As the clock struck eight-thirty Monday morning, on the last week in
July, one Guardian, one dog, thirteen big girls and seven small ones
lined up for their long-anticipated hike to Camp Karonya. They planned
to walk half the distance that day, sleep at a farmhouse about half-way
to the woods, and finish the next day at their destination. They were
all in middies, with dark skirts, and the most comfortable slippers
money could buy--it hurts to hike in tight shoes. They had hats, of
course, but Edith Hillis, in addition, carried a parasol. Each girl
carried her own night-things and drinking-cup and luncheon. The
provisions, and the rest of the baggage, had gone over to the
camping-place in Mr. Bryan's automobile and Louise Lane's father's
delivery-wagon.
Early as it was, quite a lot of people were out to see the girls off,
and even Puppums curvetted proudly as he noticed the attention he was
getting, for he was a very vain dog. He might well be vain, because
Louise had attached a large label to his collar which said "Camp Fire
Dog," and he was not allowed to chew it off.
They walked slowly, and it felt very much like going to a picnic
guaranteed to last forever. Presently someone started a marching song,
and everyone joined in. They walked easily on, having a very good time
as they went; and before they knew it noon had come, and it was time to
have lunch.
They were near a meadow by this time, a big green meadow with trees at
its edge, and they all sat down under the trees and unpacked their
sandwiches and ate. Some of the girls had thermos bottles with them,
with hot cocoa, but most of them preferred the concentrated lemonade
Mrs. Bryan had brought along, mixed with water from a nice little brook
which had been kind enough to flow quite near them.
"If it's all going to be like this, won't it be lovely?" said Winona,
her eyes shining, as she took a large bite of sandwich, and then fed a
generous share of the rest to Puppums, who lay quiveringly near her.
"It is nice," said Helen more quietly. "I hope we'll have weather like
this the whole time ... gracious, what's that?"
"That" was a distant squeal. Winona looked hastily around her to see
what the Blue Birds were doing. But there were no Blue Birds there. The
seven little girls were out of sight, but not out of hearing, for it was
evidently one of them who had made the noise.
Winona and Adelaide jumped up and ran, but Louise and Edith sat placidly
on.
"They _will_ howl," said Louise. "There's no use always chasing after
them."
But when Winona and Adelaide arrived at the place the squeals had come
from they were very glad they had done the "chasing."
Florence, with little Lucy Hillis holding her, was sitting on the ground
screaming steadily. The other girls were huddled together in a
frightened group a little way off.
"What is it? What is it, Lucy?" cried Winona, frightened. Florence was
making such a noise that it was no use asking her. Lucy Hillis, who was
one of those quiet, old-fashioned little girls who always keep their
heads, looked up, still holding Florence's wrist.
"Florence's cut herself," she said. "I'm afraid it's a bad cut. I don't
dare let go of it."
Winona flung herself down by Florence and put her hands above Lucy's
shaking little ones, which then, and not till then, let go.
"Get me a stick, Lucy, quick--a strong one!" she said.
Lucy was back with the stick before Winona was through speaking. Winona
pulled off her tie, that useful silk scarf of hers which had helped
Edith out of the water, and bound it above Florence's cut, twisting it
tight with the stick. Then she asked Adelaide to tie Florence's wrist
again, below the cut. She did not want to take any chances, and she did
not know yet whether it was a vein or an artery that Florence had hurt.
Then she sent Lucy flying for Mrs. Bryan, while she and Adelaide made
Florence keep still.
"That Lucy child keeps her head," said Adelaide approvingly.
"It wasn't _her_ wrist that got cut!" said Florence indignantly,
stopping her sobs.
"How did it happen, Florence?" asked her sister. "Tell us--but don't
stir. Nobody knows what will happen if your wrist starts bleeding
again."
"Well, we were being Indian chiefs," began Florence, "an'--an' I was out
on the warpath, going to scalp Molly Green. And I ran, and Molly ran,
an' I fell over a tree-root and the knife cut my wrist."
"The knife!" said Winona, for nobody had mentioned a knife before.
"Where did you get a knife?"
Florence hung her head.
"I--I borrowed your penknife out of your knapsack when you laid it on
the grass to get lunch out of it."
"The knife? I didn't."
"No; the knapsack," said Florence meekly. "An'--an' oh, _dear_ sister,
I'm so sorry!"
Winona could scarcely help laughing, worried as she was. When Florence
had been naughty she always became suddenly very affectionate. At other
times she wasn't, especially.
"I'm sorry, too," she said gravely. "I don't know what Mrs. Bryan will
say to you, nor mother, when she hears about it."
"Let me see," said Mrs. Bryan behind them. She had hurried over at
Lucy's summons.
"Oh, is it--is it an artery?" breathed Winona, as Mrs. Bryan bent over
the wounded arm.
Mrs. Bryan laughed. "Nothing of the sort, you foolish child," she said.
"It's only a deep cut. It didn't even strike a large vein."
