’TWAS the day of the picnic—the Baptist picnic. You yourself were not, by family persuasion, a member of that denomination, but the Schmidts, next door, were, and by the grace of Hen, your crony, you were enabled to gain admittance, upon occasion, into the Baptist ’bus.

The ’bus was not scandalized. You had been in it before, as Methodist, Congregationalist, Unitarian—what not. So had Hen. Only a few little girls were shocked, and gazed at you disdainfully.

“You ain’t a Baptist!” they accused.

“Neither’s Blanche Davis!” you retorted, carrying the debate into the enemy’s country. “I guess I’ve got as much right here as she has!”

“I came with Lucy Barrett,” informed Blanche, primly.

“An’ I come with Hen Schmidt. His father’s a deacon, too!” you asserted.

“Oh, he ain’t—is he, Mr. Jones? He ain’t—is he?” appealed the little girls, shrilly.

Mr. Jones, beaming with long-suffering, Sunday-school-superintendent good humor, obligingly halted.

“Henry Schmidt’s father ain’t a deacon, is he?”

“Yes, I believe so,” affirmed Mr. Jones, pleasantly.

Thus you valiantly maintained your position—and Hen’s.

When you and Hen had pantingly arrived at the rendezvous you had found yourselves in the midst of baskets and bustle. The baskets gave forth fascinating, mysterious clinks. In your individual capacity of guest you had brought no basket of your own, but you had helped Hen carry down the Schmidt contribution, and you knew of what it spake and smelled, and you had peeked in under the cover. Besides, Hen had told you, in detail.

Clad in necessarily stout shoes, but quite superfluously clean waists, you and he, with the basket between, had hastened to the place of assembly.

Other boys appeared. Poor indeed was that wight who could not rake up a Baptist friend—particularly if his own church gave picnics. Therefore, behold, as at the millennium, the creeds of your world united to-day under one flag—which happened to be the Baptist.

Snoopie Mitchell, of course, was there. Snoopie usually went fishing or skating on Sunday; but at picnic-time and Christmas even he did not deny the comforts of the church.

“Hello!” you said.

“Hello!” said Snoopie nonchalantly. “Aw, you kids are too late!”

Snoopie never was too late. He had the instincts of the ranging shark, and, moreover, perfect freedom to obey them.

“Why?” demanded you and Hen breathlessly.

“They took it away. Gee! Two freezers bigger’n me!”

“More’n the Methodists had?” you inquired eagerly.

“You bet!” affirmed Snoopie.

You sighed—a happy, satisfied sigh.

The passenger ’buses arrived, two of them. They were greeted with a cheer, and scarcely had the gaunt, rusty, white horses of the foremost one swung about to back ere into it you all scrambled.

You and Hen promptly plumped down at the end—end seats and the seat with the driver being the choice ones.

“Children! Children! Be careful!” appealed the superintendent, mechanically. Poor man, already he had done a hard day’s work!

As well might he have cautioned a river running down-hill. Jostled past you girls and boys, elbows in ribs, shoulder thrusting shoulder, in a competition that recognized no sex. Like lightning the hack is occupied to overflowing; packed with two lines, facing each other, of flushed, excited children, with here and there a flustered matron; you and Hen, as stated, holding the end seats, Billy Lunt (he wasn’t a Baptist, either) up with the driver, but Snoopie, crafty, ragged Snoopie, hanging on at the steps!

The ’bus rolls off. You all shout back derisively at your outstripped associates.

Father had darkly hinted that you should take an umbrella and rubber boots, and spoken of “total immersion,” whatever that might be; but, lo, the sky is cloudless, the morn is of sparkling summer, the air is fresh, everything is lovely, the town is behind and the picnic before, and you don’t care, any more than you know, what he meant! You are in the ’bus; and the only person you envy is Snoopie, perilously clinging to its rear.

