Part 3

"Camps out and has a good time," added daughter.

"And fishes," suggested Ted. "Cats _do_ catch fish. Sometimes. I've read about it."

Daddy nodded. "Seems to agree with him, whatever he does."

"Vacations agree with anybody," asserted my oldest. And then, "I don't see why we can't go along with Sir Chris. At least we might go the same _time_ he does."

"Mother, couldn't we?"--it was a question that gathered weight and momentum like a snowball rolling down hill, for I had always insisted that, with a big family like mine, I could never bother to go camping. I wanted to be where things were handy: running water from a faucet, bathtubs and gas and linoleum, a smoothly cut lawn and a morning postman. Go camping with a family like mine? Never.

But the thought once set going would not down. Perhaps, after all, Sir Christopher was right and I was wrong. For people did go camping, most people, even groups to the number of nine (the right count for our family), and they seemed to enjoy it. They fought with mosquitoes, and fell into creeks; they were blotched with poison oak, black from exposure, lame from undue exercise, and looked worse than vagrant gipsies--but they came home happy. Even those who spent days in bed to rest up from their rest (I have known such) seemed happy. And every one sighs and says, "We had such a good time! We're planning to go back again next summer."

So at last I gave up--or gave in. We went to the mountains, following up the trail along Calapooia Creek; we camped and hunted and fished to the hearts' content. We learned to cook hotcakes out-of-doors, and how to make sourdough biscuit, and to frizzle bacon before a bonfire, and to bake ham in a bread pan, such as our mothers fitted five loaves of bread in; we learned to love hash, and like potatoes boiled in their jackets, and coffee with the cream left out. We went three miles to borrow a match; we divided salt with the stranger who had forgotten his; we learned that fish is good on other days than Friday and that trout crisps beautifully in bacon grease; we found eleventeen uses for empty lard pails and discovered the difference between an owl and a tree toad. We gained a speaking acquaintance with the Great Dipper, and learned where to look for the north star, why fires must be put out and what chipmunks do for a living. We learned--

Last night we came home.

"Now, mother, aren't you really glad you went?" quizzed Daddy.

"Yes-s," said I, slowly, "I'm glad I went. It has been a new experience. I feel like I'd gained a degree at the State University."

My understanding mate merely chuckled--and went on unpacking the tinware. But Ted spoke up:

"Gee! Bet I make good in English III this year. Got all sorts of ideas for themes. This trip's been bully."

"We'll go again, won't we, Mother?" asked my oldest.

"I think we'll always go again," answered I--some sober thinking I was doing, as I folded away the blankets.

"Let me get supper"--it was Laura, my middle girl, speaking--"surely I can cook on gas, if I can over a campfire." And Laura had never wanted to cook! Strange tendencies develop when one lives out in the open a space of time.

But Curlylocks was undisturbed. "Kitty--kitty--kitty! _My_ 'ittle kitty!" he reiterated. And truly, so my neighbor told me, Sir Christopher had beat us home by a scant twenty-four hours. He rubbed about us in turns, happily purring.

"He's telling us all what a good time he had," said I, understanding at last, "but he is adding, I think, that the best part of going away is getting home again."

"But if we didn't go we couldn't get home again," said Somebody.

And somebody's cat purred his approval. Perhaps, after all, he finds us a teachable family. Or perhaps he knows that once caught by the lure of the hills, once having tasted the tang of mountainous ozone, we will always go back--he has rare intuitions, has Sir Christopher. For, already, I find myself figuring to fashion a detachable long handle for the frying pan: Yes, next time, we shall plan to conserve both fingers and face. Next time! That is the beauty of vacation days: We think of them when the frost comes, when the snow drifts deep, when the arbutus blooms again--and we plan, plan, plan! And are very happy--because of memory, and anticipation. We have opened barred windows, and widened our life's horizon. Does Sir Christopher guess? Wise old Sir Chris!

Homing-It in an Apartment

By Ernest L. Thurston

There were four of them--all girls employed in great offices. Alone, far away from their home towns and families, they were all suffering from attacks of too-much-boarding-house. Each was longing for a real, home-y place to live in. And out of that longing was born, in time, an idea, which developed, after much planning, figuring and price-getting, into a concrete plan and a course of action. They were good friends, of congenial tastes, and so they decided to "home-it" together.

Now this is nothing new, in itself. It was the thorough way they went about it that was not so common. They applied the rules of their business life, and studied their proposed path before they set foot in it. They looked over the field, weighed the problems, decided what they could do, and then arranged to put themselves on a sound financial basis from the start.

