The "Stunt"
The general verdict on Rona, when she arrived back at The Woodlands, was
that she was wonderfully improved.
"It isn't only her dresses," said Gertrude Oliver, "though she looks a
different girl in her new clothes; her whole style's altered. She used
to be so fearfully loud. She's really toned down in the most amazing
fashion. I couldn't have believed it possible."
"I'm afraid it's only a veneer," declared Stephanie, with a slighting
little laugh. "You'll find plenty of raw backwoods underneath, ready to
crop up when she's off her guard. You should have heard her this
morning."
"And she broke an ink-bottle," added Beth Broadway.
"Well, she's not perfect yet, of course, but I stick to it that she's
improved."
"Oh, I dare say! But Ulyth's welcome to keep her cub. She'll always be
more or less of a trial. What else can you expect? 'What's bred in the
bone will come out!'"
"Yes, I'm a great believer in heredity," urged Beth, taking up the
cudgels for her chum. "If you have ancestors it gives you a decided
pull."
"Everybody has ancestors, you goose," corrected Gertrude.
"Well, of course I mean aristocratic ones. The others don't count. It
must make a difference whether your grandfather was a gentleman or a
farm-boy. Rona says herself she's a democrat. I'm sure she looked the
part when she arrived."
"I don't know that she exactly looks it now, though," said Gertrude,
championing Rona for once.
Everyone at the school realized that the Cuckoo was trying to behave
herself. The struggles towards perfection were sometimes almost
pathetic, though the girls mostly viewed them from the humorous side.
She would sit up suddenly, bolt upright, at the tea table, if Miss
Bowes' eye suggested that she was lolling; she apologized for accidents
at which she had laughed before, and she corrected herself if a
backwoods expression escaped her.
"Am I really any shakes smarter--I mean, more toned up--than I was?" she
asked Ulyth anxiously.
"You're far better than you were last term. Do go on trying, that's
all!"
"Will they take me as a candidate in the Camp-fire League?"
"I expect so, but we shall have to ask Mrs. Arnold about that."
Since the great reunion by the stream in September there had been no
meetings of the Camp-fire League. Mrs. Arnold had been ill, and then
had gone away to recruit her health, and no one was able to take her
place as "Guardian of the Fire". She was recovered now, and at home
again, and had promised to help to make up for lost time by
superintending a gathering at the beginning of the new term. It was to
be held in the big hall of the school, though the girls begged hard to
have it out-of-doors, pleading that on a fine evening they could keep
perfectly warm, and it would only resemble a Fifth of November affair.
"That may be all very well for you, but I'm not going to risk Mrs.
Arnold's catching cold," returned Miss Bowes; which argument put a final
stop to the idea.
"We'll have ripping fun in the hall, if we can't be outside," beamed
Addie. "I always enjoy a stunt."
"What's a stunt?" asked Rona.
"A stunt? Why, it's just a stunt!"
"It's an American word," explained Lizzie. "It means just having any fun
that comes. An impromptu kind of thing, you know. We sing, or recite, or
act, or dance, on the spur of the moment--anything to keep the ball
rolling, and anybody may be called upon at any moment to stand up and
perform."
"Without knowing beforehand?" queried Rona, looking horror-stricken.
"Yes, that's the fun of it. We have a bag with all our names written on
slips of paper, and we draw them out one by one to fill up the
programme. Nobody knows who's to come next. You may be the very first,
or you may sit quaking all the evening, and never be called at all."
"I hope to goodness--I mean, I hope very much--I shan't be drawn."
"You never know; so you'd better have something in your mind's eye."
Punctually at six o'clock on the appointed night the whole school filed
into the hall, each girl carrying a candle in a candlestick. Saluting
their leader, they ranged themselves round the room for the opening
ceremony. At an indoor meeting this was of necessity different from the
kindling of the camp-fire, but it had a certain impressiveness of its
own. First the lamps were extinguished, and the room was placed in
entire darkness. Then Mrs. Arnold struck a match and lighted her candle,
which she held towards the Torch-bearer of highest rank, who lighted
hers from it, and performed the same service for her next neighbour. In
this way, one after another, the candles were lighted all round the
room, every girl saying, as she offered the flame to her comrade: "I
pass on my light!" After the "shining" song was sung, all the
candlesticks were arranged on the large central table, taking the place
the camp-fire would have occupied out-of-doors.
