The Go-lightly club is sixteen Red Barns ladies--and me--that’s all passed the sixty-year-old mark, and has had to begin to go lightly. We picked the name as being so literal, grievous-true as to our powers and, same time, airy and happy sounding, just like we hope we’ll be clear up to the last of the last of us. We had a funny motto and, those days, it use’ to be a secret. We’d lit on it when we was first deciding to have the club. “What do we _want_ a club for anyhow?” old Mis’ Lockmeyer had said, that don’t really enjoy anything that she ain’t kicked out at first. “Why,” says little Mis’ Pettibone, kind of gentle and final, “just to kind of make life nice.” “Well,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer, “we got to go awful light on it, our age.” And we put both them principles into our constitution: “Name: The name of this club shall be the Go-lightly club, account of the character of its members. “Object: The object of this club shall be to make life nice. “No officers. No dues. No real regular meetings. “Picnic supper when any.” And Mis’ Wilme had insisted on adding: “Every-day clothes or not so much so.” Our next meeting was going to be at Mis’ Elkhorn’s that lives out of town about two miles along the old Tote road, and we was looking forward to it considerable. We’d put it off several times; one week the ice-cream sociable was going to be, and one week the circus was to the next town, and so on--we never like to interfere with any other social going-ons. None of us having a horse, we hired the rig--that’s the three-seat canopy-top from the livery--and was all drove out together by Jem Meddledipper. And it was real nice and festive, with our lunch baskets all piled up in the back and, as Mis’ Wilme put it: “Nothing to do till time to set the pan-cakes.” And when we got outside the City limits--we’re just a village, but we’ve got ’em marked “City Limits,” because that always seems the name of ’em--Mis’ Pettibone, that’s a regular one for entering into things--you know some just is and some just ain’t and the two never change places on no occasion whatever--she kind of pitched in and sung in her nice little voice that she calls her sopralto, because it ain’t placed much of any place. She happened on a church piece--I donno if you know it?--the one that’s got a chorus that goes first “Loving-kindness” all wavy, like a little stream trickling along; and then another part chimes in, “Loving-kindness” all wavy, like another little stream trickling along, and then everybody clamps down on “Loving-kindness--oh, how great!” like the whole nice sweep of the river? Well, that was the one she sung. And being it’s a terrible catchy tune, and most of us was brought up on it and has been haunted by it for days together from bed to bed, we all more or less joined in with what little vocal pans we had, and we sung it off and on all the way out.