“Some of the things _didn’t_ turn out quite right,” admitted Marguerite, “but you had quite enough of them. You can’t expect the lavishness of a Nero on five dollars a week.”
“Let’s go in the Grotto and write in the ‘Whitecap,’” said Helen, who always interposed when Betty and Marguerite began a discussion.
So into the Grotto they went, and while Helen picked at her banjo, and Nan and Jessie sang, the others made up rhymes for their book.
After some struggles, in which Marguerite joined with as much good will as the others, they produced this masterpiece, which they read aloud to the musicians, who applauded most heartily:
To fry or not to fry; that is the question— Whether ’tis better in this pan to sizzle A scarce and scanty lot of small corn fritters, And by devouring end them. To fry, to brown, No more. And by this dish to say we fill Our suffering companions and ourselves. Fritters and salad! ’Tis a combination Devoutly to be wished. To fry, to brown, To brown, perchance to burn, aye, there’s the rub, For in that kitchen range what flames may come When we have shoveled on this mortal coal. But who would want the roasts of beef or lamb, The apple-pie, Welsh rarebit, deviled crabs, The quail on toast, or duck with canvasback, When he might such a royal dinner make With a corn fritter? Who would these dainties wish, And run the risk of nightmare or of gout? And so the thought of soda-mints to come Impels us to be careful what we eat, And makes us rather bear the ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of. Thus indigestion doth make cowards of all. And so instead of rich meringues and pastry, Instead of oysters, terrapin, or pie, Give us a single fritter!
‟MY hearers,” said Nan, as they all dawdled on the veranda one morning, “a truly magnificent scheme is forming itself in my fertile brain.”
“Pray expound and elucidate,” murmured Marguerite, from the hammock, where she was lazily swaying to and fro.
“Oh, it’s nothing much,” said Nan; “only that we give a play.”
“Is that all?” said Marguerite. “I thought you meant something nice.”
“Let’s do it,” cried Betty. “I just love that sort of thing—‘Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’”
“Shall we hire the town hall, or wouldn’t that be big enough?” inquired Helen.