FAIRY RING
Across a smooth stretch of bay dotted with tiny islets, past cliffs
with great black fissures in the side; through a narrow channel
between grim reefs and the ragged shore, went the _Togo_. Never a
house did they pass. Never another boat did they meet. For Round
Robin was hidden in an entirely wild part of the shore, too far from
Old Harbor to suit most city people. The branch road ended at the
Batchelders’ place. Beyond was wilderness. It was this very wildness
that the Batchelders and their friends liked most; and because of it
they had chosen this spot for their summer camp.
“Of course you know this Bay was once a great place for Indians?”
said Dick, who came from an Indian-frequented part of the country.
But Anne knew nothing of Indians and their history. “They had a
village somewhere along here, Hugh says; Hugh is great on history.
And out on that island away off there,” Reddy pointed into the misty
east, “there was a terrible massacre once.”
Anne looked shocked. “There was a shipwreck on that reef,”
volunteered Nancy, indicating a row of brown teeth piercing through
foam.
“Better than that,” called out Hugh from the tiller, “did you
girls know that this was the scene of a big sea-fight during the
Revolution? One of my ancestors, who was master of a little fishing
schooner, decoyed a British man-of-war right on to that shoal over
there, and took him prisoner.”
“It’s not polite of you to mention it in Cicely’s presence,” laughed
Nancy. “You might hurt her feelings.”
“Dear me, no!” protested Cicely. “We have forgotten all the grudges
of those days, haven’t we? Our countries are just allies, aren’t
they?”
“Of course they are!” said Hugh saluting like a soldier.
“Sure we are!” cried Victor doing likewise. “Ask France, too!”
“Look, Anne!” interrupted Dick, “that island out there is where
Captain Kidd is said to have hidden his treasure. Maybe we shall find
it this summer, who knows?”
“Pooh! They tell that same story about every island off the coast.”
Nancy snubbed him.
“Well, he did hide it somewhere, didn’t he?” insisted Dick. “And
nobody has ever found it yet? So!”
“This is the place where Gilda fell overboard while we were fishing
yesterday.” Norma pointed out the place.
“Ze wasser was ve’y damp!” Gilda shrugged with a little frown. And
they all began to laugh, even Anne, at the funny expression.
“And here’s where we go in bathing,” said Beverly, showing Anne a
little sandy beach as they passed. “It is cold, oh, so cold! But it
is fun, when you get used to it.”
“We had a heated pool at Idlewild,” said Anne dubiously. “I don’t
like bathing in cold sea-water.”
“It’s the way we take our daily baths,” said Nancy. “There isn’t any
running water at the camp, you know. There’s just the spring outside
the kitchen. We have to bring in what we want in buckets, the way the
first settlers did. Oh, it’s quite primitive, Anne!”
“No bathrooms then? No electric lights, I suppose?” Everybody began
to laugh. Dick fished something from his pocket and flashed a torch
in Anne’s face. “Of course we have electricity,” he said. “Everybody
is his own firefly.”
Anne looked more and more pained at these revelations. They were
approaching a point dark with fir trees, that made out into the water
beside a tiny cove. There was a strip of pebbly beach, with a landing
pier, from the end of which a path went wavering up the bank and
disappeared into the woods. Anne caught a glimpse, through the trees,
of a low log shack, and some brown canvas tents that seemed to blend
in like a part of the woods.
“Here we are! Let’s give the camp yell,” suggested Nancy. And once
again the newcomer’s ears were deafened by the strange cry, “Heia!
Hoia! Together! Round Robin!”
There was a high answering call; and down the slip came hurrying a
tall, sweet-faced woman in a blue dress and big apron, followed by
two little capering boys. The terrier pup could not wait another
minute, but leaped out of the boat and ran to greet the children,
barking noisily as if trying to tell them about his wonderful trip to
the Harbor to meet the Stranger.
The woman, whom everyone called “Tante,” came straight to Anne and
took her cordially by both hands. “Welcome to Round Robin, Anne,”
she said. “I am very glad to see you. These are my Twins, Eddie and
Freddie. Shake hands, boys.”
