"The Mystic!" echoed Nathalie in mild amazement, while one or two of the
group turned and gazed curiously at the gray-shrouded figure hurrying
by.
"You needn't ask me to look at her," asserted the Sport with a scowl,
"after screwing up my courage as I did to ask her if we could use her
terraced lawn for one of our drills; why, the glance she gave me almost
froze me stiff!"
The girls laughed at Edith's tragic tone, while Lillie Bell retorted
teasingly, "Well, she must be a chill-raiser, Edith, if she could freeze
the marrow in your spine."
"Girls, you should not speak as you do about Mrs. Van Vorst," admonished
Helen, "you know Mrs. Morrow says that she has suffered a great sorrow."
"Pshaw, we all know that," returned the Sport unfeelingly, "but that is
no reason why she should make every one else suffer, too."
"Granted," rejoined Helen, "but she has grown to look at things through
morbid eyes."
"I should think the gray gown she wears would make any one morbid,"
suggested Lillie. "But what is the use of discussing her? I believe she
is just a crank with a fad," she added.
"Who is she, and why does she go about in that queer gray gown?"
inquired Nathalie, insistently.
"She is Mrs. Van Vorst, the richest woman in town," explained Grace.
"She lives in that big, gray house surrounded by the stone wall. Haven't
you noticed it? It's on Willow Street, up on the hill. You must have
seen it."
"Oh, the big house with the beautiful Dutch garden," exclaimed Nathalie,
"and the queer little house at one side of it?"
"Yes," nodded Helen, "but that queer little house is an ancient
landmark--a Dutch homestead--built on a grant of land given by Governor
Stuyvesant to Janse Van Vorst way back in 1667. The Van Vorsts, or their
descendants, have lived on that place for hundreds of years. Billy Van
Vorst, the last of the line, married Betty Walton, a rich New York girl.
He died some years ago, and--well, I don't know the exact story--" Helen
hesitated, "but they say Mrs. Van Vorst has an awful temper--oh, I hate
to tell it--and then it may not be true."
"But it is true," asserted Jessie Ford, "for Mother used to know Billy
and Betty, too. She said shortly after Billy's death Mrs. Van Vorst
became angry with her little child--I don't know whether it is a boy or
girl--and--"
"Whatever it is," broke in Edith, "it is all distorted and twisted,
looks like a monster, for I saw it one day in the garden, the day I was
there. It is always muffled up so people can't see it."
"Well, anyway," went on Jessie, "Mrs. Van Vorst got into a temper with
the child and shut it up in a dark room, and then went off to a
reception or something, and forgot all about it."
"Oh, how could she?" ejaculated Nathalie with a shudder.
"Well, when she came home and remembered it--it wasn't in the room--"
"And they found it all in a heap on the pavement in the yard," again
interrupted Edith, anxious to forestall the climax; "I have heard all
about it, they say it was an awful sight."
"Dead?" cried Nathalie in a shocked tone.
"No, not dead," returned Jessie, "but it might as well have been. It had
become frightened in the dark, said some one was chasing it, and in
trying to escape climbed out on a shed and fell to the ground. Mrs. Van
Vorst was ill for a long time, almost lost her mind. Then she gave up
society and came down here and built this big house beside the
homestead. She has lived in it ever since, but keeps to herself; she
doesn't seem to want to know people."
"Oh, I don't wonder she mourns in gray then!" exclaimed Nathalie. "I
feel sorry for her!"
"And so do I!" chimed Helen squeezing her new friend's hand
responsively, "for she will have to suffer remorse all her life. Mother
says she is to be pitied."
"Well, I should have more pity for her if she would let us have the lawn
back of her house for our flag drill," remarked Lillie Bell, "or for one
of our demonstrations."
"You can be sure I'll never ask her again," declared the Sport,
vehemently; "I believe she hates us just because we are young, and can
enjoy life when her child can't."
At this moment Grace arose and handed Nathalie a peculiar-looking
envelope of rough brown paper. "No, it won't explode," she giggled, as
she saw Nathalie handling the quaintly-folded envelope rather gingerly.
"You needn't think it is the butcher's bill, either," laughed Helen,
"for it isn't. It is simply an invitation to one of our group meetings,
or Pioneer Rallies, as we call them. We always use that kind of paper
when we invite guests, for it was the kind used in pioneer times."
Reassured by Helen's explanation, Nathalie opened the envelope, noting
the old-style script printed by hand in scarlet letters, evidently the
work of one of the Pioneers. Then she slowly read aloud:
"They knew they were Pilgrims, and looked not much on those things,
but lifted up their eyes to Heaven, their dearest country, and
quieted their spirits within."
-- Bradford.
