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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
than ever old King Solomon collected in his ships from the four
quarters of the earth.”
“You mean that these little foreigners have lots of hot ‘pep’ in
them, eh?” flashed Sally, who had just come up, liking to air a little
slang.
“Sure, that’s what I do mean!” The lame peacemaker lifted a
nautical-looking cap from his grizzled hair in fatherly farewell to the
girls as they moved off. “So long!” he said kindly. “Maybe we’ll run
across each other again.”
“Maybe we will!” Morning-Glory, otherwise Jessica, threw him a
backward smile over her lavender shoulder. “I’m sure he’s a sea-
captain—or was,” she said, retracing her way toward the catalpa tree
between Sally and Arline. “I’m interested in sea-captains because my
great-grandfather was one; I have a little old miniature of him
painted on ivory which belonged to Mother; she—she left it to me,”
with a catch of the breath. “He has brown hair an’ bluish eyes the
color of mine; somewhere about seventy or eighty years ago he
commanded a big ship and sailed out of Newburyport—the only
Newburyport in the United States.... Oh, if only he could be alive
now, then I’d really belong to somebody, not just be thrust on to
people who aren’t any relatives at all, no matter how kind they are!”
she added under her breath—so low that neither Sally nor Arline
heard—with a passionate quiver of the lip and a glance at the
Deering automobile flashing in gray and silver, with a faultless
chauffeur on the front seat.
“Well! I’m a Camp Fire Girl, anyway.” So she silently caught herself
up with a return of the morning-glory look, slightly bedewed. “And
‘Whoso standeth by that Fire, flame-fanned, shall never stand alone!’
What! that plucky pianist is really beginning on ‘Pop Goes the
Weasel’ again,” she exclaimed, as renewed strains from the elevated
piano floated over the playground.
“Let us hope the weasel will pop to a finish this time!” laughed
Arline, as they reached the catalpa tree and stood once more,
grouped with Olive, Sybil, and their chaperoning cousin, under its
fanning, heart-shaped leaves. “Now! I wonder to what nationality
that little girl in the coarse gray frock belongs?” went on the
Rainbow, sweeping with her glance the sets of skipping children
again being marshaled for the folk-dance.
“Do you mean the one with the big, patient, purple eyes—eyes
like a wood anemone?” asked Jessica; she who had taken for her
Camp Fire name a climbing flower loved flowers of all kinds,
especially wild ones.
“Yes, and with a toe sticking out through her old shoe! And she
can’t keep her mouth shut, although, apparently, no words come
from it. I do believe it was her queer croaking gasps that I heard
with the foreign babel and the shrill ‘Oh’s’ and ‘Ah’s’ of all the other
children, when I ran to stop the horse!” bleated Sally.
“I wonder if there’s anything wrong with her; whether she’s—
what-d’you-call-it—defective in any way?” came in languid
speculation from Olive.
“Girls!” Cousin Anne sadly settled the question. “I believe she’s
deaf and dumb.”
“Deaf and dumb! That explains her. Oh, poor tot!” The Morning-
Glory, whose dance-loving feet had been keeping time to the
popping music, unrhythmically swung one of them off at a sharp
angle, as if a rude pebble had struck her ankle in its silken stocking,
hurting it more than Polie’s kick. “Deaf and dumb! Then she can’t
hear the music. And she’s so awkward, moves so slowly and
clumsily, that the other children don’t want to dance with her!.... Oh!
she almost makes one cry.” Jessica brushed the blue-gray eyes that,
according to her, resembled her ancestor’s in the old miniature. “See
her standing still in the middle of the fun, plucking at the gathers of
her gray frock, looking up at the other children, trying to find out
what they’re going to do next!”
“Yes, and one of those other children will take her hand as a
partner when the teacher insists, then drop it directly she looks the
other way! They don’t want to dance with her silent tongue and old,
broken shoes,” said Olive Deering.
 “Then I’m going to dance with her, if the teacher will let me. We’ll
form a set of our own, we two, if we can’t fit in anywhere! You don’t
mind keeping the auto waiting a little longer, do you, Cousin Anne?”
The last words were flashed back over Jessica’s smocked shoulder,
with a tremulous tilt of her upper lip that hung between a laugh and
a sob. Already she was mingling with the juvenile dancers, a tall
purple and white Morning-Glory amid that garden of racial buds, of
little children from every clime.