The Twins stared at Anne with unfeigned interest. “Yes, her hair is a
sort of gold--” began Freddie. But Dick interrupted further comment
on the Golden Girl by grabbing him up bodily and racing off, followed
by Eddie and Doughboy in a tandem.
“I hope you will like our camp, Dear,” said Mrs. Batchelder, as they
followed the girls up the path, leaving the young men to bring the
luggage. “We have very happy times here together. Though you have
never camped before, you will soon get used to the queerness, I am
sure.”
There was something so motherly and kind in her manner that a lump
came in Anne’s throat. She turned abruptly, in what seemed a sulky
way, and said nothing.
“I t’ink s’e is not pleasant, _non_?” whispered Gilda to Norma. And
the latter shrugged her shoulders. “I’m glad she is not my tentmate,”
she remarked. “But Beverly can get along with her, if anyone can.”
The pretty path led to a quaint cabin made of rough logs, such as the
Pilgrims built in Plymouth when they first landed. There was a broad
piazza, however, which those busy Pilgrims would have had no time to
enjoy. On it were Gloucester hammocks, rough-finished chairs, and a
table which Dick had made. “This is Round Robin,” said Tante, “where
we meet to eat and work and dance and spend rainy hours. A real round
robin himself has a nest in the top of that spruce tree. And the
Twins and I have our nests upstairs. But I am sure you will like
sleeping in a tent, Anne. The boys have pitched their tents down that
path about fifty rods away, beside their favorite swimming place.
That is where Dick does his studying every morning. Now, Beverly, I
will turn Anne over to your Southern hospitality. You will make her
feel at home as soon as possible, I know.”
The other girls had already disappeared on various errands. “This way
to the Fairy Ring!” drawled Beverly, with her pretty smile. “That
is what Nancy calls our tent circle. They do look rather like brown
mushrooms, don’t they? Do you-all like mushrooms? We are beginning to
find lovely ones in the woods.”
“Toadstools!” Anne exclaimed in disgust. “I’m afraid of the nasty
things. Of course, I like the ones we get in the city,” she
qualified, remembering.
“Wild ones are best,” declared Beverly. “You’ll learn to know the
difference. But don’t be fooled by the rich-looking Amanita. It’s
deadly! Well, here’s our mushroom--not too much-room, as Reddy says.”
They stood at the entrance to one of the little brown tents. Anne
stared. “Goodness!” she said. “And I shall have only half of that?”
Two narrow cots stood against the sides of the tent; a small mirror
hung from the post between them at the farther end, over a rough
box that seemed to serve for a dressing table. There were, besides
Beverly’s steamer trunk already in place, two camp stools, and a
clothes-line stretched across the tent, on which dangled certain
girlish garments. That was all. What a contrast to the dainty boudoir
Anne had left behind in Chicago!
“I keep things that mustn’t get damp inside my bed,” said Beverly
demurely. “I don’t know what Tante would say. She is so tidy. Your
trunk will go there, opposite mine.”
“I have three trunks,” answered Anne sulkily. “I don’t see where they
can go.”
Beverly laughed. “All full of clothes?” Anne nodded. “Well, you’ll
never want them here, I reckon,” drawled the Southern girl. “You’ll
keep them in the store-room, and be glad to get rid of them. You
will never need to wear anything but _this_--in Camp, at least.” She
glanced down at her khaki costume. Anne sniffed.
“I never shall like it,” she said. “It’s so coarse and ugly.”
“I never shall like it,” she repeated in a letter to her father which
she hastened to write that same afternoon, while she was supposed
to be resting. (She did not write to her stepmother.) “Please don’t
make me stay in this old camp!” Anne continued in her letter. “Mrs.
Batchelder is lovely and kind. But she does the cooking herself! And
we are all expected to help, taking turns at everything! And we have
to take care of our tents, and sweep, and wait on table! Imagine
it! There aren’t any servants; and they say it is the way the first
settlers in America lived, only easier. I think it’s horrid! Please
can’t I come to Canada, or wherever you are? I can keep out of the
way, if you’re busy. And I won’t bother the baby.”
