LITMIR.BIZ

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to be a well-stocked portfolio, the gift of King. There were notepaper and envelopes and a pen and pencils and stamps and everything to write letters with.

      "I picked out all the things myself," King explained, "because it's nicer that way than the ready furnished ones. Do you like it, Kit?"

      "Yes, indeedy! And I shall write my first letter to you, because you gave it to me."

      "Oh, Kitty-Cat Kit, a letter she writ,

      And sent it away, to her brother one day,"

      chanted Marjorie, and, as was their custom, they all sang the song after her, some several times over.

      "Now for mine," Midget said, as Kitty slowly untied the next parcel. It was two volumes of Fairy Tales, which literature was Kitty's favorite reading.

      "Oh, lovely!" she exclaimed. "On summer afternoons you can think of me, sitting out in the tree-house reading these. I shall pretend I'm a Fairy Princess. These are beautiful stories, I can see that already."

      Kitty's quick eye had caught an interesting page, and forgetting all else, she became absorbed in the book at once. In a moment, the page was turned, and Kitty read on and on, oblivious to time or place.

      "Hi, there, Kitsie! Come out o' that!" cried King. "You can read all summer,—now you must associate with your family."

      "I didn't mean to," said Kitty, shutting the book quickly, and looking round apologetically; "but it's all about a fairy godmother, and a lovely princess lady,—oh, Mopsy, it's fine!"

      A pair of little blue enamelled pins was Rosamond's present, and Kitty pinned them on her shoulders at once, to see how they looked. All pronounced the effect excellent, and Rosy Posy clapped her little fat hands in glee.

      "Mine's the prettiest present!" she said. "Mine's the booflest!"

      "Yes, Babykins," said Kitty, "yours is the booflest,—but they're all lovely."

      The Farewell Feast included all of Kitty's favorite dishes, and as most of them were also favorites with the other children, it was satisfactory all round.

      "You must write to us often, Kit," said King; "I gave you those writing things so you'd be sure to."

      "Yes, I will; but I don't know yet where you're all going to be."

      "I don't know yet myself," said Mr. Maynard, "but it will be somewhere near the sea, if possible. Will you like the seashore, Kiddies,—you that are going?"

      "I shall," said Marjorie, promptly. "I'll love it. May we go bathing every day? And can I have a bathing suit,—red, trimmed with white?"

      "I 'spect you can," said her mother, smiling at her. "What color do you want, King?"

      "Oh, I think dark blue would suit my manly beauty! What are you going to have, Father?"

      "I think dark blue will be our choice, my boy. It swims better than anything else. But first we must find a roof to cover our heads. I've about decided on one,—if I can get it. It's a bungalow."

      "What's a bungalow?" asked Marjorie. "I never heard of such a thing."

      "Ho, ho! Never heard of a bungalow!" said King. "Why, a bungalow is a,—is a,–"

      "Well, is a what?" asked Midget, impatiently.

      "Why, it's a bungalow! That's what it is."

      "Fine definition, King!" said his father. "But since you undertook to do so, see if you can't give its meaning better than that. What is a, bungalow?"

      "Well, let me see. It's a house,—I guess it's a low, one-storied house, and that's why they call it bungalow. Is that it?"

      "You're right about the one story; the rest is, I think, your own invention. Originally, the bungalow was the sort of a house they have in India, a one-storied affair, with a thatched roof, and verandas all round it. But the ones they build now, in this country, are often much more elaborate than that. Sometimes they have one story, sometimes more. The one I'm trying to get for the summer is at Seacote, and it's what they call a story and a half. That is, it has an upper floor, but the rooms are under a slanting roof, and have dormer windows."

      "Sounds good to me," said King. "Do you think you'll catch it, Dad?"

      "I hope so. Some other person has the refusal of it, but he's doubtful about taking it. So it may yet fall to our lot."

      "I hope so!" cried Marjorie. "At the seashore for a whole summer! My! what fun! Can we dig in the sand?"

      "Well, rather, my child! That's what the sand is there for. Kitty, you were at the seashore last summer. Did you dig in the sand?"

      "Yes, every day; and it was lovely. But this year I'm glad I'm going to Grandma's. It's more restful."

      They all laughed at Kitty's desire for rest, and Marjorie said:

      "I didn't have such a restful time at Grandma's. Except when I sprained my ankle,—I rested enough then! But you won't do anything like that, Kit!"

      "I hope not, I'm sure. Nor I won't fall down the well, either!"

      "Oh, we didn't fall down the well. We just went down, to get cooled off."

      "Well, I'm not going to try it. I shall sit in the tree-house and read every afternoon, and sew with Grandma in the mornings."

      "Kit, you're a dormouse," said Kingdon; "I believe you'd like to sleep half the year."

      "'Deed I wouldn't. Just because I don't like rambunctious play doesn't mean I want to sleep all the time! Does it, Father?"

      "Not a bit of it. But you children must 'like what you like' and not comment on others' 'likes.' See?"

      "Yes, sir," said King, understanding the kindly rebuke. "Hullo, Kit, here's one of your best 'likes'! Here's pink ice-cream coming!"

      This was indeed one of Kitty's dearest "likes," and as none of the Maynards disliked it, it rapidly disappeared.

      "Now, we'll have an entertainment," said King as, after dinner, they all went back to the pleasant living-room. "As Kitty is the chief pebble on the beach this evening, she shall choose what sort of an entertainment. Games, or what?"

      "No, just a real entertainment," said Kitty; "a programme one, you know. Each one must sing a song or speak a piece, or something like that. I'll be the audience, and you can all be performers."

      "All right," said King; "I'll be master of ceremonies. I'll make up the programme as I go along. Ladies and gentlemen, our first number will be a speech by the Honorable Edward Maynard. Mr. Maynard will please step forward."

      Mr. Maynard stepped. Assuming a pompous air, he made a low bow, first to Kitty, and then to the others.

      "My dear friends," he said, "we are gathered here together this evening to extend our farewells and our hearty good wishes to the lady about to leave us. Sister, thou art mild and lovely, and we hate to see thee go; but the best of friends must sever, and you'll soon come back, you know. Listen now to our advices. Kitty, dear, for pity's sake, do not tumble in the river,—do not tumble in the lake. Many more things I could tell you as I talk in lovely rhyme, but I think it is my duty to let others share the time."

      Mr. Maynard sat down amid great applause, and Kitty said, earnestly, "You are a lovely poet, Father. I wish you'd give up your other business, and just write books of poetry."

      "I'm afraid, Kitsie, we wouldn't have enough money for pink ice-cream in that case," said Mr. Maynard, laughing.

      "The next performeress will be Mrs. Maynard," announced the master of ceremonies.

      Mother Maynard rose, smiling, and with all the airs and graces of a prima donna, went to the piano. Striking a few preliminary chords, she began to sing:

      "Good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty; good-bye, Kitty,

      You're going to leave us now.

      Merrily we say good-bye,

      Say good-bye, say good-bye;

      Merrily we say good-bye

      To

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