The Camp Fire might all grin broadly whenever it spoke of Louise's
adoption--even more broadly than it had at Winona's cat-collection: but
the adoptee herself was quite serious about it. Adopted she was by the
Camp Fire in general and Louise in particular, and adopted she meant to
stay. She went home once in awhile--there was nobody to worry about her,
it seemed, when she stayed away--but as a rule she considered herself a
Camp Fire Girl. She was too young to be a Blue Bird, but that didn't
make any difference. Finally she was given the official position of
third sub-mascot, ranking after Puppums and Hike the Camp Cat.
Unofficially, she got better training than she appeared to have had for
some time, for she knew that to stay in Camp she had to obey rules.
Vicky never did come over. Once in awhile they would return Sandy to her
home, just for politeness, but it didn't seem to be specially required
of them.
"We ought to have a grand entertainment," declared Marie one day, "and
invite all the summer people who bought our things."
"Yes," Louise approved, "and then, perhaps, if we made them happy,
they'd buy some more."
"Well, I was thinking of charging for the entertainment," demurred
Marie.
"But wouldn't it be piling things up just a wee bit too much?" asked
Louise.
"Perhaps," admitted Marie.
"What were you thinking of having?" asked Winona.
It was at the end of a weekly Council Fire, and the girls were lying
about, as usual, on the hill.
"I was wondering"--from Marie a little doubtfully--"if we could have
some tableaux from Maeterlinck, with readings. I could do the readings."
"What's Maeterlinck?" asked Louise cheerfully. "Something good to eat?"
"No, you goose!" instructed Marie. "He wrote the 'Blue Bird,' and--oh, a
lot of plays."
"Nice ones?" asked Louise. "Lots of people running around doing exciting
things?"
"No," admitted Marie. "Nothing much happens. But it's very elevating."
"I don't feel as if I wanted to be elevated, somehow," said Louise
firmly, "and I'm sure those summer people don't; they come here to relax
and enjoy themselves, and when they want something really high-brow they
go to the movies and see bears and lions eating each other. They can do
that right in the place itself."
"I don't believe they'd come to a Maeterlinck show, either, Marie," so
said Mrs. Bryan. "We can take him up to read this winter, if the girls
want to know more about him. But he isn't exactly the author for a
summer entertainment--especially if we want to make money."
"We do," said Marie who had a strictly practical side to her.
"Does it have to be an author?" Helen wanted to know.
"It seems to," said Louise.
"I have an idea!" exclaimed Winona, sitting up.
"Is it an author?" asked Louise.
"Yes!" said Winona, "it is!"
"Well?" from everybody.
"Samantha Allen!" cried Winona eagerly. "My plan's this. Have somebody
dress like Samantha--you know the pictures--and tell all about herself
to begin with. Then we could make a big, wooden frame--we have those
boards left from the float--and Samantha could turn over the leaves of
the album, and describe the characters in her books one by one, as they
were shown in the frame. We could call it 'Samantha's Picter-Album,' or
something like that."
"I saw an entertainment that was something of that sort once," said
Adelaide. "But it was just a frame with old-fashioned pictures, like
daguerrotypes. There wasn't any Samantha, or any talking. I should think
this would be lots better. But would it last a whole evening, and make
the Wampoag people think they'd had their money's worth?"
"I think so," said Louise. "And anyway, if it wasn't so very long we
could amuse the visitors by showing them over the camp, and telling them
all about our customs and habits. Maybe we could do a folk-dance for
them afterwards."
"Oh, yes, of course we could!" said Edith, whose specialty it was. "We
could give them an Indian dance as easy as anything, and that Russian
one I learned before I came. I can teach it to eight of us."
"I know how to dance the minuet," suggested Helen. "How many had it in
that Washington's Birthday thing Miss Green's class had last year?"
