THE LIBERTY CHEER
After Nita’s arrival the two Pioneer-Liberty girls were so occupied with
things to see and do, that at the week’s end it was hard to realize it
was not a month since her coming.
In the order of events had been the anxious moments waiting to know the
doctor’s decision as to the condition of the young English soldier. This
had been followed by Nathalie’s deep joy when she realized that her
“drop in the bucket” was doing its bit. Yes, the doctor announced that
the young man’s condition was serious, induced by his gangrenous wound
and the life he had lived for the last two years. Still, as he had a
good constitution, and youth is a ready up-builder, with proper care and
food,—emphasizing the word “food,”—he would be all right in a short
time. Yes, Janet had sensed the situation when she had proclaimed that
she believed the man was more than half starved.
Under the care of the skillful surgeon, with Janet’s good nursing,
assisted by Nathalie and Nita, who had begged hard to be allowed to
help, the patient soon began to improve. Possibly the atmosphere created
by having three young nurses, the soldier-boy as orderly, Danny as handy
man, with the other children as servitors, with nourishing food, had
done as much as medicine and skill in giving renewed ambition to a man
who had been dragging out his life on half-rations, in the solitude of a
friendless existence.
The most important aid to the convalescent’s recovery, undoubtedly, was
the thought of being able to refill an empty pocketbook, for Mrs. Van
Vorst, as soon as she learned that he was a proficient French
scholar,—he had lived in France, his mother being a French woman,—and
was graduated from Oxford, had immediately made the suggestion that he
give Nita French lessons. With her usual tact the suggestion had been so
delicately made, pleading it as a personal favor to her, so as not to
offend the fine sensibilities of the young man, that it had been soon
arranged.
The young soldier’s peculiar situation had been noised about, and
general interest and sympathy being awakened, many of the guests from
the near-by hotels had climbed the mountain trails, with offerings of
fruit or some delicacy for the invalid.
When the fact became known that Nita was to take French lessons from
him, other young ladies at the hotels were eager to be his pupils, among
them Nathalie’s two New York schoolmates, who ardently sounded the
praises of the handsome English soldier, whose refined scholarly face,
tall, athletic figure, his romantic story, bade fair to make him a
possible rival of the Count, who was considered the most eligible
_parti_ at the hotel. But the fact that the young man up in the cabin
had played a soldier’s part in the present war, was an asset that
carried more weight than mere wealth, in the minds of the ladies,
particularly when it was fashionable to be patriotic.
Possibly Nathalie’s two friends seized upon this opportunity to make
themselves one of a very happy party of young people, who somehow
managed to have a most enjoyable time in ministering to their charge. As
soon as the sick man was able, he was made comfortable in a hammock
under the trees, on a clearing near the cabin, where each one vied with
the other to cheer him.
Sometimes there would be a reading, then again just a merry chat, but as
the meetings gained in numbers, stories became the vogue, the
story-teller generally relating some tale about the mountains, or an
Indian legend, while the listeners sat and knitted for the soldiers, as
even Sheila and the boys,—all but poor Jean,—had become expert
knitters, under Nathalie’s tutelage. As the patient had brightened so
perceptibly at these little mountain-top gatherings, Nathalie had dubbed
them Liberty Cheers.
When Blue Robin saw that her two schoolmates had foisted themselves upon
the party, she felt indignantly grieved, as the snub they had
administered to her still rankled. She had been on the point of
revealing the incident to Nita, in one of their little confidential
chats, when that young lady had remained at Seven Pillars over night, as
she loved to do. But second thoughts stayed her, as she knew her
friend’s loyal devotion to her, and her vehement way of disposing of
people when they displeased her, the result of her spoiled childhood.
Nathalie, also, was afraid to offend the two girls, for fear they would
not continue to take lessons of Philip de Brie, and she knew that would
mean a loss to him.
Van Darrell, the Camp Mills soldier, and Philip had fraternized as
“mates”; for the latter, by his life on the battlefield, and in the
trenches, and with his experiences in a German prison-camp, had a stock
of information at his command that Van was greedy to devour. With the
wholehearted patriotic enthusiasm of our young American boys when called
to the colors, he was keen to be on the “firing-line,” so as to get a
chance, as he expressed it, “to get a few jabs at the Big Willie gang.”
Philip’s deep appreciation of Nathalie’s kindness to him, and also that
of her friends, was not only expressed in words, but by the warm,
eloquent glances of his dark eyes. His deferential courtesy to all, his
chivalrous manner towards her and Janet, and his kindly, winning way of
making friends with the children, had won the girl’s admiration.
Nevertheless she had noticed that it was Janet who had won his deepest
regard. It was to her that he turned with questioning eyes when anything
of moment came up, on her that his admiring, ardent glances fell when
that young lady appeared in some simple, but fluffy, bewitching little
costume, which she had taken to doing lately, somewhat to Nathalie’s
surprise.
