IT was a very rainy day, so the excursion which the Wonderers had planned had to be postponed.

And so they were gathered in the Fairfields’ pleasant sitting-room, trying to make believe they didn’t care to go out.

In this attempt they all succeeded better than Milly, who was distinctly and aggressively cross.

“Milly,” said Peter Homer, in his kind way, after one of her petulant outbursts, “it’s raining, and I’m glad it is, and you’re going to be glad too. You’re going to have such a good time this afternoon, that you’ll go home saying you’re glad it rained so we couldn’t go driving out the Appian Way.”

“I won’t do any such thing,” declared Milly. “How could I like it better to sit cooped up in a stuffy old parlour than to go for a lovely drive?”

“Wait and see, my child,” said Peter. “Now, my Wonder friends, I’ll tell you my plan. Let’s start a paper, a nice little paper, and we’ll all contribute.”

“And publish it every week?” cried Patty, who loved to write things.

“Yes, for one consecutive week, anyway. I’ll be editor-in-chief, and you can all be department editors, and choose any department you like. If I were to suggest, I’d say let Patty Fairfield be the fashion editor, for she always wears such masterpieces of sartorial architecture.”

They all laughed at Peter’s description of Patty’s pretty frocks, and she said:

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t call my clothes flubdubby, anyhow. Yes, I’ll write your fashion column. What will you write, Milly?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll write something. Shall we do it now?”

The girl’s face had brightened wonderfully. Peter had discovered that she had secret leanings toward literature, and he felt sure that his plan for the afternoon’s amusement would appeal to her.

“Yes, we’ll begin at once,” he said. “If Patty can provide paper and pencils. You may each have a half hour, and then must turn in your copy, finished or not.”

Patty found plenty of stationery, and went about, distributing it to her guests.

“I can’t write a thing,” declared Flo, “but I’ll draw a picture. Is it to be an illustrated paper?”

“It will be,” said Peter, “if illustrations are contributed.”

“I’ll do a Limerick,” said Caddy Oram. “I just love to do Limericks.”

“Let’s having missing line ones,” said Violet.

“All right, you do that kind then. Everybody can do just what he or she likes.”

“We must have the paper uniform,” said Patty, “so we can bind it all together afterward.”

“Yes,” said Lank Van Winkle, “then we’ll have typewritten copies made for each of us.”

“If we want them!” put in Floyd. “I’m not sure this crowd can write a volume worthy of undying fame.”

“Traitor! put him out!” cried Lank. “If he’s so weak-hearted, I’ll write his contribution.”

“Weak-headed, you mean,” said Peter. “No, everyone must write his own. Now, what shall we choose as a title for our paper?”

“Is it to be a humorous publication?” asked Floyd.

“Yes, indeed.”

“Then listen, lend me your ears, and prepare to receive my suggestion with thunders of applause, for I am about to offer you the best, and indeed, the only title for the journal.”

“Huh,” said Lank, “if it’s the only one, you deserve little credit for thinking of it.”

“Wait till you hear it,” said Floyd, undismayed. “If you don’t applaud, I’ll know you don’t appreciate true cleverness. I propose, ladies and gentlemen, that we call our weekly paper, the Roman Punch.”

He was indeed greeted with applause, and every one agreed that his suggestion was the very thing.

“Then you see,” he went on, “we can model it after the London Punch, only it will be funnier.”

Then they all set to work, and as no pretensions to real literary excellence were expected, they rapidly scribbled a lot of nonsense.

Floyd finished first, and began bothering the others.

“I’ll help you, Patty,” he said, sitting down beside her.

“No, don’t speak to me. The depth of my subject requires concentration of thought. You go away.”

So Floyd wandered over to Flo’s side, and criticised her drawing.

“Ho! ho! if I couldn’t draw better than that! Here, let me take your pencil.”

But Flo only gave him a terrible frown, and he backed away, cowering in pretended terror.

But at last the half hour was up, and Peter announced that the manuscripts must be handed in, whether finished or not.

“What luck!” cried Caddy Oram, who had been working diligently, “I’ve just four lines of my Limerick done, so we can make a ‘missing line contest’ of it.”

“Let’s call in father and Nan to hear the reading,” said Patty, “and Flo, why don’t you invite Snippy, if she’d like to come?”

“Oh, she’ll adore to come,” said Flo, and ran in search of her governess.

So the audience was increased by three, and then all sat in readiness to hear the paper read.

Peter and Floyd had arranged the pages, and had added a sort of introduction, and by unanimous invitation Peter was induced to read it.

So in his pleasant, deep voice he read:

“The Roman Punch. A journal written by members of the Wonderers’ Club during their Roam in Rome.

“There may be further numbers and there may not. Subscription limited.

“The first selection is an exquisite poem by our popular poet, Mr. Floyd Austin. You will notice the marvellous dexterity of his rhyming, as well as the delicate beauty of his imagination. It is called:

This effusion received great applause, until the modest poet hid his face in his hands, quite overcome at the ovation.

