The Genesis of the Doughnut Club by Lucy
When John Henry died there seemed to be nothing for me to do but pack
up and go back east. I didn't want to do it, but forty-five years of
sojourning in this world have taught me that a body has to do a good
many things she doesn't want to do, and that most of them turn out to
be for the best in the long run. But I knew perfectly well that it
wasn't best for me or anybody else that I should go back to live with
William and Susanna, and I couldn't think what Providence was about
when things seemed to point that way.
I wanted to stay in Carleton. I loved the big, straggling, bustling
little town that always reminded me of a lanky, overgrown schoolboy,
all arms and legs, but full to the brim with enthusiasm and splendid
ideas. I knew Carleton was bound to grow into a magnificent city, and
I wanted to be there and see it grow and watch it develop; and I loved
the whole big, breezy golden west, with the rush and tingle of its
young life. And, more than all, I loved my boys, and what I was going
to do without them or they without me was more than I knew, though I
tried to think Providence might know.
But there was no place in Carleton for me; the only thing to do was to
go back east, and I knew that all the time, even when I was
desperately praying that I might find a way to remain. There's not
much comfort, or help either, praying one way and believing another.
I'd lived down east in Northfield all my life—until five years
ago—lived with my brother William and his wife. Northfield was a
little pinched-up village where everybody knew more about you than you
did about yourself, and you couldn't turn around without being
commented upon. William and Susanna were kind to me, but I was just
the old maid sister, of no importance to anybody, and I never felt as
if I were really living. I was simply vegetating on, and wouldn't be
missed by a single soul if I died. It is a horrible feeling, but I
didn't expect it would ever be any different, and I had made up my
mind that when I died I would have the word "Wasted" carved on my
tombstone. It wouldn't be conventional at all, but I'd been
conventional all my life, and I was determined I'd have something done
out of the common even if I had to wait until I was dead to have it.
Then all at once the letter came from John Henry, my brother out west.
He wrote that his wife had died and he wanted me to go out and keep
house for him. I sat right down and wrote him I'd go and in a week's
time I started.
It made quite a commotion; I had that much satisfaction out of it to
begin with. Susanna wasn't any too well pleased. I was only the old
maid sister, but I was a good cook, and help was scarce in Northfield.
All the neighbours shook their heads, and warned me I wouldn't like
it. I was too old to change my ways, and I'd be dreadfully homesick,
and I'd find the west too rough and boisterous. I just smiled and said
Well, I came out here to Carleton, and from the time I got here I was
perfectly happy. John Henry had a little rented house, and he was as
poor as a church mouse, being the ne'er-do-well of our family, and the
best loved, as ne'er-do-wells are so apt to be. He'd nearly died of
lonesomeness since his wife's death, and he was so glad to see me.
That was delightful in itself, and I was just in my element getting
that little house fixed up cosy and homelike, and cooking the most
elegant meals. There wasn't much work to do, just for me and him, and
I got a squaw in to wash and scrub. I never thought about Northfield
except to thank goodness I'd escaped from it, and John Henry and I
were as happy as a king and queen.
Then after awhile my activities began to sprout and branch out, and
the direction they took was boys. Carleton was full of boys, like
all the western towns, overflowing with them as you might say, young
fellows just let loose from home and mother, some of them dying of
homesickness and some of them beginning to run wild and get into
risky ways, some of them smart and some of them lazy, some ugly and
some handsome; but all of them boys, lovable, rollicking boys, with
the makings of good men in them if there was anybody to take hold of
them and cut the pattern right, but liable to be spoiled just because
there wasn't anybody.
Well, I did what I could. It began with John Henry bringing home some
of them that worked in his office to spend the evening now and again,
and they told other fellows and asked leave to bring them in too. And
before long it got to be that there never was an evening there wasn't
some of them there, "Aunt-Pattying" me. I told them from the start I
would not be called Miss. When a woman has been Miss for forty-five
years she gets tired of it.
