THE ART AND LOAN DRESS EXHIBIT[6]
"We could have a baking sale. Or a general cooking sale. Or a bazaar. Or a twenty-five-cent supper," says I.
Mis' Toplady tore off a strip of white cloth so smart it sounded saucy.
"I'm sick to death," she said, "of the whole kit of them. I hate a baking sale like I hate wash-day. We've had them till we can taste them. I know just what every human one of us would bring. Bazaars is death on your feet. And if I sit down to another twenty-five-cent supper—beef loaf, bake' beans, pickles, cabbage salad, piece o' cake—it seems as though I should scream."
"Me too," agrees Mis' Holcomb.
"Me too," I says myself. "Still," I says, "we want a park—and we want to name it Hewitt Park for them that's done so much for the town a'ready. And if we ever have a park, we've got to raise some money. That's flat, ain't it?"
We all allowed that this was flat, and acrost the certainty we faced one another, rocking and sewing in my nice cool sitting-room. The blinds were open, the muslin curtains were blowing, bees were humming in the yellow-rose bush over the window, and the street lay all empty, except for a load of hay that lumbered by and brushed the low branches of the maples. And somewheres down the block a lawn-mower was going, sleepy.
"Who's that rackin' around so up-stairs?" ask' Mis' Toplady, pretty soon.
Just when she spoke, the little light footstep that had been padding overhead came out in the hall and down my stair.
"It's Miss Mayhew," I told them, just before Miss Mayhew tapped on the open door.