The dumb child’s hand was in hers, after a few low words to the
playground teacher, who abstracted one odd child from the nearest
set and installed the new couple in her place. Jessica’s foot in its
patent-leather pump and lilac stocking was thrust forth side by side
with the rusty, out-at-toe footwear, the Morning-Glory swaying upon
its inner tendril, the yearning tendril of Love, teaching the grey,
cramped bud beside her to sway and step—to glide and pirouette—
too.
The glide was only a clumsy shuffle. But there grew a light in the
dumb child’s eyes, those eyes of purple patience, so that those who
watched its dawning flicker from under the catalpa tree felt their
throats tickle.
It did not go out with the final popping of the long-suffering
weasel. For, now, the pianist, quite herself again, had struck up the
gay, frolicking music of a Vineyard Dance. And side by side those
mismatched partners, the seventeen-year-old Camp Fire Girl, the
eight-year-old deaf-mute, were scampering through it, enacting all
the vineyard drama of growth,—Jessica by dumb show instructing,
after a fashion, the child at her side.
Hand in hand they knelt on one knee on the playground grass,
making gay pretense of planting grape-seeds in the warm ground.
Step by step—stamp, stamp, stamp!—they circled round, with arms
uplifted, with groping fingers plucking counterfeit grapes of sunshine
from imaginary vines, that violet light growing in the dumb child’s
eyes, while she strove to ape each gesture and movement of her
companion, as if—transfigured—she peeped through the gates ajar
of fairy-land, had her first real glimpse of the joy of childhood.
Suddenly, her feet lagged; she dragged upon Jessica’s hand. She
stood still. Her big eyes were uplifted to the white cloud-foam
drifting across the blue sea of the July sky. Then they dropped
wonderingly to her partner’s face.
“Look! Look! Look!” cried Arline with a frank, glad sob. “I verily
believe she thinks Heaven is short an angel to-day, one having
dropped down from the clouds, especially to dance with her!”
 CHAPTER III

CAPTAIN ANDY TAKES OFF HIS HAT

“Great Neptune! I do declare, she dances as lightly as a Mother

Carey chicken balancing upon a wave.”
“You should say, rather, that she dances like a morning-glory in
the breeze!” Sesooā looked laughingly up into the face of the
massive peacemaker who had separated the two little fighting
foreigners; he had delivered them over to the tender mercies of the
playground teacher who carried the dripping white water-ball in his
arms, while he, the lame stranger whom Jessica opined was a sea-
captain, withdrew to a better position for watching the dancing
which brought him near to the group under the circular catalpa tree.
“An’ why should I say she dances like a ‘morning-glory,’ may I ask?
I don’t know much about flowers, but I know a whole lot about
foam-chickens, Carey chickens—stormy petrels you’d call ’em, most
likely: and they’re the lightest, most buoyant things on God’s earth!
You should see them,” went on the stranger expressively, “with their
small wings spread, balancing on a wave-crest, little feet digging
down into the foam, never sinking, disappearing into a watery
hollow one minute, up again the next, crowing on the top of another
foam-hill! I say she dances like that, the girl who’s footing it with the
little creature in the broken old shoes and grey frock—as if the wave
could never catch her!” There was a little genial mist, like light spray
from the stormwater of which he spoke, in the stranger’s eye now,
as it followed Jessica and her dumb partner through the last gay
stampede of the vineyard dance. “And here’s hoping that the storm-
wave never will swallow her!” he added with an eye of such merry
fatherly kindness that Sally, part of whose bringing-up it had been
not to hold familiar converse with strangers, absolutely forgot to
place him in that category and immediately gave her racy little
tongue all the freedom it desired.
“That sounds awful-ly nice what you say about her,” she remarked.
“And I’ll tell her you said it; she’ll be pleased to hear it because she
has made up her mind that you’re a sea-captain and her great-
grandfather was one, owned a big ship and sailed out of
Newburyport.”
“Ha! The only Newburyport in the United States, with its plaguy
sand-bar at the mouth of the Merrimac River, so that ships can sail
out of that port, when they’re in ballast, but never put in there,
when they’re loaded, after a long voyage!”
“Ye-es,” murmured Sally, not interested. “But fancy thinking so
much about one’s great-grandfather! However, I’m going to set to
work and look up mine now, my grandparents and great-
grandparents an’ what they did—so’s to win a patriotic honor-bead
for my Camp Fire Girl’s necklace! But it’s different with her”—volubly
indicating the deaf-and-dumb child’s partner, who was now guiding
her, with expressive pantomime, through the mazy windings of a
ribbon dance—“she thinks so much of that old sea-captain ancestor
because she’s got his miniature and because I don’t believe she has
any living relatives to think about. Her father and mother are both
dead. She’s staying with the Deerings who own that beautiful
automobile but I don’t think she’s related to them, except through
their elderly cousin”—nodding toward the bench under the catalpa
tree—“who’s her cousin, too.”