Five had, it seemed. As a minuet only needs ten performers it was very
simple to polish that up. And all of them knew Indian dances already. So
a committee was appointed to get up the costumes. The Indian dresses
were there already. For the Russian dance Edith thought head-dresses of
paper muslin would do and aprons of colored scrim, over white skirts and
turned-under, slipped-under-the-skirt middy blouses. For the
minuet--well, there was cheese-cloth in red and yellow that Marie had
had on her canoe; everyone could powder her hair and contrive a
'kerchief. The pannier draperies could be pinned into place, and broad
bodices of Winona's black paper muslin from the canoe-trimming could be
cut and pinned into place with very little trouble. Helen and Edith and
Adelaide were told off to see about the costuming; Edith, as she had to
train the others in dancing, had nothing but supervision to do. Helen
and Adelaide did what little actual work was needed.
"The main thing this entertainment needs seems to be pins," said Helen
the third day after they had decided to have it. It was a Thursday, and
they planned the affair for the next Monday night. "We're nearly out of
them."
So eight papers of pins were bought, not to speak of a good deal of
white paper muslin. The girls were assigned their different characters
in the Album, and each left to her own cleverness in getting up the
costume. About midway in the preparations it suddenly dawned on the
girls, who had gotten all the Samantha books from the Wampoag library,
and had their families send them on the ones they owned, that boys were
needed.
So a committee consisting of all the sisters was sent up the lake to
borrow Boy Scouts. It wasn't the easiest thing in the world, for boys
seem to dislike "dressing up" as much as girls like it; but Mr. Gedney
was Camp Karonya's friend, and they went back with all the boys they
needed promised them--if they would look after the costumes and not
expect the Scouts to rehearse.
Louise was appointed a Committee of Tickets, with Elizabeth to help her.
Louise was a born ticket-seller. She loved it. She and Elizabeth put in
most of their waking hours exchanging bits of ecru cardboard with small
red things on them (meant for Camp Fires) for thirty-five cents. And
they did very well. They got permission of all the drug-stores and many
other stores, to put up posters, which were camp-made, also, of course.
So by the time the fateful night arrived quite a goodly crowd was
ferried over to Camp Karonya by the Scouts' canoes.
* * * * *
At eight precisely the audience, accommodated on long planks which
reached from box to box, saw a curtain pulled away from between two
trees. Nothing was to be seen in its place but a plump red album
standing out against a background which represented every sheet in the
camp. They had used Marie's red cheese-cloth after all, instead of
Winona's black paper muslin. As for the framework, that was a work of
art for which several of the girls were responsible. It had taken all
the manual training they knew, and a little bit more--they had had to
call Tom Merriam, whose hobby was carpentry, before they got it all
right--but the general effect was gorgeous. The audience was given a
fair amount of time to appreciate the beauty of the album, which was
about eight feet high. Then Marie stepped out. She had been elected to
the very responsible part of Samantha because her memory was good,
rather than because she looked it. But she had done excellently with
what means she had. Two small pillows for a foundation, a pink wrapper
with large black spots, sent on from home, an elderly bonnet borrowed
from a friendly farmer's wife, a substantial gingham apron, spectacles,
a Paisley shawl, and a large palm-leaf fan, completed a get-up that
would have disguised Marie Hunter effectually from her own best friend.
When she thought she had waited long enough to give the audience a
chance to appreciate her she curtsied, and reaching over, pulled at the
album cover with the crock of a green-handled umbrella. The inside page
of the album was imitated by a frame with white muslin tightly stretched
over it, and an oval hole in the middle for the picture. In the hole
just now was a meek, chin-whiskered face surrounded by a high
collar--Mr. Gedney, normally. Samantha pointed to this proudly.
"Brethren and sisteren," began Samantha, after she had introduced
herself, "this here is my lawful, though sometimes wayward, pardner
Josiah Allen. I was married to him in a brand-new green silk gown, made
pollynay, and Mother Jones's parlor, come twenty year ago. Our mutual
affection has been a beakin ever since, though I can't deny it has
sputtered some once in awhile, and burned purty low, tryin' times like
house-cleanin' an' wash-days."
She went on with the famous tale of "How the Bamberses borrowed Josiah,"
cutting it short when she heard the tiny bell behind the scene tinkle,
as a signal that another picture was ready. Then she jerked the cover to
with her umbrella-handle, and operated it again. This time the inside
leaf had been fastened back with the lid, for this was a full-sized
picture. The audience, by this time, was laughing at nearly everything
she said, for Marie was a capital mimic, and she had picked out and
strung together all the funniest things she could find in the Samantha
Allen books.
