"The Burton Fernandezes," says Mis' Sykes, as we picked our way back. "I guess when we write that name to our friends in our letters, they won't think we live in the woods any more. Calliope," she says, "it come to me this: Don't you think it would be real nice to get them up a reception-surprise, and all go there some night as soon as they get settled, and take our own refreshments, and get acquainted all at once, instead of using up time to call, individual?" "Land, yes," I says, "I'd like to do that to every neighbor that comes into town. But you--" says I, hesitating, to her that was usually so exclusive she counted folks's grand-folks on her fingers before she would go to call on them, "what makes you--" "Oh," says Mis' Sykes, "you can't tell me. Folks's individualities is expressed in folks's furniture. You can't tell me that, with those belongings, we can go wrong in our judgment." "Well," I says, "_I_ can't go wrong, because I can't think of anything that'd make me give them the cold shoulder. That's another comfort about being friends to everybody--you don't have to decide which ones you want to know." "You're so queer, Calliope," says Mis' Sykes, tolerant. "You miss all the satisfaction of being exclusive. And you can't _afford_ not to be." "Mebbe not," says I, "mebbe not. But I'm willing to try it. Hang the expense!" says I. Mis' Sykes didn't waste a day on her reception-surprise. I heard of it right off from Mis' Holcomb and Mis' Toplady and two-three more. They were all willing enough, not only because any excitement in the village is like a personal present to all of us, but because Mis' Sykes was interested. She's got a real gift for making folks think her way is the way. She's a real leader. Everybody wears a straw hat contented till, somewheres near November, Mis' Sykes flams out in felt, and then you begin right off to feel shabby in your straw, though new from the store that Spring. "It does seem like rushing things a little, though," says Mis' Holcomb to me, very confidential, the next day. "Not for me," I says. "I been vaccinated." "What do you mean?" says she. "Not even the small-pox can make me snub them," I explains. "Yes, but Calliope," says Mis' Toplady in a whisper, "suppose it should turn out to be one of them awful places we read about. They have good furniture." "Well," says I, "in that case, if thirty to forty of us went in with our baskets, real friendly, and done it often enough, I bet we'd either drive them out or turn them into better neighbors. Where's the harm?" "Calliope," says Mame Holcomb, "don't you draw the line _nowheres_?" "Yes," I says, mournful. "Them on Mars won't speak to me--yet. But short of Mars--no. I have no lines up."