LEARNING TO KEEP STEP
Six weeks had passed by and it was now early August in the New Hampshire
hills. Six wonderful weeks for the Camp Fire girls at Sunrise Hill,
moving so swiftly that it seemed almost incredible so much time could
have gone by. Everybody had kept well, nothing had ruffled their
harmonies, except occasional differences of opinion which were easily
adjusted, and yet Nan Graham had continued a member of the camp.
By this time the new influences in many ways showed their effect upon
her. At first she was inclined to use language that shocked and annoyed
both the girls and their guardian. She was not lazy and yet regular
hours for work seemed irksome to her; she wanted to work when it was
play time and play when work should be accomplished, and then her
personal habits were not pleasant; but this was because she had never
been taught better, for very soon she grew to be as neat as any of her
companions and though her clothes were worn and shabby they were
carefully washed twice a week by her own hands because she had fewer
possessions than the other girls. In the beginning Betty had given her
several blouses and some underclothes and would have done far more
except that Miss McMurtry advised her to cease. For it was not fair that
Nan should not also learn a spirit of independence and the desire to
earn her own way. Miss McMurtry hoped that the Camp Fire might teach
the girls this as one of its best lessons. Always we have believed that
the American boy can make his own place in the world, given an education
and a healthy body, then why not the American girl as well, now that she
is to have almost the same opportunity and encouragement?
Notwithstanding that, there was one serious, indeed most serious, fault
that the new Camp Fire member had not yet man aged to overcome: she was
not always truthful. The stories she told did not appear to be
malicious or very important, they merely explained why she was late when
her hour came for work, how she had gained certain elective honors when
no one was by to witness them, and yet they caused a general feeling of
distrust when evidence upon a question depended solely on Nan's word.
Miss McMurtry had talked to her many times and always she had promised
never to offend again and yet a habit of untruthfulness is not so easily
conquered. In reality, Polly O'Neill had more influence with the girl
whose cause she had championed than anyone else in camp, so that once or
twice Miss Martha had been tempted to ask Polly to talk to her and then
had given up the idea, thinking that perhaps it was hardly fair for one
girl to be told to lecture another.
However, it was surprising to see how kind and sympathetic the little
group of Camp Fire members tried to be to their least fortunate member
and up to the present time Miss McMurtry felt glad that she had yielded
her first judgment in the matter and allowed Nan to stay on with them.
Even Betty, although unable to be intimate with a girl whose family
connections and manners so tried her aristocratic soul, was always
considerate and certainly at the end of each week it had been Betty who
had quietly paid Nan's share of their expenses without a word. That
there had ever been a question of any one else's doing it, no one except
Betty, Polly and Mollie knew. And just what Polly had suffered at the
end of each week when she had failed to fulfill her contract no one
except a girl with exactly her disposition can understand. For the
money which she had spoken of so mysteriously to her sister and friend
had up till now failed to materialize. Nevertheless Polly had not lost
hope, but several times had assured Betty that she would pay her the
entire amount advanced for Nan almost any day, and the very fact that
Betty begged her not to think of this made her the more insistent.
Thirteen was Polly O'Neill's lucky number. Possibly because it was
regarded as an unlucky figure by other people Polly had selected and
cherished it for her own, and with the Irish ability to prove things,
because one wishes them to be true, she could give a long list of happy
events in her past history all taking place on the thirteenth day of the
mouth. Besides, had she and Molly not been born on the thirteenth,
naturally fitting the date to her star?
So on the thirteenth of August (although no one else in camp happened to
have thought of that day of the month) Polly begged leave of their
guardian to go alone into Woodford on a most important errand. The
girls were not in the habit of going into town alone; perhaps because
the walk was a long one no one had ever wished before to go without
company. However, there was no conspicuous objection since the way led
through the Webster farm and then on to the high road into the village,
and, moreover, Polly insisted that her reason for wishing to go
unaccompanied was a highly important one.
Nevertheless, with a slight feeling of discomfort, Miss McMurtry saw her
start off after lunch. Though the subject was not discussed she
realized that Polly O'Neill was physically less strong than most girls
and that her high spirits and nervous energy often gave a wrong
impression.
To-day, however, Polly seemed particularly well and curiously eager, so
that the other girls teased her all through luncheon endeavoring to find
out the cause of her mysterious errand, without gaining the least clue.
Betty and Mollie were both offended by her secrecy in spite of her
promise to tell them everything should matters turn out as she expected.
Polly believed in destiny, or at least in her own destiny as we all
should, but now and then, fear taking possession, her faith was less
secure.
There had been a few of these hours in the past six weeks while she had
prayed, hoped and willed one thing, but almost always she had believed
in it with her whole heart. Waking at daylight on this morning of the
thirteenth of August and seeing a particularly wonderful sunrise, a
curious wave of conviction had swept over her. To-day she would see her
desire fulfilled!
Truly the day was a beautiful one, a day for all lovely dreams to come
true, and as Polly walked through the fields, heavy and golden with the
ripened grain, the Irish buoyancy of her temperament asserting itself,
made each object appear an omen of good luck--the sight of a bluebird
meant happiness of course, the flight of a carrier pigeon the arrival of
a longed-for message. Weary finally of thinking delightful things Polly
fell to reciting poetry aloud. As a small girl and in spite of her
mother's and sister's protests she had made up her mind to be an actress
and had devoted all her spare hours to the memorizing of poetry and
plays. Therefore there were many hours when she loved dearly to be
alone just in order to repeat some of the lines over and over, trying to
read into them their deeper meaning, without an audience to be either
bored or amused.
Particularly had she loved and learned the strange, musical Irish poetry
of William Butler Yeats. Perhaps because the Irish believed in fairies
Polly did too, although she called her fairies by other names.
Now all alone in the yellow fields she recited the closing lines of "The
Land of Heart's Desire," doing her level best to put into it some little
portion of its mystical beauty. She was not altogether successful
because she was only a girl without any training or knowledge of her
art, but perhaps because of her youth she was less afraid and filled
with a sincerer enthusiasm.
"The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the
lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away While the
faeries dance in a place apart, Shaking their milk-white feet in a ring,
Tossing their milk-white arms in the air; For they hear the wind laugh
and murmur and sing Of a land where even the old are fair, And even the
wise are merry of tongue; But I heard a reed of Coolaney say, When the
wind has laughed and murmured and sung, The lonely of heart is withered
away."
And then, after having repeated her verse three times and feeling that
she was no nearer than at first to expressing its beauty, Polly found
herself through the fields and after passing by a small stretch of
woodlands would be out on the high road and therefore no longer alone.
And here, just at the entrance to the woodland, Polly's foot struck
against something, and stooping over she picked up from the ground the
answer to her desire, not the expected answer but one that would do as
well in its stead.
Naturally she forgot to be reasonable or sensible, forgot everything
save the good luck that seemed to come as an answer to prayer.
At the village post-office she did not even think to ask for her mail,
although stopping long enough to write a short letter to her mother,
enclosing a portion of her discovery and asking that it be used to
purchase a present for the new English cousin about whom her mother had
lately written so much.
Neither was there a confession made either to Mollie or Betty or any one
else at camp that evening, since it was far pleasanter to appear cloaked
in mystery; but Polly secured peace for herself by bringing back with
her a large basket of peaches to glorify their supper party, and then
later that evening quietly presented Betty with the amount in full
advanced for Nan Graham's expenses. She said nothing about the way in
which the money had been obtained and although Betty was curious to
know, good taste forbade her asking questions.