All had occupied separate rooms in sundry boarding houses. Each had experience in "meals in" and "meals out." Each could analyze fairly accurately her expenses for the preceding six months. After study, they decided that, without increasing their combined expense, they could have comfortable quarters of their own and more than meet all their needs. "Freedom, food, furniture, fixing and _friends_," said Margaret, "without the boarding house flavor."

They longed for a little house and garden of their own. But they were busy people, and this would mean extra hours of care and labor, more demands on their strength, and a longer travel distance--a load they felt they could not carry. So they sought an apartment.

The search was long but they found it. It was in a small structure, on a quiet street, and several flights up, without elevator. But, as Peggy said, "Elevators have not been in style in our boarding houses, and flights of stairs have--so what matters it?" The suite, when you arrived up there, was airy and comfortable. It provided two bedrooms, a cheery living room, a dining room and a kitchenette. Clarice remarked, "The 'ette' is so small we can save steps by being within hand's reach of everything, no matter where we stand."

The rent was less than the combined rental of their four old rooms. Heat and janitor service were provided without charge, but they were obliged to meet the expense of gas for the range and of electric lights.

They might have lived along happily in their new nest without a budget, and without specific agreements as to expense. But they were business girls. So they sat right down and decided every point, modifying each, under trial, to a workable proposition. Then they stuck to it and _made_ it work.

There was the matter of furnishing. Each partner, while retaining personal title to her property, contributed to general use such articles of furniture she possessed as met apartment needs. From one, for example, came a comfortable bed, from another, chairs and a reading lamp, from a third a lounge chair, and from the fourth her piano and couch. Of small rugs, sofa pillows, pictures and miscellaneous small furnishings there were sufficient to make possible a real selection.

Then the four determined on further absolute essentials to make the rooms homelike. There were needed comfortable single beds for each, dressing tables, bed linen, dining-room equipment, kitchen ware, a chair or two, and draperies. Their decisions were made in committee-of-the-whole, and nothing was done that could not meet with the willing consent of all.

To meet the first cost they each contributed fifty dollars from their small savings, and assessed themselves a dollar and a quarter per week thereafter. They then bought their equipment, paying part cash and arranging for the balance on time. And be sure it was fun getting it!

Then there was the question of meals. It was determined to prepare their breakfasts and dinners and to put up lunches. To allow a certain freedom, it was agreed that each should pack her own lunch, and that regular meals should be cooked and served, turn and turn about, each partner acting for a week. A second member washed the dishes and took general care of the apartment. Thus a girl's general program reduced to,

First week Cooking Second week Free Third week Dishes, etc. Fourth week Free Fifth week Cooking Etc.

During an experimental period, the cost of provisions and ice was summed up weekly and paid by equal assessment. Later a fixed assessment of seven dollars, each, was agreed to, and proved sufficient. There were even slight surpluses to go into the mannikin jar on the living room mantel, which Clarice called the "Do Drop Inn", because it provided from its contents refreshment for those who dropped in of an evening.

Naturally there was a friendly rivalry, not only in making the most of the allotment, but in providing attractive meals and dainty special dishes. Clarice's stuffed tomatoes won deserved fame, and Margaret made a reputation on cheese souffle. Peggy, too, was a wizard with the chafing dish.

Consideration was given the matter of special guests, either for meals, or for over-night. The couch in the living room provided emergency sleeping quarters. As for meals, separate fixed rates were set for breakfasts and for dinners. This was paid into the regular weekly provision fund by the girl who brought the guest, or by all four equally, if she were a "general" guest. The girl who brought a guest also "pitched in" and helped with the work.

Whenever the group went out for a meal, as they did now and then for a change, or for amusement, or recreation, each girl paid her own share at once.

Finally, there was the factor of laundry. After a little experimenting, household linen was worked out on an "average" basis, so that a regular amount could be assessed each week. Of course each girl met the expense of her own private laundry.

As a result of this planning, each member of the household found herself obligated to meet a weekly assessment containing the following items: Rent, furniture tax, household laundry, extras ($1.00) and personal laundry. Of these, the only item not positively fixed, as to amount, was the last. Each girl, naturally, paid all her strictly private expense, including clothes, and medical and dental service.

One of the number was chosen treasurer for a three-months' term, and was then, in turn, succeeded by another, so that each of the four served once a year. The treasurer received all assessments, gave the weekly allotment to the housewife, and paid other bills. Minor deficiencies were met from "surplus." Moreover, she kept accurate accounts.

Once settled comfortably in their quarters, with boarding-house memories receding into the background, it took but little time for a happy, home-y atmosphere to develop. Of course, with closer intimacy, there were temperamental adjustments, as always, but they came easily. The household machinery ran smoothly, almost from the first, because there _was_ a machine, properly set up, operated and adjusted--rather than an uncertain makeshift.

