STITCH-stitch-stitch.

Six needles nibbled at the gay scraps of cotton cloth. Six pairs of scissors went snip, snip, snip as the Brownie Scouts worked at their sewing in the Williams’ living room.

The girls were making a crazy quilt. Dark-eyed Veve McGuire, who hated to sew, declared that the task was as silly as the quilt’s name.

“Oh, bother!” she exclaimed as her thread tangled into an ugly knot. “Why not pitch this old thing and think of an easier way to earn money?”

“I don’t mind sewing,” piped up Rosemary Fritche, who always liked to be cooperative.

“Neither do I,” chimed in Connie Williams. A leader among the Brownies, she had worked very hard to make the organization a success.

“But sewing a quilt is a lot of work,” sighed Sunny Davidson.

Eileen Webber and Jane Tuttle, the other two girls who made up the Rosedale Brownie Scout troop, nodded sober agreement.

Miss Jean Gordon, the Brownie leader, had suggested weeks before that the girls sew and sell the quilt to raise money.

No one wanted to be disloyal or lazy. But the girls had stitched steadily for nearly six meetings now. Even for Connie and Rosemary, who liked to sew, the task was becoming a bit tiresome.

“How else could we make money?” speculated Jane. She folded her patchwork and gazed thoughtfully at Veve.

“W-e-ll—” Veve was unprepared for the question. “We could tend babies maybe. Or run errands.”

“Everyone thinks we’re too young to look after babies—for pay, that is!” returned Jane, tossing her long, yellow pigtails.

“And folks always forget to offer money when you do something for them,” added Eileen.

“Well, there must be some way we could earn money,” Veve insisted. “Maybe there’s an advertisement in the paper.”

Taking the afternoon paper from the table, she spread it out before her on the rug.

Veve was still studying the ads when Miss Gordon came briskly into the living room. The Brownie leader, who also taught fourth grade, had brought a plate of freshly baked cookies and a pitcher of chocolate milk.

“Any tired little Brownies here?” she asked in her cheery voice. Miss Gordon was very pretty, always pleasant, and the girls loved her.

“We all are,” answered Connie Williams, and the others nodded in agreement.

“Piecing blocks is hard work,” grumbled Veve. “The thread tangles. Besides, I pricked my finger twice!”

“Dear me, I’m afraid this session of sewing has run on a little too long,” replied the Brownie leader. “But making a quilt is so worth while. And you’ve done splendidly!”

Miss Gordon placed the pitcher of milk on the table as she bent to inspect the pieced blocks.

All the Brownies except Veve had done very well indeed. So rapidly had the quilt grown, that very soon it would be ready for the quilting frames.

Now the coverlet was an amazing thing. Blocks were of all color, shape and size. A red triangle of cloth taken from one of Connie’s cotton frocks, snuggled against a square which once had been part of Eileen’s outgrown black checked jumper.

Even the stitching was different. Rosemary had used beautiful feather stitching. Connie had pieced her blocks with a briar stitch. Veve had used very plain and long ones.

Nevertheless, the over-all effect was pleasing despite the “crazy” hit-or-miss pattern which gave the quilt its name.

“My thread knotted,” Veve explained. Out of the corner of her eyes, she had noticed that Miss Gordon frowned as she examined a badly stitched orange block. “Anyway, I don’t like to sew!”

“Why, Veve!” Miss Gordon smiled at the little girl. “Our lovely quilt is nearly finished now.”

First she unknotted the tangled thread and sewed a few neat stitches just to encourage Veve.

Then she told the Brownies they might put away their patchwork for the day. Connie and Sunny began to pass the cookies and glasses of cool milk.

Veve scarcely nibbled at her cookie. Instead, she kept reading the advertising page of the paper.

“I wish I could find an easy way to make money,” she mumbled. “Only no one seems to want a baby sitter.”

Miss Gordon began to tell the girls about the various types of quilts.

“Beautiful patterns were originated by pioneer women who outdid themselves to see how cleverly they could piece the blocks,” she declared. “Many of our earliest American patterns were adapted from designs on rugs and shawls brought to this country from Europe and the Orient.”

“Quilt patterns have names too,” declared Rosemary eagerly.

“Indeed, they do. Can you mention any of them, Rosemary?”

“‘The Hand of Friendship,’ and the ‘Pine Cone.’ My mother has one she calls an ‘Album’ quilt.”

