This, I knew, was useless. We should not start calling till late. Besides, I should be hopelessly dressed up.
“Well,” said Delia, soothingly, “we’ll go anyhow. Are you going to call where there’s children?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, darkly. “We never do.”
That afternoon was one whose warm air was almost thickened by sun. The maple buds were just widening into little curly leaves; shadows were beginning to show; and everywhere was that faint ripple of running water in which Spring speaks. But then there was I, in my best dress, my best coat, my best shoes, my new hat, and gloves, faring forth to make calls.
This meant merely that there were houses where dwelt certain Grown-ups who expected me to be brought periodically to see them, an expectation persevered in, I believe, solely as a courtesy to my family. Twice a year, therefore, we set out; and the days selected were, as this one, invariably the crown and glory of all days: Days meet for cleaning out the playhouse, for occupying homes scraped with a shingle in the softened soil, for assisting at bon-
