Marjorie at Seacote. Wells Carolyn

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      "Jinks! that's gay!" exclaimed Tom. "How do you ever do it, Marjorie? I did a poem, but it doesn't run nice and slick like yours."

      "I'll read it next," said King. "I think it's pretty good.

      "That's very nice, Tom," said Marjorie, forgetting her rôle.

      "No, it isn't. It seems as if it ought to be right, and then somehow it isn't. Bathing and plaything are 'most alike, and yet they sound awful different."

      "That's so. Well, anyway, it's plenty good enough, and it's all true, Tom."

      "Yes, it's all true."

      "Then it must be right, 'cause there's a quotation or something that says truth is beauty. We wouldn't want all our poems to be just alike, you know."

      "No, I s'pose not," and Tom felt greatly encouraged by Marjorie's kind criticism.

      "Next," said King, "is our Puzzle Department. It's sort of queer, but it's Sandow's contribution, and he said to put it in, and he'd explain about it. So here it is.

      "'Sandy Prize Puzzle. Prize, a musical top, donated by the author. Question: Is the number of sands on the seashore odd or even? Anybody in this court who can answer this question truthfully will receive the prize. Signed, Sandow.'"

      "That's nonsense," cried Hester. "How can anybody tell whether we answer truthfully or not?"

      "I can tell," said Sandow, gravely. "Whoever first answers it truthfully will get the prize."

      "But it's ridiculous," said King. "In the first place, how much seashore do you mean? Only that here at Seacote, or all the Atlantic shore? Or all the world?"

      Dick considered. "I mean all the seashore in all the world," he said, at last.

      "Then that's silly, too," said Tom, "for how far does the seashore go? Just to the edge of the ocean, or all the way under?"

      "All the way under," replied Dick, solemnly.

      "Then you really mean all the sand in all the world!"

      "Yes; that's it. Of course, all the sand in all the world numbers a certain number of grains. Now, is that number odd or even?"

      "You're crazy, Dick!" said Hester, but Marjorie said, "No, he isn't crazy; I think there's a principle there somewhere, but I can't work it out."

      "I guess you can't!" said King. "I give it up."

      "So do I!" declared Tom, and at last they all gave it up.

      "Now you must answer it yourself, Dick," said King.

      "Then nobody gets the prize," objected Sandow.

      "No, you keep it yourself. Have you got one, anyhow?"

      "Yes, a nice musical top Uncle John sent to me. I've never used it much, it's as good as new. I wish somebody would guess."

      Nobody did, and Dick sighed.

      "Bet you can't answer your old puzzle, yourself," said Hester.

      "Yes, I can," averred Dick, "but you must ask it to me."

      "All right," said King. "Mr. Sandow, honorable and noble courtier of Sand Court, is the number of sea sands odd or even? Answer truthfully now."

      "I don't know," replied Dick, "and that's the truth!"

      How they all laughed! It was a quibble, of course, but the Maynard children were surprised at themselves that they hadn't seen through the catch.

      Dick sat on the sand, rocking back and forth with laughter.

      "The witch ought to have guessed it," he cried; "or else the Queen ought to."

      "Yes, my courtier, we ought," Marjorie admitted. "You caught us fairly, and we hereby give you the post of wizard of this court. Sand Piper, what's next in your journal?"

      "The next is a poem by the Honorable Edward Maynard. That is, he wrote part of it, and then, as he had to go to New York on business, his honorable wife finished it. Here it is:

      "Gee, that's real poetry, that is!" exclaimed Tom. "Say, your people are poets, aren't they?"

      "Why, I think they are," said Marjorie, "but Father says they're not."

      "I'd like a copy of that poem," said Hester, looking very serious.

      "All right," said King, catching the witch's glance. "I'll make you a nice typewritten copy of it to-morrow."

      "And now, my royal Sand Piper, is there any more poetic lore for us to listen to?"

      "Aye, my liege Queen, there is one more poem. This is a real poem also, but it is of the humorous variety. It was composed by the mother of our royal Sand Witch, and was freely contributed to our paper by that estimable lady. Methinks she mistook our club for a debating club, and yet, perhaps not. This may be merely a flight of fancy, such as poets are very fond of, I am told. I will now read Mrs. Corey's contribution: