wrong. They jest didn't know no better."

"That's so," said John Kellogg. "Like's not, some of our kids might 'a'

done a heap worse."

After the election of a chairman for the provisional committee, and a few more preliminary moves in the matter, Mr. Maynard and Mr. Fulton went away, leaving it all in the hands of their fellow-townsmen.

"You did good work," said Mr. Fulton, appreciatively. "I confess I was afraid of an unpleasant turn of affairs. But you won their hearts by your tact and genial manner."

"That's the best way to manage that sort of an uprising," returned Mr.

Maynard. "Of course we are, in a way, responsible for our children's deeds, and there's a possibility that some of those letters could make trouble for us. But I think it's all right now. The next thing is to choke off the children before they go any further. What _do_ you suppose possessed them to cut up such a trick?"

"What possesses them to get into one sort of mischief after another, as fast as they can go?"

"Well, this isn't really mischief, is it? They meant well, you know. But I'll reserve judgment until after I talk with my young hopefuls."

The two men separated at the corner, and Mr. Maynard went directly to his own home.

He found Mrs. Maynard and the three older children in the living-room, variously engaged with books or games.

"Well," he said, as he entered the room. "I'd like an immediate interview with The Village Imps."

Each of the three gave a start of surprise.

"What do you mean, Father?" cried Marjorie.

"Why, if you belong to an Imp Society you must be Imps; aren't you?"

"Who told you about it?" asked Kitty, disappointedly. "It was to be a secret, until all the town was stirred up."

"The town is pretty well stirred up now, my girl. But I don't want reports of my children's doings from other people. Tell me all about it, yourselves."

"We will, Father," said Marjorie, evidently glad of the chance. "You tell, King; you're president."

Nothing loath, King began the tale. He gave a full account of their desire to do something that would be a public benefit of some sort. He told of d.i.c.k's suggestion, founded upon Mr. Fulton's remarks about a Village Improvement Society. He explained that they wrote letters because they hadn't money enough for any more expensive proceeding, and he wound up by proudly stating that they had mailed sixteen letters already, and hoped to send more the following week.

So earnest was the boy in his description of the work, and so honest his pride in their efforts so far, that Mr. Maynard deeply regretted the necessity of changing his view of the matter.

"Kingdon," he said, "you're fourteen years old, and I think you're old enough to know that you ought not to engage in such important affairs without getting the advice of older people."

"Oh, Father!" cried Marjorie. "Was this wrong, too? Is _everything_ mischief? Can't we do anything at all without we have to be punished for it? We thought this was truly a good work, and we thought we were doing our duty!"

Like a little whirlwind, Marjorie flew across the room, and threw herself, sobbing, into her father's arms.

"My dear child," he said, kissing her hot little brow, "wait a moment till I explain. We want to talk over this matter, and get each other's ideas about it."

"But you're going to say it was wrong,--I know you are! And I was trying so hard _not_ to do naughty things. Oh, Father, how can I tell what I can do, and what I can't?"

"There, there, Midget, now stop crying. You're not going to be punished; you don't deserve to be. What you did was not wrong in itself,--at least it would not have been for older people. But you children are ignorant of the ways of the grown-up world, and so you ought not to have taken the responsibility of dictating to or advising grown people. That was the wrong part."

"But we meant it for their good, sir, more than for our own," said King, by way of justification.

"That's just it, Kingdon, my boy. You're too young yet to know what _is_ for the good of grown men and women who are old enough to be your parents and grandparents. You wouldn't think of dictating to your mother or myself 'for our good,' would you? And all grown people ought to be equally free from your unasked advice."

"But, Father," insisted King, "if you kept this place looking like a rubbish-heap, wouldn't I have a right to ask you not to?"

"You'd have only the right of our relationship. A child has many privileges with his parents that he hasn't with any one else in the world. But to come right down to the facts: the letters that you wrote were ill-advised, arrogant, and impertinent."

Kitty looked frankly bewildered at these big Words, Marjorie buried her face on her father's shoulder in a renewed burst of tears, while Kingdon flushed a deep red all over his honest, boyish face.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said; "we didn't mean them to be, and we didn't think they were. We thought they were straightforward and business-like."

"That shows your ignorance, my son. Until you have been in business, you cannot really know what grown men and women consider business-like. I can tell you John Kellogg and Tom Bolton didn't consider them masterpieces of business-like literature."

"How do you know?" said Marjorie, lifting her wet face from its hiding-place.

"I saw them, dearie; both the men and the letters, at the post-office to-night. There were many others,--a dozen or more,--and they were, one and all, extremely angry at the letters they had received. Mr. Fulton and I were both there, and, when we were told that the letters were the work of our children, we could scarcely believe it."

"And we thought you'd be so proud of us," said Kitty, in such a dejected voice that Mrs. Maynard caught up the little girl and held her in her arms.

Of course, this was the first Mrs. Maynard had heard of the whole affair, but, as Mr. Maynard was conducting the discussion, she said little.

"What ought we to have done, Father?" said King, who was beginning to see that they had done wrong.

"When you first thought of the plan, my son, you should have realized that it concerned grown people entirely; and that, therefore, before you children undertook its responsibilities you should confer with your mother or me. Surely you see that point?"

"Yes, sir," said the boy.

"When your plans include only children, and are not disobedience to rules either actual and implied, then you are usually free to do pretty much as you like."

"But we thought this would do the town good."

"That was a worthy sentiment, and a true one, too. But the matter of a town improvement is not a matter for children to attend to, _unless_ they are working under the direction of older people. Had I advised you to write these letters, which, of course, I never should have done, for you are not the proper ones to write them, but had I done so, I would have shown you how to word them that they might not offend.

Inexperienced letter-writers cannot expect to write a sort of letter which requires special delicacy, tact, and graciousness."

"Father," said Marjorie, solemnly, "I'm never going to do anything again, but go to school and eat my meals and go to bed. Anything else I ever do is wrong."

"Now, Mopsy Midget, don't talk nonsense. You're twelve years old. You've a lot to learn before you're a grown-up, and most of it must be learned by experience. If you never do anything, you'll never get any experience, and at twenty you'll only know as much as you did at twelve!

How would you like that?"

"Not much," said Marjorie, whose spirits rose as her father adopted a lighter tone.

"Then just go on and have your experiences. Cut up jinks and have all the fun you can; but try to learn as you go along to discriminate between the things you ought to do and the things you oughtn't. You won't always guess right, but if you keep on living you can always guess again."

"What did those men say?" asked King, who was brooding over the scene in the post-office.

"Oh! they were pretty mad at first, and I think they were quite ready to come after you children with tomahawks and war-whoops. But Mr. Fulton and I patted them fondly on the shoulder, and told them you were harmless lunatics and they mustn't mind you."

"We're not crazy, Father," said Kitty, who was inclined to be literal.