* * * * *
Ye presence of ye young maide, Mistress Nathalie Page is enjoined to
appear on ye 23rd of this month at ye Common House (Seton Hall) on
ye corner of ye cross roades to Bergen Town, to join with ye maides
of ye colony of Westport in a seemly diversion and Mayflower Feast.
Postscript: Kindly come apparelled in ye meeting-house cloathes and
behave as a young maide should so do.
From the Girl Pioneers of America, ye Many-greated-grand-daughters
of ye Mothers of ye Pilgrim Colony, who came to this new world in ye
good sloop MAYFLOWER in 1620.
The expression of wonderment in Nathalie's eyes changed to one of
amusement as she laughingly cried, "My, but you are the real article!"
"Yes, the scribe did that," said Helen proudly; "I think it ought to be
put in a glass case."
"Thank you!" promptly returned Jessie; "I accept your praise, but
suggest, as industry is one of the laws of the Pioneers, that I should
receive a special badge of merit, for if you could have seen me poking
into those musty documents at the library to get the thing right, you
would say I deserved it."
"But what does it mean?" demanded Nathalie curiously. "What have you to
do with the Pilgrims?"
"Why, it means," explained Helen, "that we girls, to freshen up our
minds on pioneer history, so that we may learn more about the women we
emulate, name each of our rallies after some one group of pioneers, or
some special pioneer woman, in memory of their service to us. Then we
all talk about them, each one telling what she knows."
"Or what she doesn't know, generally," broke in Lillie, dryly.
"I guess you are about right, Lillie," added Grace, "for we are awfully
rusty on pioneer history. It always seemed so stupid at school, but we
have learned a lot since we started naming our rallies after pioneer
things, and trying to see what we can cram. Why, girls," she cried
suddenly, as if impelled by inspiration to tell the latest thing she had
learned, "do you know that there were almost thirty children who came
over with the Pilgrims in the _Mayflower_?"
"Well, I for one did not," remarked Jessie candidly; "I didn't know that
the Pilgrims had any children; supposed they were just a lot of
blue-nosed men who wore high ruffs and tall, round hats, and who went
about with long faces, telling people they would go to the devil if they
dared to smile."
"There, Jess," broke in Lillie Bell mischievously, "you needn't get
profane over it."
"Of course they were grim and forbidding-looking," supplemented Kitty,
"and--"
"And sanctimonious," added some one, "with their blue laws."
"Girls, you are all wrong," spoke up Helen, with a sort of call-you-down
air, "it was the Connecticut elders who made the blue laws. The Pilgrims
were sincere, earnest men. Remember what Mrs. Morrow said about them?"
There was a sudden silence for a moment, and then a faint voice was
heard from the other end of the veranda. Every one pricked up her ears
and craned her neck to see who was speaking.
"Ye Stars! it is the Flower of the Family," whispered Edith; "what has
come to her?"
The sweet, low voice went on slowly, perhaps a trifle unsteadily, "God
sifted a whole nation that he might send choice grain into the
wilderness."
"Hooray for the Flower!" shouted some one, and then of course they all
had to clap, while the editor-in-chief of the "Pioneer," who was sitting
next to the speaker, jotted down this little saying with the air of an
expert reporter.
"Now, do you suppose," went on Helen, "that these picked men--"
"This choice grain," corrected the Sport softly, who was trying hard to
create a laugh.
"Edith, please be serious," admonished Helen, looking at that young lady
with reproving eyes, but she was sitting with folded arms and eyes cast
down, the picture of innocent and bland decorum.
Helen, seeing she had subdued the Sport for the time being, continued:
"Yes, this choice grain was composed of not only sincere and courageous
men, as we know, but the most tolerant of any of the first settlers in
this country. But, of course, in serious, solemn times one is not apt to
be funny. They were not really sanctimonious, they just got that name
because they tried to live up to their convictions."
"But they got it!" retorted the Sport, who was always hard to convince
in an argument. Helen flashed her eyes at her in rebuke, and then,
turning toward Nathalie, said, "We are not only going to tell what we
have learned about the Pilgrims at the rally, but we are to end with a
Mayflower Feast. We do not expect to eat the things the colonists did,
of course, but the table is to be decorated with May-flowers--that is
with all the flowers that grow in May--so you see, it will really be a
May-flower Feast."
"The Boy Scouts are going to pick the flowers for us!" chimed the Tike,
her good-natured face beaming good-fellowship at Nathalie.
"Dr. Homer--he is Mrs. Morrow's brother--" supplemented Grace, "is the
Scout Master of the Eagle Patrol, and as he is very anxious to make the
boys chivalrous, he likes to have them help us all they can."
