"Will they take boys as young as he is?"

"It depends entirely on how young they behave, and Dicky's no baby."

"Then if you think they'll accept him suppose you take him to the Club and enroll him."

So Dicky marched bravely in among the hundreds of boys who help to make lively the southern part of the Assembly Grounds, and was duly registered as a member of the Boys' Club. If his rompers seemed to give him a too youthful air at one end the blue sweater adorned with the Boys' Club monogram which he insisted on donning at once, evened up his status. For a day or two Roger had happened in at the Club to see whether the little chap was holding his own and he had been so satisfied with what he saw that he no longer felt it necessary to exercise a daily watchfulness. Dicky came and went all over the grounds now, and often enlightened his elders about some locality of which they were not certain.

When the sun rises on the day that is to end with the Old First Night celebration there is always a suppressed excitement in Chautauqua. The young men of the Daily are listening to the Managing Editor's assignment of their extra duties in reporting the evening festivities; the boys who are to collect the money from the audience in the Amphitheatre and the men to whom they are to deliver it are receiving from the Usher-in-Chief their instructions as to their respective positions and duties; messengers rush their bicycles over the ground delivering notes of invitation to the people who are to sit on the platform.

In the homes the heads of the families are deciding how much they can afford to give to the Old First Night Fund and the other members down to the small children are examining their pocket books and shaking the pennies out of their banks so that every one may have a share, no matter how small, in the gift of Chautauquans to Chautauqua.

The Morton-Emerson household had had its share of the morning excitement and Mrs. Morton and her father were climbing up the hill, she to go to the Women's Club and he to occupy his usual stool at the Arts and Crafts Studios. At almost every step they nodded pleasantly to acquaintances, for they had many friends, some made before the fire, and others drawn to them by the spirit of helpfulness that makes Chautauquans run to the rescue of distress wherever they find it.

As they reached the hilltop and crossed the street to enter the Post Office for the morning mail their ears were saluted by the customary morning sounds. The ice cream booth and the bakery in the pergola were being replenished from heavy kegs and boxes which were in process of being unloaded from carts on to the ground before their destinations. Crowds of people on their way to classes and clubs were opening letters and calling out home news to other members of their families or slitting the wrappers from newspapers and shaking out the front page to come at the war news quickly.

Shrill cries of "Chautauquan Daily" rose on every side as boy venders of the local paper pressed among the people, for they did their best business in the early hours. People who would not take the time to stop and examine the program for the day posted in the tree boxes would read it in the paper as they hurried on to ensure punctuality at their classrooms.

"It really seems as if there was an extra hum in the air," laughed Mrs. Morton.

"I think there is," returned her father drily. His eyes were fastened on a figure approaching them.

"Chautauquan Daily" came from a small but earnest throat. "Chautauquan Daily; program for to-day and to-morrow."

"Upon my word!" ejaculated Mrs. Morton.

"Lecture by Mithter Griggth; addreth by Doctor Hurlbut," piped the piercing voice.

"Upon my word," gasped Mrs. Morton once more; "it's Dicky!"

It was. It was a radiant Dicky. His romper trousers were spread wide on each side and he strutted consumedly. His breast heaved proudly beneath the Boys' Club monogram on his sweater. The elastic under his chin did not hold his hat straight upon his bobbed hair and the brim was canted over one ear and gave him a rakish expression. He was the picture of a perfectly happy boy and he was doing a bigger business than any other newsboy in front of the Post Office. People crowded around him and every time he shouted "Lecture by Mithter Griggth; addreth by Doctor Hurlbut," they went into peals of laughter.

"What shall I do, Father?" asked Mrs. Morton breathlessly.

"You wouldn't have the heart to stop him, would you?" Mr. Emerson asked in return.

Dicky's mother gazed raptly at him for a whole minute.

"No," she said at last, "I haven't the heart to stop him."

"It's in the air, as I said the other evening when Helen was making her plea," said Mr. Emerson.

"Do you suppose it's money Dicky wants?"

"Money and excitement. Dicky will do a kindness to a friend and expect no pay for it just as you did when you were young, but I've no doubt that Dicky also likes the feeling of some extra coppers in his pockets. I suppose there are pockets in those extraordinary garments he wears?"

"Yes," returned Mrs. Morton mechanically. "What is behind it all?" she asked again; "are we Americans getting so thoroughly commercialized that even the babies want to go out in the street and earn money?"

"I believe it's a love of adventure as much as a love of money. At any rate we've seen it developed in three members of your own family and surely our family traditions and the traditions of the Army and Navy are all against commercialism. I believe it is one of the modern phenomena that we must bow before. Opposing it will bring unhappiness and trouble. The thing to do is to encourage such a spirit as your children are showing in this new club of theirs. Let them be commercial if they will but make them understand that their business interests must not make them less human, less friendly, less willing to serve any one who needs their service."