With the horses at a trot he springs on and off, drags his feet or sprints behind, and is continually saying “Lookee!” while he performs some new, adroit, impish deed. The women gasp and exclaim “Oh!” “I wish he wouldn’t!” and “Mrs. Miller, can’t you stop him!” Then somebody’s hat blows off and creates a diversion.

Half a block in your wake is the other ’bus, and occasionally jogs apace a carriage, with suggestive rattle of dishes and bulge of hamper.

Your vehicle rumbles over a creek bridge and slowly rounds a curve.

“I see it! I see it!” announces Billy, wriggling on his elevation.

You all stretch necks to “see it,” too. Yes, there, just before, in the woods to the right, are the forms of the earlier invaders—the good men and women constituting the volunteer band of provision-arrangers.

The ’bus turns to the roadside. Issues from the driver a long and relieved “Whoa-oa!” But, even as he says it, you and the other boys are out, over the sides. Under the fence you scoot, to race, madly whooping, up the wooded slope, fearful lest you are missing something. After you scamper, more timidly, the little girls, and last of all, ungallantly consigned to bring the picnic odds and ends, toil your elders.

The ’bus rolls back to town, carrying a man or so delegated to get inevitably forgotten articles.

Now all the wood is riotous with scream and shout. It is a wood filled with possibilities. Early somebody discovers a garter-snake, and at the rallying-cry destruction violently descends upon the harmless thing. Immediately, dangling from the end of a stick, it spreads confusion wherever feminine humanity may be encountered. At its approach the little girls squeal and run, the larger girls shriek and expostulate, and the various mothers shrink and glare indignantly. The superintendent it is who boldly interferes, takes the limp reptile, and throws it away.

“There!” sigh glad onlookers.

But Snoopie marks its fall, and presently recovers it; thereafter to carry it around in his pocket, intent upon sticking it down unsuspecting comrades’ backs.

In the ravine is the shallow creek. As a means of entertainment the creek is about as good as the dead snake. ’Tis jump it and rejump it; ’tis wade it with shoes on and ’tis wade it with shoes off; and ’tis splash far and wide, to see which boy shall get the wetter.

Milder spirits may elect to search for “pretty flowers,” or “help mamma,” or play “Pussy Wants a Corner,” and “Ring Around a Rosie,” where solicitous eyes might fondly oversee; where busily labor and perspire the superintendent and assistants, hanging swings and hammocks, lifting, opening, and unpacking; where benignly moves the minister, diffusing unspoken blessings. But you and yours must have more strenuous recreation. So already, when word is transmitted that “they’re makin’ the lemonade,” your knickerbockers are torn from shinning up trees, your waist is limp from romping through the creek, and your face is red, and scratched, and streaming, and dirty.

You are having fun.

Lemonade! Two tubs of it, in the middle of each a lump of ice, about the ice floating disks of lemon, and a thirsty crowd encircling all.

“Be careful, children. Let the little girls drink first, boys. My, my! That’s not the way!” cautioned Mr. Jones, as, the supply of tin cups proving insufficient, some of you evinced a disposition to “get in all over.”

The little girls politely tripped off, wiping their mouths with their best handkerchiefs. You and Hen et al. lingered. Eventually the tubs were left unguarded. The moment seemed propitious for new diversion.

“Let’s see who can drink the most!” proposed Hen.

The idea was brilliant. To hear was to act.

It was plunge in your cup and gulp; and plunge it in and gulp; and fail not to throw the residue in your neighbor’s face. Fast and furious waxed the play, with Snoopie appearing to be sure winner.

“Aw, you ain’t drinkin’ it all! That ain’t fair!” you accused, and the other boys joined in.

“Shut up! I am, too!” replied Snoopie, angrily; and proceeded with his count: “Fourteen.”

Distanced, his competitors paused, and jealously, but half admiringly, watched.

“Bo-oys! Bo-oys!”

The gentle soprano voice with the reproachful, shocked inflection made you drop tin cups, the batch of you, and hastily look.

