“Sure we will, Cousin Jack,” said King, and Midget said, “Yes, indeed!  I’ll be glad to.  We can most always catch a poor child, somewhere.”

“Well, if not, just save it up till you do.  You’ll find plenty of opportunities in the winter, in Rockwell, I’m sure.”

“Yes, sir-ee!” said Midget, remembering the poor family whose house burned down not long ago.  “And I’m glad you advised us about this, Cousin Jack.  I’m going to ask the Craig boys and Hester to do it, too.”

“Better be careful, Mehitabel.  I can advise you, because we’re good chums, and I’m a little older than you, though I don’t look it!  But I’m not sure you ought to take the responsibility of advising your young friends.  You might suggest it to them,—­merely suggest it, you know, and if their agree and their parents agree, why, then, all right.  And now home to our own luncheon.  I declare it made me hungry to see those children eat!”

Promptly at three o’clock that afternoon the Sand Club gathered for the Sand-Pail Picnic.  By making two trips the Maynards’ big motor carried them all to the picnic grove, about a mile distant.

Here Cousin Jack provided all sorts of sports for them.  At a target, they shot with bows and arrows, and the boys were allowed a little rifle-shooting.

There was that funny game of picking up potatoes with teaspoons, followed by a rollicking romp at Blindman’s Buff.  Then Cousin Jack marshalled his young friends into line, and they all sang “Star-Spangled Banner,” and “Columbia,” and “America,” and cheered, and fired off mild explosives, and had a real Fourth of July celebration.  Then the feast was brought on.

The children sat cross-legged on the grass, and each one was given a tin sand-pail.

But instead of sand, the pail was found to contain sandwiches and crisp little cakes known as sand-tarts.

After these there were served dainty little paper pails, from a caterer’s, filled with ice cream.

“What a lovely sand picnic!” exclaimed Marjorie, as she sat on the sand, blissfully disposing of her ice cream.  “I’m going to call Cousin Jack, The Sandman!”

“Ho! a Sandman puts you to sleep!” cried Tom Craig; “let’s get a better name than that for Mr. Bryant.”

“Call him Sandy Claus,” piped up Dick, and they all laughed.

“A little out of season, but it’s all right, my boy,” said Cousin Jack.  “Call me anything you like, as long as you call me early and often.  Now, shall we be trotting home again, to continue our revels?”

With a sigh of utter content, Marjorie climbed into the motor, and they went spinning home to dress for the “Reception.”

At the reception more guests were invited, and Bryant Bower quite justified its pretty name.

Japanese lanterns dotted the grounds, and hung among the vines of the veranda.  Flags and bunting were everywhere, and a small platform, draped with red, white, and blue, had been erected for the receiving party.