Carl and the Cotton Gin

by Sara Ware Bassett

Courageously he tore open the envelope; then a sharp cry came from his lips.

"Hurrah!" he cried. "Mother! Mother! Where are you?"

"Here, dear, in my room. Is anything the matter?"

Carl rushed off unceremoniously, leaving the mystified Mary alone in the middle of the kitchen.

"Oh, Ma," he panted, "what do you suppose? We're going, after all—every one of us! Think of it! We're going!"

"Going where? Have you taken leave of your senses, sonny? What are you talking about, pray?"

"We're going to the Coulters', Ma," asserted Carl, waving the white envelope above his head in a frenzy of delight. "Look! Here's the bid. And across the bottom of the paper Mr. Coulter himself has written to say that he's sorry the invitation has been so delayed and he hopes my mother and all of us—even the baby—will come. Gee!"

Quite exhausted, Carl dropped into a chair.

"But why should Mr. Coulter send this invitation to you?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Maybe Hal Harling or somebody told him how disappointed I was at not being asked," returned Carl serenely.