When Anne had finished her complaining letter she sat looking out of
the tent into the trees, feeling very lonely. The Camp was silent,
for it was the hour when those who wished to do so took their daily
nap; while the others were expected to study or to keep quiet or to
go away where they could be noisy without disturbing anyone else.
Even the irrepressible Twins and Doughboy were invisible. Victor had
taken them off on a small hike. Beverly had left Anne in undisputed
possession of the tent. She and Cicely were going to pick wild
strawberries for supper.
“I wonder what they are doing in Canada now?” thought Anne wistfully.
“I wonder why Father wouldn’t let me come with them? It must have
been Mother’s idea.” Ever since the baby came Mrs. Poole had acted
oddly. But so had Mr. Poole. He had been different for a long
time. There was something Anne didn’t understand, and it made her
uncomfortable. Now they had sent her to this camp of strangers. It
was very hard! Tears began to gather in her eyes, as Anne pitied
herself.
Just then she became aware of a commotion in the trees outside the
tent. The birds were screaming and complaining wildly; especially one
father robin, who seemed to be having a fit of hysterics. “That must
be the Round Robin for whom the camp is named,” thought Anne. “What
a racket! You are so near the birds and things in this old camp that
you can’t get away from their troubles.”
“_What!_ What--what--what!” shrieked the old robin, still more
anxiously, and Anne saw him flying back and forth about a certain
tall cedar. Then the tree itself began to shake. The top was moving
as if it were alive, thrashing back and forth strangely.
“What can it be?” thought Anne, laying down her pen and running
outside. There was certainly something up in the tree; something
alive. She caught the glitter of two yellow eyes peering down at her.
“It is an animal!” thought Anne, and for a moment her heart stood
still. She was alone in camp for all she knew. And Hugh had told that
noon how he had seen a wildcat in the woods last summer. Wildcats
were dangerous beasts, sometimes. What should she do? This creature
was certainly furry, but it looked white. Weren’t wildcats always
grey?
The creature was coming down! A great white cat-like thing, with a
thick ruff around its neck, a tail like a feather plume, fur standing
on end, and long, fierce whiskers. The robin kept up a ceaseless
protest. Evidently he at least had reason to be afraid. Anne stood
rooted to the spot with fear, while the animal descended. It gave a
leap to the ground and came bounding straight towards her.
“_Purr!_” it cried. “_Purr-miaou!_” “Oh, what is it?” Anne whispered
aloud to the air. But she stood her ground.
“Patsy! Patsy!” called a voice, and out of the bungalow ran Nancy.
“You naughty cat! Are you bothering the birds again?”
“Is it only a cat?” asked Anne staring. “Why, it looks like a wild
beast!”
“Patsy is an honest-to-goodness cat,” Nancy assured her proudly.
“But our darling Patsy will chase the birds. We do the best we can.
We keep him indoors at night. He has never been away from home one
single night in all his little life, Anne, and we don’t let him out
till after he has been fed in the morning. But he will prowl for
birds. Naughty Patsy, to wake up our new guest, too!”
“I wasn’t asleep,” said Anne simply. Patsy capered across the path
and flung himself head foremost at the girls’ feet, rolling over in
the most engaging fashion, snowy paws in the air. “What a beauty!”
cried Anne. “I love Persian cats. They are so rare. He must be very
valuable.”
“He isn’t rare, and he isn’t a foreigner. He is a Maine ‘shag cat,’
born right here in the Harbor,” declared Nancy. “There are more
‘shags’ than ‘snug-haired cats,’ as the people call them around here.
But we like our kitties _well done_, instead of _rare_, don’t we,
Patsy? He likes you, Anne.”
Sure enough. Patsy gave a winsome little purr and ran up to Anne’s
outstretched hand, as if to welcome the newcomer, and rubbed against
her knee.
“You are a darling!” cried Anne, picking up the roly-poly fellow, who
wasn’t so very big after all, being mostly fluff, like an icecream
soda. Patsy licked her cheek with his pink tongue. And Anne smiled.