When he grew tired and showed a restlessness, a desire to be free of the
merry-makers, a pleased look would dawn in his eyes when they left him
to the ministrations of the head nurse. The somber shadows in his eyes
would light with a strange glow as she hovered about him, trying to make
him comfortable, or giving him the medicine that he probably would have
forgotten if she had not been there to give it to him.
And Janet? Well, she had been, as it were, curiously transformed into a
new creature, seemingly, by the sweet pity in her soft eyes, and the
flush on her winsome face, as, with tireless patience and quiet
diligence, she performed her duties. Evidently, for the nonce, her
vocation of mingled pacifist, farmerette, and suffragette had been
relegated to the past.
Oh, no, the girls did not spend all their time with Philip, for, as this
was Nita’s first visit to the White Hills, there were many things to
see. One of the first places she had been taken by her friend was to the
Sweet Pea Tea-House, to meet the invalid and the deaf-and-dumb lady. She
was not only charmed with their garden of gardens, but enthusiastic in
her warm admiration of the charms of its owners. And it was not long
before she was alternating with Nathalie in reading to Miss Whipple, for
Nathalie had managed, with her many duties and joys, to keep up the
readings to the shut-in.
Mrs. Carney, of the little red house, also received a call, and the
young girl had come away curiously impressed with the oddities of the
queer little old lady, whose small black figure, with her basket of yarn
for knitting, always in that funny poke-bonnet, was a familiar sight on
the road.
Janet, Nita declared, was “just lovely,” and that this admiration was
reciprocated was evidenced by Janet taking her down to her farm,
although sadly neglected at present. Here Nita not only did her share of
weeding, but returned with such glowing accounts of the farm’s
luxuriance, expatiating so glowingly upon its fertility, and what
wonders Janet had been able to accomplish so late in the season, that
Nathalie forebore poking fun at it, as she generally did.
Nita had gazed at the mystery room with a keen desire to peep within,
had read Nathalie’s diary of each day’s doings, and had prowled all over
the house, intent on selecting what she thought was the most valuable
thing for Nathalie to select, as she, too, was anxious that she should
“win the prize,” as the children called it. She had even visited Cynthia
in her sanctum sanctorum, to Nathalie’s astonishment, the artist
apparently having taken a great fancy to the hunchback girl, being
particularly cordial to her, and returning Mrs. Van Vorst’s call, to the
amazement of Mrs. Page, before that lady had had a chance to do so.
But the reason therefor was apparently explained, when it became known
that she had suggested to Mrs. Van Vorst that she allow her to paint
Nita’s portrait, insisting that her golden hair and violet eyes would
show up beautifully on a canvas. Nathalie was still more surprised when
that kind-hearted lady, whose income was amply sufficient to allow her
to indulge in many whims, consented, and Cynthia was in a glorified
state at the success of her plan.
Liberty Fort had proved a good inspirer of patriotism, as Nita not only
became, for the time, a most valiant Son of Liberty, entering with great
zest into the children’s sham battles on the meadow below, but she
introduced an element of war that was hailed with delight. This was a
battery gun, which she contrived to make, with the help of Jean, out of
an old lead pipe found in the cellar, and which was placed on wheels,
the remains of an old hayrack, and installed at the top of the terrace
in front of the fort.
She had also helped the boys to make wooden swords out of sticks, and
also hand-grenades of thick paper filled with gravel, which would have
had a most disastrous effect upon the enemy if the latter had not been
imaginary.
It was here one afternoon, as the boys were having a battle with all the
horrors of war, that young Darrell appeared, and as he and the two girls
sat on the stone ledge, he told them how he was “all in” by having had a
boxing-match with a prisoner when on police duty.
“The chap was a foreigner,” he explained. “He could only speak a little
English, and I had heard him mutter to himself several times in rather a
queer way. Suddenly, when I was off my guard, he let his club fly at me
and gave me a whack on the head that knocked me silly. I saw stars for a
moment, and then I let out on the chap,—he was a big fellow, as strong
as an ox,—and was just about to use my automatic when the Military
Police rushed up and in a few moments they had him as tight as a drum.
It turned out that he was off his nut, and I believe he is now in some
asylum. Anyway he put me in the hospital with a cracked skull for a
while, and then I was granted a furlough, and came up here with mother.”
The girls, under the spell of the military, were inclined to make a hero
of the soldier-boy, with the long-lashed, merry blue eyes and cheery
laugh, in their minds at least, if not openly. Later, when he was
sitting alone with Nathalie, in a burst of confidence, with sudden
gravity, he lamented that he feared that he would never reach the
“firing-line” overseas. When Nathalie expressed her surprise at his
fears, he explained that he had been detailed to sanitary work in the
hospital, and then he added, with gloom-shadowed eyes, “And it looks to
me as if it would be steady company; but it is up to Uncle Sam, and a
soldier is no soldier if he kicks at his job.”
“Oh, I just wish I were a man, so I could go over there,” sighed
Nathalie a little dolefully. “Sometimes I wish I had a million lives so
I could give them to my country, and go over and fight.”
