“O Auntie Prim, may I have a party? I’ll give you a thou-sand kisses if you’ll lemme have a party!”

Auntie Prim looked as if one kiss would be more than she could bear. She was standing by the pantry window that opened upon the garden, rolling out pie-crust, and didn’t like to be disturbed. She was a very good woman, but she never liked to be disturbed.

“Party?” said she, gazing sternly at Flaxie Frizzle and her little cousin Milly. “Saturday morning, and your mother gone, too! I should think this was a queer time for a party!”

Flaxie rolled her apron over at the corners and chewed it.

“Well, ’cause it’s my birthday, and my mamma said—”

“Yes, and her grammy said—” Little Milly got as far as this and then stopped. Flaxie was her darling “twin cousin,” and she wanted to help her; but that tall lady with the rolling-pin was just dreadful.

“Oh, now I remember,” said Mrs. Prim, paring off the dough around the edge of a pie. “Your mother did say, if you were a good girl all the week, you might have a few children here to tea. But have you been a good girl, Mary Gray?” added she, with a look through her spectacles that pierced her little niece to the soul.

“Yes um,” replied Flaxie, gazing down at her boots. “Only once, you know, you had to set me on the shelf behind the stove.”

“Very true. So you see you were naughty. What did you do?”

“Meddled,” said Flaxie in a low voice, with another nibble at her apron.

Mrs. Prim smiled a very small smile, but it was behind her lips, where the children could not see it.

“Well, Mary, perhaps you have been as good as could reasonably be expected under the circumstances.”

Poor little Milly couldn’t help feeling as if she were the “circumstances,” or why did those spectacles shine straight upon her?

“And I suppose you must have the party.”

Flaxie gave a scream of delight, and caught Mrs. Prim round the waist.

“O you darling, darling auntie!”

“There, there; don’t smother me, or I can’t cook your supper. What do you want?”

“Oh, may I have what I want? Pinnuts and peaches, and candy and preserves, and jelly and choclids, and oranges and everything?”

“No, you absurd child, not everything; but whatever is most suitable and proper,—if you will only run away out of my sight, you and Milly. But go first and tell your grandmother to send Dora to me.”

“Grammy’s quilting a quilt, and Dodo’s quilting a quilt; but I’ll tell ’em to come.”

“No, no; I only want Dora.”

“That child can’t be trusted to do the smallest errand correctly,” thought Auntie Prim, taking down the cook-book, with a sigh, and looking at the recipes for cake. Her husband was in Canada, and she had kindly offered to spend a month or so at Dr. Gray’s while his wife went away for her health. This would have been very pleasant, only Julia went with her mother, and little Flaxie was always troublesome without Julia.

Mrs. Prim had said that morning to Dora that she would go into the pantry and make three apple-pies, for she knew how to make them better than Dora; and then she must finish writing her lecture on Ancient History. And now Flaxie Frizzle had come and asked for a party! Mrs. Prim was called a “superior woman,” and knew more than almost anybody else in town except the minister; but she did think children very trying, and their parties “perfectly absurd.” Besides, Flaxie wasn’t her own niece.

“O auntie, auntie!” cried the little tease, coming back again, with Milly at her heels, “we’ve got to go and invite ’em!”

“Certainly; and why don’t you go, then?”

“Don’ know how; please tell us how,” said Flaxie, clutching Mrs. Prim by the skirt, and wishing there was a hinge in that lady somewhere, so she could bend.

“Don’t know how? Just go to the houses, child, and ask the little girls’ mothers.”

“O auntie, we don’t want the little girls’ mothers!”

“No, no; ask the mothers to let their little daughters come here to tea; that’s what I mean.”

Then Auntie Prim made out a list of ten little girls, for the table would seat twelve, and she wanted the party large enough to please Flaxie. She thought she would make some of her own delicious tarts and a nice sponge roll, and Dora might mix White Mountain cake and boil a tongue. Mrs. Prim meant to be very kind, though she was sure, if she had had any little girls of her own, they would never have had any parties!

“Now, be sure to say I want the children to come early—at half-past two.”

“Yes um!” And the little messengers danced out of the house.

“Flaxie,” said Mrs. Prim, rapping on the pantry window with the egg-beater, “are you sure you heard what I said?”

“Yes um.”

“What time did I set?”

“Ha’ pas’ two.”

“Very well.—And I shall be thankful when it is over,” sighed the poor lady, taking down the spice-box.

But wasn’t it gay times for the twin cousins, who had all the fun and none of the worry! I wish I were a little girl, just going to have a party, don’t you? They didn’t stop to look at the beautiful trees, with their bright October leaves, or at the sky, with its soft white clouds; they hopped along, their arms around each other’s waist, keeping time to the happy thoughts in their hearts.

“Oh, Milly, aren’t you glad you came to my house visiting?”

Milly was very glad to-day; she had not been glad yesterday, when they had the trouble about their dolls.

The first house was General Townsend’s; and when Mrs. Townsend came to the door, Milly hid behind a lilac-bush; but Flaxie, who was never afraid of anybody, looked up with her laughing blue eyes, and said, without stopping for ‘How d’ye do?’—

“Oh, Mrs. Townsend, I’m goin’ to have a party six years old, and mayn’t Fanny come? Auntie Prim says for the children to come early,—at ha’ pas’ two,—and she’ll be thankful when it’s over.”

Mrs. Townsend could not possibly help smiling at this remarkable speech, but she replied that Fanny might go.

“Now, Flaxie Frizzle,” said Mabel, as the door closed, “you oughtn’t to say your auntie’ll be ‘thankful’; it isn’t polite.”