“What is the girl’s name?” asked the grey-haired peacemaker.
“Jessica Dee Holley.”
“Ha! ‘Dee’ sounds like an old Newburyport name; leastways I’ve
seen it in old entries.”
“That was her mother’s name. But she isn’t alone, although she
has no near relatives, because she’s a Camp Fire Girl, and we ‘cleave
to our Camp Fire Sisters whenever, wherever we find them!’” Sesooā
threw back her head with the same loyal gesture as that wherewith
she had faced the world after stopping the horse; the golden firefly
in her eyes hovering directly over the Camp Fire flame in her heart.
From the ranks of the juvenile dancers came, now, the joyful lilt of
another song.
“Two by two,
Two by two,
Here we go!
With merry hearts,
And a cheerful song,
As we march in the double row.”

Two by two, yes, Jessica and her little silent partner leading with a
vim, she singing for both!
Again Sally’s throat tickled and the firefly bore a little mist upon its
wings as she noted the new spirit which had crept into the deaf-and-
dumb child’s movements, into the clumsy, ill-shod feet, into the grey,
stocky little figure, into the small, stubby fingers which no longer
plucked wistfully at the gathers of her coarse frock, but brightly
spread themselves in an inspired attempt to copy the waving
gestures of the wonderful partner in shining lavender and white who
had dropped from the clouds for her.
The sight was moving. The firefly in Sally’s eyes went in out of the
rain.
“She’s going to be initiated as a Fire Maker at our next Council Fire
gathering,” she murmured, nodding toward Jessica and hardly caring
whether her impromptu companion understood her meaning or not.
“But, oh”—blinking bright drops from her eyelids—“she ought to be a
Torch Bearer! She’s a Torch Bearer already! Look at the light which
she has brought into that little dumb girl’s eyes—she has lit a torch
in her heart.”
“Well! I guess she has,” returned the big stranger in a moved
voice, too.
 “I don’t know whether you know much about Camp Fire Girls.”—
Sesooā dashed the bright drops away and the firefly reappeared,
hovering over a dimple—“but when a girl joins the society she takes
a symbolic name, generally an Indian one, that signifies something
she aims particularly to do or be. Jessica chose that of a climbing
flower, the morning-glory—or its nearest Indian equivalent—for some
little secret reason of her own; that’s what made it seem funny—
incongruous—you know, when you said she danced like a stormy
petrel, a Mother Carey chicken,” poutingly.
“Ah-h!” The stranger drew his massive brows together ruminating
for a minute, his eyes on the wavy ribbon dance. “Ah! but, maybe,
the two aren’t so wide apart as you think.” He turned and nodded at
her. “Take a stormy morning at sea, now. I’ve seen the dawn, the
morning-glory to be, come up, just a little grey flutter in the sky—
like a dove-grey chicken that the foam had hatched—the foam that
was piled like a great, pale egg against the horizon! It’s a funny
world, little girl,” with an all-comprehensive wink of the sea-blue eye.
“Things an’ meanings of things are never such miles apart but that
you can link ’em, somehow; an’ that’s true of more than foam and
flower!”
“Why—Captain Andy!”
“Why-y! Miss Winter!”
Cousin Anne had risen suddenly from the bench under the catalpa
tree, shocked at seeing one of the girls whom she was chaperoning
holding free converse with a stranger. Now she was advancing with
warmly outstretched hand.
“Why! Miss Winter, I never expected to meet you here.” The
massive stranger, standing bareheaded in the sunshine, was as
cordially shaking that proffered hand.
“It’s Captain Andy, my dears!” Miss Anne Winter beckoned to the
two Deering girls, her relatives and special charges. “Olive! this is
Captain Andrew Davis who saved your Cousin Marvin’s life, with that
of several other young men—college chums—when they were
wrecked, while yachting a couple of years ago, off the Newfoundland
Coast. You remember?” flutteringly.
