t, and to make ready the pan of
custard, and to "stir up" the sunshine cake. I could guess how the
pleasant bustle in my kitchen would hurt them by its holiday air, and I
carried them off to see my Cloth-o'-Gold rose which had opened in the
night, to the very crimson heart of it. And I told them of the seven
guests whom, after all, Calliope had actually contrived to marshal to
her dinner. And in the midst of our almost gay speculation on this, they
went at their share of the task.

The three moved about their offices gravely at first, Libbie Liberty
keeping her back to us as she worked, Miss Viny scrupulously intent on
the delicate clatter of the egg-beater, Miss Lucy with eyes downcast on
the sage she rolled. I noted how Calliope made little excuses to pass
near each of them, with now a touch of the hand and now a pat on a
shoulder, and all the while she talked briskly of ways and means and
recipes, and should there be onions in the dressing or should there not
be? We took a vote on this and were about to chop the onions in when
Mis' Holcomb's little maid arrived at my kitchen door with a bowl of
oysters which Mis' Holcomb had had left from the 'scallop, an' wouldn't
we like 'em in the stuffin'? Roast turkey stuffed with oysters! I saw
Libbie Liberty's eyes brighten so delightedly that I brought out a jar
of seedless raisins and another of preserved cherries to add to the
custard, and then a bag of sweet almonds to be blanched and split for
the cake o' sunshine. Surely, one of us said, the seven guests could be
preparing for their Thanksgiving dinner with no more zest than we were
putting into that dinner for their sakes.

"Seven guests!" we said over and again. "Calliope, how did you do it?
When everybody says there's nobody in Friendship that's either sick or
poor?"

"Nobody sick, nobody poor!" Calliope exclaimed, piling a dish with
watermelon pickles. "Land, you might think that was the town motto.
Well, the town don't know everything. Don't you ask me so many
questions."

Before eleven o'clock Mis' Mayor Uppers tapped at my back door, with two
deep-dish cherry pies in a basket, and a row of her delicate, feathery
sponge cakes and a jar of pineapple and pie-plant preserves "to chink
in." She drew a deep breath and stood looking about the kitchen.

"Throw off your things an' help, Mis' Uppers," Calliope admonished her,
one hand on the cellar door. "I'm just goin' down for some sweet
potatoes Mis' Holcomb sent o