"Oh, look, Allee! See the elephants and lions and giraffes and zebras on that poster. It's the cirkis as sure as I'm alive! Do you know I've always wanted to see the cirkis, and this is the first time I ever knew one to stop at Parker."

"How do you know it will stop here?" asked skeptical Allee, who was just beginning to read, and found the long words on the billboard too much for her to master.

"'Cause it says so. Parker, the eighteenth, Allee. Just think, that's only next Saturday! Just a week from today! Isn't it lucky it's on Saturday? Do you s'pose we can go?"

"I 'xpect it will take money for that just like it does for everything else," answered the blue-eyed baby with a comically philosophical air; "and you know Gail never has any for such things as that."

"Well, this is cheaper than most things, 'cause it says 'a-dults twenty-five cents, and children fifteen cents.' The Fair cost half a dollar for a-dults and twenty-five cents for children. If there is a chance to go to anything cheap, we better try hard to go, Allee, for that doesn't happen often."

"Maybe Gail might not like to have us go even if we could get the money."

"She does have some queer notions about places, doesn't she? At first she didn't want us to see that moving picture show at the church, but when Brother Strong went and took us, she thought it was all right. We'll ask about the cirkis before we tell her that it's coming, and maybe we can find out that way whether she would let us go."

"I don't think we would have to ask much, 'cause she thinks cirkises are bad, and I don't b'lieve she would like to have us there."

"What makes you so sure? I never have heard her say a thing about them."

"She told Hope so the time Hope wanted to see 'Julio and Romiet' when they studied it in school."

"That wasn't a cirkis, that was a theatre, Allee. That's different. It takes painted people to play out the words in the theatre, but at the cirkis only real animals act, and do tricks that take brains to learn. Why, this picture shows a nelephant beating a drum. Now, elephants live in the jumbles of Africa, Hope says, and they don't have drums to beat there. Hunters go to their houses and catch them and teach them how to drum, 'cause they have brains enough to learn. Look at that lion with its mouth open and that woman with her head chucked clear inside. She must like to be licked better'n I do. It makes me shiver when Towzer sticks his big, hot tongue on my face. Ugh! S'posing the lion should shut his mouth and bite her head off, what do you guess she'd do?"

"I guess they'd have to get another woman for the lion," answered Allee. "I don't b'lieve those animals really do those things, do you, Peace?"

"Yes, I do. Why, that book of natural history that Hector lent us after he got licked for stealing the melons tells about the way hunters train them to act in cirkises. I'd like to see them awfully much myself."

"Then let's ask Gail. She might have a little spare money."

"No, I don't think she would. We'll have to earn the money ourselves, but I'm afraid she won't want us to go. That's what is bothering me. I tell you what let's do. We'll earn the money first and buy our tickets, and then I'm sure she will let us go. Shall we?"

"Maybe that would be the best way. But how'll we earn the money? It's only a week from now, you said yourself, and that won't leave us much time to do anything, 'specially as school keeps 'most all day long. There ain't any strawberries to pick or blackberries to sell or snow to sweep or—"

"Let's give a nentertaimnent in our barn like Hec and the boys did last week in their carriage-shed. They charged a cent apiece, and earned more'n a quarter, Hec told me. And I know we could give a better entertainment than they did. You could sing and Cherry could speak. Perhaps we could coax Hope to read to us. She does it splendidly, though usu'ly she thinks she's too big to play with us any longer. I am pretty sure Hec would turn summersets for us. He has been quite respectable since that last licking the Judge gave him. Jimmy Jones would likely play the bones for us, too, if Hec asked him to. They don't make a pretty noise, but it's a sight to see his hands fly. Tessie is learning the fiddle and I know she'd be glad to show off, and so would Effie, if we could get our organ out into the barn."

"And you can whistle," put in Allee, all excitement as Peace unfolded her brilliant plan. "You sound just like the birds, and Gail said only the other night that you did better than lots of people who have taken lessons. But do you s'pose she will let us have the organ? Do you s'pose she'll even let us have the barn? It is in an awful clutter, and I don't see where we could put the people who come."

"I was wondering about that myself, but it won't do any harm to ask. There is Hec. We can find out from him right away if he will be one of our show."

"Shall you tell him about the cirkis?"

"No, not a word. We'll have that as just a secret among our two selves until we see how much money we can earn. See?"

"Yes."

"Don't you tell a soul!"

"Of course I won't!"

"Hector, wait a minute! We want to see you. Say, will you be in a nentertainment me and Allee are getting up in our barn?"