“Oh! yes, indeed.” Olive extended a gracious, girlish hand; she
was conscious of a little creepy thrill at meeting a real live hero,
especially one who carried the heroism done up in such massive
bulk, but she had heard her Cousin Marvin—before the rescue—
speak of this Captain Andy Davis as being a sea-captain in no grand,
mercantile way, as commanding no big barque, but only what Marvin
—likewise before the rescue—dubbed a smelly fish-kettle, otherwise
a New England fishing-schooner, little over a hundred feet in length
from stem to taffrail.
Heroism had its noble uses, of course, especially when one had
been stranded for hours as Marvin and those other college boys
were upon sharp, naked rocks, seeing their yacht broken to pieces
by the mountainous swell of an old sea after a storm, death staring
them in the face, with no hope of rescue, until Captain Andy and his
gallant “fish-kettle” hove in sight and bore down upon them—until
Captain Andy, with a volunteer from his crew, launched a dory and
succeeded in saving their lives at the extreme risk of his own.
Olive remembered hearing Marvin say that he did not believe
there was another mariner upon the Massachusetts coast who could
have “pulled off that rescue” with the sea as it was then. She thrilled
again, looking up into the keen blue eye under the heavy lid, into
the face which had made Jessica think of sheltering flame. At the
same time, she could not help seeing a gulf—a broad gulf with
floating shapes of fishy decks, horny hands, scaly oilskins—intervene
between her and her sister, daughters of the bi-millionaire owner of
big machine works for the manufacture of textile machinery, and this
limping weather-beaten master mariner.
Sybil did not even take the trouble to be as friendly as she was.
Meanwhile Cousin Anne, Miss Anne Winter, was introducing
Captain Andy Davis in proper form to Arline and Sally, mentioning
the fact that the grateful Marvin had taken her to visit him when last
she was in Gloucester.
 “Oh, I must have felt it in my fingers—or in my tongue—that I
knew you, or ought to know you, or that somebody here knew you,
or I never would have talked to you so freely!” declared Sally in an
orange flutter.
“And how do you come to be in Clevedon just now?” questioned
Miss Anne, interrogating the weather-beaten face.
“My artist sent for me.” That florid visage bloomed all over with a
boyish smile that gleamed somewhat shamefacedly through the
thick, fair eyelashes, not yet turned grey. “She said she hadn’t got
my ground colors right—gee! I didn’t know I had any, except when
my vessel was grounded in the mud. ‘Carnation colors’ she called
’em—jiminy!”
His breezy bubble of laughter was caught and tossed further by
Sally and Arline who eagerly hung upon the novelty of his speech.
“The artist is Miss Loretta Dewey, isn’t she?” So Miss Anne took
him up. “She has taken you for the subject of her sea picture: ‘The
Breaker King.’”
“Yes. I’m highly flattered. I had other business in this city, too,
besides fixing my carnation colors,” with again that boyish laugh
stirring the thick eyelashes. “I’ve been in correspondence with a lady
here, a cousin of the artist’s, about renting one of my new camps at
the mouth of the Exmouth River—tidal river, you know—for the
summer.” (Sally caught her breath as if she were fishing for it, rose
on tiptoe, stared at him breathlessly.) “The fact is, Miss Winter, I’m
tired of being a hayseed,” the ex-mariner went on—“tried it for two
years an’ couldn’t take to it.”
“What have you done with your little farm among the Essex
woods?”
“Turned it over to my hired man. Oh! he’s a reformed character,
he’ll run it all right; he’s got two anchors out now to leeward an’
win’ard, which means he was married a year ago an’ had a son born
last month. Guess he had the baby baptized a Scout,” with a twinkle;
“he said that ’twas watching the Boy Scouts an’ their manly doin’s
that first started him to wanting to hit a man’s trail, at last—make a
man of himself.”
But Miss Anne knew that it was Captain Andy who had followed up
the unconscious work of the Scouts by taking that hired man,
hopeless graduate of a reform school, and setting him on his feet
again.
“You’re not thinking of going to sea any more?” she asked.
“No, my damaged spar kind o’ interferes with that.” The mariner
looked down at his lame right leg where the sea left its mark on him
in his last terrible fight with it. “But I’m gettin’ as near to the ocean
as I can while staying ashore,” he volunteered. “I put in this past
spring building three big, rambling wooden shanties—they ain’t
much more—which I call camps, on the edge of some white sand-
dunes, wildest spot on the coast of Massachusetts, where the tidal
river meets the bay, or sea.”
“Oh! it’s not the Sugarloaf sand-dunes?” squeaked Sesooā, her
voice thin and wiry with excitement.