It was the first time Nancy had seen her smile, and she thought how
pretty Anne could be.
“He is a fairy cat,” announced Nancy. “White cats are always fairies,
you know. Look out he doesn’t bewitch you, Anne!”
“Nonsense!” cried Anne, turning up her nose at the words, but
stroking Patsy’s fur very gently indeed. She thought Nancy talked in
a very silly way about fairy-tales, almost as if she really believed
them. She did not yet know that Nancy loved better than anything else
to write fairy-tales herself. And if you do a thing like that, you
must at least pretend to believe in it.
Already Patsy had made Anne feel that she had a four-footed friend
at camp--which may or may not have been bewitchment. Anyway, she
scribbled a postscript to the letter which she had been writing:
“P.S. Patsy is the most beautiful cat I ever saw; fine as the one who
took the prize in the last cat show, you remember? Only this one is
white. I am going to see if I can’t buy him of Nancy Batchelder and
bring him home with me when I leave this old camp. I am sure it will
be the only thing I shall want to bring away!”
However, this complaining letter of Anne’s was never sent. It
remained in her pocket until it graduated from there into the
fire-place at Round Robin. For it is a mistake to record your
impressions of any place until you have spent at least one whole day
and one entire evening there.
That first evening after supper, it being warm and dry, with a young
June moon, the Round Robin gathered on the piazza; all but Hugh and
Victor who had taken the canoe and had gone out on the water for a
little. Perched on the piazza railing, snuggled in the Gloucester
hammocks, curled on the grass mats, the Club purred like contented
kittens after a good supper. First they played “I’m thinking of
something.” But afterward they voted that the night was too beautiful
for any game. Down in the pasture the fireflies were flickering.
Sweet odors came from trees and grass and water; and sweet sounds.
Now and again a little bird chirped away up in a treetop, as if his
happy long day was being continued into a nice dream. The sea itself
was crooning a gentle tune.
“Sing, Norma!” begged somebody. And though there was no piano or
other accompaniment than the noises of out-doors, Norma was willing
enough. She had a beautiful voice, full and rich and mellow for
a very young girl, and she loved to sing. She began with quaint
melodies in Italian, new and lovely things which the others had never
heard, and could not wholly understand. Her voice seemed to melt
into the night like the wind and water. Then Norma sang old songs in
English which they all knew, and in which they all joined, a jolly
little chorus. Anne sang as loudly as anybody, there in the dark
corner where nobody could see.
Presently the sound of music came from the ocean too, where they
could just spy the red canoe gliding by in the moonlight.
“_Allons, Citoyens! Formez vos bataillons!_” Victor’s pure tenor rose
in the stirring strains of the _Marseillaise_, Hugh joining in with
a sturdy baritone. The June wind brought the sound of the young
veterans’ voices sweetly, and Tante’s eyes were moist, as she thought
gratefully of what might have been. Instead, those soldier-voices
might now be breathing up through the grasses of that land whose very
flowers seem to sing the chant of liberty. No! There must be no more
war!
Then Round Robin sang _America_ with vim. Anne noticed that there
were at least two sets of words being sung to the same melody. It
is not wholly accident that makes this old tune the hymn of several
great nations.
“Hooray!” shouted voices from the shore in response to _America_; and
then the echoes woke to a rattling college yell. Hugh and Victor were
coming up the path, and Doughboy scuttled barking to meet them.
“Well, it must be time for bed,” said Tante presently. “I suspect
Anne Poole has found this a pretty long day, and is quite ready for
sleep?”
“It has been a nice day,” said Anne simply. It might not be so bad at
Round Robin, after all, she thought, crumpling up the letter in her
pocket.
One more song they sang all together before they separated--their
favorite song of all they knew--“_America the Beautiful_.”
“_America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea!_”
The voices rang out lustily as the campers strolled away to their
various tents. And the last word Anne heard before she swiftly
dropped off to sleep in her snug cot was “_America!_” coming clearly
and softly from the tent where the young ex-soldiers lay.