The boy looked somewhat surprised at this request, for Peace had been very slow in accepting his friendly advances, though he had showered her with every possible attention ever since the day of the double tragedy in their breakfast room, owing to certain forceful remarks made by his irate parent. Here was an opportunity not to be disregarded, but with a great show of indifference, he leisurely faced the two conspirators, and lazily drawled out, "What kind of an entertainment?"

"One to make a little money," Peace answered briefly.

"What for?"

"'Cause I need it," was the very satisfactory reply.

"How much do you expect to make?"

"You said you got more'n a quarter, didn't you?"

"Yep. Twenty-eight cents."

"Then I think we ought to get more'n fifty cents, 'cause we mean to have a good program."

Hector felt as if a dash of cold water had suddenly struck his face, but he was quite accustomed to Peace's characteristics by this time, so did not resent her implied doubtful compliment, but asked, with somewhat more of interest in his manner, "Who's going to be in it?"

"Tessie and Effie and Cherry and Allee—"

"And Peace is to whistle," put in the small cherub with sisterly loyalty.

"Aw, a girls' crowd! There ain't any boys in it."

"You'll make one if you will turn summersets. And we thought you might get Jimmie to play the bones for us, and p'r'aps Lute Dunbar might bring over his accordian. I b'lieve Mike O'Hara would speak that Irish piece of his that makes folks laugh so much, and maybe we could get the minister to stand on his head. He does that elegant. Whenever I visit there, that's the first thing I ask him for, and he nearly always does it, too."

"Whoop-ee!" shouted Hector, turning a handspring. "I know a boy that stands on his head, and he will do it any time I ask him to. Mr. Strong prob'ly wouldn't in front of a big crowd like you'd have in your barn. The Sherrars are coming down from Martindale Monday to stay a whole week with us, and Victor plays the cornet to beat the band. He's a little bigger'n us, but he will do anything for Cecile, and I'll get her to ask him. What'll you do for chairs at your place?"

"I don't know," Peace confessed. "Maybe Gail won't even let us have the barn, but I think she will. We must give it this week, before next Saturday, I mean, 'cause that's the time we have to have the money—" She stopped abruptly, fearing that he would guess her secret, but he showed no trace of suspicion, so with freer breath she continued, "I'm going home now and see Gail. I think Wednesday or Thursday after school would be the best time, don't you? Then if it should rain, we would still have another day left before Saturday. It won't take us long to get ready, seeing we each do our part all alone."

"Yes," agreed Hector, with unusual readiness, "I think Wednesday will be all right, and I'll get up the tickets for you."

"Goody! You might get them ready while I go see Gail. I'll be right back."

She and Allee disappeared up the road in a cloud of dust and Hector repaired to his home to manufacture the bits of cardboard necessary for admission to the wonderful entertainment. It was an hour later that Peace appeared at the Judge's door and asked to see the young gentleman of the house, but it required no words from her to tell him that her errand had been fruitless.

"She won't let you give the entertainment!" he said, the instant he saw her woe-begone face.

"She doesn't care about the entertainment at all, but she won't let us have the barn, and here I've been and asked Effie and Tessie and Mike, and they all promised to take part. Oh, dear! I did want that money so bad!"

"Are you sure Gail won't care if you give the entertainment?" Hector stood in considerable awe of the big girls at the little brown house, and he wanted to run no risks in the daring plan his own brain had suddenly evolved.

"No, she doesn't care a single speck. She said we could give it in the orchard, but then anyone could come and look on without having to pay a cent, and I can't get my money at all."

"Yes, you can. We will give the entertainment in our carriage-shed if you'll divide the money with me, Peace. Course if I furnish the building I've a right to part of the money."

"But half is quite a lot," demanded the girl with some hesitation. "See, I've got to make at least thirty cents for Allee and me, and I wanted fifteen cents more for Cherry."

"We could have Cecile's old organ in the shed," said Hector, ignoring her objections for the moment; "and there is a big lantern hanging from the roof, so we could light it if it got dark before we were through. We had better light it anyway, I guess, and draw the curtains so no one outside can see. Then everyone who wants to hear the program will have to buy a ticket. If we get up such a swell entertainment, Peace, it is worth more'n a cent. Let's charge two for a nickel; then if we can get fifty people to come it will give us each quite a neat little pile out of it. What do you say?"

"I—don't—think—many folks would buy at such a high price," said Peace, doubtfully, though the picture he drew was very alluring.