To Express Personality

By Dana Girrioer

"'Keep house?' I should say not!" answered Anne, who had journeyed out into the suburbs to "tell" her engagement to Burt Winchester to the home folks before she "announced" it. "I'm going to retire to the Kensington, or some nice apartment hotel, at the ripe old age of twenty-four. What'd you think, we're back in the dark ages, B. F.?"

"'B. F.'?" repeated Aunt Milly.

"Before Ford," said Anne, laughing. "Oh, it was the thing for you, Auntie, you couldn't have brought up your own big family in a city apartment, to say nothing of stretching your wings to cover Little Orphant Annie, besides, everybody kept house when you were married!"

"And now nobody does, except a few Ancient Mariners?" inquired Cousin Dan.

Anne blushed. "Of course it suits some people, now," she amended, hastily. "Perhaps it's all right to keep house, if you have a big family, or lots of money and can hire all the fussing done."

"You don't need to hire fussing, if you've a big family," said Aunt Milly, her eyes twinkling behind the gold-bowed spectacles. "You'll keep on with the drawing--illustrating?"

"Surely," answered Anne. "Burt will keep right on being a lawyer."

"I see," said George. "Well, Queen Anne, I suppose when we want to visit you we can hire a room in the same block, I mean, hotel. I thought, perhaps, having so far conformed to the habits of us Philistines as to take a husband, you might go the whole figure and take a house!"

"Please!" begged Anne. In that tone, it was a catchword dating back to nursery days which the elf-like Anne had shared with a whole brood of sturdy cousins, and meant, "Please stop fooling; I want to be taken seriously."

"I love to draw--but my people don't look alive, somehow," said little Milly, wistfully.

Cried Anne: "Keep trying, Milly; there is nothing so lovely as to have even a taste for some sort of creative work, and to develop it; to express your own personality in something tangible, and to be encouraged to do so. Do understand me, Auntie and the rest; it isn't that I want to shirk, but I do want to specialize on what I do best! I'll wash dishes if it's ever necessary, but why must I wish a whole pantry on myself when either Burt or I could pay our proportionate share of a hotel dish-washer, or butler, or whatever is needed?"

At the studio it was much easier.

"Some time in the early fall," Anne told her callers, who arrived by two's, three's and four's, as the news began to circulate among her friends.

"No, I won't keep this," with a jerk of her thumb towards the big, bare room which had been hers since she left Aunt Milly and the little home town. "There's a room at the top of the Kensington I can have, with a light as good as this, and that settles the last problem. I'd hate to have to go outdoors for meals, when I'm working."

"Nan Gilbert!" exclaimed her dearest friend. "You have the best luck! You can do good work, and get good pay for it, and be happy all by yourself; and now you're going to be happier, with a husband who'll let you live your own life; you'll be absolutely free, not even a percolator to bother with, nothing to take your mind from your own creative work, free to express your own personality!"

"Mercy," said Anne, closing the door upon this last caller. "If I don't set the North River, at least, on fire, pretty soon, they'll all call me a slacker."

She hung her card, "Engaged," upon the door leading into the hall (some one had scrawled "Best Wishes" underneath the printed word), and proceeded to get her dinner in a thoughtful frame of mind. The tiny kitchenette boasted ice-box, fireless, and a modest collection of electric cooking appliances; in a half-hour Anne had evolved a cream soup, a bit of steak, nearly cubical in proportions, slice of graham bread, a salad of lettuce and tomato with skilfully tossed dressing, a muffin split ready to toast, with the jam and spreader for it, and coffee was dripping into the very latest model of coffee-pots. Anne had never neglected her country appetite, and was a living refutation of the idea that neatness and art may not dwell together. She moved quietly and with a speed which had nothing of haste; her mind was busy with a magazine cover for December, she believed she'd begin studying camels.

After dinner came Burt Winchester, a steady-voiced, olive-skinned young man, in pleasant contrast to Anne's vivacious fairness, and together they journeyed uptown and then west to the Kensington, for a final decision upon the one vacant apartment. The rooms were of fair size, they were all light, and the agent had at least half a yard of applicants upon a printed slip in his pocket.

Burt studied the apartment not at all, but his fiancee with quiet amusement. He was much in love with Anne, but he understood her better than she had yet discovered.

"I don't think we'll ever find anything better," she was saying to him. "Perhaps he'd have it redecorated for us, with a long lease--"

The agent coughed discreetly. "The leases are for one year, with privilege of renewal," he said to Burt. "It has just been redecorated; is there anything needed?"

