Nov. 10, 19--.
Darling K:
This big old town is like the Deserted Village since you and the other
Winnies went away. For the first few weeks it was simply ghastly; there
wasn't a tree or a telephone pole that didn't remind me of the good times
we used to have. Do you realize that I am the sole survivor of our once
large and lusty crew? Migwan and Hinpoha and Gladys are at Brownell;
Veronica is in New York; Nakwisi has gone to California with her aunt;
Medmangi is in town, but she is locked up in a nasty old hospital
learning to be a doctor in double quick time so she can go abroad with
the Red Cross. Nothing is nice the way it used to be. I like to go to
Business College, of course, and there are lots of pleasant girls there,
but they aren't my Winnies. I get invited to things, and I go and enjoy
myself after a fashion, but the tang is gone. It's like ice cream with
the cream left out.
I went to the House of the Open Door one Saturday afternoon and poked
around a bit, but I didn't stay very long; the loneliness seemed to grab
hold of me with a bony hand. Everything was just the way we had left it
the night of our last Ceremonial Meeting--do you realize that we never
went out after that? There was the candle grease on the floor where
Hinpoha's emotion had overcome her and made her hand wobble so she
spilled the melted wax all out of her candlestick. There were the
scattered bones of our Indian pottery dish that you knocked off the shelf
making the gestures to your "Wotes for Wimmen" speech. There was the
Indian bed all sagged down on one side where we had all sat on Nyoda at
once.
It all brought back last year so plainly that it seemed as if you must
everyone come bouncing out of the corners presently. But you didn't come,
and by and by I went down the ladder to the Sandwiches' Lodge. That was
just as bad as our nook upstairs. The gym apparatus was there, just as it
used to be, with the mat on the floor where they used to roll Slim, and
beside it the wreck of a chair that Slim had sat down on too suddenly.
Poor Slim! He tried to enlist in every branch of the service, but, of
course, they wouldn't take him; he was too fat. He starved himself and
drank vinegar and water for a week and then went the rounds again, hoping
he had lost enough to make him eligible, and was horribly cut up when he
found he had gained instead. He was quite inconsolable for a while and
went off to college with the firm determination to trim himself down
somehow. Captain has gone to Yale, so he can be a Yale graduate like his
father and go along with him to the class reunions. Munson McKee has
enlisted in the navy and the Bottomless Pitt in the Ambulance Corps. The
rest of the Sandwiches have gone away to school, too.
The boards creaked mournfully under my feet as I moved around, and it
seemed to me that the old building was just as lonesome for you as I was.
"You ought to be proud," I said aloud to the walls, "that you ever
sheltered the Sandwich Club, because now you are going to be honored
above all other barns," and I hung in the window the Service Flag with
the two stars that I had brought with me. It looked very splendid; but it
suddenly made the place seem strange and unfamiliar. Here was something
that did not belong to the old days. It is so hard to realize that the
boys who used to wrestle around here have gone to war.
I went out and closed the door, but outside I lingered a minute to look
sadly up at the little window in the end where the candle always used to
burn on Ceremonial nights.
"Good-bye, House of the Open Door," I said, "we've had lots of good times
in you and nobody can ever take them away from us. We've got to stop
playing now for awhile and Glorify Work. We're going to do our bit, and
you must do yours, too, by standing up proudly through all winds and
weather and showing your service flag. Some day we'll all come back to
you, or else the Winnebago spirit will come back in somebody else, and
you must be ready."
I said good-bye to the House of the Open Door with the hand sign of fire
and a military salute, and went away feeling a heavy sense of
responsibility, because in all this big lonely city I was the only one
left to uphold the honor of the Winnebagos.