"Why, of course they will for such a bang-up program as we'll give them. Mamma and Cecile and Mrs. Sherrar and Frances will go; and Nancy and Marie, the girls. That makes six right there. Of course we can't charge Victor anything if he takes part. I bet Miss Truesdale would buy a ticket, too. You ask her, or get Allee to. Allee is in her room now. The minister and his family are coming over some night for dinner while the Sherrars are here, and I'll get mamma to invite them Wednesday, and you tell them to come early enough for the program. They'll be glad to. Mr. Strong was here the day we boys had our time in the carriage shed, and he clapped and stamped the loudest of anyone."

"Have you written the tickets yet?"

"No, just cut them."

"Well, that's good. We'll charge a nickel for two tickets, and give it in your shed next Wednesday. Get to work now. I've just thought of Montie Fry and his trick dog, and Dick Sullivan and his mouth-organ. I am going right over and see if they will take part."

She was as good as her word, and when the following Wednesday afternoon arrived it would have been hard to tell which was the largest, the audience in the carriage shed, or the company of participants arranged on the platform which Leonard had built for just such gatherings; but every one of the fifty tickets had been sold, and late arrivals had to present cash, at the door, where Hector presided.

The program, was certainly original and varied, if somewhat lengthy, and the audience was kept in a thrill of expectation from one number to the next, for Peace was a master hand at arranging her numbers, and instinctively had saved the best for the last. Just as she herself had taken her place in front of the motley gathering to give an exhibition of her whistling, the big door swung noiselessly, and the company from the great house arrived in a body,—the Judge's wife and daughter, their guests, the Sherrars, and the minister and his small family. They looked very much surprised to find the place crowded to its utmost capacity, but were even more astonished when, after a preliminary bar or so on the mouth-organ, Dick Sullivan began softly to play The Blue-bells of Scotland, and Peace's red lips took up the melody, whistling with beautiful accuracy and clearness, trilling through measure after measure with bird-like notes, following all of Dick's variations, and adding a few of her own under the inspiration lent by the presence of her beloved friends.

"Cecile," exclaimed her friend Frances, "why didn't you tell me you had such a genius in your midst? I'd have been out here the first one to hear the whole program. Why, she looks like an angel, and her whistling is divine. Who is she?"

"Peace Greenfield," answered Cecile, almost too amazed for speech, for this was the first time she herself had ever heard the young whistler. "Father calls her the dearest little nuisance in town. She is one of the most original pieces I ever saw in my life—always into mischief, and always trying to help someone. But truly, I had no idea she could whistle like that. Mr. Strong, what do you think of it?"

"She is doing splendidly!" he whispered enthusiastically. "She is a regular genius at it. Why, a year ago she came to me and begged me to teach her."

"So she is a pupil of yours?" asked Mrs. Sherrar, as much enchanted with the musician as were her young people.

"Not exactly. I helped her what I could, but I think most of the credit belongs to Mike O'Hara and the birds in the woods. He set her to imitating them; and she is an apt mimic, you will find. Clap with all your might."

The very rafters rang with the applause of the enthusiastic audience, as the small whistler took her seat among her mates on the platform, and she was forced to give another selection, and a third. Allee came to her aid in the fourth, and sang to a whistled accompaniment, but the applause was more tremendous and insistent than before; and poor, weary Peace rose to her feet for the fifth time, but instead of pouring forth the torrent of melody they expected, she faced the audience belligerently, and cried in exasperation, "My pucker is tired out and my throat aches. Do you 'xpect me to stand here all night? Victor Sherrar will play on his cornet now and then you can go home."

"Mamma," whispered Frances, while her brother was rendering the closing number of the program, "I simply must have those two tots at my party next week. They will be a novelty and everyone is sure to like them. Cecile thinks I can borrow them all right, seeing that it is to be Saturday night."

"Well, we'll see," smiled the mother indulgently, as the crowd broke up and departed, while Peace and Hector divided the spoils in the corner. "She surely is an interesting specimen, and it was worth ten times the money just to hear her squelch her audience. Where is Brother Strong?"

He was interviewing the brown-eyed girl, who, with her money in hand, was about ready to follow her companions for home; and they clustered around the little group by Hector's table just in time to hear Peace's dismayed voice cry, "You're fooling! I didn't believe that of you. Why, Mr. Strong, I read it myself on the poster!"

"Where? What poster?"

"That big one up on the corner back of this house. Allee and me were picking gentians when we saw it. Didn't we, Allee?"

"But, Peace, that was last year's sign. There hasn't been a circus in town this summer, and there isn't going to be. It is past circus time."

"Are you sure?" she faltered, opening her fist and looking tragically at the pile of nickels and dimes she held.

"Perfectly sure! They were to have been here last year just about this time, but it rained pitchforks, as you children say, and they didn't stop. That poster is ragged and faded with time. If you don't believe me, just come up to the corner and I'll show you the date."