"It is very perplexing," sighed Mrs. Morton, but she walked away without speaking to Dicky, leaving him the centre of a throng lost in admiration of his cry, "Lecture by Mithter Griggth; addreth by Doctor Hurlbut."

Dicky's escapade was not the only one entered into by the Mortons on this memorable day. Right after dinner the whole club except Dicky who, it was decided, was not up to the long walk, went outside the grounds to pick wild flowers for the decoration of the platform of the Amphitheatre. The Director had given his consent and had expressed his pleasure, so the Hancocks and the Mortons and Dorothy set out in high spirits.

It was late in the afternoon when they returned laden with their spoils. Early goldenrod and asters filled their arms, feathery green boughs waved over their heads, and long vines of clematis trailed behind them.

The Ethels were not such good walkers as the others. Even Dorothy kept up with the big boys better than the two younger Mortons, so they found themselves quite alone some distance before they reached the trolley gate.

"Um," sighed Ethel Brown; "I'm tired. I'd like to stop right here."

"Peg along," urged Ethel Blue.

"If only it wasn't against the rule we might crawl under the fence just ahead there where the hole is."

Ethel Blue looked at the place with longing eyes. Dogs had burrowed their way under the pickets and had worn, out a hole that seemed big enough for thin people to get through. She turned to Ethel Brown.

"It would be wrong to do it," she said, "but it would save us a long distance, because there's a short cut right to the Amphitheatre just over there inside."

Ethel Blue was open to temptation to do anything that required daring, for she was trying hard to gain courage by following the Bishop's advice and by attempting little adventures about which she felt timid.

"I'm almost dead," groaned Ethel Brown plaintively. "Do you think they could possibly catch us? You know they tell a story of a fat woman who found a place like this and squeezed her way in and when she was all in a fence guard appeared and made her squeeze herself out again."

"She was trying to cheat the Institution out of her entrance money. We aren't doing that; we've got our gate tickets."

Somehow that made the matter seem better, though in their inmost hearts the girls knew that they were not doing what was right. Yet with a look around and a gasp of excitement they pushed their flowers through ahead of them and then struggled through themselves.

"There isn't anybody in sight," exclaimed Ethel Brown in the low voice of guilt, scanning the grounds as she helped Ethel Blue get on her feet.

"We've done it, anyway," answered Ethel Blue, and she even felt a touch of pride, in the adventure, for at least she had not been frightened.

They took their contribution to the Amphitheatre and helped the others, who had been at work for some time, to arrange the flowers around the edge of the platform. The result was beautiful and the group was delighted when a hearty voice said suddenly, "Is this the United Service Club? I want to thank you for doing this for us. We've never looked so fine as this before on Old First Night."

"Thank you, thank you," they chorused in return as the Director left them.

It was a happy though weary group that chattered its way along the lake front and across Miller Park. No sooner had they reached the cottage than the Ethels told their story to Mrs. Morton with much laughter. For some reason she did not take the joke just as they would have liked to have her.

"You know it is against the rule? Everybody is expected to go out and enter through the gates."

"Oh, we know that. But what harm did it do? We weren't cheating the Institution; we had our tickets."

"Suppose everybody did what you did. Can you see any objection?"

"It would look mighty funny," giggled Ethel Blue.

"It would be rather confusing, I suppose," admitted Ethel Brown; "they wouldn't be able to tell who had tickets and who hadn't."

"You don't really mind, do you, Aunt Marion?"

"I confess I shall have to make up a new opinion about my honest little girls," she replied slowly. "Have you thought what you are going to do about the punch on your tickets?"

This hint was alarming.

"What about the punch?"

"Everybody's ticket is punched on an odd number when you come in and on an even one when you go out. Your last punch was on an even number, when you went out this afternoon. What are you going to do when you want to go out again?"

Ethel Brown stared at Ethel Blue in dismay, and Ethel Blue's eyes began to fill with tears.

"It will be perfectly clear to the gateman that you came in in some improper way."

Mrs. Morton went into the dining-room to take a last look at the table and the Ethels went upstairs to dress. Somehow the fun of their adventure had faded away. In its place was a growing discomfort that was increasingly painful. They did not discuss their trouble and they put on clean dresses without their usual pleasure in their freshness and prettiness. Mrs. Morton did not allude to the subject again, and that gave the children additional feelings of uneasiness, for they felt that she was leaving the decision as to their future action entirely to them.