The business of the meeting came first, the roll-call was read, and the
recorders gave their reports of the last gathering. Several members were
awarded honours for knowing the stars, being able to observe certain
things in geology and field botany, or for ability in outdoor sports or
indoor occupations, such as carpentry, stencilling, or sewing. The
ambulance work and the knitting done last term were specially noted and
commended. A few new candidates applied for enrolment, and their
qualifications were carefully considered by the Guardian of the Fire.
Rona, after undergoing the League Catechism from Catherine Sullivan, the
head girl and chief Torch-bearer, had submitted her name as candidate,
and now waited with much anxiety to hear whether she would be accepted.
After several others had been admitted, Mrs. Arnold at last called:
"Corona Margarita Mitchell."
Quite startled at the unaccustomed sound of her full Christian name,
Rona saluted and stepped forward.
"You have passed only three out of the seven tests required," said Mrs.
Arnold. "I'm afraid you will have to try again, Rona, and see if you can
be more successful before the next meeting. No candidate can be accepted
except on very good grounds. That is the law of the League."
Much crestfallen, the Cuckoo fell back into her place, and Mrs. Arnold
was just about to read the next name when Ulyth interrupted:
"Please, Guardian, if a candidate has shown unusual presence of mind,
may that not stand in place of some of the other tests?"
"It depends on the circumstances. How does that apply in this case?"
"Rona has saved a life," declared Ulyth, then explained briefly how
Dorothy had fallen on to the hearth and had been caught back from the
fire in the very nick of time.
"In her thin dress she would probably have been burnt to death but for
Rona's quickness," added Ulyth, with a tremble in her voice.
"I had not heard of this," replied Mrs. Arnold. "Rona is very greatly to
be congratulated on her presence of mind. Yes, I may safely say that it
can cancel the tests in which she has failed, and that we may enrol her
to-night as a candidate. Corona Margarita Mitchell, if for three months
you preserve a good character in the school, and learn to recite the
seven rules of the Camp-fire Law, you may then present yourself as
eligible for the initial rank of Wood-gatherer in the League. There is
your Candidate's Badge."
Immensely gratified, Rona received her little bow of blue ribbon. She
had hardly dared to hope for success, as Catherine had been rather
withering over her Catechism, and had warned her that she would probably
be disqualified. It was pleasant to meet with encouragement, and
especially to be commended before the whole school. She had never dreamt
of such luck, and she looked her grateful thanks at Ulyth across the
room.
She was the last but one on the list of applicants, and when Jessie
Howard (alas, poor Jessie!) had been rejected the ceremonial part of the
meeting was over. The girls smiled, for now the "stunt" was to begin.
Catherine produced the bag, shook it well, and handed it to Mrs. Arnold,
who drew out a slip of paper.
"Marjorie Earnshaw!" she announced.
"Glad it's one of the Sixth to open the ball," murmured some of the
younger girls as Marjorie stepped to the circle reserved for performers
in front of the table.
The owner of the one guitar in the school was always much in request at
Camp-fire gatherings, so it seemed a fortunate chance that her name
should be drawn first. She had brought her instrument, so as to be
prepared in case the lot fell on her, and giving the E string a last
hurried tuning she sat down and began a popular American ditty. It was a
favourite among the girls, for it had a lively, rollicking chorus, which
they sang with great gusto. Fifty voices roaring out: "Don't forget your
Dinah!" seemed to break the ice and set the fun going.