And hoop-la! I did it, too, all by myself. The week after I had paid the
visit to the House of the Open Door someone called me on the telephone
and wanted to know if this was Miss Sarah Brewster who belonged to the
Winnebago Camp Fire Girls, and when I said yes it was the voice informed
me that she was Mrs. Lewis, the new Chief Guardian for the city, and
President of the Guardians' Association. She went on to say that she
wanted to plan a patriotic parade for all the Camp Fire Girls in the city
to take part in, and as part of the ceremony to present a large flag to
the city. She knew what she wanted all right, but she wasn't sure that
she could carry it out, and as she had seen the Winnebagos the time they
took part in the Fourth of July pageant, she wanted to know if we would
take hold and help her manage the thing. I started to tell her that the
Winnebagos weren't here and couldn't help her; then I reflected that I,
at least, was left and it was up to me to do what you all would have done
if you had been here. So I said yes, I'd be glad to take hold and help
make the parade a success.
And, believe me, it was! Can you guess how many girls marched?
_Twenty-three hundred!_ Glory! I didn't know there were so many girls in
the whole world! The line stretched back until you couldn't see the end,
and still they kept on coming. And who do you suppose led the parade?
Why, _I_ did, of all people! And on a _horse_! Carrying the Stars and
Stripes on a long staff that fitted into a contrivance on the saddle to
hold it firm. Right in front of me marched the Second Regiment Band, and
my horse pawed the ground in time to the music until I nearly burst with
excitement. After me came the twenty girls, all Torch Bearers, who
carried the big flag we were going to present to the city, and behind
them came the floats and figures of the pageant.
I must tell you about some of these, and a few of them you'll recognize,
because they are our old stunts trimmed up to suit the occasion.
GIVE SERVICE was the most impressive, because it is the most important
just now. It was in twelve parts, showing all the different ways in which
Camp Fire Girls could serve the nation in the great crisis. There was the
Red Cross Float, showing the girls making surgical dressings and knitting
socks and sweaters. Another showed them making clothes for themselves and
for other members of the family to cut down the hiring of extra help; and
similar floats carried out the same idea in regard to cooking, washing
and ironing. Yes ma'am! Washing and ironing! You don't need to turn up
your nose. One float was equipped with a complete modern household
laundry and the girls on it had their sleeves rolled up to their elbows
and were doing up fine waists and dresses in great shape, besides
operating electric washing machines and mangles.
One float was just packed full of good things which the girls had cooked
without sugar, eggs or white flour, and with fruits and vegetables which
they had canned and preserved themselves, while the fertile garden in
which said fruits and vegetables had grown came trundling on behind, the
girls armed with spades, hoes and rakes. I consumed two sleepless nights
and several strenuous afternoons accomplishing that garden on wheels and
I want you to know it was a work of art. The plants were all artificial,
but they looked most lifelike, indeed.
Besides those things we had groups of girls taking care of children so
their mothers could go out and work; and teaching foreign girls how to
take care of their own small brothers and sisters, so they'll grow up
strong and healthy.
There really seemed to be no end to our usefulness.
Behind the wheeled portion of the parade came hundreds of girls on foot,
carrying pennants that stretched clear across the street, with clever
slogans on them like this:
DON'T FORGET US, UNCLE SAMMY,
WE'RE ALWAYS ON THE JOB
* * * * * *
YOU'RE HERE BECAUSE WE'RE HERE
* * * * * *
AND THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING!
* * * * * *
WE ARE PROUD TO LABOR FOR OUR COUNTRY
And the people! Oh, my stars! They lined the streets for thirty blocks,
packed in solid from the store fronts to the curb. And the way they
cheered! It made shivers of ecstasy chase up and down my spine, while the
tears came to my eyes and a big lump formed in my throat. If you've never
heard thousands of people cheering at you, you can't imagine how it
feels.
One time when the procession halted at a cross street I saw a fat old
man, who I'm sure was a dignified banker, balancing himself on a fireplug
so he could see better, and waving his hat like crazy. He finally got so
enthusiastic that he fell off the fireplug and landed on his hands and
knees in the gutter, where some Boy Scouts picked him up and dusted him
off, still feebly waving his hat.