So Aunt Patty it was, and Aunt Patty it remained, and I loved all
those dear boys as if they'd been my own. They told me all their
troubles, and I mothered them and cheered them up and scolded them,
and finally topped off with a jolly good supper; for, talk as you
like, you can't preach much good into a boy if he's got an aching void
in his stomach. Fill that up with tasty victuals, and then you can
do something with his spiritual nature. If a boy is well stuffed with
good things and then won't listen to advice, you might as well stop
wasting your breath on him, because there is something radically wrong
with him. Probably his grandfather had dyspepsia. And a dyspeptic
ancestor is worse for a boy than predestination, in my opinion.
Anyway, most of my boys took to going to church and Bible class of
their own accord, after I'd been their aunt for awhile. The young
minister thought it was all his doings, and I let him think so to keep
him cheered up. He was a nice boy himself, and often dropped in of an
evening too; but I never would let him talk theology until after
supper. His views always seemed so much mellower then, and didn't
puzzle the other boys more than was wholesome for them.
This went on for five glorious years, the only years of my life I'd
ever lived, and then came, as I thought, the end of everything. John
Henry took typhoid and died. At first that was all I could think of;
and when I got so that I could think of other things, there was, as I
have said, nothing for me to do but go back east.
The boys, who had been as good as gold to me all through my trouble,
felt dreadfully bad over this, and coaxed me hard to stay. They said
if I'd start a boarding house I'd have all the boarders I could
accommodate; but I knew it was no use to think of that, because I
wasn't strong enough, and help was so hard to get. No, there was
nothing for it but Northfield and stagnation again, with not a stray
boy anywhere to mother. I looked the dismal prospect square in the
face and made up my mind to it.
But I was determined to give my boys one good celebration before I
went, anyway. It was near Thanksgiving, and I resolved they should
have a dinner that would keep my memory green for awhile, a real
old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner such as they used to have at home. I
knew it would cost more than I could really afford, but I shut my eyes
to that aspect of the question. I was going back to strict eastern
economy for the rest of my days, and I meant to indulge in one wild,
blissful riot of extravagance before I was cooped up again.
I counted up the boys I must have, and there were fifteen, including
the minister. I invited them a fortnight ahead to make sure of getting
them, though I needn't have worried, for they all said they would have
broken an engagement to dine with the king for one of my dinners. The
minister said he had been feeling so homesick he was afraid he
wouldn't be able to preach a real thankful sermon, but now he was
comfortably sure that his sermon would be overflowing with gratitude.
I just threw myself heart and soul into the preparations for that
dinner. I had three turkeys and two sucking pigs, and mince pies and
pumpkin pies and apple pies, and doughnuts and fruit cake and
cranberry sauce and brown bread, and ever so many other things to fill
up the chinks. The night before Thanksgiving everything was ready, and
I was so tired I could hardly talk to Jimmy Nelson when he dropped in.
Jimmy had something on his mind, I saw that. So I said, "'Fess up,
Jimmy, and then you'll be able to enjoy your call."
"I want to ask a favour of you, Aunt Patty," said Jimmy.
I knew I should have to grant it; nobody could refuse Jimmy anything,
he looked so much like a nice, clean, pink-and-white little schoolboy
whose mother had just scrubbed his face and told him to be good. At
the same time he was one of the wildest young scamps in Carleton, or
had been until a year ago. I'd got him well set on the road to
reformation, and I felt worse about leaving him than any of the rest
of them. I knew he was just at the critical point. With somebody to
tide him over the next half year he'd probably go straight for the
rest of his life, but if he were left to himself he'd likely just slip
back to his old set and ways.
"I want you to let me bring my Uncle Joe to dinner tomorrow," said
Jimmy. "The poor old fellow is stranded here for Thanksgiving, and he
hates hotels. May I?"
"Of course," I said heartily, wondering why Jimmy seemed to think I
mightn't want his Uncle Joe. "Bring him right along."
"Thanks," said Jimmy. "He'll be more than pleased. Your sublime
cookery will delight him. He adores the west, but he can't endure its
cooking. He's always harping on his mother's pantry and the good old
down-east dinners. He's dyspeptic and pessimistic most of the time,
and he's got half a dozen cronies just like himself. All they think of
is railroads and bills of fare."
"Railroads!" I cried. And then an awful thought assailed me. "Jimmy
Nelson, your uncle isn't—isn't—he can't be Joseph P. Nelson, the
rich Joseph P. Nelson!"
