"Well," said Dick, "let's do things that don't cost money, then. Father said the streets and lanes ought to be kept in better order. Let's go around and pick up the old cans and things." "No, thank you," said Marjorie, turning up her small nose. "I'm no ragpicker." "I wouldn't do that, either," said Gladys; "that is, unless I had a horse and cart. A pony-cart, I mean; not a dump-cart. But, Dick, I heard Father talking last night, too; and he said a society like that would send out letters to the citizens, asking them to keep their yards in better order." "That's the ticket, Gladys!" cried Kingdon, admiringly. "You've struck it now. Of course that's the way to accomplish what we are after, in a dignified manner. Let's write a lot of those letters, and then when the people fix their places all up, we'll say that we started the movement." "All right," said Dick, "I think that's just what Father meant. But he said 'a circular letter.' That means have it printed." "Oh, well, we can't afford to have it printed. Why, we can't scrape up postage for very many letters. Sixty 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."