"This here," announced Samantha, "is my step-children, Thomas Jefferson
and Tirzah Ann. They ain't bad children, if I do say it as shouldn't,
and I have brung 'em up like they wuz my own."
Winona was Tirzah. She sat stiffly in a high-backed chair (the back was
pasteboard, covered with black muslin, cut in a Chippendale sort of way)
and she wore a full, flowered gown, with her hair looped over her ears
and fastened in the back to a "chignon" with two fat curls hanging from
it. They had put Tom with her, with a view to mutual support. He, too,
had a preposterous collar (collars may be made by the dozen if you have
scissors and patience, and the Camp Fire Girls had both) and a flowered
vest. His baggy clothes and a tall hat at his feet completed a picture
that was so much like the ones you do see in old albums that the
audience began to clap before Marie was through her introduction.
"Woof!" said Tom when he got out of the frame. "Never again for me!" He
turned to grin at Billy, who had still to go on. Billy was supposed to
be 'Submit Tewksbury's beau, a dashin' city feller,' and he was trying
to get an appropriate amount of dash into his mustaches.
"Every time I go up against Camp Karonya," responded Billy sadly, "I
have to do something that needs a lot of stiffening. I had to work two
hours over that fiend tail of mine, and these whiskers are just as bad."
"It'll be worse when you have real ones," remarked Louise consolingly.
She was acting as putter-on-of-finishing-touches. There was a
dressing-tent apiece for the girls and boys, and Billy was on the
outside of his, trying to arrange the mustache to his liking by means of
a small mirror pinned to the canvas.
"At least I won't have to worry about their sticking on," was his reply.
"There," said Louise, "they'll do now."
"Billy and Adelaide wanted!" called Edith.
Adelaide, on account of a mournful expression that still appeared at
times, had been selected for "Submit Tewksbury," who had a broken heart
and was good to one relative after another for thirty years or more. She
had been told to look as sad as she possibly could, and she was posed
with a medicine bottle and spoon, with which she had just--so Samantha
explained--been nursing her relatives. Billy, behind her, looked very
cheerful and debonair with his jaunty mustache and a very gaudy shirt
which--so he said afterwards--he had bought especially for the occasion,
for thirty-nine cents marked down from fifty. It had a large, spotty
pattern on it, and it looked _very_ festive.
The tableaux went smoothly on. Marie remembered all her lines, the
audience appeared to enjoy it all very much, when suddenly in the midst
of a speech she remembered something, and halted, secretly referring to
the list of pictures which was pinned inside her palm-leaf fan. Widder
Doodle, Submit Tewksbury, Elder Minkley, Maggie Snow--yes, they were
four past Betsy Bobbet, the crowning glory of the evening, and no Betsy
Bobbet had there been! Marie pulled herself together and thought a
minute, talking on meanwhile.
"Brethren and sisteren," she said, "I hope you'll excuse me for a
minute. My wind's a gittin' low, and my new congress gaiters pinch me
some. I'm goin' to ask you to wait a bit, till I fetch me a drink of
water."
The audience laughed, and clapped, as it had been doing most of the
evening, and Samantha scuttled distractedly behind the scenes, where she
clutched the nearest person to her. It happened to be Mrs. Bryan, who
was making up one of the boys under a light.
"Where's Betsy Bobbet--I mean Lilian Green?" she asked hurriedly. "It's
way past her turn, and she's never been in at all."
"Oh, my dear, didn't anyone tell you?" said Mrs. Bryan.
"They couldn't," said Marie. "I've been out front all this time."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Mrs. Bryan. "Can't you do without her? She
slipped and tore her costume so badly that it wasn't fit to appear in.
She could pose, of course, but the tears would show."
"I went right down over a tent-pole," explained Lilian, appearing to
speak for herself. She was indeed badly torn, not to speak of the fact
that she was limping a little. Her bonnet and veil--a green
mosquito-netting veil--were wrecked--and she had managed to muddy
herself thoroughly, too.
