CHAPTER XII.

THE END OF THE YEAR AND OF THE POST-OFFICE.

CHRISTMAS had come and gone, and it was the last day of the year. The Christmas tree still stood in the bay-window, and Tommy Traddles had not ceased to find delight in setting in motion with his paw the decorative balls within his reach on the lower limbs, and eying wistfully those that hung higher. The fire burned brightly on the hearth, and the snow fell swiftly and silently outside, drifting like a white veil across the window, and heaping itself on the sills.

Margery sat watching it listlessly, swinging the curtain cord, and wondering what made the others so long. The post-office had languished of late, having been crowded out of mind by the holiday preparations and the colder weather. No one would confess to being tired of it, but sometimes there were two or three days between the delivery of mails, which were steadily growing lighter; indeed, no one but Lady Alma Cara and Mr. Oliver Twist were still faithful correspondents.

At last Trix and Amy came running in the gate, and Margery sprang to meet them. They stamped the snow off in the vestibule, and took off their things in the hall, where Trix had a struggle with her rubber boots, which, as she needlessly observed, were growing too small for her.

"Now what shall we do?" demanded Trix, as they came into the sitting-room, bringing with them such an atmosphere of out-of-doors that Tommy Traddles retired to the hearth-rug.

"Why, I'm looking for Jack," answered Margery. "He has some secret which he wouldn't tell me, but he said he'd come over this afternoon surely and tell me. He said it was half good and half bad, and I can't think what it can be."

"I don't believe it's much," said Trix sceptically. "Jack has such lots of notions."

But Margery shook her head.

"This is something," she began, when Amy interrupted her.

"I hear him now, coming through the back way," she said, and had scarcely spoken when Jack appeared, half a dozen cookies in each hand and busy with another.

"Winnie's baking," he explained, not very clear in speech, "and I helped myself. They're prime; have one," and he offered each girl a cookie with princely generosity.

"Now, Jack, what's your secret?" demanded Margery. "Are you going to tell me to-day? Mind those crumbs; this room's been swept this morning."

Jack nodded energetically, signifying in pantomime that he would tell them as soon as the cookies had disappeared; so there was nothing to do but wait for this to happen with what patience they could summon. At last the final morsel vanished, and after a provokingly elaborate brushing of his knees, and careful sweeping up of crumbs with the hearth-brush, Jack seated himself on the edge of a chair, and looked from one to the other.

"Oh, tell me, Jack; hurry up!" cried Margery, while Trix threw a down pillow at him, which he caught, saying:

"Thank you," putting it at his back. "Do you want me to tell you, Megsy?" he asked. "Well, I'm going away to school."

A thunderbolt in the midst of the snow could not have produced greater consternation.

"Jack!" cried all three in tones of horror. "You're not."

"Yes, I am; papa has decided. I am going next Monday."

"To boarding-school?" asked Trix, regret at his going and envy struggling in her face.

"Yes; you see, papa thinks I can prepare for my First Communion better in the school than here, and you know I want to make it with you next June."

"Oh!" cried Margery, who had been sitting in speechless grief, a little ray of light breaking into the gloom of her face. "Then you're not going far?"

"Oh, no; only in town. I can come home at Easter, and June will soon be here," replied Jack.

"And we can write to him," said Amy, trying as usual to see a bright side.

"But it will be so lonesome without Jack," said Margery, her voice quivering, for she had never had a brother, and this cousin had been all to her that a brother could be.

"It's a pity he must go," said Trix, tilting one foot up and down on the toe of her slipper, which she thus slipped on and off at the heel in a pensive manner; "but as Amy says, we can write to him, and the post-office will be more fun again," thus admitting by implication what no one had been willing to confess, that the post-office was less delightful than at first.

Silence followed this remark. Amy and Margery looked at one another.

"We should have to take the post-office in the house," Trix went on, continuing her line of thought. "No one could go down into the orchard for mail all winter."

"And what house could we put it in?" asked Margery. "None of us wants to be postmaster all the time now, though we did at first, and it would be a nuisance for any of us to have to go into some one else's house to take care of the mails."

Neither liked to be the one to propose discontinuing it, but Jack did not mind, because since he was going away he could not bear his part in it that winter in any case.

"Why not give up the post-office?" he asked. "We'd be the H. T. C. just the same, and you're all sick of it anyway."

"You are too," said Trix, indirectly admitting that she was.