“Very place! The white Sugarloaf Peninsula! Just a hundred acres,
or so, of tall, snowy sand-hills in that part o’ the dunes, and wild life
a-plenty on dune an’ river—bird, fish, an’ mammal, or seal! I’ve
rented two of the camps already”—went on the speaker, in the teeth
of a now prevalent gust of excitement which, blowing toward him,
threatened to sweep him off his feet—“one to a family, t’other to a
flock; to a lady, right here in this city of Clevedon, who’s going to
bring ten or twelve young girls with her, to camp out, some of ’em
lately started upon a cruise of their ’teens, others about midway of
the voyage,” with a deep gurgle of laughter like the briny bubble of
the sea.
“Did she—did she say they were a Camp Fire Group?” Sesooā’s
hands were clasped upon a flame of suspense so eager that it
almost scorched them.
“Come to think of it, now, I guess she did! I’ve heard a lot about
that tribe, in general, lately. Boy Scouts an’ Camp Fire Girls, they’re
in the spot light just now.”
 “They deserve to be. And was the Guardian’s—the lady’s—name
Miss Dewey?”
“You’ve hit it. I’m to be watch-dog and life-guard to the flock—I’ll
have a tent o’ my own near.”
“Then, it’s us! It’s us, Captain Andy!” cried the Rainbow and the
Flame together. “It’s our Morning-Glory Camp Fire that has rented
your camp for the remainder of this month of July and all the month
of August—the Green Corn Moon. Oh, we’re so glad to have met you
—that you’re going to be our camp guard and protector!”
“Land o’ Goshen! you ain’t got no corner on the gladness; that I
tell you.” The old lifesaver beamed. “Is she coming, too?” pointing to
the girlish figure in the flower-like Tam among the shifting
playground sets. “Is she going to camp on the dunes, too, the one
that dances like a foam-chicken or a foam-clot—the Morning-Glory
one?”
“Of course she is.”
“I suppose, now, you’d call her a—what-d’ye-call-it—anæsthetic
dancer, eh?” with an inquisitive twinkle.
“Æsthetic,” corrected Olive, smiling a superior little smile.
“Anæsthetic is a thing that puts people to sleep when they’re in pain
—a medicine.”
“Oh! aye, I put my foot in the medicine, did I?” gasped the
squelched captain, his “carnation colors” deepening.
From the playground came the cooing words of yet another song,
dramatic, disconnected, marking the close of the afternoon’s singing
games and folk-dances:
“Bluebird, bluebird, through my window!”

“Oh, Jennie, I’m tired!”

At the two random lines, children’s heads were dropped each upon
the other’s shoulder in mock fatigue, resting there a moment in
drowsy confidence.
 “Turk, Armenian, Teuton, Slav, an’ almost every other race thrown
in—Lord! if that ain’t a Peace Conference to beat the Hague,”
muttered Captain Andy, his eyes watering as they scanned the faces
of those foreign buds.
“I think he’s great—and I don’t mean it slangily either! He is
Great,” said impulsive Sally in an aside to Olive. “Oh! why don’t Sybil
and you join our Camp Fire tribe and camp with us, too, upon his
Sugarloaf dunes. I feel like shouting when I think of the fun we’ll
have, rowing and swimming, singing and dancing our Indian dances,
the Leaf Dance and Duck Dance that Morning-Glory is going to teach
us—she learned them from a professor who learned them from the
Indians—among those crystal, sugary, sandy dunes.”
“Yes, and cooking your own meals, by turns, laundering your own
blouses, washing camp dishes—glorifying work, as you call it! That
wouldn’t suit me.” Olive shook her satin curl. “Sybil and I—with
Cousin Anne, of course—are going to spend August at an hotel on
the North Shore. We’ll have plenty of dancing, too; it’s a very
fashionable, exclusive hotel and the most expensive teacher of up-
to-date dances is coming from New York to give lessons to the
guests, including Sybil and me; I teased Father until he said we
might learn from him—otherwise, we shan’t have a study or a thing
to do but to amuse ourselves all day long.”
The bright flame of Sally’s enthusiasm wavered and paled like a
candle-flame in garish sunshine. Her face fell. To her versatile, girlish
fancy the picture which Olive painted of the coming August was
richer in coloring, more dazzlingly gilded in frame—with the modern
dancing thrown in—than any that the crystal Sugarloaf could offer,
even when peopled with fringed and beaded Camp Fire Girls.
Crestfallen, she looked at Captain Andy, partly to hide her chagrin.