"Oh, he's rich enough," said Jimmy; getting up and reaching for his
hat. "In dollars, that is. Some ways he's poor enough. Well, I must be
going. Thanks ever so much for letting me bring Uncle Joe."
And that rascal was gone, leaving me crushed. Joseph Nelson was coming
to my house to dinner—Joseph P. Nelson, the millionaire railroad
king, who kept his own chef and was accustomed to dining with the
great ones of the earth!
I was afraid I should never be able to forgive Jimmy. I couldn't sleep
a wink that night, and I cooked that dinner next day in a terrible
state of mind. Every ring that came at the door made my heart
jump,—but in the end Jimmy didn't ring at all, but just walked in
with his uncle in tow. The minute I saw Joseph P. I knew I needn't be
scared of him; he just looked real common. He was little and thin
and kind of bored-looking, with grey hair and whiskers, and his
clothes were next door to downright shabbiness. If it hadn't been for
the thought of that chef, I wouldn't have felt a bit ashamed of my
old-fashioned Thanksgiving spread.
When Joseph P. sat down to that table he stopped looking bored. All
the time the minister was saying grace that man simply stared at a big
plate of doughnuts near my end of the table, as if he'd never seen
anything like them before.
All the boys talked and laughed while they were eating, but Joseph P.
just ate, tucking away turkey and vegetables and keeping an anxious
eye on those doughnuts, as if he was afraid somebody else would get
hold of them before his turn came. I wished I was sure it was
etiquette to tell him not to worry because there were plenty more in
the pantry. By the time he'd been helped three times to mince pie I
gave up feeling bad about the chef. He finished off with the
doughnuts, and I shan't tell how many of them he devoured, because I
would not be believed.
Most of the boys had to go away soon after dinner. Joseph P. shook
hands with me absently and merely said, "Good afternoon, Miss
Porter." I didn't think he seemed at all grateful for his dinner, but
that didn't worry me because it was for my boys I'd got it up, and not
for dyspeptic millionaires whose digestion had been spoiled by private
chefs. And my boys had appreciated it, there wasn't any doubt about
that. Peter Crockett and Tommy Gray stayed to help me wash the dishes,
and we had the jolliest time ever. Afterward we picked the turkey
But that night I realized that I was once more a useless, lonely old
woman. I cried myself to sleep, and next morning I hadn't spunk enough
to cook myself a dinner. I dined off some crackers and the remnants of
the apple pies, and I was sitting staring at the crumbs when the bell
rang. I wiped away my tears and went to the door. Joseph P. Nelson was
standing there, and he said, without wasting any words—it was easy to
see how that man managed to get railroads built where nobody else
could manage it—that he had called to see me on a little matter of
He took just ten minutes to make it clear to me, and when I saw the
whole project I was the happiest woman in Carleton or out of it. He
said he had never eaten such a Thanksgiving dinner as mine, and that I
was the woman he'd been looking for for years. He said that he had a
few business friends who had been brought up on a down-east farm like
himself, and never got over their hankering for old-fashioned cookery.
"That is something we can't get here, with all our money," he said.
"Now, Miss Porter, my nephew tells me that you wish to remain in
Carleton, if you can find some way of supporting yourself. I have a
proposition to make to you. These aforesaid friends of mine and I
expect to spend most of our time in Carleton for the next few years.
In fact we shall probably make it our home eventually. It's going to
be the city of the west after awhile, and the centre of a dozen
railroads. Well, we mean to equip a small private restaurant for
ourselves and we want you to take charge of it. You won't have to do
much except oversee the business and arrange the bills of fare. We
want plain, substantial old-time meals and cookery. When we have a
hankering for doughnuts and apple pies and cranberry tarts, we want to
know just where to get them and have them the right kind. We're all
horribly tired of hotel fare and fancy fol-de-rols with French names.
A place where we could get a dinner such as you served yesterday would
be a boon to us. We'd have started the restaurant long ago if we could
have got a suitable person to take charge of it."
He named the salary the club would pay and the very sound of it made
me feel rich. You may be sure I didn't take long to decide. That was a
year ago, and today the Doughnut Club, as they call themselves, is a
huge success, and the fame of it has gone abroad in the land, although
they are pretty exclusive and keep all their good things close enough
to themselves. Joseph P. took a Scotch peer there to dinner one day
last week. Jimmy Nelson told me afterward that the man said it was the
only satisfying meal he'd had since he left the old country.
As for me, I have my little house, my very own and no rented one, and
all my dear boys, and I'm a happy old busybody. You see, Providence
did answer my prayers in spite of my lack of faith; but of course He
used means, and that Thanksgiving dinner of mine was the earthly
instrument of it all.
The Girl Who Drove the Cows
"I wonder who that pleasant-looking girl who drives cows down the
beech lane every morning and evening is," said Pauline Palmer, at the
tea table of the country farmhouse where she and her aunt were
spending the summer. Mrs. Wallace had wanted to go to some fashionable
watering place, but her husband had bluntly told her he couldn't
afford it. Stay in the city when all her set were out she would not,
and the aforesaid farmhouse had been the compromise.
"I shouldn't suppose it could make any difference to you who she is,"
said Mrs. Wallace impatiently. "I do wish, Pauline, that you were more
careful in your choice of associates. You hobnob with everyone, even
that old man who comes around buying eggs. It is very bad form."
Pauline hid a rather undutiful smile behind her napkin. Aunt Olivia's
snobbish opinions always amused her.
"You've no idea what an interesting old man he is," she said. "He can
talk more entertainingly than any other man I know. What is the use of
being so exclusive, Aunt Olivia? You miss so much fun. You wouldn't be
so horribly bored as you are if you fraternized a little with the
'natives,' as you call them."
"No, thank you," said Mrs. Wallace disdainfully.
"Well, I am going to try to get acquainted with that girl," said
Pauline resolutely. "She looks nice and jolly."
"I don't know where you get your low tastes from," groaned Mrs.
Wallace. "I'm sure it wasn't from your poor mother. What do you
suppose the Morgan Knowles would think if they saw you taking up with
some tomboy girl on a farm?"
"I don't see why it should make a great deal of difference what they
would think, since they don't seem to be aware of my existence, or
even of yours, Aunty," said Pauline, with twinkling eyes. She knew it
was her aunt's dearest desire to get in with the Morgan Knowles'
"set"—a desire that seemed as far from being realized as ever. Mrs.
Wallace could never understand why the Morgan Knowles shut her from
their charmed circle. They certainly associated with people much
poorer and of more doubtful worldly station than hers—the Markhams,
for instance, who lived on an unfashionable street and wore quite
shabby clothes. Just before she had left Colchester, Mrs. Wallace had
seen Mrs. Knowles and Mrs. Markham together in the former's
automobile. James Wallace and Morgan Knowles were associated in
business dealings; but in spite of Mrs. Wallace's schemings and
aspirations and heart burnings, the association remained a purely
business one and never advanced an inch in the direction of
As for Pauline, she was hopelessly devoid of social ambitions and she
did not in the least mind the Morgan Knowles' remote attitude.
"Besides," continued Pauline, "she isn't a tomboy at all. She looks
like a very womanly, well-bred sort of girl. Why should you think her
a tomboy because she drives cows? Cows are placid, useful
animals—witness this delicious cream which I am pouring over my
blueberries. And they have to be driven. It's an honest occupation."
"I daresay she is someone's servant," said Mrs. Wallace
contemptuously. "But I suppose even that wouldn't matter to you,
"Not a mite," said Pauline cheerfully. "One of the very nicest girls I
ever knew was a maid Mother had the last year of her dear life. I
loved that girl, Aunt Olivia, and I correspond with her. She writes
letters that are ten times more clever and entertaining than those
stupid epistles Clarisse Gray sends me—and Clarisse Gray is a rich
man's daughter and is being educated in Paris."
"You are incorrigible, Pauline," said Mrs. Wallace hopelessly.
"Mrs. Boyd," said Pauline to their landlady, who now made her
appearance, "who is that girl who drives the cows along the beech lane
mornings and evenings?"
"Ada Cameron, I guess," was Mrs. Boyd's response. "She lives with the
Embrees down on the old Embree place just below here. They're
pasturing their cows on the upper farm this summer. Mrs. Embree is her
"Is she as nice as she looks?"