“Yes it is. I guess Auntie Prim knows; she knows everything. But ’fore I’d run and hide!” retorted Flaxie.

There wasn’t any lilac-bush at the next house, and Milly had to stand on the door-stone and hide under her hat.

It was surprising how fast Flaxie said it over: “I’m goin’ to have a party six years old,” &c., without skipping a word; and though Milly had her doubts about the politeness of Mrs. Prim’s being so “thankful,” she did think Flaxie Frizzle was a wonderful girl; and indeed Flaxie thought so too.

“What, back so soon?” said Auntie Prim, who had scarcely missed the children before they appeared again at the pantry-door, rosy with running.

“Yes um; I’ve invited ’em all up.”

Flaxie said “I” with quite an air.

“Possible? I wonder if you did it correctly. What did you say?”

“I said,” replied Miss Frizzle, proud to have made no mistakes this time, “I said, ‘I’m goin’ to have a party six years old, and Auntie Prim says for the children to come early,—at ha’ pas’ two,—and she’ll be thankful when it’s over.’”

“You didn’t!” cried auntie, the color flying into her pale face, and her spectacles shining like diamonds.

“Well, I never!” said Dora, and sat right down by the oven-door to laugh. “But they do say, children and fools always speak the truth!”

Mrs. Prim resolved to keep calm, but this was very trying.

“Mary Gray,” said she, pressing her hands together quite sticky with dough, “I didn’t mean you to repeat the last part of that speech; I didn’t even know you had heard it. It does seem to me you are old enough to have a little sense of propriety. What can those ladies think of me? What can they think of you? I shouldn’t blame them if they didn’t let their children come, after such an invitation as that!”

Flaxie hung her head. What had she done so very wrong? She could never bear to be blamed; and I must relate that she was rude enough to slip out of the house while her aunt was still speaking, followed by Milly.

“She thinks children are goosies, and hates to hear ’em talk,” said she, the tears dripping over her apron.

“I’m drefful ’shamed; aren’t you?” said little Milly.

“Yes, I ’spect we’ve done something orful,” returned Flaxie.

You will observe that she said “we” this time, quite willing Milly should have a full share of the blame.

“I can’t stan’ it, Milly Allen, folks laughing at us so! Did you see Dodo laughing and laughing and laughing?”

“Yes, I did. She shook all over, and said children were fools.”

“My mamma wouldn’t ’low her to say that,” sobbed Flaxie. “And nobody comin’ to our party, either. Auntie Prim thinks they won’t any of ’em come.”

“Oh, yes, they will! their mammas said they might.”

“Hope they won’t!” said Flaxie, stamping her foot so hard that a “hop-toad” thought there was an earthquake, and hurried out of the way. “Hope they won’t, any of ’em! I’m not agoin’ to go to it myself,—so there!”

Milly peeped up in surprise.

“I hate it, Milly Allen; let’s run away!”

“Why, Flaxie Frizzle!” was all Mabel could say, for the idea of a little girl’s running away from her own party was truly amazing.

“You think I don’t dare,” said Flaxie; “but I do dare! I’m agoin’ right off in the woods, and stay there! And I thought you’s agoin’ with me. You’re my twin cousin, and it’s your party as much as ’tis mine.”

Milly knew this was very wrong, and ought to have said so to Flaxie. If they had already done one foolish thing, it would make it no better to do another foolish thing, as you can see in a moment. But Milly wanted to please Flaxie, so she said stoutly:

“Oh, yes, I’m going!”

Silly children! Flaxie pretended she was running away from her party, but she didn’t mean to stay away. Oh, no! She wouldn’t have missed the party for anything. Even now she was beginning to wonder what Dora was baking.

The woods were deep and high and dark. Before they had gone quarter of a mile Flaxie wanted to turn back, but waited for Milly to speak first.

“Oh dear!” cried Milly, trembling, for she had never been in such a place before. “You s’pose it’s night, Flaxie? Has the sun set?”

“No, it hasn’t. But we ought to brought a imbreller; it’s goin’ to rain,” replied Flaxie, holding out her hand to catch a drop. “I didn’t spect you’d be so ’fraid, Milly Allen; but if you are afraid, we’ll go right home this minute.”

They turned, but the wrong way, and instead of going home, only struck deeper into the woods. They didn’t see the sky at all, and all the light seemed to come from the gay leaves and the gold of Flaxie’s hair; for I am sorry to say she had lost her hat.

“Ha’ pas’ two; ha’ pas’ two,” said she dreamily. “Let’s go home to the party.”

“Thought you hated the old party,” said Milly, falling over a dead tree, and crying.

“Well, I was only in fun. Don’t you know when I’m in fun, you goosie?”

You see they were both getting cross as well as hungry, for dinner-time was past long ago. In another hour they were half-starved.

“I spect we’re lost,” said Flaxie, calmly. “Going to rain, too; sun setting. Pretty near midnight—”

Upon this Milly began to scream.

“Well, then, what made you hide behind the lilac-bush, and not invite the folks, Milly Allen?” exclaimed Flaxie, feeling obliged to scold somebody; and then she too began to scream, though nobody heard, for they were three or four miles from the village.

They wound in and out, in and out, among the trees; but it was like a little bird putting his head through the bars of his cage. It did no good at all; they couldn’t get out.

Thoroughly tired at last and discouraged, the poor babes in the wood lay down and fell asleep in each other’s arms. I know it was a pretty sight,—the black head and the golden head so close together, and the beautiful bright trees bending over to say, “Good night.”