"You certainly made a thorough job of it!" exclaimed Marie. "But oh,
Mrs. Bryan, what shall I do? I've been talking about her all the
evening--leading up to her. She's the keystone of the whole
performance."
"It would be a case of Hamlet with Hamlet left out without her, then,
would it?" queried Mrs. Bryan. "My dear, I don't know what to say. If
Lilian were damaged somebody else could supply her place, but we haven't
any understudy for Lilian's clothes!"
"There's only one thing to do," offered Winona, coming over from a group
of girls. "Have her go on anyway, Marie, and make up something to
explain why she looks so funny. Explain why she's so torn and
crumpled--make a joke of it, so they'll think it was all on purpose."
"Winnie, you're the pride of my life!" vowed Marie. "I'll have to do
just that. It will be hard," she added doubtfully.
"Oh, no, it won't," and Winona laughed reassuringly, "you're the
cleverest one of us, and if you can't make up some reason why Betsy
Bobbet looks mussed, nobody can. Now go on out and do it."
She gave her a little push.
"Ray-of-Light, you're a dear!" Marie said affectionately as she turned
and went out. "Put Lilian in the frame just as she is, please," she
said. "I think I can manage it."
Lilian laughed a little at the idea of displaying herself to two hundred
summer people looking as if she had come out of a subway accident, but
she got into position like the good-natured girl she was, and Marie
heard the little bell and began to make her impromptu explanation.
"My friend, Betsy Bobbet, she's a considerable kind of a curis person,"
she said. "She's sorter sentimental, an' sometimes she's too impulsive.
Now, just before she had this daguerrotype took that I'm goin' to show
you, she was writin' a pome to the Muse. This is how it went:
"Muse of Poetry
I would do much for thee
And I am full of tears
Because I have been writin' so many years
And still unappreciated I be--
"Betsy can write pomes like that any time," explained Marie, and the
audience giggled. "But I always tell Betsy," Marie went on, "that
walkin' cross-lots ain't any place to compose poetry to Muses. Well, she
was walkin' 'cross-lots in a brown study an' a red-striped morey waist,
speakin' this out loud as she went. An' she got to gesturin' before she
thought. An' Farmer Peedick, him that married Jane Ann Allen, had jest
let his best bull out in the field. An' whether it was the red morey
waist or the pome Betsy never did know, but she thinks it was the pome.
She says she thinks the bull, not bein' used to fust-class poetry, was
excited. So he just up an' ran after her. Well, she stopped recitin',
an' ran, too. She jest got over the barb-wire fence in time. But I tell
you, Betsy Bobbet is a wonderful woman! When she was safe she fixed that
bull with her eye (it was a poet's eye, she says to me), an' recited the
remainder of that ode to him. An', ladies an' gentlemen, you mayn't
believe it, but that bull was cowed! Yes, sir. He looked at her, Betsy
says to me, as if he was sayin' 'I can't stand that!' an' he ran. Yes,
sir, he just ran!"
She pulled aside the frame, and there smirked Betsy, very stiff and
proper, with her bonnet and veil still a wreck and her red morey waist
very much askew, and with a jagged rent down the front of her skirt. But
her corkscrew curls twisted gracefully down either side of her face, her
eyes were rolled up, and her mitted hand clutched a roll of paper. The
audience howled.
Marie closed the cover, bowed, and went on to the end of the pictures.
The dances--the Indian dance, the minuet and the Russian dance--were
beautiful and everyone applauded them, though they liked the Indian
dance best. When they had finished some of the guests, to Louise's great
delight, demanded Camp Fire work, and bought it, too. After that the
girls distributed coffee and sandwiches free, and then the Scouts took
the audience, in relays, up the river to Wampoag.
Before they went somebody said to Marie:
"My dear, you were splendid. I'm going to give that entertainment for
our church this winter, and write to you for help. But the most
convincing and amusing picture of the lot was 'Betsy Bobbet.' Do tell me
how you ever managed to make the thing so life-like?"
But Marie merely looked modest.
"We did the best we could," she said. "It was quite simple, after all."