"Yes, Ada's a real nice sensible girl," said Mrs. Boyd. "There is no
nonsense about her."
"That doesn't sound very encouraging," murmured Pauline, as Mrs. Boyd
went out. "I like people with a little nonsense about them. But I hope
better things of Ada, Mrs. Boyd to the contrary notwithstanding. She
has a pair of grey eyes that can't possibly always look sensible. I
think they must mellow occasionally into fun and jollity and wholesome
nonsense. Well, I'm off to the shore. I want to get that photograph of
the Cove this evening, if possible. I've set my heart on taking first
prize at the Amateur Photographers' Exhibition this fall, and if I can
only get that Cove with all its beautiful lights and shadows, it will
be the gem of my collection."
Pauline, on her return from the shore, reached the beech lane just as
the Embree cows were swinging down it. Behind them came a tall,
brown-haired, brown-faced girl in a neat print dress. Her hat was hung
over her arm, and the low evening sunlight shone redly over her smooth
glossy head. She carried herself with a pretty dignity, but when her
eyes met Pauline's, she looked as if she would smile on the slightest
Pauline promptly gave her the provocation.
"Good evening, Miss Cameron," she called blithely. "Won't you please
stop a few moments and look me over? I want to see if you think me a
likely person for a summer chum."
Ada Cameron did more than smile. She laughed outright and went over to
the fence where Pauline was sitting on a stump. She looked down into
the merry black eyes of the town girl she had been half envying for a
week and said humorously: "Yes, I think you very likely, indeed. But
it takes two to make a friendship—like a bargain. If I'm one, you'll
have to be the other."
"I'm the other. Shake," said Pauline, holding out her hand.
That was the beginning of a friendship that made poor Mrs. Wallace
groan outwardly as well as inwardly. Pauline and Ada found that they
liked each other even more than they had expected to. They walked,
rowed, berried and picnicked together. Ada did not go to Mrs. Boyd's a
great deal, for some instinct told her that Mrs. Wallace did not look
favourably on her, but Pauline spent half her time at the little,
brown, orchard-embowered house at the end of the beech lane where the
Embrees lived. She had never met any girl she thought so nice as Ada.
"She is nice every way," she told the unconvinced Aunt Olivia. "She's
clever and well read. She is sensible and frank. She has a sense of
humour and a great deal of insight into character—witness her liking
for your niece! She can talk interestingly and she can also be silent
when silence is becoming. And she has the finest profile I ever saw.
Aunt Olivia, may I ask her to visit me next winter?"
"No, indeed," said Mrs. Wallace, with crushing emphasis. "You surely
don't expect to continue this absurd intimacy past the summer,
"I expect to be Ada's friend all my life," said Pauline laughingly,
but with a little ring of purpose in her voice. "Oh, Aunty, dear,
can't you see that Ada is just the same girl in cotton print that she
would be in silk attire? She is really far more distinguished looking
than any girl in the Knowles' set."
"Pauline!" said Aunt Olivia, looking as shocked as if Pauline had
Pauline laughed again, but she sighed as she went to her room. Aunt
Olivia has the kindest heart in the world, she thought. What a pity
she isn't able to see things as they really are! My friendship with
Ada can't be perfect if I can't invite her to my home. And she is such
a dear girl—the first real friend after my own heart that I've ever
The summer waned, and August burned itself out.
"I suppose you will be going back to town next week? I shall miss you
dreadfully," said Ada.
The two girls were in the Embree garden, where Pauline was preparing
to take a photograph of Ada standing among the asters, with a great
sheaf of them in her arms. Pauline wished she could have said: But you
must come and visit me in the winter. Since she could not, she had to
content herself with saying: "You won't miss me any more than I shall
miss you. But we'll correspond, and I hope Aunt Olivia will come to
Marwood again next summer."
"I don't think I shall be here then," said Ada with a sigh. "You see,
it is time I was doing something for myself, Pauline. Aunt Jane and
Uncle Robert have always been very kind to me, but they have a large
family and are not very well off. So I think I'll try for a situation
in one of the Remington stores this fall."