’Twas the minister’s wife. In power she stood above the superintendent, even, and only slightly below the minister himself.

“Why, why! You mustn’t do that!” she objected, bearing down.

Mustn’t you? Well, all right; there was lots else to do, and, soaked without and within, reeking of lemonade, you withdrew to do it.

“Gee—I drunk fifteen!” boasted Snoopie, patting his stomach.

He proved to be high man. Yourself had to your score only the modest aggregate of ten.

Behind, at the scene of the late contest, arose sounds of lamentation and dismay over the state of the tubs.

Stately, mute, impenetrable, with baffling rag-carpet covering their tops, in the shade stand the two ice-cream freezers, and on all sides of them the feet of you and your cronies, and of the little girls as well, have well-nigh worn bare the woodland sod. But now, torn away by less exalted emotions, you and Hen revolve around Mrs. Schmidt’s tablecloth spread on the ground and weighted down with dishes.

Here is to be your station at dinner. Other cloths there are, spread about, but Hen recommends his mother’s. There will be a family feeling, and less chance of neglect.

Drag slower and slower the minutes. Hen goes foraging, and returns gleefully with a cooky apiece. The delicious smell of sliced tongue and ham and boiling coffee permeates the air.

“Henry, if you and John don’t keep out from under foot, I’ll take you right straight home!” threatens Mrs. Schmidt, exasperated.

Other women, too, lower at you.

“Yes, boys,” chimes in the superintendent; “run away and play, and don’t bother the people getting dinner. When we’re ready we’ll call you.”

But, oh, dear, supposing something should be all eaten up before you got there!

At last, at the very last—as the French emphatically express it, À la fin des fins—your rebuffs are over. You are actually bidden to advance. ’Tis barely the wink of an eyelash, but ’tis enough; and before a word is spoken you are there, the two of you, sitting elbow to elbow, on your calves, against the cloth: greedy-eyed, watery-mouthed, faint-stomached.

From right and left come trooping young and old, none of them, save one or two couples from the Bible-class, trooping from very far. They settle like pigeons fluttering down to corn. About each cloth a circle is formed. Nobody is homeless. And isn’t it time to start in? Alas! not yet.

From his place (“Mr. Jones, do sit down! You look tired to death. Sit right here!” has been the imploration, and he has yielded) the superintendent bobs up and loudly claps his hands, and says: “Sh!”

“Sh!” assist sundry whispers, as warning to you and your mates.

It is the blessing, for, as Mr. Jones subsides, the minister rises.

He prays long and fervently. Out of the corners of your eyes you continue to scan sandwich, and cake, and jelly, and pickles, while your nose wriggles like the nose of an inquiring rabbit. You wonder why the minister cannot quit; but, ignoring every good stopping-point, he proceeds on and on. You hear Hen groan with pent-up disgust. You slyly groan back.

“Amen.”

It has come! Mrs. Schmidt’s glance flashes rebuke in your direction, but neither you nor Hen cares. High swells an instant chorus of talk and rattling staccato of dishes. Hither and thither flit busy servers; and, behind the backs of the circle, down your way is progressing in solemn state a huge tray of sandwiches.

You watch it eagerly. It brushes your shoulder. You and Hen grab together. They are bun sandwiches, with cold boiled ham between. Your mouth opens against yours, and your teeth meet through it.

“Yum, yum!” you mumble ecstatically to Hen.

“Yum, yum!” agrees Hen.

Come other sandwiches—tongue and beef and potted ham; come cold fried chicken and pressed veal loaf; come jelly—several kinds—and pickles, sweet and sour. Sometimes you hesitate.

“I will if you will,” dares Hen; therefore you generally do.

Comes coffee, and more lemonade; comes pie—apple, lemon, blueberry, custard; comes cake—chocolate, lemon-layer, jelly-layer, plain, frosted, cocoanut, spice, angel-food.

“Um! Um!” revels Hen at intervals.

“Um! Um!” you respond, in perfect sympathy.

Comes ice cream in “heaping” saucers!

Come cookies and sweet crackers, ginger-bread, cream-puffs, kisses and oranges.

You both have been obliged to kneel—expanding, as it were, from your sitting posture. And now the feast is done. Vainly you view the dÉbris; you have accomplished marvels, but you can do no more. You sigh, and, sucking an orange, reluctantly you stand. You waddle off, feeling fat and stuffy, to convene with the other boys, and compare notes.

“Aw, you ought to been at our table!” claims Billy Lunt. “We had chocolate cake with chocolate an inch thick—didn’t we, Buck?”

“Buck” promptly assents.

“So’d we! So’d we!” retorts Hen. “An’ we had jelly-cake, an’—”

“So’d we!” inform rivals, bound to uphold the honors of their boards. “An’ lemon pie—”

“An’ custard, an’—”

“An’ pickled peaches—”

“Golly! I’m ’bout busted!” chuckles Billy, complacently.

Standing companionably by, Snoopie harkens and grins, but says little. Only from a bulging pocket he extracts another orange and drills into it. One may be certain that he, at least, has missed nothing.

Prudence might dictate a period of quiescence as a tribute to digestion. But the day is short, and a half a bun skimming into your midst—that is, into the midst of the group, not into your own midst, where it would have hard work to find lodgment—arouses you to retaliation. Back and forth and across fly the remnants from the various tablecloths, and applause greets every hit. Snoopie introduces a popular feature by plastering against a tree-trunk a fragment of a custard pie. Forthwith custard and lemon pie are at a premium, these being the kinds that stick. Then, interrupting the pleasant pastime, charge upon your ranks horrified witnesses, suddenly awakening to the crisis.

“Boys! Stop it! Stop it at once! The idea!”

Expostulating, they drive you all, shame-faced but sniggering, from the premises. You leave the plot looking as though a caisson laden with cartridges of lunch had exploded there!

The principal event of the day being over, your elders relax into a state more or less lethargic. The women sit and crochet and chat. The minister goes to sleep with a handkerchief on his face, and even some of your juniors follow suit—members of the infant class seeking the pillow of their mothers’ laps. The Bible-class wanders off in couples. The superintendent, only, is kept active by demands of “Swing me, Mr. Jones; please swing me!” from the little girls.

Naturally the inspiration for you and yours is to follow the Bible-class couples and spy upon them; when they think themselves nicely secluded and comfortably ensconced, to steal upon them; and in the midst of their innocent confidences to hoot upon them (with such delicate insinuations as “Aw, Mr. Johnson’s Miss Saxby’s beau!”—or “Say, Miss Lossing, Mr. Pugsley wants to kiss you!”)—and then to flee, riotously giggling.

It is four o’clock. Prolonged shouts from the throats of the superintendent and assistants echo through the woods, calling together the stragglers. The ’buses have arrived. Home-going must be accomplished early, on account of the “little ones.”

All right. If the day is done, another day is coming. You rush down, and you and Hen again secure the end seats. The ’bus fills, its load, on the whole, not so sprightly, nor so enthusiastic, nor so clean as in the morning.

Snoopie hangs on at the rear.

The driver says “Gid-dap!” Somebody replies with “Whoa!” “Whoa-oa!” supplement a score of voices. To frantic encouragement descends the hill, scurrying as if from Indians or bears, a belated, last Bible-class couple.

“Gid-dap!” once more urges the driver.

The ’bus moves. You yawn. Hen yawns. You are tired and sticky. Hen, also, is tired and sticky.

“Lookee!” bids Snoopie.

He throws away his dead snake; his pockets are empty again.

Yet in the depth of the aftermath you brighten. Your thoughts travel ahead. The Presbyterians are to have their picnic next week!

“You goin’?” asks Hen.

“You bet!” you reply confidently.