Our line of march eventually brought us out at Lincoln Square, where the
presentation of the flag was to take place. We stood in the shadow of the
Lincoln Memorial monument, and who do you suppose presented the flag? Me
again. In the name of all the Camp Fire Girls of the city, I
ceremoniously presented it to the Mayor, who accepted it with a flowery
speech that beat mine all hollow. Besides presenting the flag I was to
help raise it. The pole was there already; it had seen many flag raisings
in its long career and many flags had flapped themselves to shreds on its
top. The thing I had to do was fasten our flag to the ropes and pull her
up. In this I was to be assisted by a soldier brother of one of the girls
who was home on furlough. He was to be standing there at the pole waiting
for us, but when the time came he wasn't there. Where he was I hadn't the
slightest idea; nor did I have any time to spend wondering. Mrs. Lewis
had set her heart on having a man in soldier's uniform help raise the
flag; it added so much to the spirit of the occasion. Just at this moment
I saw a man in army uniform standing in the crowd at the foot of the
monument, very close to me. Without a moment's hesitation I beckoned him
imperatively to me. He came and I thrust the rope into his hands,
whispering directions as to what he was to do. It all went without a
hitch and the crowd never knew that he wasn't the soldier we had planned
to have right from the start. We pulled evenly together and the flag
slowly unfolded over our heads and went fluttering to the top, while the
band crashed out the "Star Spangled Banner." It was glorious! If I had
been thrilled through before, I was shaken to my very foundations now. I
felt queer and dizzy, and felt myself making funny little gaspy noises in
my throat. There was a great cheer from the crowd and the ceremonies were
over. The parade marched on to the Armory, where we were to listen to an
address by Major Blanchard of the --th Engineers.
The girls had all filed in and found seats when Mrs. Lewis, who was to
introduce Major Blanchard, came over to me where I was standing near the
stage and said in a tragic tone, "Major Blanchard couldn't come; I've had
a telegram. What on earth are we going to do? He was going to tell
stories about camp life; the girls will be _so_ disappointed not to hear
him."
I rubbed my forehead, unable to think of anything that would meet the
emergency. An ordinary speaker wouldn't fill the bill at all, I knew,
when the girls all had their appetites whetted for a Major.
"We might ask the band to give a concert, and all of us sing patriotic
songs," I ventured finally.
"I don't see anything else to do," said Mrs. Lewis, "but I'm _so_
disappointed not to have the Major here. The girls are all crazy to hear
about the camp."
Just then I caught sight of a uniform outside of the open entrance way.
"Wait a minute," I said, "there's the soldier who helped us raise the
flag, standing outside the door. Maybe he'll come in and talk to the
girls in place of the Major." I hurried out and buttonholed the soldier.
He declined at first, but I wouldn't take no for an answer. I literally
pulled him in and chased him up the aisle to the stage.
"But I can't make a speech," he said in an agonized whisper, as we
reached the steps of the stage, trying to pull back.
"Don't try to," I answered cheerfully. "Speeches are horrid bores,
anyway. Just tell them exactly what you do in camp; that's what they're
crazy to hear about."
Mrs. Lewis didn't tell the audience that the speaker was one I had
kidnapped in a moment of desperation. She introduced him as a friend of
the Major's, who had come to speak in his place. The applause when she
introduced him was just as hearty as if he had been the Major himself.
The fact that he was a soldier was enough for the girls.
And he brought down the house! He wasn't an educated man, but he was very
witty, and had the gift of telling things so they seemed real. He told
little intimate details of camp life from the standpoint of the private
as the Major never could have told them. He had us alternately laughing
and crying over the little comedies and tragedies of barracks life. He
imitated the voices and gestures of his comrades and mimicked the
officers until you could see them as plainly as if they stood on the
stage. He talked for an hour instead of the half hour the Major was
scheduled to speak and when he stopped the air was full of clamorings for
more. Private Kittredge had made more of a hit than Major Blanchard could
have done.
I never saw a person look so astonished or so pleased as he did at the
ovation which followed his speech. He stood there a moment, looking down
at the audience with a wistful smile, then he got fiery red and almost
ran off the stage.
"I don't know whether to be glad or sorry the Major's not coming,"
whispered Mrs. Lewis to me under cover of the applause. "The Major's a
very fine speaker, but he wouldn't have made such a _human_ speech. You
certainly have a knack of picking out able people, Miss Brewster! You
chose just the right girls for each part in the pageant."