“Altogether, there are hundreds of patterns,” explained the Brownie leader. “Some of the better quilts were signed with the name of the maker.”

“Is that the same thing as an autograph quilt?” asked Connie. She had heard her mother speak of such a coverlet.

“No, in a true autograph quilt, each block was inscribed with the name of the person who made it,” Miss Gordon replied. “Many of the blocks were dated.”

“Were the names stitched on?” inquired Sunny, reaching for her third sugar cookie.

“Sometimes they were. Then again they often were written on the block with indelible pencil or ink. These old type quilts are historically important.”

Having ended her little talk, Miss Gordon handed around several books which showed quilt patterns in beautiful colors.

Veve, however, was too deeply absorbed in the newspaper to look at the pictures when they were passed to her.

“Girls, how would you like to have a quilt show?” Miss Gordon asked unexpectedly.

All the Brownies pricked up their ears and listened hard. Even Veve forgot for a minute that she didn’t much care for anything connected with quilts.

“How can we have a show when the only quilt we own isn’t finished?” This practical question came from Connie.

Miss Gordon explained that she did not expect the Brownies to sew all the quilts which would be displayed in the show.

No, indeed! Instead, she proposed that the girls borrow from their acquaintances as many different types as they could.

“I can bring my mother’s album quilt!” Rosemary offered eagerly.

“I know where I can get a beautiful orange and yellow one,” added Connie. “It’s called the ‘Sunburst’ pattern and is out of this world!”

The girls chattered excitedly, discussing where they could obtain quilts to display in the Brownie show. Veve, however, was more interested in the advertisement page of the Rosedale Herald.

Suddenly she uttered a squeal of delight. “Say, I’ve found it! This ad is just the thing!”

“Oh, who wants to be a baby sitter?” scoffed Eileen. “Having a quilt show will be more fun.”

“Who’s talking about being an old baby sitter?” Veve thrust the newspaper page under the other girl’s eyes. “This is a chance to make real money!”

“Doing what?” demanded Sunny skeptically.

“Picking cherries.”

Veve’s announcement took the Brownies so by surprise that they stopped eating cookies.

“Where?” questioned Connie. Although she intended to remain loyal to Miss Gordon and the quilt show, she couldn’t help being interested.

“Just read the ad!” Veve had jumped up from the rug and was prancing around the room like a frisky steed.

“How can anyone read it with you hopping up and down?” Eileen demanded. “Hold still a minute!”

As Veve quieted down, the Brownies crowded around to see the advertisement for themselves.

It read: “Cherry Pickers Wanted Immediately. Two Cents a Pound. Apply Wingate Farm, Rt. 1, Clove Rd.”

“Two cents a pound!” Veve chortled. “I bet I could pick a hundred pounds in just a few minutes.”

“Like fun you could,” scoffed Jane Tuttle. “Where is Clove Road anyhow?”

“Just at the edge of town,” supplied Connie. “I’ve seen the Wingate Farm too. We drove past it one Sunday afternoon when the cherries were in bloom. Oh, the orchard was pretty then!”

“Cherry picking might not be so bad,” spoke up Sunny Davidson. “And we could earn money fast.”

Miss Gordon waited until the Brownies had talked about the matter for a while. Then she said:

“Girls, not for anything would I discourage you in any of your plans. However, I think cherry picking might be very hard work. Perhaps more tiring than sewing quilt blocks.”

“It would be exciting though,” Veve cut in quickly. “We’d earn a lot of money too for our troop.”

“I’m a little afraid the advertisement may have been intended for grownups,” the Brownie Scout leader went on.

“You mean they wouldn’t take children as pickers?” Veve asked, her disappointment keen. “Why, we’d be good at it.”

“I’m sure you would, dear. It’s possible they’d take Brownies, but—”

“Then why don’t we do it?” Veve broke in before the teacher could finish. She was eager to have the matter decided at once.

“We really know nothing about Wingate Farm—”

“I’ll find out!” Veve offered. “As soon as the Brownie meeting is over, I’ll ride out there on the bus and talk to the man in charge.”

Miss Gordon smiled at her enthusiasm.

“I suppose it will do no harm to investigate,” she admitted. “But you mustn’t go alone or without your mother’s consent.”

“I’ll telephone her.”

Veve’s mother worked in a downtown office. However, the little girl knew how to reach her.

The Brownies talked about the matter for quite a while.

“Why don’t we appoint Veve and Connie to find out all about it?” Rosemary proposed, winding up the discussion. “That is, if their mothers will let them go.”

“That’s what I think too,” chimed in Sunny.

So the decision was reached that the two girls, after obtaining permission, should make the trip to Wingate Farm that very afternoon.

Upon their return they were to report to Miss Gordon, who would notify the other Brownies.

“We’ll have to work fast to get the job,” Veve said anxiously. “I imagine a lot of people may have read the advertisement.”

The meeting now broke up with all the girls singing the Brownie organization song.

Immediately afterwards, Veve telephoned her mother to ask if she might go to the orchard. The distance by bus was not far.

“Why, yes, if Connie is going with you,” Mrs. McGuire consented after hearing the plan. “But don’t stay late.”

Meanwhile, Connie had gone to the kitchen to talk to her mother.

Mrs. Williams was quite busy washing dishes the Brownies had used for their refreshments.

“If only I had the car this afternoon, I gladly would drive you out to the orchard,” she told her daughter. “How far is it, dear?”

“Oh, not far,” Connie assured her. “Veve and I don’t mind a bit going by bus. We’ll be back long before dark.”

“If you can wait until tomorrow, I’ll have the car.”

“We don’t dare wait, Mother. If we do, other folks will get the job instead of our Brownie organization.”

Mrs. Williams knew that this might be true. So after thinking a moment, she said Connie might go.

The two girls wore their Brownie beanies and put on light coats over their brown pinchecked uniforms. Mrs. Williams gave Connie enough bus fare for both girls.

Veve frequently took a bus downtown and knew which one they must catch to reach the outskirts of Rosedale.

“It’s marked ‘Crosstown,’” she told Connie. “I don’t think the bus runs very often though. We’ll have to watch sharp or we may miss it.”

In about ten minutes along came a yellow bus which had “Crosstown” printed on a card in the front window.

When it stopped at the curb, Veve and Connie climbed aboard. They dropped their fare into the box.

Then, just to make certain they were going the right direction, Veve said to the driver:

“This bus goes to Wingate Farm, doesn’t it?”

“Where’s Wingate Farm?” he asked. By this time the bus was moving.

“It’s on Clove Road,” shouted Connie. She had to yell to make herself heard above the roar of the big motor and the clash of gears.

“Clove Road?” The bus driver shook his head. “This bus only goes to the city line. Clove Road’s a half mile beyond.”

Connie and Veve were aghast.

“Then we’re on the wrong bus!” Connie exclaimed.

“You can transfer at the city line,” the driver said, stopping for a traffic light. “You’ll have a twenty minute wait. Board a Fulton bus and it will take you directly to Wingate Farm. Coming back you may be able to catch a Rosedale bus which will eliminate the twenty minute wait. Got it?”

Connie and Veve weren’t at all certain that they understood.

So they asked the driver to say it over once more. To make sure she wouldn’t forget, Connie then wrote it down on paper.

“If we have to wait twenty minutes each way, we may be late getting home,” she said anxiously as they took seats.

“Oh, we can hurry after we get to Wingate orchard,” Veve replied. She was not in the least worried.

The nearly empty bus whizzed along at a fast clip.

Soon it had arrived at the city line and the end of the run. The friendly bus driver told the girls it was time to get off.

“Don’t forget,” he directed them. “The Fulton bus stops across the street. It should come along in twenty minutes. Don’t miss it, because after it leaves, another isn’t due for a long while.”

“We won’t miss it,” laughed Veve. “A Brownie Scout always is punctual.”

“Some Brownies are,” Connie corrected with a laugh.

She was thinking that upon more than one occasion Veve had been tardy for Brownie meetings. Once too, when the troop was on its way to Snow Valley, she had nearly missed the train.

However, Connie was not really worried about catching the bus.

The girls alighted and stretched their legs a bit.

“We have lots of time to look around,” Veve remarked. “Twenty whole minutes.”

They gazed into a drugstore window before crossing the street to the other bus stop.

“Let’s get a dish of ice cream,” Veve proposed. “One with nuts and whipped cream on it.”

This suggestion Connie promptly turned down.

“Why, Veve, you greedy girl! Didn’t you have milk and cookies at the meeting?”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago. I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Connie accused. “We might miss our bus if we don’t stay right here.”

“Oh, all right.” Reluctantly, Veve gave up the idea. “It will be tiresome waiting, though.”

The girls seated themselves at the curb, watching cars whiz past.