"It's such a pity you couldn't have gone to the Academy and studied
for a teacher's licence," said Pauline, who knew what Ada's ambitions
"I should have liked that better, of course," said Ada quietly. "But
it is not possible, so I must do my best at the next best thing. Don't
let's talk of it. It might make me feel blueish and I want to look
especially pleasant if I'm going to have my photo taken."
"You couldn't look anything else," laughed Pauline. "Don't smile too
broadly—I want you to be looking over the asters with a bit of a
dream on your face and in your eyes. If the picture turns out as
beautiful as I fondly expect, I mean to put it in my exhibition
collection under the title 'A September Dream.' There, that's the very
expression. When you look like that, you remind me of somebody I have
seen, but I can't remember who it is. All ready now—don't
move—there, dearie, it is all over."
When Pauline went back to Colchester, she was busy for a month
preparing her photographs for the exhibition, while Aunt Olivia
renewed her spinning of all the little social webs in which she fondly
hoped to entangle the Morgan Knowles and other desirable flies.
When the exhibition was opened, Pauline Palmer's collection won first
prize, and the prettiest picture in it was one called "A September
Dream"—a tall girl with a wistful face, standing in an old-fashioned
garden with her arms full of asters.
The very day after the exhibition was opened the Morgan Knowles'
automobile stopped at the Wallace door. Mrs. Wallace was out, but it
was Pauline whom stately Mrs. Morgan Knowles asked for. Pauline was at
that moment buried in her darkroom developing photographs, and she ran
down just as she was—a fact which would have mortified Mrs. Wallace
exceedingly if she had ever known it. But Mrs. Morgan Knowles did not
seem to mind at all. She liked Pauline's simplicity of manner. It was
more than she had expected from the aunt's rather vulgar
"I have called to ask you who the original of the photograph 'A
September Dream' in your exhibit was, Miss Palmer," she said
graciously. "The resemblance to a very dear childhood friend of mine
is so startling that I am sure it cannot be accidental."
"That is a photograph of Ada Cameron, a friend whom I met this summer
up in Marwood," said Pauline.
"Ada Cameron! She must be Ada Frame's daughter, then," exclaimed Mrs.
Knowles in excitement. Then, seeing Pauline's puzzled face, she
explained: "Years ago, when I was a child, I always spent my summers
on the farm of my uncle, John Frame. My cousin, Ada Frame, was the
dearest friend I ever had, but after we grew up we saw nothing of each
other, for I went with my parents to Europe for several years, and Ada
married a neighbour's son, Alec Cameron, and went out west. Her
father, who was my only living relative other than my parents, died,
and I never heard anything more of Ada until about eight years ago,
when somebody told me she was dead and had left no family. That part
of the report cannot have been true if this girl is her daughter."
"I believe she is," said Pauline quickly. "Ada was born out west and
lived there until she was eight years old, when her parents died and
she was sent east to her father's half-sister. And Ada looks like
you—she always reminded me of somebody I had seen, but I never could
decide who it was before. Oh, I hope it is true, for Ada is such a
sweet girl, Mrs. Knowles."
"She couldn't be anything else if she is Ada Frame's daughter," said
Mrs. Knowles. "My husband will investigate the matter at once, and if
this girl is Ada's child we shall hope to find a daughter in her, as
we have none of our own."
"What will Aunt Olivia say!" said Pauline with wickedly dancing eyes
when Mrs. Knowles had gone.
Aunt Olivia was too much overcome to say anything. That good lady felt
rather foolish when it was proved that the girl she had so despised
was Mrs. Morgan Knowles' cousin and was going to be adopted by her.
But to hear Aunt Olivia talk now, you would suppose that she and not
Pauline had discovered Ada.
The latter sought Pauline out as soon as she came to Colchester, and
the summer friendship proved a life-long one and was, for the
Wallaces, the open sesame to the enchanted ground of the Knowles'
"So everybody concerned is happy," said Pauline. "Ada is going to
college and so am I, and Aunt Olivia is on the same committee as Mrs.
Knowles for the big church bazaar. What about my 'low tastes' now,
"Well, who would ever have supposed that a girl who drove cows to
pasture was connected with the Morgan Knowles?" said poor Aunt Olivia