He was staring fixedly at the playground before him, where a
dumb child unable to reach up and drop her head upon a seventeen-
year-old girl’s lavender shoulder—as the other children were doing
with their partners—laid it upon her breast.
 “Bless her heart of gold, that girl!” he breathed, his strong face
working. “Whether you call her ‘Morning-Glory’ or foam-chicken, I
say bless her heart for calling the bluebird through a dumb child’s
window when she can’t call it for herself.... I had a little sister, long
ago, born deaf an’ dumb; she only lived to be four. I played with her
until she died.... I take off my hat to that Camp Fire Girl.”
“Oh-h!” exploded Sesooā between a sob and a song which
together cleared the horizon and righted her toppling enthusiasm;
that in girlhood to which Captain Andy, hero of a hundred sea-fights,
bared his head, as he reverently did, was best worth while;
unwittingly he, a connoisseur in Life, had put his finger on that
which was lacking in Olive’s picture, present in this: the seeking
Beauty not for oneself alone, not in one’s own life only, but to see it
blossom in dull, sad, silent corners of the human garden, the Camp
Fire ideal.
Swept upon a tide of reaction Sally turned passionately to Cousin
Anne. “Oh, Jessica is the dandiest girl,” she exclaimed, slangy with
emotion. “Oh! Miss Anne, I do want to ask you a question; do you
know, won’t you tell me, why she was bent on choosing Morning-
Glory as her Camp Fire name and emblem, why she was called
‘Glory’ as a pet name before?”
“It was because of a little incident in her childhood.”
“Yes, I know! And this playground, teeming with children, is the
very place to hear it,” seconded Arline, chiming in.
“Well, I don’t think she would mind my telling you girls, it’s such a
trifling little story, but because it’s so tenderly connected with her
mother, who died a little more than two years ago, she doesn’t care
to speak of it herself; her mother was my cousin.”
“Yes?” breathed the expectant girls.
“I used to visit them when Jessica was a little child; she loved
flowers from the time she was a baby girl, and her mother invented
a ‘flower game’ which she used to play with her at night after the
child was in bed, so that she might fall asleep with a happy
impression on her mind; the mother would begin, ‘I am your rose,’
to which the drowsy little voice would answer, ‘I am your violet,’ or
something like that and so on through all the flowers they could
name, until Jessica was asleep.
“Well! one night the game went on as usual: ‘I am your rose,’ ‘I
am your vi’let;’ ‘I am your pansy,’ ‘I am your lily;’ ‘I am your
dandelion,’ ‘I am your nasturt’um;’ ‘I am your lily of the valley,’ but to
this there was no answer—the mother had the last word—Jessica
was fast asleep.
“Early next morning, however, her mother was awakened by two
little arms stealing round her neck, by a moist little mouth pressed to
her cheek and a child’s voice saying softly into her ear: ‘Mamma!
Mamma! I am your morning-glory!’
“Somehow, under cover of sleep, the seed of the flower game had
lingered in her mind all night, to blossom in the morning.” Miss Anne
gently blinked at such mysteries, looking before her at the dissolving
playground sets.
“Oh-h, if that isn’t the sweetest child-story!” burst from Sally in
subdued applause. “I’m so glad that you told it to us, satisfied our
curiosity.”
“Yes, and we’ll have such a pretty little anecdote to relate, in turn,
at our next Council Fire gathering—when we’re supposed to tell of
some kind deed which we’ve seen done—about how the Morning-
Glory danced with the dumb child, gave her such a good time this
morning. I wish I could write it up in verse—even blank verse,”
yearned Arline aspiringly. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Miss Anne?”
“Of course she will; it’s to be held outdoors, if the weather is fine,
upon the lake shore at the foot of Wigwam Hill, where you can
almost see the ghosts of Indians—who camped there in numbers,
nearly two hundred years ago—moving about. Of course she’ll be
there and Captain Andy, too, to see me light a fire without matches
and watch us dance the Leaf Dance!” Sesooā whirled like an orange
leaf in a gust of reinstated enthusiasm. “Hurrah for our Morning-
Glory Camp Fire! Hurrah and hurrah again for Camp Morning-Glory—
our camp that is to be—on the far-away Sugarloaf!” her mind’s eye
exploring those white Sugarloaf dunes, amid which she would revel,
Puck-like, fairy-like, by the light of the Green Corn Moon.
 CHAPTER IV

A LAKESIDE COUNCIL FIRE

“Wo-he-lo for aye,

Wo-he-lo for aye, Wo-he-lo,
Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo for aye!
Wo-he-lo for work,
Wo-he-lo for health,
Wo-he-lo, Wo-he-lo,
Wo-he-lo for Love!”

On Wigwam Hill the pine-tree—the noble standing pine, emblem

of “simplicity and strength,” symbol of membership in the Camp Fire
Sisterhood—bent its head, listening with every needle, as if it knew
itself the special patron of this winding chant. Maple and elm-tree,
amid whose rich foliage reposed like flaming birds of paradise the
last rays of the setting sun, fluttered their approval as the chanting
procession wound beneath them. The white-birch-tree rocked with
applause. The evening breeze curled the ears of the lake and bade it
listen to “Wohelo!”
Only the great-horned, straw-eyed owl, a life prisoner on the lake
shore—imprisoned years ago by some naturalist who led a hermit’s
existence within a stone’s throw of the water—ruffled his dappled
plumage until he looked as big as an eagle upon the dim perch of
his cage-house, and pessimistically hissed the chant.
He might have hooted, but in captivity he had lost his voice, was
as dumb, so far as natural expression went, as the little deaf-mute of
the city playground, reduced to declaring his feelings,—highly
embittered ones,—by a goose-like hiss.
“Poor old owl, I do feel so sorry for you—you poor, soured old
prisoner!” murmured the fringed and beaded leader of the chanting
Wohelo procession, winding out from the leafy foot of Wigwam Hill
past the captive’s cage, as she met the painted eye, golden as a
wheaten straw and as lifeless, with a little black dot of a pupil within
the yellow ring.
Whereupon the captive opened his beak until she could almost see
past the roots of the pink, kitten-like tongue down into his stomach,
and hissed her, turning his head upon its swivel neck, without
moving another muscle or feather of his body, until he faced, now,
sideways, now, directly backward, taking stock of the girl-leader’s
brown-robed followers. At intervals he lowered over the painted-
looking straw-eye the tiny, mysterious curtain, grey as asbestos,
which he kept tucked up under his eyelid, as if the stately procession
of fourteen brown figures gliding, single file, in and out among the
outstanding tree-trunks, with pearly glitter of head-band and flash of
many-colored honor-beads upon girlish necks, dazzled him.
“Good land! is it old Wigwam Hill—or the maidens who sleep in
that Indian graveyard on the top of it—come to life?” gasped Captain
Andy to his “artist” who had kept him in the city in order to paint his
ground colors, the hardy flame of the skin, the indomitable blue of
the eye, for her picture of “The Breaker King.” “Only I’ll wager those
dead-an’-gone maidens couldn’t touch these in looks or in the
bravery of their beads an’ fixings; I’ve seen all sorts of fashions an’
rigs, but this is a style of its own—eh?” He gave a breezy puff of
admiration as his mariner’s eye followed the procession of maidens
in leather-fringed khaki, lit by embroidery and bead, the filleted
figures whose hair fell in long braids to their waists, Morning-Glory
(to-night to be initiated into higher rank) leading, as they crossed an
open space upon the lake shore and glided past a stationary figure
of mature grace, with a yellow sun embroidered upon the left breast
of her ceremonial dress, which matched theirs.
 “It is Gheezies, our Guardian—Guardian of the Morning-Glory
Camp Fire,” was the joyous recognition in each girlish breast, as the
members of the procession, in turn, saluted her with a hand-sign,
their right arms gracefully upraised, following the curves of an
imaginary flame, the hand-sign of fire; fire of the heart and fire of
the hearth, fire of the sun and fire beneath the shingled or slated
roof-tree that shelters a home, being the glowing symbol of the
Camp Fire Girl.
One of the saluting figures, third in the procession, which even in
ceremonial beads and fringes had something familiar about it to
Captain Andy, had a small bow of polished wood slung upon her
right arm upraised in the hand-sign.
“Well! I wondered, bein’ Indian maidens, that they had no bows
an’ arrows among ’em; that redeems it,” muttered the highly
diverted captain.
“Oh, but she isn’t going to shoot an arrow from that bow, else you
and I might look out for punctures!” laughed the artist. “She’s going
to coax the arrow of fire out of dull wood with it—see the notched
fireboard and drill in her left hand—going to kindle the Council Fire
without matches!”
“Well, if she does that, she’ll make me sit up an’ take notice! My
word! how often I’ve tried that trick, raked over heaven an’ earth, as
you might say, for the means o’ making a fire—an’ that more’n once,
too—when I’ve been shipwrecked and freezing all night on a
lonesome shore.”
“Hadn’t you any matches?” questioned Olive Deering who sat
upon a fallen pine-log near the captain’s boulder, also a guest at this
open-air Council Fire, not yet kindled.
“The sea took ’em when it ripped off my sou’wester, the matches
being in a flannel pocket of its lining. I tell you, little lady, I had hard
work to hold on to my scalp, an’ so had every member o’ my crew,
too, swimming forty or fifty yards to fight for a foothold on naked
rocks, in an icy sea that pounded a man as if bent on breaking every
bone in his body—that was the worst time when we were wrecked
off the island o’ Grand Manan in a November breeze, when some of
us spent the night clinging to icy ledges, t’others crawled up,
bleeding an’ frost-bitten, to where there was wood—Lord! what we
wouldn’t ha’ given to know the secret o’ getting fire without matches
then. You don’t tell me a girl can do it? I guess she may, perhaps—
when sprats swallow sharks, as we sailors say!” he added, with a
sceptical chuckle.
“Well! wait and see the shark eaten up—the impossible done!”
laughed the artist trustfully.
In the gathering dusk Olive’s dark eyebrows were drawn together;
from her windfall log, where she sat side by side with Sybil, she
looked sidewise scrutinizingly at the grey-haired master mariner; she
was beginning to see the gulf which yawned between him and her
filled not with shapes of slimy decks, gurry-pens and fish-scaled
oilskins, but with the towering masts of human courage and heroism
that reached unto the sky, piercing Death’s very shadow, outsailing
and outwitting that pale spectre a hundred times to save human life.
“I wonder—I wonder whether ‘the sprat will swallow the shark’:
whether Sally will really succeed in getting fire without matches?”
she quivered, leaning forward with a new interest in the
performance which had, before, seemed merely spectacular, what
the boys would call a “showing-off stunt.”
And, now, the fringed and beaded Camp Fire Girl was kneeling on
her right knee upon the burnished sod of the lake shore, her left foot
pressing down hard upon the flat fireboard in which there was a little
scooped pit or hollow merging into a notch in the edge of the board,
resting upon a thin little wooden tray placed beneath it.
Her left hand—its wide-sleeved arm braced against the knee of
that firmly planted left leg—grasped the handle or socket of her
upright drill, about a dozen inches in length, her right steadily
worked back and forth the bow, drawn taut by its leather thong,
which rested upon that socket at the top of the drill, whose
sharpened lower point, thus worked, turned boringly in the scooped
hollow of the fireboard—grinding its soft punky wood into a brown
sawdust which in a few seconds turned black as it fell upon the tray
beneath.
It was a wonderful picture—so the artist thought—this linking of
the far past with the present, primitive woman with civilization, while
old Wigwam Hill looked darkly on.
Captain Andy was, indeed, sitting up and taking notice, his
massive figure leaning slightly forward, hands outspread upon his
knees, in breathless interest: was “the sprat,” actually, going to “eat
up the shark,” a girl achieve the feat—perform the igniting wonder—
which bearded men in the grip of deadly cold and desolation had
attempted in vain?
True, in these strange days, he had seen a Boy Scout work that
fire trick and get a spark in about thirty seconds. But a girl!
“Seems to me I know that little fire-witch, too,” he murmured to
the artist. “Ain’t she the one that was fluttering round like an oriole
in orange and black on the playground t’other day an’ that made
friends?... My living sakes! she’s got it. See—see her smoke!”
meaning the black powdered wood running out of the notch in the
edge of the fireboard onto the tray, under the steady grinding of the
drill—not the fire-witch, Sesooā.
Yes, grey and hopeful, it rose, that tiny cloud of smoke upon the
golden air. Sally’s Camp Fire Sisters held their breath, poised on
tiptoe. Wood Gatherers they, according to rank and in deed, who
had been gathering inflammable birch-bark and fat pine-splinters,
piling them together, in hope and faith, as the nucleus of their
coming Council Fire.
“Oh! I shall die if she doesn’t get the flame, now she’s got the
smoke!” quavered little fair-haired Betty Ayres, whose Camp Fire
name was Psuti, the Holly, fluttering, with arms outspread, like a
brown moth with a touch of gold upon its wings. “Sesooā will be so
mortified if she fails, with visitors present.”
“She won’t fail. She can’t! I see the red! Don’t you—don’t you see
it, the red spark?” The quivering cry came from Mŭnkwŏn, Arline.
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