After a while, Connie arose and sauntered a short distance down the walk. She tried stepping over each crack. It seemed to make the time pass faster. The little girl had counted twelve cracks when she paused near a large white house. Something in the back yard drew and held her attention.

“Look, Veve!” she exclaimed.

On a clothes line hung a freshly washed green and white patterned quilt.

“Oh, isn’t it a dream!” she exclaimed.

“It’s as nice as any of those pictures Miss Gordon showed us,” Veve agreed, joining her friend.

“Wouldn’t it look beautiful in that show we’re going to have?”

“Grand, Connie. Let’s ask if we may have it!”

“Oh, no, Veve.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t know who owns it for one thing.”

“Well, it won’t take long to find out. Come on!” Veve seized Connie’s hand, pulling her a few steps along the sidewalk.

“We might miss our bus, Veve.”

“Oh, we have plenty of time. Anyway, it will take only a jiffy.”

Against her will, Connie allowed herself to be led along.

Pausing only a moment to admire the green and white quilt, the girls went directly to the door and rapped. A long while elapsed before they heard footsteps.

Meanwhile, Connie kept her eyes on the bus stop.

Finally, a pleasant-faced woman in a blue house dress came to the door. She smiled in a very friendly way when she saw the girls, for she recognized their Brownie uniforms.

“Well, I declare! Brownies!” she greeted them. “I’ll venture you’re selling cookies.”

“Oh, no,” Connie said breathlessly. “We saw your quilt on the line. It’s very beautiful.”

“The green and white one?” the woman asked, pleased that the girls had noticed it. “My mother made that particular one. It’s called the ‘Sawtooth’ pattern.”

“We were wondering—” Connie became a trifle ill at ease, then went quickly on, “—you see, our Brownie Troop is planning a quilt show. Miss Gordon—she’s our leader—asked each Brownie to get as many quilts as possible to display. So we thought—”

“We thought you might be willing to let us have your quilt—just for the show, that is,” Veve cut in quickly. “We will have to have your answer right away.”

“Right away?” the lady repeated. “Dear me, you have taken me so by surprise. I suppose you might have the quilt if I were certain it would be returned in good condition.”

“Oh, thank you,” Connie said gratefully. “We can’t take the quilt now, but we’ll come back later for it.”

“Dear me, you are in a hurry,” observed the lady. “You haven’t even told me your names or the troop to which you belong.”

Connie supplied the information, all the while keeping her eye on the bus stop. It seemed to her that twenty minutes must be nearly up.

“My name is Mrs. Grayson,” said the nice lady. “I have several other quilts, though none quite as nice as the ‘Sawtooth.’ But I do have something you should see!”

“What is that?” asked Veve.

“An old woven coverlet. It is blue and white and shows the face of George Washington.”

“The first president of the United States!” exclaimed Connie in awe.

“Yes, the coverlet is an historical treasure. It is in perfect condition. You really should have it for your exhibit as it is much nicer than the Sawtooth quilt.”

“And may we?” Connie asked eagerly.

“We’ll see,” promised Mrs. Grayson. “Before we decide, I’ll show it to you.”

By this time both Connie and Veve were becoming uneasy about how fast time was slipping away.

“We have to catch a bus,” Connie explained regretfully. “Please, may we come back tomorrow to see the coverlet?”

“Of course. What bus are you taking?”

“The Fulton,” Connie replied. “It’s due here almost any minute.”

“It’s more than due!” broke in Veve shrilly. “It’s coming!”

With a little squeal of dismay, she seized Connie’s hand. Not even taking time to say good-bye to Mrs. Grayson, they made a dash for it.

Already the bus had pulled up at its regular stop. Only two passengers alighted and not a single one got on.

“Hey, the driver’s not going to wait!” Veve cried in panic. “He hasn’t seen us!”

“Wait!” shrieked Connie. “Wait for us!”

Both girls were running as fast as they could and waving their arms.

The bus driver, however, did not see them. Already several minutes behind schedule, he slammed the door, and drove away.

For an instant, Connie and Veve were too stunned to say a word.

They gazed down the road at the fast disappearing bus, and then looked at each other.

“Brownies always are so punctual,” Connie said at length. “Oh, sure!”

“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Veve replied in a subdued voice. “It—it just happened.”

“And now we’re stranded here.” Connie sounded a bit frightened, as indeed she was. “The driver told us another bus wouldn’t be along for a long time. Now what are we going to do?”