Marjorie's E string snapped suddenly, but she played as best she could
on the others, though she confessed afterwards that she felt like a
horse that has lost its shoe. Except for this accident she would have
responded to the enthusiastic calls of "Encore!"; as it was, she retired
into the background to fix a new string. It lent a decided element of
excitement to the programme that nobody knew what the next item was to
be. The lot, as it happened, fell on one of the younger girls, who was
overwhelmed with shyness and could only with great urging be persuaded
to recite a short piece of poetry. By the law of the Stunt everybody was
obliged to perform if called upon, so Aveline fired off her sixteen
lines of Longfellow with breathless speed, and fled back joyfully to the
ranks of the Juniors. Two piano solos and a step-dance followed, then
the turn came to Doris Deane, a member of the Upper Fifth. Doris's
speciality was acting, so she promptly begged for two assistants, and
chose from IV B a couple of junior members who had practised with her
before. Taking Nellie and Trissie for "Asia" and "Australia", she gave
the scene from _Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch_ where that delightful
but haphazard heroine gets herself and the children ready to go to the
opera. The zeal with which she ironed their dresses, her alternate
scoldings and cajolings, her wild hunt for the tickets, which all the
while were stuck in her belt, the grandeur of her deportment when the
family was at last prepared for the outing, all were most amusingly
represented. Doris was really a born actress, and so completely carried
her audience with her that the lack of costumes and scenery was not felt
in the force of the reality that she managed to throw into her part.
Covered with glory, she gave place to her successor, who, while
bewailing the hardness of her luck in having to follow so smart a
performance, recited a humorous ballad which won peals of applause. Mrs.
Arnold again dipped her hand into the bag and unfolded a twist of paper.
"Corona M. Mitchell," she read.
"Not me, surely! I can't do anything," objected Rona hastily.
"You'll have to," laughed the girls. "No one's let off."
"I can't, I tell you. I've no parlour tricks."
"Give us a story, Rona," suggested Ulyth. "One of those New Zealand
adventures you used to tell to Peter and Dorothy. They loved them."
"Yes, yes! A camp-fire story. That would be spiffing!" clamoured the
girls. "Sit on the floor, near the fire, and we'll all squat near you.
We haven't had a story for ages and ages!"
"Tell it just as you did at home," urged Ulyth.
"I'll try my best," sighed Rona, taking a small stool near the fire, so
as to be slightly above the audience clustered round the hearthrug.
"It happened about a year ago," she began; "that's summer-time in New
Zealand, you know, because the seasons are just opposite. It was Pamela
Higson's birthday, and I'd been asked to go over for the day. I saddled
Brownie, my best pony, and started at seven, because it's a twelve-mile
ride to the Higsons' farm, and I wanted to be early so as to have time
for plenty of fun. Brownie was fresh, and he wasn't tired when I got
there, so we decided to give him an hour's rest and then ride up into
the bush and have a picnic. Pamela showed me her birthday presents while
we waited. She'd had a box sent her by the mail, and she was very
delighted about it.
"Well, at perhaps eleven o'clock I set off with Pamela and the rest of
the Higson children. There was Jake, just my own age, and Billy, a
little younger, and Connie and Minnie, the two smallest. Oh yes, we each
had our own horse or pony: Everybody rides out there. We slung baskets
and tin cans over our saddles and then started up by the dry bed of the
river towards the head of the gully. It was very hot (January's like
July here), but we all had big hats and we didn't care. It was such fun
to be together. When your nearest neighbours are twelve miles off you
don't see them often enough to get tired of them. Billy was always
making jokes, and Jake was jolly too in a quiet kind of way. Sometimes
we could all ride abreast, and sometimes we had to go in single file,
and our horses seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. Brownie loved
company, so it was a treat for him as well as for me. The place we were
going to was a piece of high land that lay at the top of the valley
above the Higsons' block. There were generally plenty of berries up
there, and we thought they'd just be ripe. It took us a fairly long time
to do the climb, because there was no proper road, only a rough track.
