You, of course, belong to Tens or to needlework guilds or to
orders of some kind, and if you are a member of the Order of the Round
Table why, of course, you are doing good in some way or other, and good
which enables one to combine social enjoyment and a grand frolic; and
the making of a purseful of gold and silver for a crippled boy, or an
aged widow, or a Sunday-school in Dakota, or a Good Will Farm in Maine,
is a splendid kind of good.
This chapter is about cements and rivets. It is also about the two
little schoolmarms.
"Let us take Mrs. Vanderhoven's pitcher to town when we go to call on
the judge with father," said Amy. "Perhaps it can be mended."
"It may be mended, but I do not think it will hold water again."
"There is a place," said Amy, "where a patient old German frau, with the
tiniest little bits of rivets that you can hardly see, and the stickiest
cement you ever did see, repairs broken china. Archie was going to sell
the pitcher. His mother had said he might. A lady at the hotel had
promised him five dollars for it as a specimen of some old pottery or
other. Then he leaped that hedge, caught his foot, fell, and that was
the end of that five dollars, which was to have gone for a new lexicon
and I don't know what else."
"It was a fortunate break for Archie. His leg will be as strong as ever,
and we'll make fifty dollars by our show. I call such a disaster an
angel in disguise."
"Mrs.
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