“There’s something so tragic about it that it makes me weep,” said Nan, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.

“It’s the noble numbers that affect you, my dear,” said her husband. “Grandeur of thought is always impressive.”

Floyd’s contribution made a great hit, and then Peter went on to read another.

“The next is a fine Limerick by Miss Violet Van Winkle. It throws light on a hitherto mysterious subject, and it justifies what has often been considered a cruel deed of a bloodthirsty emperor. I refer to the late Mr. Nero, and his burning of his native town. The true facts of the case are here set forth:

There was a moment of silence, and then Floyd said, slowly, “Oh, I see! He kindled the fire to warm himself!”

“Yes,” said Violet. “It was a cold winter that year.”

“’Twas a chilly day for Nero, when the mercury went to zero,” said Caddy; “but I say, was Nero’s name Tiberius too?”

“No,” said Violet, unabashed, “but it needed that to fill up the line nicely. And anyway, it may have been. Those old Romans had lots of names besides the ones they used every day.”

“Of course they did,” said Patty. “And I’m sure he was Tiberius Nero,—it sounds so natural that way.”

“Next we come to a picture,” went on Peter. “This gem of art is the work of our talented wonderer, Miss Flo Carrington. I will hold it up that you may see it, but as its merit can only be appreciated by a closer inspection, we will pass it around the circle. It represents Miss Fairfield hugging her very dear friend, the Coliseum.”

Flo’s picture was really clever. Though only a slight sketch, it showed a very good caricatured likeness of Patty. Her arms, abnormally long, were embracing the Coliseum, which, with a happy smile, was enjoying the occasion.

Patty declared she should keep the picture and have it framed, and Mr. Homer said she might do so, after he had photographic prints made of it for them all.

“The next,” continued Peter, “is a poem by our talented member, Miss Milly Mills. This is a most creditable composition, and quite appropriate to our paper. I think, to do it full justice, it should be read by its author. Miss Mills, won’t you read your verses yourself?”

Flattered by Peter’s kind words, Milly took the paper and read her own lines aloud. It was a really good, humorous jingle, and as Milly read it, each of the others felt surprise that she could do such clever work.

“Why, Milly,” cried Patty in delight, “I think that’s fine! I’d no idea you were such a poet.”

“That isn’t poetry,” said Milly; “it’s just jingle.”

“And mighty good jingle,” said Nan. “But why was the coin peculiar? Didn’t they have coins in 40 B.C.?”

“Oh, Nan,” said Mr. Fairfield, “stop and think! How could a coin be dated 40 B.C.?”

“I don’t see why not. Doesn’t that mean forty years Before Christ?”

“Yes, but B.C. is only used since A.D. began.”

“Oh, of course! I see. They didn’t use B.C. until the time meant by B.C. had gone by!”

“Exactly that,” said Mr. Fairfield. “But, Milly, that’s a first-class little jingle, and I think you’re in a fair way to become a verse-maker.”

Milly blushed with pleasure at the compliment, and her face lost entirely its usual discontented expression.

“So that’s her ambition,” thought Patty to herself. “I’ll have a good talk with her about it when I get a chance. Perhaps I can help her.”

It was the delight of Patty’s life to help anybody, and she felt sure she could aid Milly, if only by sympathetic interest in her literary products.

“Now,” went on Peter, “we’ll listen to some very wise wisdom from the pen of our young American philosopher, Mr. Lancaster Van Winkle. He has chosen to favour us with a collection of proverbs. I will read them, for I know his natural modesty will make him too embarrassed to listen to the sound of his own voice. The first gem of priceless wit is this:

“‘Rome is where the Art is.’”

At this punning, a general groan was heard from the audience.

“Cheer up,” said Peter, “worse is yet to come.”

“‘A Roman stone gathers no moss.’”

“I don’t see any sense to that,” remarked Flo.

“There isn’t any,” said Lank, amiably, “but it somehow sounded as if there ought to be.”

“It does sound so,” said Patty, encouragingly; “go on, Peter.”

“‘The Coliseum is the thief of time.’”

“That’s a good one! What next?”

“‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to study guidebooks. One touch of Baedeker makes the whole world kin. Tourists will happen in the best regulated ruins. He who Romes and roams away, may live to Rome another day.’”

“I think they’re great!” said Floyd. “I want a copy of those.”

“Thank you!” said Lank, with a bow to his admirer.

“Now,” said Peter, “we come to a column of fashion notes, by our esteemed friend, Miss Fairfield, who is an authority on the subject. I will read it to you.

“‘Fall fashions for Rome. This season cabmen will continue to wear the tattered and disreputable costumes which they have (apparently) worn for the last decade.

“‘Tourists will wear short skirts, and a look of inquiry. Roman citizens have discarded togas and tunics, and now wear any old thing. Their appearance is not so picturesque as formerly.

“‘Americans and Britishers visiting in Rome will wear Roman sashes a great deal this fall, as they think it gives them a touch of local colour. They will also wear memory chains.

“‘Visitors who have already been to Naples, are wearing pink coral necklaces.

“‘There is little change in the fashions for statues. As a rule these people seem not to care much for clothing, and what they wear is scanty of material and shows little, if any, trimming. The statues are not wearing hats this year, and their styles of hair-dressing, though picturesque, are a bit untidy.’”

“Good for you, Patty!” cried her father. “That’s good fooling, my child. You may turn out a blue-stocking yet.”

“I don’t think so,” said Patty, doubtfully; “I had pretty hard work to grind that out. I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s very waggish,” said Snippy, in such a matter-of-fact tone that the others had to laugh.

“Now that’s real praise, Mrs. Snippy,” said Peter Homer.

As Flo’s governess objected to her own name, and preferred the funny title Flo had given her long ago, the other young people compromised by prefixing a Mrs., which seemed, at least, a little more respectful. They had all grown to like the strong-willed and dictatorial old lady, and her approval of the fun of the Roman Punch pleased them.

“Now,” said Peter, “we come to the last contribution. It is the work of the distinguished Englishman, Cadwalader Oram, better known as Caddy. Indeed, he’s so fond of afternoon tea, I might call him Tea-Caddy. Well, as he hadn’t quite finished his immortal Limerick verse when the bell rang, we’ll call it a missing-line contest, and we’ll all have a try at it. Have you a prize, Patty, that can be given to the successful one?”

“That’s the beauty of Rome,” said Patty. “You do nothing but collect articles that are just right for prizes. I’ll have enough to last me all the winter for card-parties and such things at home. Here, I’ll give you this little model of the Temple of Saturn, in Parian marble.”

“Pooh, we’ve all got those already,” said Violet, “and anyway, they break if you look at them.”

“You must give softer glances, then,” said Austin. “But, Patty, something a little less ubiquitous would suit me better too.”

“Well, here’s a little silver statuette of St. Peter,” said Patty. “How’s that?”

“A whole lot better! I’ll try hard to win that.”

“But I don’t understand the contest part,” said Patty; “what do we do?”

“Why, Caddy has written four lines of a Limerick,” explained Peter. “I’ll read those,—you may jot them down if you like. Then, each tries to write a fifth line, and whichever is judged the best gets the prize.”

“Who’s the judge?”

“Well, I’ll appoint Mrs. Fairfield and Mrs. Snippy to judge the efforts. Now, listen; here are the first four lines:

Now, you see you must each make a fifth line.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Milly, who was a born rhymer.

They all sat silently for a few moments, scribbling, or nibbling, at their pencils.

“It’s harder than I thought,” confessed Patty. “I can’t think of a thing that rhymes and makes sense both.”

At last the lines were done, and given over to the judges.

“We’ve decided,” said Nan, soon after. “But we’ll read first the ones that did not win the prize. They’re all awfully good, I think. Here’s Patty’s first; shall I read the four lines?”

“No, we all know those; just read the fifth.”

“Very well, this is it. ‘She said, not when they say “write a pome!”’”

“That’s capital. Are the others better?”

“Some are,” said Nan, going on. “Here’s Floyd Austin’s; ‘She said, “Well,—I have bought a pearl comb.”’”

“Oh, I think that’s good,” cried Patty, “I’d give that the prize. Go on, Nan, this is fun.”

“This is Flo’s. ‘“Well,”’ she said, ‘“it surpasses Cape Nome.”’”

“That’s all right! Next!”

“Here’s Lancaster’s: ‘She said, “All except St. Peter’s Dome!”’”

“Whew! I suppose she tried to climb it,” said Caddy. “I did once!”

“This is a good one,” said Nan; “it’s Violet’s; it almost took the prize: ‘She said, “No, I like our Hippodrome!”’”

“Oh, that’s fine!” cried Patty, clapping her hands. “Why didn’t I think of that? It was so hard to find a rhyme.”

“But here’s the prize one. It’s Milly’s. I think you’ll have to yield her the palm for composition. I’ll read the whole this time.

You see, this fits into the spirit of the first part so well. You can fairly see the young tourist bored to death, tired, hurried, flurried, dazed, with sight-seeing, but bound to go on with it; why should she like things here? Oh, Milly, yours is best.”

Most of them agreed with this, and though Flo and the two Van Winkles secretly thought Milly’s line rather commonplace, they didn’t say so.

Then the pretty prize was bestowed on Milly, and her eyes shone with pleasure and justifiable pride in her own success.

And when the party broke up she said to Mr. Homer:

“I’ve had a lovely time, and I’m glad it rained, and we couldn’t go driving.”

“That’s a good girl,” he responded, “and I’m jolly glad you took the prize, and we’ll have that drive yet, too.”