"Oh, I'm _so_ glad!" said Winona, drawing a long breath.
She ran off to get her First Aid kit out of her knapsack, and, coming
back, presently had Florence bandaged up scientifically, and much
impressed with the importance of what she had done.
"Will I have to be carried on a stretcher?" the little girl wanted to
know.
"Not a bit of it," said Mrs. Bryan briskly. "You will have to walk on
your own two feet, like any other naughty little girl."
"Oh, was I naughty?" said Florence cheerfully. "I forgot that!"
"Yes," answered Mrs. Bryan, "you were very naughty. I think we shall
have to confine you to camp for two days, when we get there."
"All right," said Florence complacently, "but now please can't I be
carried on a stretcher? I should think I might!"
"All right, let's," said Louise, who had come up along with the rest of
the girls, in Mrs. Bryan's wake. "Only remember, Florence Merriam, once
you get up on that stretcher you have to stay there."
"Of course!" said Florence indignantly.
By this time all the girls were clustered about the interesting invalid,
and the stretcher idea struck them all as a very fine one. It would help
them to put the Wood Craft they had been learning into practice. Winona
picked up her gory penknife, and began to wash it in the brook before
she started to cut wood with it.
"Oh," said Florence plaintively, "I thought you'd always keep it that
way, to remember me by!"
"I'll have chance enough to remember you without that," replied Winona
feelingly, and went off to look for poles with the others. Edith Hillis
pulled her embroidery out of her knapsack and mounted guard over the
Blue Birds, who were, however, a rather subdued flock by now.
Meanwhile the rest of the girls picked out four saplings which grew at
the edge of the wood beyond the meadow, and nicked them at the bottom
patiently till they fell. The next thing was to tie them together. But
nobody had anything to do it with, till Mrs. Bryan remembered a bunch of
leather thongs she carried.
"I always have at least two along for extra shoe-laces, when I'm
camping," she explained, "and they always come in use for something else
before the time is over. An old guide up in the Adirondacks told me to
do that, and it's always a good thing for campers to do."
The thongs bound the saplings into a frame, and Louise secured them to a
knot that was newly learned, and the pride of her life.
"That can't come out," she said, surveying it with pleasure, for
learning to do it had earned her a much-valued bead.
For the covering of the stretcher Adelaide produced an old gray shawl
from her knapsack.
"Father made me bring it," she explained rather shamefacedly.
"Just the thing!" said Mrs. Bryan heartily.
They wrapped it round the frame, and it went around three times, being
large, so that a couple of pins held it fast. Then they lifted the
gratified Florence on to it and started off down the road again. They
had cleared up the fragments of their luncheon first, and buried neatly
all the scraps and debris, so that there were no excursiony-looking
boxes and crusts littering their resting-place.
The girls took turns carrying the stretcher, and as there were fourteen
of them, counting Mrs. Bryan, many hands made light work. As Louise had
prophesied would happen, after a little while Florence became restless.
The other Blue Birds were having lovely times frolicking all over the
road, chasing butterflies and picking flowers and playing with the dog.
Florence found it rather stupid to sit in solitary grandeur on a
stretcher, and listen to what Winona and Adelaide, before her, and Marie
and Edith, behind her, were saying about their own affairs. So at the
first stop to change bearers she wanted to get down. But Mrs. Bryan was
firm.
"No, indeed," she said, "the first thing Blue Birds must learn is to
obey orders and keep promises. You promised to stay up there till
evening, Florence, and you must do it."
Florence pouted, but she stayed. She really had lost quite a little
blood in her adventure with her sister's penknife, and, though Mrs.
Bryan did not tell her so, the walk might have been too much for her.
She wriggled and yawned, and once sat up straight, till her bearers
requested her to lie still. But presently she had a companion in misery.
It was nearly the end of the journey, and the farmhouse where the girls
planned to stay the night was in sight. Winona, strolling on ahead, saw
a small gray kitten prowling along the side of the road. It was a most
unhappy kitten; it looked as if it hadn't had a square meal since it
could remember, and there was an ugly-looking place on its side as if
something had worried it. It limped a little, too, poor little cat, and
altogether a more forlorn animal would have been hard to find. But
Winona pounced on it.
"Oh, you poor little cat!" she cried. "Look, Helen, some horrid dog has
hurt it."
"Oh, don't pick it up!" said Marie. "It may have something awful."
"Smallpox, maybe?" inquired Winona sarcastically. "Nonsense, Marie, the
poor little thing's been worried by a dog, and it hasn't had enough to
eat, that's all. I'm going to adopt it."
And in spite of Marie's protests she picked it up and wrapped it in her
handkerchief, and carried it back to Florence, who was wriggling on her
stretcher, and wishing that she hadn't demanded that evidence of
invalidism.
"Here, Florence," said Winona, "hold this kitty till we get to the
farmhouse."
"Oh, a kitty! Poor little thing!" cried Florence, adopting the cat on
the spot, and letting it cuddle down by her, which it was willing enough
to do, for it seemed to be as tired as it was hungry.
"Are you sure----" began Marie again.
Marie's father was a professor in the high-school, and as a result she
knew about more kinds of germs than the rest had ever heard of.
"Mother lets us bring in hurt animals, always, and look after them,"
said Winona. "Germs can't get you if you're careful. We can wash our
hands in disinfectant as soon as we get to the farmhouse. I have some in
my first-aid kit."
"And what are you going to do with the cat?" asked Louise, coming up to
the other side of the stretcher and surveying the much-discussed animal
without great affection.
"Keep it, if Mrs. Bryan doesn't mind, as it doesn't belong to anyone,"
said Winona coolly. "It ought to make a good camp mascot."
Louise eyed the kitten again--they were nearly at the farmhouse by this
time.
"It isn't exactly my idea of a mascot," she said candidly. "What about
Puppums? I thought he was elected to the position."
"Well, then, the kitty can be the under-mascot," said Winona
undauntedly. "Anyway, when I get through nursing her she'll be a
perfectly good cat--see if she isn't!"
"I doubt it!" said Louise and Marie together, as if they had been
practising a duet.
"Wait!" said Winona as they mounted the steps.
There were plenty of rooms, for the farm people took boarders all
August; but even so, there were not enough for nearly twenty people.
However, Mrs. Norris, the farmer's wife, had been prepared beforehand
for the descent, and she had extra cots made up and ready in all the
rooms, and unlimited hot water for baths.
Winona did not come in when the others did. She sat down on the porch
floor, pulled out her first-aid kit for the second time that day, sent
Florence in for a basin of warm water, and set about doctoring the
kitten. She sponged off the torn place in its side, and the little hurt
in one of its hind legs that had made it limp. This last was only a
scratch, but it had stiffened. She rubbed salve in the hurt places. Then
she bandaged the cat's leg very successfully. But when it came to tying
up the side--for the cat would certainly have licked the salve off if
she could--it wasn't so simple. There wasn't anything to fasten the
bandage to. Finally she wound it round and round the meek little animal,
and sewed it up on top. The cat looked as if it had on a large and
fashionable sash, but it did not object. Then Winona gave it some
evaporated cream out of a can in her knapsack, watched it while it ate,
which it did till the belt tightened dangerously, and took it into the
house with her. Florence took the basin back to the place she had gotten
it from.
"Does this kitten belong to you?" Winona asked the landlady, who was
hurrying about a long table in the dining-room, putting dishes full of
steaming things on the table.
"Bless my soul, no!" she answered, stopping with a pan of baked beans
poised in mid-air. "Why, I do believe that's the kitten that belonged to
Medarys, down the road, and they moved away last week. Well, poor little
thing, the dogs must have got after it. It's a mercy it got away at
all."
"People who abandon cats that way ought to be left out in a wilderness
themselves, without anything to eat," said Mrs. Bryan warmly, as she
came up behind them.
"Ain't it so?" said the landlady. "I'll get somebody to drown the poor
little thing to-morrow."
"Oh, no! I'll keep it if it's nobody's," Winona said eagerly. "You don't
mind, do you, Mrs. Bryan?"
"If it hasn't mange," said Mrs. Bryan prudently.
"It hasn't," Winona and Florence assured her together. "It's only hurt."
"Very well," said the Guardian; and the Merriams ran off to wash their
hands in disinfectant and straighten themselves generally for supper.
They left the cat in their room.
That certainly was a supper. When you have walked all day in the open
you feel as if you could eat a house, if nothing tenderer offers itself.
Even Nataly Lee, who was genuinely tired to death, was hungry. The girls
stood behind their chairs for a moment, saying one of the Camp Fire
graces softly in unison. Then they sat down, and ate as if lunch had
been only a dream.
After supper the hostess showed them her long parlor and invited them to
make themselves at home. But they were all too sleepy to frolic. Louise,
who was untirable, did indeed unsling her banjo from across her shoulder
and try to sing, but she interrupted herself in the middle of "Nellie
Gray" with a gigantic yawn. The Blue Birds were all asleep in their
chairs, and had to be marched off to bed half conscious. It was only
eight, but the elder sisters and cousins who took them up liked the
looks of the white cots very much, and--well, it seemed so useless to go
downstairs again, some way. So Winona and Adelaide and Louise and
Elizabeth, and Marie, who was looking after such Blue Birds as had not
sisters along, simply went to bed, too, when they had attended to their
charges. The other girls sat sleepily downstairs for awhile, waiting for
their friends to come back. And then they, too, came upstairs and went
to bed--and by eight-thirty there was nothing to be heard of seven Blue
Birds, thirteen Camp Fire Girls, a dog and a cat, but twenty even
breathings from as many cots, an occasional snore from the back porch
where Puppums was tied, and a loud, ecstatic purr from the corner of
Winona's cot, where the Medary's late kitten was privately spending the
night.