I my hobnailed boots have taken
Off—for fear the girls will waken,
For ’tis late—very late.
“Those are beautiful verses,” said Aunt Molly, who knew as much about poetry as a hoptoad, “and Uncle Ned will be perfectly delighted to sing them. When do your rehearsals begin?”
“To-night,” said Marjorie, growing presidential of aspect. “Look here, girls, if this thing is going to be at all, it’s going to be a success with a big S. You hear me?”
“We do!” shouted the other seven.
“Then listen further. There’s no use of our all fussing with these verses, for Hester and Nan are quite capable of making them up alone. So let them finish the libretto of the play, as they call it. I call it an operetta. Now for stage-manager I appoint Betty, and she can get any one to help her who will, but they must attend entirely to staging the whole thing—look out for scenery, lights, and all that. The costumes I put in the capable hands of Marguerite and Jessie, who know more about clothes in a minute than the rest of us in a thousand years. Helen, of course, is the orchestra; if she can get any one to help her, so much the better. Millicent and I will look after the supper; for I’m sure you’ll need one after this wonderful performance, to say nothing of the audience, who, I feel sure, will be utterly exhausted.”
“Bravo, Marjorie!” cried Aunt Molly. “You’re a manager, and no mistake. Now I’ll help any one or all of these committees. Call on me for anything, and you’ll find me willing if not always capable.”
“Hooray for Aunt Molly!” cried Marjorie, and all responded with a will.
Then Marguerite and Jessie put their pretty heads together and planned costumes for the young actresses that were to be dreams of beauty.