"But we are to have a great big entertainment," exclaimed Carol
importantly, "very soon, and we're to sell tickets so that we can make
money for the Camping Fund."
"And we have such a bright idea for getting up something novel in the
way of entertainments," spoke up Helen interestedly. "Each girl is to
put on her thinking-cap and get to work on an idea; it has to be
original, nothing borrowed, or that has been used before, and then turn
it in to our Director in proper shape to be carried out. All of these
novel ideas are to be kept secret until we have had all of the
entertainments, and then we shall vote for the one we think the best.
The winners will receive merit badges for their efficiency."
"Oh, that will be great!" cried Nathalie, "but tell me, where are you
going camping?" she questioned animatedly, for her thoughts had
instantly reverted to a summer or so before when she and a party of
school girls had camped up in the woods of Maine.
"We don't know yet," was Helen's practical rejoinder, "for we have got
to know how much money we shall have to spend. But come, girls, be
serious and tell Nathalie some of our sports and activities. We want to
show her that we can do things worth while, you know."
"Oh, get Lillie Bell to tell us one of her stories!" cried the Sport,
who was a warm admirer of the story-teller.
"Oh, I can't think of any now!" replied Lillie lazily. And then as a
chorus of voices seconded this plea, she cried, "Really girls, I can't.
I was up half the night studying for exam. But," her face brightened, "I
will tell you about the picked chicken if you like. As it has something
to do with our pioneer law, it will come in all right."
"Oh, yes, do!" pleaded her hostess, who had been wishing that she might
hear one of the story-teller's thrillers.
"It isn't a blood-curdler this time, Miss Page," apologized Lillie, "so
I cannot give you an exhibition of my reputed talent as a fictionizer.
It is simply that Mother had a headache, Father was going to bring home
a swell friend to dine with us, and as it happened, the butcher sent a
feathered fowl, and our little Dutch maid was ill."
"Oh, it was maddening," she sighed in dolorous reminiscence, "but there
was no way out of it, for we had to have that chick for dinner. So I set
to work; some people say that when you try to do right everything rises
up against you. So it proved to me, but I remembered our Pioneer motto,
'I Can,' and glued myself to that job. Verily, I thought that chicken
must be a relative to the goose that laid the golden egg, for every
feather I pulled, a dozen at least came to the funeral. But I won out,
and went to bed with a clear conscience, and that fowl--inside of me!"
"Hooray for the Pioneer laws!" called several voices hilariously, and
then at one and the same time, in their eagerness to give proof of
well-doing, each one started to relate some personal experience. The
effect of several story-tellers spinning yarns at the same time was so
ludicrously funny that all the stories ended in merry laughter.
"Oh, let's vary the entertainment," suggested Grace, "and sing our
Pioneer song for Miss Page."
In another moment the fresh young voices, accompanied by a swing of
heads and a tap of feet, were singing, to the tune of "Oh, Maryland, My
Maryland":
"We laugh, we sing, we jump, we run,
We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!
We're always having lots of fun;
We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!
The wild birds answer to our call,
These feathered friends in trees so tall;
We learn to know them one and all.
We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!
Refrain.
We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!
We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!
We will be brave, and kind, and true;
We're Pioneers, Girl Pioneers!"
Nathalie, who was enjoying this musical treat immensely, and longed to
join in, suddenly gave a start. She had heard a familiar hand strike the
keyboard of the piano, and then start in with the tune the girls were
singing, while a clear, high, soprano voice--one that the girl had never
heard before--took up the air, and in a moment was leading the girls in
their song, and as though accustomed to do it.
She saw one or two of the girls smile at another in a mysterious way,
and began to wonder what it all meant. As the last verse came to a
close, and there were three, Mrs. Page stepped through the low French
window from the living-room on the veranda, followed by a figure in
white and Dick, who was hobbling along on a broom turned upside down.
There was a silent moment, and then the Girl Pioneers had jumped to
their feet and were saluting the lady in white, for it was Mrs. Morrow,
their Director. No, they did not touch their shoulders as in the salute
to Helen, their group leader, but the forehead, in military salute.
Mrs. Morrow returned the salute, and then, as the girls broke into their
Pioneer yell, came over to Nathalie without waiting for an introduction.
But the young hostess had risen to her feet and was standing with
outstretched hand.
"Oh, my dear! you must sit down, or you may strain your foot!" cried
Mrs. Morrow anxiously, as she caught Nathalie's hand in hers and smiled
down at her with luminous gray eyes, the kind that seem to radiate
hearty good-will and cheer. Her greeting was so gracious, and there was
such an undefinable charm in the bright face of the young matron, that
Nathalie surrendered immediately.
"I did not mean to intrude on your sport, girls," cried Mrs. Morrow in a
moment, turning toward the group, still holding Nathalie's hand, "but I
was as anxious as you all were to meet our new neighbor."
The color deepened in Nathalie's cheeks as she cried in her impulsive
way, "Oh, but you are not intruding at all, Mrs. Morrow; I am more than
anxious to meet you, for--" she stopped a moment, and then flashed, "the
girls all say you are lovely!"
There was a wild cheer at this, whereupon, the gray-blue eyes smiled at
Nathalie again. Then turning, the lady nodded to the compliments so
boisterously expressed by the girls. For a few moments it seemed as if
each girl was trying to outdo every other girl as to who should win in
this race for tongue speed, as they crowded around Nathalie and their
Director.
Presently Nathalie looked up and laughed, for Dick did look so funny as
he hobbled from one girl to another--he had always been a lover of
girls--on his broomstick. As if divining why she laughed, Dick, who had
heard her looked up. "Hello there, Blue Robin!" he cried teasingly,
"what have you got to say about it?"
"Blue Robin?" repeated Mrs. Morrow in puzzled query, turning towards
Nathalie, "why does he call you Blue Robin? That is the name of this
group."
"But I thought the name of this group was Bluebird," answered Nathalie
in some surprise.
"So it is," returned Mrs. Morrow, "but you know, bluebird means blue
robin, too."
"There, Dick! I was not so far wrong after all!" cried Nathalie
triumphantly, looking at her brother with convincing eyes. Then she
turned and quickly told how she had found the bluebird's nest in the old
cedar, how she had called the birdlings blue robins, and how Dick--who
was a terrible tease--had plagued her about it ever since.
"But please inform me, Mrs. Morrow," now spoke that young man, "why you
say bluebirds are blue robins?"
"Why, you know, the first bird seen by the Pilgrims when they came to
this land was a bluebird--our earliest songster. As it resembled the
robin so much, they wrote home to their friends and told of the
beautiful blue robins they had seen in the new land."
"Oh, Nathalie," cried Helen with joy in her voice, "do you know the
finding of the blue robin's nest surely must be an omen for good! Keep
the name your brother has given you, and become a real bluebird, or blue
robin, by joining our group and becoming a Pioneer!"
"Oh, yes, Miss Page, do!" came quickly to Nathalie's ears; "we should
love to have you one of us."
"I'll coach you in the tests!" sang out Helen, who was ready to dance
with pleasure to think that there was a prospect of her new friend
becoming a Pioneer.
"And I'll help!" added Grace. "And so will I," "And I!" chimed several
girlish voices.
Nathalie sat in embarrassed silence, hardly knowing what to answer to
these many cordial invitations to join, and offers to help her do the
tests. "I would love to be one of you," she spoke hesitatingly, "but I
am not at all clever at doing things, for I can't sew, or cook, or do
anything useful at all!" The girl's voice was almost plaintive.
"Ah, you are just the one we want, then," was Mrs. Morrow's quick reply;
"we want girls who don't know how, so we can teach and train them in the
right way."
There was loud applause at this remark, and then as the hubbub subsided
somewhat, Mrs. Morrow held up her hand for silence. "Now, girls," she
said, "give Miss Page time to think. Yes, we should be overjoyed to have
you join the group, Miss Page, for later, in the summer, one of our
bluebirds is to emigrate South for the winter, and we should love to
have you take her place. I agree with Helen that the finding of the
bluebird's nest in the old cedar meant that you were to become a true
bluebird, or Blue Robin, as we shall have to call you."
Nathalie looked at Dick, and then at her mother. Mrs. Page was smiling
at her so reassuringly that Nathalie understood that she gave her
consent, and joyfully signified her willingness to become a Pioneer.
With a bob of her head at Dick she declared, that she would become one
if only to show her brother that there was such a thing as a Blue Robin.
Mrs. Morrow then explained that they had selected the bluebird as their
mascot not only because it was the bird of pioneer days, but because the
word blue means true, and Girl Pioneers were to be true in word, and
thought, and deed. And then as a bird means swift, they were to be swift
to the truth.
"The bluebird is also noted for its cheerfulness," she continued. "The
Pioneers are to be cheerful. It is a loyal bird; the Pioneers are to be
loyal to one another, to their pledges and laws, and to every one and to
all things that are right, good, and pure. The bird is also very gentle,
and we want the Pioneers to cultivate kindliness and gentleness.
Flower," she called suddenly, "sing us that pretty little bluebird song
you know."
In compliance with this request the Flower sang, in her sweet soprano, a
funny little song about a bluebird courting his lady love. Each verse
ended with the call-note, "Tru-al-lee," which the girls caught up as a
refrain and sang with sweet, low tones, the Flower's bird-like trill
rising high above the others.