain. We want to talk over this matter, and get each other'sideas about it."
"But you're going to say it was wrong,--I know you are! And I was tryingso hard _not_ to do naughty things. Oh, Father, how can I tell what Ican do, and what I can't?"
"There, there, Midget, now stop crying. You're not going to be punished;you don't deserve to be. What you did was not wrong in itself,--at leastit would not have been for older people. But you children are ignorantof the ways of the grown-up world, and so you ought not to have takenthe responsibility of dictating to or advising grown people. That wasthe wrong part."
"But we meant it for their good, sir, more than for our own," said King,by way of justification.
"That's just it, Kingdon, my boy. You're too young yet to know what _is_for the good of grown men and women who are old enough to be yourparents and grandparents. You wouldn't think of dictating to your motheror myself 'for our good,' would you? And all grown people ought to beequally free from your unasked advice."
"But, Father," insisted King, "if you kept this place looking like arubbish-heap, wouldn't I have a right to ask you not to?"
"You'd have only the right of our relationship. A child has manyprivileges with his parents that he hasn't with any one else in theworld. But to come right down to the facts: the letters that you wrotewere ill-advised, arrogant, and impertinent."
Kitty looked frankly bewildered at these big Words, Marjorie buried herface on her father's shoulder in a renewed burst of tears, while Kingdonflushed a deep red all over his honest, boyish face.
"I'm sorry, Father," he said; "we didn't mean them to be, and we didn'tthink they were. We thought they were straightforward andbusiness-like."
"That shows your ignorance, my son. Until you have been in business, youcannot really know what grown men and women consider business-like. Ican tell you John Kellogg and Tom Bolton didn't consider themmasterpieces of business-like literature."
"How do you know?" said Marjorie, lifting her wet face from itshiding-place.
"I saw them, dearie; both the men and the letters, at the post-officeto-night. There were many others,--a dozen or more,--and they were, oneand all, extremely angry at the letters they had received. Mr. Fultonand I were both there, and, when we were told that the letters were thework of our children, we could scarcely believe it."
"And we thought you'd be so proud of us," said Kitty, in such a dejectedvoice that Mrs. Maynard caught up the little girl and held her in herarms.
Of course, this was the first Mrs. Maynard had heard of the wholeaffair, but, as Mr. Maynard was conducting the discussion, she saidlittle.
"What ought we to have done, Father?" said King, who was beginning tosee that they had done wrong.
"When you first thought of the plan, my son, you should have realizedthat it concerned grown people entirely; and that, therefore, before youchildren undertook its responsibilities you should confer with yourmother or me. Surely you see that point?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
"When your plans include only children, and are not disobedience torules either actual and implied, then you are usually free to do prettymuch as you like."
"But we thought this would do the town good."
"That was a worthy sentiment, and a true one, too. But the matter of atown improvement is not a matter for children to attend to, _unless_they are working under the direction of older people. Had I advised youto write these letters, which, of course, I never should have done, foryou are not the proper ones to write them, but had I done so, I wouldhave shown you how to word them that they might not offend.Inexperienced letter-writers cannot expect to write a sort of letterwhich requires special delicacy, tact, and graciousness."
"Father," said Marjorie, solemnly, "I'm never going to do anythingagain, but go to school and eat my meals and go to bed. Anything else Iever do is wrong."
"Now, Mopsy Midget, don't talk nonsense. You're twelve years old. You'vea lot to learn before you're a grown-up, and most of it must be learnedby experience. If you never do anything, you'll never get anyexperience, and at twenty you'll only know as much as you did at twelve!How would you like that?"
"Not much," said Marjorie, whose spirits rose as her father adopted alighter tone.
"Then just go on and have your experiences. Cut up jinks and have allthe fun you can; but try to learn as you go along to discriminatebetween the things you ought to do and the things you oughtn't. Youwon't always guess right, but if you keep on living you can always guessagain."
"What did those men say?" asked King, who was brooding over the scene inthe post-office.
"Oh! they were pretty mad at first, and I think they were quite ready tocome after you children with tomahawks and war-whoops. But Mr. Fultonand I patted them fondly on the shoulder, and told them you wereharmless lunatics and they mustn't mind you."
"We're not crazy, Father," said Kitty, who was inclined to be literal.
"No, Kitsie, you're not; and I don't want you to drive me crazy, either.You're three of the most delightful children I ever met, and whenever Ican pull you out of your scrapes I'm only too glad to do so. I may aswell tell you at once that Mr. Fulton and I fixed up this Imp Societymatter very satisfactorily; and if you don't start in to lay a newasphalt road, or build a cathedral, I think I can keep up with you."
"How did you fix it, Father?" asked Marjorie, brightening with renewedinterest, as she learned that the trouble was over.
"Oh! I told the gentlemen who were most interested that if they didn'tlike the way my children improved this village that they'd better do theimproving themselves. And they said they would."
"Really, Father?"
"Really, King. So now you're all well out of it, and I want you to stayout. Unless they ask for your assistance, later on; and I doubt ifthey'll do that, for between you and me they don't seem to approve ofyour methods."
"I think it was dreadful for the children to write those letters," saidMrs. Maynard. "And I don't think, Ed, that you've quite explained tothem how very wrong it was."
"Perhaps not," said Mr. Maynard, "but can't we leave that part of thesubject till some other time? For my part, I'm quite exhausted scoldingthese young reprobates, and I'd like a change to smiles instead oftears. And somehow I have a growing conviction that they'll never do itagain. Will you, chickabiddies?"
"No, sir!" came in a hearty chorus.
"Of course they won't," said Mrs. Maynard, laughing. "It will be someother ridiculous freak. But I'll be glad to drop the subject for thepresent, too, and have a pleasant half-hour before it's bedtime forbabes."
"And aren't we to be punished?" asked Marjorie, in surprise.
"Not exactly punished," said her father, smiling at her. "I think Ishall give you a severe scolding every night for a week, and then see ifyou're not little paragons of perfection, every one of you."
"I'm not afraid of your scolding," said Marjorie, contentedly cuddlingclose to her father; "but I thought maybe--perhaps--you'd want us toapologize to those people who were so angry."
"I did that for you, dearie. What's the use of having a father if hecan't get you out of a scrape now and then? And now let's roast somechestnuts, and pop some corn, and have all sorts of fun."
Marjorie's Busy Days Page 15