“Ho! ho! Blue Robin! You have changed your mind then, haven’t you?”
good-naturedly jeered Nita, who had just come up behind them. Her blue
eyes gleamed mischief as she continued laughingly, “Surely that was not
the way you felt a short while ago.”
“No, that is true,” replied Nathalie with reddened cheeks, “but I was
selfish then, and failed to read the handwriting on the wall.”
As Nathalie looked up in a shamefaced way at the young soldier she saw a
strange expression flit across his face as he gazed down at her.
“Did you call Miss Page Blue Robin?” he asked hurriedly of Nita, with a
sudden, strange interest.
“Oh, that is just a nickname,” began Nathalie, “and——”
“No, it isn’t a nickname,” returned Nita, with a defiant toss of her
head. “It is just your own particular name. Shall I tell Mr. Darrell how
you came by it?” And then, without waiting for permission, she told
their companion the story of how Nathalie found the nest of bluebirds in
the old cedar tree and thought they were blue robins. And when the Girl
Pioneers claimed that she must become one of them, she had to join the
Bluebird group. “Because, you see, she was a real bluebird,” ended the
girl.
It was then that Nathalie, who hated to be the subject of a
conversation, began to tell the young soldier of her many trials in
training her boys in military tactics. To her joy he offered to give
them a lesson, whereupon the young Sons of Liberty were lined up, Nita
and Sheila with them, and drilled in a simple manual-of-arms,—how to
stand as a sentinel on post, how to salute an officer or civilian, and
how to stand at attention when the national anthem, the “Call to the
Colors,” or “To the Standard,” were played, and when the flag went by.
There was a drill in calisthenics, and then the young military
instructor explained to his youthful audience the necessity for a Son of
Liberty—he had caught the phrase from Nathalie—to have clean hands,
face, teeth, and finger-nails. “No boy or young man,” he emphasized,
“will ever make a good soldier who will not discipline himself in these
small things. It is also essential for a soldier not only to be clean,
but to be courteous, helpful, and kind, especially to the aged and
weak.”
The drill was conducted in such a masterful, soldier-like way, and the
little talk made significant by so many points that Nathalie was
laboring to teach her boys, that the girls were greatly impressed, and
also the children, if one were to judge by their alert attention and the
worshipful glances they cast upon the young soldier as they went through
their war maneuvers.
Nathalie and the boys were anxious to show Nita their mountain walks,
and so, with young Darrell, they spent many an afternoon, from glen and
vale, in studying the mountains, with their rugged crests and beautiful
cloud-effects. Their ever-changing beauty, their gigantic immensity,
their awe-inspiring silences lifted the newcomers to a reverent calm, as
they gazed at these everlasting memorials to the omnipotency of the
Creator.
Sometimes the little party would walk four or five miles, something that
the little hunchback had never been able to do until she became a
Pioneer. The visit to the Flume was not only repeated, but they visited
the Lost River. The weird mystery of the silver stream, as it gleamed
luringly between massive gray bowlders, tempted them down the little
ladder, to slide over rocky ledges, and climb stony declivities, until
at last they were standing beneath the rocks in Shadow Cave. The Giant’s
Pot Hole, with the shiny water peering at them from between the stone
walls, so suggestive of giants and strange dragons, with its weird,
mystical stream, made the underground trip to Mother Nature’s caverns a
revelation and a delight to all of the party.
They ascended Mount Agassiz at Bethlehem, where they tried to signal to
Philip and Janet on the top of Garnet, through the sun’s rays shining on
a mirror, but although this method of signaling was greatly enjoyed, it
was not very successful. With all of the merry times, however, the young
invalid on the mountain was not forgotten, although he and Janet—with
Mrs. Page for company sometimes—passed many hours in each other’s
company.
Then came a cool, sunny afternoon in August, when they all gathered
around a trench camp-fire on the top of Garnet, for Philip had
convalesced sufficiently to do a little climbing, and had a luncheon in
the woods. And it was the two young soldiers who boiled the potatoes in
a pot that hung from a green pole, fastened in crotches on two upright
saplings over the fire-pit, from which a trench a foot deep branched out
on each of its four sides. This new kind of fire, as Sheila called it,
was a real soldier’s fire, for it was where Philip had cooked his meals
before he was visited by Nathalie and Janet, his good angels, as he
called them.
With keen satisfaction the children watched Philip toast the sweet,
nutty bacon for his guests, while Van showed the girls _his way_ of
making flapjacks, as he tossed them so high in the air that a shrill,
“Oh, you’ll lose it!” almost unnerved the would-be cook.
But no such dire catastrophe happened, and soon they were all enjoying
the brown cakes spread with maple sugar, and war-bread sandwiched with
bacon between. After the edibles had been disposed of and the fire was
banked, as Philip called it, for a later meal, Danny and Tony made a
Pioneer Camp-fire, and around its glowing embers—for the wind was keen
that cool August day up there on those craggy heights—they held a
Liberty Cheer.
As they were about to cast lots as to who should tell the first story,
Van, who never tired of listening to Philip’s experiences, begged him to
tell the girls something of his life as a soldier fighting in France.