I didn't acknowledge this compliment as I should have, because I was
wondering why our soldier man had looked that way when we applauded him.
He would have slipped out of the side door when he came off the stage,
but I stopped him and made him wait for the rest of the program. A
national fraternity was holding a convention in town that week and
members from all the great colleges were in attendance. As it happened,
our Major is a member of that fraternity, and, as a mark of esteem for
the Camp Fire Girls, he asked the fraternity glee club to sing for us at
the close of our patriotic demonstration.
The singers came frolicking in from some banquet they had been attending,
in a very frisky mood, and sang one funny song after another until our
sides ached from laughing. I stole a glance now and then at Private
Kittredge, beside me, but he never noticed. He was drinking in the antics
of those carefree college boys with envious, wistful eyes. At the end of
their concert the singers turned and faced the great flag that hung down
at the back of the stage and sang an old college song that we had heard
sung before, but which had suddenly taken on a new, deep meaning. With
their very souls in their voices they sang it:
"Red is for Harvard in that grand old flag,
Columbia can have her white and blue;
And dear old Yale will never fail
To stand by her color true;
Penn and Cornell amid the shot and shell
Were fighting for that torn and tattered rag,
And our college cheer will be
'My Country, 'tis of Thee,'
And Old Glory will be our college flag!"
The effect was electrical. Everybody cheered until they were hoarse. I
looked at Private Kittredge. His head was buried in his hands and the
tears were trickling out between his fingers. I was too much embarrassed
to say anything, and I just sat looking at him until, all of a sudden, he
sat up, and reaching out his hand he caught hold of mine and squeezed it
until it hurt.
"I'm going back," he said brokenly.
"Going back?" I repeated, bewildered. "Where?"
"Back to camp," he replied. Then he began to speak in a low, husky voice.
"I want to tell you something," he said. "I'm not what you think I am.
I'm a deserter. That is, I would have been by tomorrow. My leave expires
to-night. I wasn't going back. I didn't want to go into the army. I
didn't want to fight for the country. I hated the United States. It had
never given me a square deal. My father was killed in a factory when I
was a baby and my mother never got a cent out of it. She wasn't strong
and she worked herself to death trying to support herself and me. I grew
up in an orphan asylum where everybody was down on me and made me do all
the unpleasant jobs, and at twelve I was adrift in the world. I sold
papers in the streets and managed to make a living, but one night I went
out with a crowd of boys and some of the older ones knocked a man down
and stole his money and the police caught the whole bunch and we were
sent to the Reformatory. After that I had a hard time trying to make an
honest living because people don't like to hire anyone that's been in the
Reformatory. I never had any fun the way other boys did. I had to live in
cheap boarding places because I didn't earn much and nobody that was
decent seemed to care to associate with me. I was sick of living that way
and wanted to go away to South America where no one would know about the
Reformatory, and make a clean start. Then I was drafted. I hated army
life, too. All the other fellows got mail and boxes from home and had a
big fuss made over them and I didn't have a soul to write to me or send
me things. I was given a good deal of kitchen duty to do and everybody
looks down on that. I kept getting sorer and sorer all the time and at
last I decided to desert. I got a three-days' leave and made up my mind
that I wouldn't go back. I was just hanging around the street killing
time this afternoon when I saw a crowd and stopped to see what the
excitement was about. Then all of a sudden you looked at me and motioned
me to come over and help you raise the flag. It was the first time I had
ever touched the Stars and Stripes. When the folds fell around my
shoulders before she went sailing up, something wakened in me that I had
never felt before. I couldn't believe it was I, standing there raising
the flag with all those people cheering. It intoxicated me and carried me
along with the parade when it went to the armory. Then again, like the
hand of fate, you came out and pulled me in and made me speak to the
girls. I had never spoken before anyone in my life. I had never 'been in'
anything. It made another man of me. All of a sudden I found I did love
my country after all. I _did_ have something to fight for. I _did_ belong
somewhere. It _did_ thrill me to see Old Glory fluttering out in the
wind. That was my country's flag, _my_ flag. I was willing to die for it.
I'm going back to camp to-night," he finished simply.