“I tell you, Ted—coax Miss Calvert to donate a lot of Annie May’s macaroon bars. They are delicious. I think cards will do for invitations to that, don’t you, girls? Isabel, you write better than the rest of us. You just write a nice little invitation announcement card—you know what kind I mean—and I’ll make out our social list.”
“Indeed, I’m not going to do that, Ruth,” protested Polly. “It costs too much in postage. I sent Stoney out to deliver the invitation to my birthday party. All persons under fifty were undesirable, I told grandfather.”
“Listen,” exclaimed Isabel suddenly. “I wonder if any one of you girls has thought of this. Mother was talking over summer dresses with Miss Gaskell, the dressmaker who sews for us fall and spring. I heard her saying something about this dress for me, and that one, and it gave me an idea. Of course, we girls won’t need much up there in the wilds, and I said one white dress would do, and cut out the fluffy-ruffly ones—”
“You never gave up the fluffy ones, Lady Vanitas!” cried Sue.
“Yes, I did, Sue,” Isabel said, quite seriously. “And when I told mother of my plan, she said she would help me. I asked if she would give me half of everything I gave up—”
“What is the market value of flesh pots, Polly?” asked Ted, teasingly.
“Just you try it yourself, Ted, and you’ll be surprised. I was. Mother says it will be twenty to thirty dollars to add to my summer outing. It’s worth while giving up things at that rate.”
“Isabel, you’re a wonder,” Polly laughed. “I’ll try that with grandfather to-night, and coax Aunty Welcome to tell just what it costs to dress me. Couldn’t we all wear khaki and gunny sacks?”
“What are gunny sacks, Polly?”
“I don’t know. I heard Stoney say once that all he wore till he was ten years old was a gunny sack, and I thought it must be awfully comfy. Say, Ruth, did you write to the railroads to find out about summer rates?”