"Oh, I b'lieve you! Ministers don't often tell lies; but I was just thinking of this heap of money I've earned all for nothing. Eighty cents was my share, and I thought that would take most of our family—s'posing Gail would let us go."

The amused grown-ups smiled behind her back, but the preacher understood how disappointed she was, and taking her hand sympathetically in his, he drew her aside and whispered a few words in her ear which brought back the sparkle to her eyes and the happy glow to her face, as she exclaimed enthusiastically, "I'll do it! Sure! No, I won't tell a soul. Course Gail will let me. All right! Good-bye!"

She was off like a shot down the road, and the pastor joined his hostess on the way to the house, with the irrelevant remark, "Dr. David Peak, a missionary to Africa, is to speak at our Sunday morning service. I hope we have a large attendance, as this will be a rare treat. It isn't often a little country church can secure so notable a speaker. Spread the good news all you can."

Something in his voice made the Judge's wife say suggestively, "He is not to be the only unusual attraction, is he?"

"The only one to be advertised," smiled the parson, and she understood.

The following Sabbath day was glorious, bright, warm, and with the smell of fall in the air. The church was packed; pastor and people were at their best; and an expectant hush fell over the little audience when Mr. Strong took his seat after reading the weekly announcements. The organ began to play softly, necks were craned to catch a glimpse of the singer, and then a buzz of surprise filled the room. Peace, dressed all in white, and looking like a rosy cherub, had mounted to the organ loft where Faith was playing, and at the proper moment, she began to whistle a beautiful bird melody which surprised even those who had heard her the previous Wednesday. The whole audience sat spellbound. It seemed incredible that Peace,—little, blundering Peace, riotous, rebellious, happy-go-lucky Peace—had such a soul of melody bottled up within her. It was as if the songsters from the forest were suddenly let loose, and even her own sisters were amazed at her song.

Mr. Strong had been wise when he chose that moment for Peace's music, for the whole congregation was in tune for the grand missionary plea which followed, when Dr. Peak rose to address them; and so inspired, and uplifted was the speaker himself that he preached as he never had done before, bringing his cause so close to the people that they were thrilled and fired with his enthusiasm.

Parker was a well-to-do little village, built originally for the express purpose of permitting wealthy business men of the city to find peaceful retreat from the noisy metropolis, where, week in and week out, they spent the long days of labor. It had now somewhat outgrown this reputation, but still numbered many rich men among its inhabitants, and boasted of an unusually fine church for such a small place, although it was not noted for its spiritual zeal, and particularly was it lacking in its missionary spirit. These were difficulties which the ardent young preacher, Mr. Strong, had sought for many long months to overcome, and while the earnest missionary from Africa was pleading the cause of the heathen, the pastor praying with all his might for his own congregation.

When the wonderful sermon was finished, and Mr. Strong saw the unusual interest in the faces before him, he determined to strike while the iron was hot, and though that Sunday was not scheduled for a missionary collection, he sprang to his feet and made an urgent plea for more funds for the grand and glorious cause.

"Give from the depths of your heart," he urged. "Think of these millions of people needing the Gospel. Brother Peak has come direct from the field, he knows conditions better than anyone else can know them. He tells us they need more missionaries. How are they to get them? Through us in our civilized countries. We can't all go in person, but I don't think there is a soul here this morning but can give something to help a little. The ushers will now wait upon you. Who will be the first to give, and what shall it be,—yourself, time, m—"

"My cirkis money!" cried a shrill voice from the organ loft, and there stood Peace, fishing coin after coin from the depths of her pocket and dropping them over the pulpit into the missionary's outstretched hand. "I earned it so's me and Allee and Cherry could go to the cirkis—that is, if Gail would let us—and then, come to find out, it was last summer, and on 'count of the rain it never stopped at all. Next best to seeing the cirkis is hearing what that man said about the little black babies in Africa,—that's where the cirkis animals come from, too,—and I couldn't help wondering how I'd feel s'posing I had to live there and be black and eat such horrible things and be boiled in a kettle to take the dirt off, and buy my wife for a junk of cloth and wear strings of beads for clo'es. Here's my eighty cents, Dr. Missionary, to buy them a little more Gospel, and when I'm grown up if there are still heathen living in that country, I b'lieve I'll come down and help."

Whether it was the missionary's sermon, Mr. Strong's plea, or Peace's postscript that did the work, perhaps no one will ever know, but when the ushers brought their loaded baskets to the pulpit and the extraordinary collection was counted, it was found that over one hundred dollars had been raised for the missionary cause that morning in the Parker Church.