"It would all be lovely, if one liked blue," murmured Anne. "Just the thing for some girl, but not for me, all that pale blue and silver, it doesn't look a bit like either of us, Burt. I had worked out the most stunning scheme, cream and black, with a touch of Kelly green--"

Another cough, somewhat louder, and accompanied by an undisguised look of sympathy for Burt. "The owner prefers to decide the decorations, Madame," said the agent. "Tastes differ so, you understand."

"Please hold the suite for me until tomorrow night," said Burt, decisively. "I suppose we'll take it; if not, I'll make it right with you."

"I should say, 'tastes differ,'" laughed Anne, tucking her arm into Burt's, as they began the long walk down-town. "Do you know, Aunt Milly and the girls thought, of course, we'd keep house, and Dan and George are going to pick out girls that will keep house, I saw it in their eyes. You--you're going to be satisfied, Burt?"

"I think so," answered Burt, judiciously, and then with a change of tone, "Nan, you precious goose, you've always told me you were not domestic."

"And you've always said you were no more domestic than I was," finished Anne, happily. She entirely missed the quizzical expression of the brown eyes above her. "Nuff said.--Are we going to Branton tomorrow, Burt, with the crowd? Can you take the day?"

Anne's "crowd," the half-dozen good friends among the many acquaintances she had formed in the city, were invited for a day in the country. She and Burt now talked it over, agreeing to meet in time to take the nine-thirty train, with the others.

But at nine, next morning, Burt had not appeared at the studio; instead, Miss Gilbert had a telephone message that Mr. Winchester was delayed, but would call as soon as possible. It was unlike Burt, but Anne, sensibly, supposed that business had intervened, and, removing her hat, was glad to remember that she had not definitely accepted the invitation when it was given. The "crowd" were sure enough of each other and of themselves to appear casual: Burt and she could take a later train, and have just as warm a welcome.

At nine-thirty Burt appeared, explaining briefly, "Best I could do. There's a train in twenty minutes, we'll catch it if we hurry."

Anne hurried, which proved to be unnecessary, as the train seemed late in starting; during the trip there was little conversation, as Anne was tactful, and Burt preoccupied.

"Branton!" called the conductor, at least it sounded like Branton, Burt came out of his revery with a start, and Anne followed him down the aisle. They stood a moment upon the platform of the quiet little station and watched the train pull out; as they turned back into what seemed the principal street, Anne craned her neck to look around an inconvenient truck piled with baggage, and made out the sign, Byrnton.

"Oh, Burt, what were we thinking of?" she exclaimed. "This isn't the right place at all! We were to take the road up past a brick church--and there isn't any here--this is Byrnton, and we wanted Branton. What shall we do--why don't you say something?"

"Fudge!" said Burt, soberly, but in his eyes the dancing light he reserved for Anne. "I'll ask the ticket-agent."

He came out of the station, smiling. "This isn't the Branton line at all, but a short branch west of it," he informed her. "We took the wrong train, but he says lots of people make the same mistake, and they are going to change one name or the other, eventually. I am to blame, Nan, for I know this place, Byrnton; I have, or used to have, an Aunt Susan here, somewhere--shall we look her up? We have nearly three hours to kill. It will be afternoon before we can get to Branton--and Aunt Susan will give us nourishment, at least, if she's home."

"Very well," Anne assented. If Burt's business absorbed him like this, she must learn to take it philosophically.

"What a pretty place, Burt! Do see those wonderful elms!"

Byrnton proved to be an old-fashioned village, which had had the good fortune to be remodelled without being modernized. Along the main street many of the houses were square, prim little boxes, with front yards bright with sweet williams, marigolds, and candytuft; these had an iron fence around the garden, and, invariably, shutters at the front door. An occasional house stood flush with the brick or flagged sidewalk; in that case there were snowy curtains at the window, and a glimpse of hollyhocks at the back. The newer houses could be distinguished by the wide, open spaces around them; the late comers had not planned their homes to command the village street, and neighbors, as an older generation had done, but these twentieth century models did not begin until one had left the little railway station well behind.

"What a homely, homey place," said Anne, noting everything with the eye of an artist. "I don't see how you could forget it, if you have an aunt living here."

"That's the question," answered Burt. "Have I an aunt living here? She may be in California; however, in that case, the key will be under the mat."

Anne continued to look about her, with sparkling eyes. "If Aunt Milly had lived in a place like this, I'd be there yet," she told him. "The factories spoiled the place for me, but they made business good for Uncle Andy and the boys, and Aunt Milly likes the bustle, she'd think this was too quiet.--Isn't it queer how people manage to get what they want--in time?"

"It is, indeed," smiled Burt. "There, Nan, that low white cottage at the very end, the last before you come to open fields. That's Aunt Susan's."