"That's the ticket, Gladys!" cried Kingdon, admiringly. "You've struck it now. Of course that's the way to accomplish what we are after, in a dignified manner. Let's write a lot of those letters, and then when the people fix their places all up, we'll say that we started the movement."
"All right," said Dick, "I think that's just what Father meant. But he said 'a circular letter.' That means have it printed."
"Oh, well, we can't afford to have it printed. Why, we can't scrape up postage for very many letters. Sixty cents; that would mail thirty letters."
"We can't write more than that," said Marjorie. "That would be five apiece for all of us. And I don't know as Kit and Dorothy write well enough, anyway."
"Dorothy does," said Kitty, generously. "But I write like hen's tracks."
"Well, you can write those that don't matter so much," said Midge, kindly. "I'll tell you, Kitty, you can write the one to Father."
"Pooh, Father doesn't need any. Our place is always in order."
"So is ours!" cried Dick. "And ours!" piped up Dorothy.
"But don't the citizens all have to have letters?" asked Gladys. "If you just pick out the ones who don't keep their lawns nice, they'll be mad."
"No, they won't," said Dick; "or, if they are, why, let 'em be mad."