“I know,” says Mis’ Wilme, “when my niece was here from the City she said she had eighty on her calling list. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘I’ve got that many if I count the graves I know.’” “Most of my acquaintances,” says Mis’ Lockmeyer, sighing, “is in their coffins. I says to my husband when I looked over the _Daily_ the other night: That most of the Local Items and Supper Table Jottings for me now would have to be dated Cemetery Lot.” “I know, ladies,” says Mis’ Puppy, dreamy, “but ain’t it real aristocratic to live in a place so long that you know all the graves. We ain’t got much else to be aristocratic about. But that’s real like them county families you read about,” she says. And up flared Mis’ Pettibone. “I donno’s there’s any need to make it so pointed to us that ain’t lived here so very long,” she said, “and that ain’t any friends at all in your Cemetery.” “Oh, well,” says Mis’ Puppy, indulgent, “of course there’s them distinctions in any town.” I was just feeling thankful from my bones out that they hadn’t met to my house, with Donnie staying home, when Mis’ Elkhorn come in from the kitchen to tell us supper was ready. And when she opened the door the smell of hot waffles come a dilly-nipping in, and it made me feel so kind of cozy and busy and alive and glad that I burst right out: “Shucks, ladies!” I says. “So be we peck around for ’em I bet we could find things to fuss over right till the hearse backs up to the door.” They all laughed a little then, but that was part from feeling embarrassed at going out to supper, like you always are. And when we did get out there, everybody scrabbled around to get away from whoever had just been her enemy. We didn’t say much while we et--like you don’t in company; and I set there thinking: “The Go-lightly club. The Go-lightly club. To make life nice.” And I thought how we’d sung that song of ours all the way out. And I made up my mind that, after supper, when they was feeling limber from food, I’d try to say something about it. But I didn’t. I just got started on it--introduced by telling ’em some nice little things about Donnie’s sayings and doings to my house, when Mis’ Lockmeyer broke in, sympathetic. “Ain’t he a great care?” says she. “Yes,” says I, “he is. And so is everything on top of this earth that’s worth having. Life thrown in.” And then I see they was all rustling to go home--giving reasons of clothes to sprinkle or bread to set or grandchild to put to bed or plants to cover up. So I kep’ still, and mogged along home with ’em. But I did say to Mis’ Pettibone on the back seat: “We better quit off club. If we can’t meet folks without laying awake nights over the things that’s been said to us, we better never meet. ‘To make life nice,’” says I. “Ain’t club a travnasty, or whatever that word is?”