cents; that would mail thirty
letters."

"We can't write more than that," said Marjorie. "That would be five
apiece for all of us. And I don't know as Kit and Dorothy write well
enough, anyway."

"Dorothy does," said Kitty, generously. "But I write like hen's tracks."

"Well, you can write those that don't matter so much," said Midge,
kindly. "I'll tell you, Kitty, you can write the one to Father."

"Pooh, Father doesn't need any. Our place is always in order."

"So is ours!" cried Dick. "And ours!" piped up Dorothy.

"But don't the citizens all have to have letters?" asked Gladys. "If you
just pick out the ones who don't keep their lawns nice, they'll be mad."

"No, they won't," said Dick; "or, if they are, why, let 'em _be_ mad."

"I say so, too," agreed King. "If we write to the ones that need writing
to, we'll have all we can do. Make out a list of 'em, Dick."

"Put down Mr. Bolton first," said Gladys. "He hasn't mowed his grass all
summer. Father says his place is a disgrace to the comminity."

"Community, child," corrected her brother. "But old Bolton's place _is_
awful. So is Crane's."

"Let's write their letters now, and see how they sound," suggested King,
who was always in favor of quick action.

The club was meeting in the Maynards' big playroom, so paper and pencils
were handy.

"It ought to be in ink, I s'pose," said King, "but I hardly ever use it,
it spills about so. Let's take pencil this time."

After many suggestions and corrections on the part of each of the
interested members the following letter was achieved:

"MR. BOLTON,

"_Dear Sir_: We wish kindly to ask you to keep your place in
better order. We are trying to improve our fair city, and how
can we do it when places like yours are a disgrace to the
community? We trust you will be nice about this, and not get
mad, for we mean well, and hope you are enjoying the same
blessing."

"That's all right," said Marjorie, as Dick read it aloud. "Now, what do
we sign it?"

"Just sign it 'The Village Improvement Society,' that's all," said
Gladys.

"Wait a minute," said King. "In all letters of this sort they always
abbreviate some words; it looks more business-like."

"Mother hates abbreviations," said Marjorie; "she won't let me say
'phone for telephone, or auto for motor-car."

"That's different," said King. "She means in polite society; talking,
you know, or writing notes to your friends."

"Isn't a