It was lovely, though, when we got up; we had a splendid view down the
gully, and the air was so much cooler and fresher than it had been at
the farm. We tethered our horses and gathered scrub to make a fire and
boil our kettle. In New Zealand no one thinks of having a meal without
drinking tea with it. We'd the jolliest picnic. The Higsons were famous
for their cakes, and they'd brought plenty with them. I can tell you we
didn't leave very many in the baskets.
"'Best put out our camp-fire,' Jake said when we'd finished; so we all
set to work and stamped it out carefully. Everything was so dry with the
heat that a spark might easily have set fire to the bush. Then we took
our cans and went off to find berries. There were heaps of them; so we
just picked and picked and picked for ever so long. Suddenly, when we
were talking, we heard a noise and looked round. There was a stampede
among the horses, and two of them, Billy's and Connie's, had broken
loose and were careering down the gully. We ran as quick as lightning to
the others for fear they might also free themselves and follow. I caught
Brownie by the bridle and soothed him as well as I could; but he was
very excited and trembling, and kept sniffing. Then I saw what had
frightened him, for a puff of wind brought a puff of smoke with it, and
ahead of us I saw a dark column whirl up towards the sky. Even the
youngest child who's lived in the bush knows what that means. When all
the grass and everything is so dry, the least thing will start a fire.
Sometimes campers-out are careless, and the wind blows sparks; sometimes
even a piece of an old bottle left lying about will act as a
burning-glass. We didn't inquire the reason; all we knew was that we
must tear back to the farm as rapidly as we could. Bush fires spread
fearfully fast, and this one would probably sweep straight down the
gorge.
"With two animals gone, luck was against us. Billy took Minnie's pony,
Connie mounted behind Jake, and I made Minnie come with me on Brownie,
because he was so strong, and better able to bear the double burden than
Pamela's horse. It was well for us we were good riders, for we pelted
down that gully fit to break our necks. Brownie was a sure-footed little
beast, but the way he went slithering over rocks would have scared me
if I hadn't been more afraid of the fire behind. We knew it would be
touch and go whether we could save the farm or not. If the men were all
far away there would be very little chance, though we meant to do our
level best.
"Well, as I was saying, we just stampeded down the gully, and our horses
kept their feet somehow. I guess we arrived at the house like a tornado.
We yelled out our news, and coo-eed to some of the men we could see
working in the distance. They came running at once, and Mrs. Higson sent
up the rocket that was used on the farm as a danger-signal. Fortunately
the rest of the men had only gone a short way. They were back almost
directly, and everybody set to work to make a wide ring of bare land
round the farm. They cut down trees, and threw up earth, and burnt a
great patch of grass, and we children helped too for all we were worth.
We were only just in time. We could see the great cloud of smoke coming
down the valley, and as it grew nearer we heard the roaring or the fire.
It seemed to bear down on us suddenly in a great burning sheet. For a
moment or two the air was so hot that we could scarcely breathe, then
the flame struck our ring of bare land, and parted in two and passed on
either side of us, leaving the farm as an island. We watched it go
crackling farther down the valley, till at last it spent itself in a
rocky creek where it had nothing to feed on. All the place it had passed
over was burnt to cinders, a horrible black mass. Only the house and
the buildings and a few fields round them were untouched. It was an
awful birthday for poor Pamela."
"Was your own farm hurt?" asked the girls breathlessly, as Rona paused
in her story.
"Not at all. You see it was in quite a different valley, and the fire
hadn't been near. Jake rode home with me, to make sure I was safe. Dad
hadn't even seen the smoke."
"Suppose you hadn't noticed the fire when you were up in the hills?"
"Then we should have been burnt to cinders, farm and all."
"I think Rona's most thrilling adventure will have to end our Stunt,"
said Mrs. Arnold. "It's nearly eight o'clock. Time to wind up and get
ready for supper. Attention, please! Each girl take her candle. Where's
our pianist? Torch-bearer Catherine, will you start the Good-night
Song?"
"I'm a candidate now, thanks to you!" exulted Rona to Ulyth; "perhaps by
Easter I may be a Wood-gatherer!"
"It's something to work for, isn't it?" said Mrs. Arnold, who happened
to overhear.