This was about the last of Prudy’s going to school.  In the first place she was very tired of it, in the second place it was vacation, and in the third place the whole family were going to Willowbrook on a visit.

It was very pleasant at grandpa Parlin’s at any time.  Such a stout swing in the big oil-nut tree!  Such a beautiful garden, with a summer-house in it!  Such a nice cosy seat in the trees!  So many “cubby holes” all about to hide in!

But this summer I speak of was pleasanter than ever; for the Western cousins, Grace and Horace Clifford, had come from Indiana to visit their friends in Maine.  The Parlin children had not seen them for two years; but Grace and Susy became fast friends in a very short time, while little Prudy was thrown one side for Horace to take care of when he could stop.

“O dear suz,” said she, one morning, “I’m so glad there happened to be a world, and God made me!”

“What, you here, Prudy?” said grandma Parlin.  “What made you get up so early?”

“O, the flies waked me, I s’pose.  I was dreaming about my pignig.  I thought I had it on top o’ the trees.”

“Ah, it’s the day for Grace’s party, sure enough,” said her grandmother, sighing a little, and stirring faster at her drop-cake.

“You mean my party,” said Prudy, dancing around the table.  “The party b’longs to me.  You didn’t know that, did you?”

“You’d better go and talk to your aunt Madge,” said grandma, “I’m busy.”

“O,” said Prudy, “I guess you ain’t glad I got up.  I tried to keep asleep, grandma, but the flies waked me.”

Prudy was going out of the room, but turned and came back.

“Grandma,” said she, “if you love me, why don’t you hug me?”

“O, I can’t stop, dear,” said grandma, laughing; “we can’t hug little girls all the time.”

But she did it.

After a while Grace, and Horace, and Susy came down stairs, and then there was a great time.  As soon as breakfast was over, kind aunt Madge promised to make out a list of the little folks to be invited.

“First of all,” said she, “are you going to have boys and girls, or only girls?”

“O, we don’t want any boys,” said cousin Grace, tossing her head; “they race round, and act so.”

“Of course we don’t want ’em,” said Susy.  “I’d laugh if we’d got to have a lot of noisy boys.”

“Poh! we don’t want boys,” echoed Prudy.  “They are pickin’ fusses all the time.”

Cousin Horace stood by aunt Madge’s chair, looking quite forlorn, but too proud to say a word.

“See here, Horace,” said Grace, very grandly, “we think you’d better go a-strawberrying to-day.”

“I reckon I won’t if I don’t want to,” said Horace, working the flag out of his cap.  He knew the girls thought he was almost always in the way.

“I want to tell you something, Horace,” said aunt Madge, stroking his hair.  “Mr. Allen is going out to North Pond with some other gentleman, fishing, and I begged him to let you go; and he said he would, though he wouldn’t take the girls for any thing.”

“There, girls,” cried Horace, with beaming face.  “Did Mr. Allen truly say so, auntie?  Of course he wouldn’t have girls go.  If we caught a fish, how they would scream; wouldn’t they, though?”

Horace darted off to find Mr. Allen, and so he was out of the girls’ way.

“Now,” said aunt Madge, smiling, “tell me what girls you want to ask, Grace.”

So they gave several names ­Grace and Susy ­which Prudy repeated after them.

“But where is Abby Grant?” said aunt Madge.  “Don’t you want her?”

Grace and Susy looked at each other without speaking.  Prudy looked at them.

“I don’t go with such poor girls when I’m home,” said Grace.

“Nor I don’t,” said Susy.

“Nor me neither,” chimed in little Prudy, glad to know what to say.

Aunt Madge shook her curly head.  “I guess you mustn’t have a party,” said she, “if you slight good little girls because they are poor.  Why, I should ask her a great deal quicker, because it isn’t often she has any thing nice to eat at home.”

“So would I,” said Grace, looking ashamed.  “You may put her name down, auntie.”

“Yes, put her name down, auntie,” said Prudy.

Such a time as there was to get ready for that party!  Aunt Madge and aunt Louise worked with all their might, cooking nice things, and the children were too happy to keep still.  Susy’s mother had gone back to Portland.

When the first little girl arrived, Grace and Susy hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with her, and aunt Madge had to go in and set them to playing “Puss in the corner.”

The next girl that came was Abby Grant.

“I s’posed ye wouldn’t come,” said Prudy.  “We never asked you.”

“Why, child,” said Grace, blushing, “yes we did ask her, too.”

“O, so we did,” said foolish little Prudy.  “We asked you, Abby, ’cause you don’t get any thing nice to eat to your house!”

Grace didn’t shake Prudy, only because she didn’t dare to.  In a few minutes all the little girls had come, and the whole party went into the front yard to play.  Aunt Madge made believe she was a little girl, and played “Ring Round Rosy,” “Catch,” and “Button,” as hard as any body.  When they had played till they were all out of breath, aunt Louise sent them to the summer-house in the garden to rest, while she and aunt Madge set the table in the front yard.  O, the apple puffs, and lemon tarts, and little seed cakes, and frosted cake, and candy, looked so good to poor little Abby Grant!  Then the raspberries, like red coral, and the white currants, like round pearls!  Then the flowers, fresh from the garden!

The children sat on the double steps of the long piazza to eat their supper.  They had plenty of room, and it was nice fun to peep round the great white pillars at their neighbors’ plates, and whisper to one another, “I’m having a grand time, ain’t you?” “What splendid cake!” “Don’t you wish you lived here?”

And the two aunties smiled, and said to each other, ­

“It is worth all our trouble to see these children so happy.”

After the table was cleared away they sang several pieces, and Prudy’s sweet little voice filled all the pauses with some funny little chorus of her own.

When the party broke up, the children were quite tired out, and glad to go to bed.

“Well,” said Grace, as they went slowly upstairs, “didn’t my picnic go off nicely?”

“Your pignig?” said Prudy; “why it b’longs to me!  I had it myself.”

“Hush,” said Susy.  “Cousin Grace came two thousand miles to see us, and grandma promised her this party, and she had it.”

“There, now, Susy,” said Prudy, much grieved, “I’ve got a cent, and I was goin’ to buy you some shiny shoes, but now I shan’t.”

Grace and Susy could not help laughing, and poor tired little Prudy could not bear that.

“There,” cried she, “don’t you do that again!  If you’ll say ’twas my pignig, Susy Parlin, then I’ll kiss you; but if you say it isn’t, I won’t speak to you again ­never in my world!”

“Well, it wasn’t your picnic ­so there,” said Susy.

Prudy settled her cheek to the pillow.

“Susy Parlin,” said she, drowsily, “I ain’t a-goin’ to speak to you again ­till ­you ­say ­’twas ­my ­pig ­”

But in the middle of a word Prudy made a mistake and dropped off to sleep.