Roger, who was to pass a basket at the Amphitheatre, hurried through his supper and whooped to James as he passed the Hancocks' house. The other members of the two families went later and more slowly, enjoying as they walked along the lake front the familiar tunes that the chimes were ringing out. As they climbed the hill they were sorry that they had not made an earlier start, for people were gathering in flocks and the organ was already playing. Once more they had to say, "This is the largest audience yet." This time it was remarkable for its number of old people, for it seemed as if everybody who ever had been at Chautauqua made a point of returning to join in the celebration of the Fortieth Anniversary.

The service arranged by Bishop Vincent for the opening night was used for the forty-first time, and tears ran down the cheeks of old men and women who recalled the passing of the intervening years and gave their memento of esteem to the Chautauquans of bygone days when they joined the rest of the huge audience in lifting their handkerchiefs in a drooping salute to the dead.

The Chancellor introduced the President, and he, after a few words of historical reminiscence, introduced the speakers of the evening, a dozen of them, who spoke briefly and told some good stories. Between their speeches were sandwiched the events that make Old First Night different from any other night in the Amphitheatre. The members of the family of Mr. Miller, one of the founders of the Institution, were honored by a waving Chautauqua salute, invented long ago for a deaf speaker and continued because of its beauty. Mrs. Thomas Edison, a daughter of Mr. Miller, thanked the audience for its tribute to her father and called for a similar salute to the Vincent family.

"There's Miss Kimball standing with two other ladies to be saluted," cried Ethel Brown.

"And there's the president of the Women's Club with her," said Mrs. Morton.

Old songs were sung and "Dixie" brought a large Southern contingent to its feet. Mr. Vincent joked and cajoled his hearers while messengers and ushers gathered several thousand dollars, the Old First Night gift.

Best fun of all were the roll calls. Between sixty and seventy were present who had been a part of the original Old First Night. Thirty-two persons rose as having been at Chautauqua for forty-one summers and a Chautauqua salute sent them happily to their seats, for a Chautauqua salute is an honor, not achieved every day. "I've been waiting twenty-five years for this," said a professor in one of the Summer Schools who received the distinction as a "Good-bye" before a trip to Europe.

By way of gaining an idea of the breadth of Chautauqua's call, dwellers in different parts of the world and of the United States were called to their feet. A small group rose as from New England; a very large group from New York and Pennsylvania. The South stood solid in large parties all over the auditorium, and the West had sent many representatives. The showing from Canada and parts of the world outside of our own country was by no means small.

"Who are the people on the platform beside the speakers?" Helen asked Mrs. Hancock who sat next her.

"The officers and trustees of the Institution, almost all of the 'old originals' and some people of distinction who happen to be on the grounds."

Then they left the Amphitheatre to go to the lake front for the fireworks and found themselves passing through a forest of brilliant lanterns swinging from the trees and casting their soft light on the paths and grass. Thousands of happy people, some wet-eyed with memories, some wide-eyed with wonder, walked beneath them, talking of days gone by and days to come.

So large was the Morton-Emerson-Hancock group that Mrs. Morton did not notice until she was almost at her own door that the Ethels were not near her.

"They were in the Amphitheatre," she said.

"I saw them coming out," cried Margaret.

"We'll wait a few minutes and then if they don't come Roger must look for them," said Mrs. Morton anxiously.

But before she had had many minutes of anxiety the two girls came running up to the porch. They were laughing happily now, and in quite a different mood from that in which they had left the house earlier in the evening.

"What in the world have you been doing, children?" asked Grandmother Emerson. "Your dresses are covered with dirt."

"Mother knows."

"Aunt Marion can guess."

"I'm sure I don't and I can't. What have you been up to?"

"It's all right about our ticket," nodded Ethel Brown gleefully.

"How can that be?"

"We were so worried about the punching coming out wrong that as soon as we left the Amphitheatre we ran up to that hole in the fence and crawled out again, and then we ran down the road as fast as we could to the trolley gate and came in properly, so now our tickets punch all right."

"But there's still a hurt in my girls' consciences, isn't there?" asked Mrs. Morton, drawing them to her and kissing them "Good-night."

"You see," she went on, "when you broke a law of the Institution you were not law-abiding citizens."

"But we weren't wicked, because we had our tickets—we weren't cheating."

"That's true, but laws are made to help communities to run smoothly. If you do not obey them you are not co-operating with the people who are working for the happiness of the whole body."

"'Co-operation'—that's just team-work," mused Roger.

"Right," confirmed Mr. Emerson. "Co-operation is what makes life easy to live, it's what produces results, it's what makes the world better. Be a co-operator."

"Me a co-op," agreed Roger cheerfully, while the Ethels sat silently on the steps and thought about it.