My Dear Pansies:

The game for this Midsummer “month of evenings,” is one that I especially commend to you. It will be enjoyed so very much longer after it has been played, and years to come whenever you think of the happy hour it engrossed you, you will always be very glad that you and your little friends played it.

This is the game:

THE WHEELING PARTY.

All who have carriages, or wagons, and a faithful horse or two in the generous barns at home, ask your father or uncle if they will loan them to you for an hour after supper on a pleasant evening, that all the players may choose. Those who have no wagons, or anything that a horse could draw, need not be debarred from joining in this game; possibly they can contribute a large cart, that they could propel themselves or, a boy not easily baffled, might join the procession, with an improvised floor on wheels on which soft cushions are piled.

At any rate, let the procession be formed, of every “go-able vehicle,” superintended by careful drivers, and where the space admits, carrying happy, merry-voiced children to make the poor invalids forget their sufferings.

Invalids? Yes, indeed, this is the “Invalids Wheeling Party,” the blessedest invention of modern times. The “Shut-in Society” brought out for a breath of fresh air—God’s poor children, who for wise reasons of His, are serving Him in narrow rooms of want, now, by the kind hands of children, admitted to the sweet peace of the summer eventide.

Do you not know them—these patient invalids? living perhaps very near to you. There is the little lame boy—the washerwoman’s son, who when she goes out to her work, minds the baby, and tries in his poor way to help mother. “Dot-and-go-one” you and the other children perhaps call him.

Wouldn’t it vary proceedings a bit if you were to send him a little note, saying something like this:

Jimmy:

Will you go to ride after supper with Frank and me?

Egbert.

Or, there is old Mrs. Clemens. She is not pleasant-looking, to be sure; snuffy and disagreeable in her ways also. But she has not stepped out of her cottage only to go as far as the woodpile in five years. Think of it! Suppose now Mrs. Clemens should find under her door some fine morning a little white note in which the old lady should read:

Dear Mrs. Clemens:

Mary Alice Smith and I would like to give you a ride this evening after supper in my father’s wagon. I hope you can go.

Susan Embury.

Don’t you suppose the Clemens cottage would be a new place all that day?

And so on. Even if you do not personally know who is needing these sweet country drives, some one will be brought to your notice on inquiry.

When the procession is formed, let some one lead who is intelligent, as to the choice of a delightful locality (for invalids like to see something new and pretty), and the best way for getting there.

Then while the greatest cheerfulness prevails let there be no unnecessary noise, I beseech you, for your guests are unaccustomed to excitement, and are easily wearied. There should be sweet attentions, little courtesies, and the feeling of real enjoyment of giving hospitality on your part, but all done and expressed quietly.

Try it, dear Pansies, this little game, and see if you do not often play it these lovely summer evenings. I doubt not you will enjoy it as much as the invited guests of “The Wheeling Party.”

M. S.