"Well, even if I weren't, I couldn't play post-office this winter," Jack replied. "I say, let's get the post-office in here, and burn it for a farewell ceremony, and then if we want to have another I'll make one next summer. Anyhow, this one's warped."

Trix cheered up.

"Let's," she said briefly.

"Burn our post-office!" Amy gasped.

Margery looked happier.

"And I could write an ode, and we'd read it while it burned. But you'd have to ask Alma Cara and Mr. Oliver Twist first, Jack, because they're members. You go there, and while you're gone I'll write the ode."

"First let's vote on whether we burn it or not," said Jack. "All in favor of burning the post-office please signify it by saying aye."

"Aye," said Trix and Margery unanimously.

"How do you vote when you want to and don't want to?" asked Amy.

"You decide which you want more," said Margery.

"O Amy, you goose, we'll have another next summer, if we want one, and what's the use of a post-office without Jack," said Trix impatiently.

"Sure enough," said Amy. "Well, I vote aye, then."

"Now once more," cried Jack. "All in favor say aye."

"Aye," cried the four voices.

"Now, Jack, run up to Mr. Dean's while I write an ode," said Margery, and Jack went.

"They say give it up till next summer, and then decide whether to begin again," announced Jack, returning out of breath. "They say better not drag on if it's burdensome. I'm going down to the orchard to get the post-office."

"How shall we burn it?" asked Amy, when Jack came back.

"I've been thinking of the ceremonies on the way," Jack replied, depositing the post-office on the floor. "I say we all march around it three times in silence, and then each of us lay our hand on it once for farewell. And then I'll make a speech, and then we'll each take a corner and carry it to the fire and lay it on the coals, and we'll stand around and watch it burn while Margery reads the ode."

"It's awfully solemn," said Amy, shuddering.

"It's fine," said Trix. "Ode done, Margery?"

"Yes, it will do," said Margery, giving a last wild flourish with her pencil.

"Come on then," said Jack. "Move the table."

They pushed the table out of the way, and three times the members of the H. T. C. encircled the doomed post-office in solemn silence, after which each laid a hand on its top as a farewell greeting. Then with a gesture commanding silence Jack began to speak.

"This office, ladies, has served us long and faithfully, and many are the pleasures it has given us. We owe to it that our dear friend, Mr. Oliver Twist, is still with us, and it has made the Lady Alma Cara happy and done a noble work in the six months of its life. But the year is ending to-night, and the office is to end with it, because each has lasted as long as it can. We say farewell to this happy year, and we are glad that it was so happy. And we say farewell to our good post-office, and we are glad it was so good. I for one shall keep its memory dear even in the new scenes to which I am about to depart. And if the H. T. C. has a new post-office next summer we shall still love and cherish the recollection of this one, to which we now say good-by. Girls, take a corner each."

Amy sniffed outright as she lifted her end, and Margery looked excited, while Trix whispered to her, "I think Jack will be a priest, he preaches so splendidly."

They bore the little post-office to the grate, and laid it on the coals. It was wet with snow, and sputtered, and steamed awhile before it kindled. At last a little tongue of flame ran along the roof, and came out at one of the boxes.

"Now, Margery, begin your ode," whispered Jack. "Read slowly."

Margery read:

"Sweet post-office, though you are dear, The hour has come to say good-by; You end now with the ending year, And we stand here to see you die. You served us well in summer's heat; You changed two foes to man and wife; We ran to you with hurried feet, Because you were our joy in life. Though you are warped, we do not spurn; We love you still, though you are bent, And standing here to see you burn We read to you our hearts' lament. The New Year comes to-morrow morn, When one brave dove far schoolward flocks; In June, if a new office's born, We'll think your spirit's in the box, And thus you will be with us yet; Old office, we will hold you dear; Our first friend we can ne'er forget, So good-by, old office, and Old Year."

This ode, in spite of its halting in some of its feet, was hailed with rapturous approval by Margery's audience.

"There goes the last end of the office," cried Jack excitedly.

"And our post-office is over," said Amy sadly.

"And Jack's going away," added Margery.

"Only till June, and then we'll have a new office and Jack back again," said Trix.

"And the Happy Thought Club's going to last forever," cried Jack.

"Let's give three cheers for the H. T. C. as a close of the exercises. Hurry up before the box is quite gone."

The cheers were given, and then four figures curled up on the hearth-rug to watch the last embers of the post-office fade away, and build castles in the air for the future achievements of the H. T. C. in the New Year so close upon them.

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PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK.