THE FOUR CORNERS IN CAMP

[Illustration: NAN WENT AT IT HEART AND SOUL.]

  The Corner Series

  THE FOUR
  CORNERS
  IN CAMP

  By
  AMY E. BLANCHARD

  George W. Jacobs & Company
  Philadelphia.

  Copyright, 1910, by
  GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
  _Published August, 1910_

  _All rights reserved_
  Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

      I. IN WASHINGTON                 9

     II. IN PORTLAND                  27

    III. COUSIN MARIA                 47

     IV. THE START FOR CAMP           67

      V. UP THE MOUNTAIN              83

     VI. CANOEING                    101

    VII. A RAINY DAY                 119

   VIII. AN EARLY DIP                135

     IX. JACK HAS ADVENTURES         153

      X. THE BOYS                    173

     XI. PICNICKING                  191

    XII. ON UPPER POND               211

   XIII. LOHENGRIN                   229

    XIV. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY          247

     XV. BEFORE THE STRAW RIDE       265

    XVI. MISS PINCH                  285

   XVII. NAN HEARS                   303

  XVIII. BREAKING CAMP               323

    XIX. MERCEDES ARRIVES            339

     XX. THE WEDDING                 359

ILLUSTRATIONS

  Nan went at it heart and soul                           _Frontispiece_

  “It was just like being a duck”                      _Facing page_ 126

  “Suddenly out darted a Mediæval Princess”               ”    ”     176

  A cavalcade went dashing by, a big bay in the lead      ”    ”     300

  Jo returned to do an Irish monologue                    ”    ”     336

[Illustration: CHAPTER I

IN WASHINGTON]

CHAPTER I

IN WASHINGTON

The four Corners were occupying the four corners of the room. This may
seem a rather peculiar statement until you realize that the first four
Corners were called Nan, Mary Lee, Jack and Jean. Nan, the eldest,
was bent over a table by the window in the west corner, Mary Lee was
standing before the mirror in the east corner, Jack was sprawled out
on the rug in the north corner, and Jean was in the south corner doing
nothing in particular and looking abstractedly into space.

The last mentioned was the first to make a remark. “I think Washington
is the most beautiful city in the world,” she said moving over to the
window and gazing out at the avenue of trees which were fast turning to
sunny yellow and brilliant green.

“Not lovelier than München, dear little München,” responded Nan.

“Nor prettier than Paris,” put in Jack.

“Well, I am not sure myself but Jean is right,” Mary Lee asserted. “If
it isn’t already the loveliest city it soon will be. Of course it
isn’t quite as symmetrical as it might be, and all the funny little
frame houses stuck in between stately mansions make it still look as if
it wasn’t finished, but time will mend that.”

“It is like a country girl who comes to town wearing shabby gloves and
shoes with a nice tailor-made gown,” Nan suggested. “Of course, after
a while, when she has lived long enough, she will be quite finished
in her dress, but now she still shows that she is young and a little
provincial.”

“What a way to put it, Nan,” said Mary Lee.

“It is the way it impresses me,” returned her sister. “Didn’t you
notice how raggety and taggety everything looked over here in our own
country after Europe? How the fences and stretches of unkempt lots
seemed so incomplete, and the poorer houses seemed little and mean
instead of being picturesque, and how such things had a tumble-down
raw sort of look? Of course I don’t say it will always be so, and
in a short hundred years we shall be quite a sumptuous-appearing
country, but as yet though we may be important looking we are not
very picturesque. Think of those old, old palaces in Venice. Think
of those castles along the Rhine, and all the ancient buildings that
show history in every feature. Yes, I must say that though we look
prosperous we also look painfully new.”

Mary Lee laughed. “You talk like a lecturer,” she said. “Well, at any
rate if we are modern we are mighty comfortable, and that suits me.”

“And we do have better things to eat here than we get anywhere else,”
put in Jean.

“Bound for you to discover that,” laughed Nan.

“At all events,” Mary Lee went on, “I’m glad to be back again, and I
think we have been mighty comfortable and have had a jolly good time
this past winter. I’m not kicking, as Carter says.”

“Oh, dear me, neither am I,” replied Nan. “I was only comparing, that
was all. I am an American, stars and stripes, spread eagle, Hail
Columbia American, if you will have it, though of course I do want
to go back to Europe some day, but I don’t want to live anywhere but
in this blessed old stuck-up country of ours, and south of Mason and
Dixon’s line at that. ‘I’ll live and die for Dixie.’”

“I am glad Washington is south of Mason and Dixon’s line,” remarked
Mary Lee with satisfaction. “It certainly was good of Maryland to hand
over a piece of herself to make the District of Columbia for the seat
of government.”

“Maryland has been a pretty good state anyhow,” Nan rejoined; “she
stuck out, wouldn’t give in on that matter of the Western territory and
she did a lot in all the wars. I am willing to concede a great deal to
her though I stand up for Virginia first and foremost.”

“I should say so,” returned Mary Lee emphatically. “Well, I suppose we
shall soon be leaving Washington. Have you heard mother or Aunt Helen
say any more about the summer plans? It is time we were hearing from Jo
and Danny. Wouldn’t it be nice if they could spend a few days with us
in Portland before we branch off to wherever we are going?”

“It would be nice, for a fact. No, I haven’t heard a word about any
plans; the only conclusion reached seems to be that we are to go to
Portland and from there bring up somewhere. Mother thinks the seashore
will not do for her, so I suppose it will be the mountains, or at least
somewhere inland; they don’t seem to know exactly.”

“I haven’t a doubt but Danny would join us. Her uncle is so pleased
with her progress that he allows her almost anything she asks. I
suppose one reason is because she never asks unreasonable things,
and is so sweet about giving up when he wants her to. Jo would give
anything to be with us, too, I know. Her last letter was a perfect
wail; she is so afraid we will not stop in Boston, or will not get
there before her school closes. She hasn’t yet recovered from our going
to school in Washington instead of returning to the Wadsworth.”

“Oh, but dear me, it has been much better here. We have been able to
live at home in this pleasant apartment, and mother has enjoyed it so
much; it would have been folly to go back to the Wadsworth.”

“I think so, too,” said Jean coming into the conversation. “I did hate
those Saturday night baked beans and never any of our own kinds of hot
bread.”

The others laughed. “You certainly are a P. I. G., Jean,” said Nan,
then, as Jean put on an injured look, “I mean a perfectly irresistible
girl.”

“You didn’t mean that at all,” retorted Jean.

“I think they set a fairly good table at the Wadsworth,” Mary Lee
asserted, “still nothing can ever come to one’s own home doings, of
course.”

“These home doings were Aunt Helen’s doings,” Nan stated. “She wasn’t
satisfied till she had made hundreds of inquiries and had seen dozens
and dozens of apartments.”

“It is funny how things turn out,” Mary Lee took up the thread again.
“I suppose if we hadn’t met Miss Cameron when we were going to Spain we
should never have come to Washington at all this year.”

“I am not so sure of that. I think Aunt Helen had her heart set on it
some time ago; she has so many friends here, though we might not have
gone to Miss Cameron’s school.”

“The thing I want to know,” said Jack, suddenly rousing herself from an
absorbed attention to things out-of-doors, “is what are we going to do
between now and the day we start for the North?”

“There are lots of things to do,” Nan told her.

“I think a good way would be to pick out what each one wants most to
see,” said Jack; “the way we did in England, you know.”

“Well and good,” returned Nan. “Fire ahead, Jack, you lean damsel.”

“I’m not as lean as you are,” retorted Jack, “and I’d be as fat as Jean
if I ate as much.”

“Why, my dear,” said Nan in pretended surprise, “I said Jacqueline,
damsel.”

“You didn’t mean it that way at all; you just said the other to make
fun of me,” insisted Jack.

“Prove it,” returned Nan good-naturedly.

“Yes, you did,” Jean came to the rescue of her twin, “just like you
called me a P. I. G. a while ago.”

“You’re such suspicious creatures,” responded Nan. “Let’s change the
subject. Go on, Jack, what do you want most to see?”

“I want to go up the monument, or the dome of the Capitol once more,”
she decided.

“Now, isn’t that like you? Nothing short of an aeroplane will ever
satisfy you eventually, Jack. When you get to heaven you will wear out
your wings before they are full fledged. What is your choice, Jean?”

“Oh, the Zoo, of course. There are some new animals there I want to
see. You know I’m crite crazy to go there without crestioning.”

“I know you are crite craulified to be craurrelsome to-day, and that I
am in a craundary myself.”

“Oh, Nan,” protested Jean with irritation, “you are so horrid when you
mock us that way.”

“I’ll be good, I promise you,” replied Nan. “What about you, Mary Lee?
Do you want to go to the Zoo, too?”

“Perhaps, but I must go once again to the Smithsonian. I expected to
know it by heart by this time, but the chances to go have really been
very few.”

“Well, I am divided between the Government greenhouses and the Corcoran
Art Gallery,” Nan told them. “Perhaps I shall have time for both. I
declare I shall really be sorry to leave Washington; it is a pretty
nice sort of place when you come to think of all there is to see and of
all the pleasant things that are going on all the time.”

“We ought to go to Arlington and Fort Myer before we leave; it is
lovely there this time of year, they say.”

“Here comes Aunt Helen looking as if she had some scheme afoot. Perhaps
she has decided about the summer plan.”

“How would you all like to drive to Fort Myer to see the cavalry drill
this afternoon?” said Miss Helen coming in.

“We were just talking about that very thing,” cried Mary Lee. “It would
be fine, Aunt Helen.”

“I think you would be interested and it is a lovely afternoon. Your
mother doesn’t care to go out for she has been shopping all morning, so
if you will get ready we can start off in about half an hour.”

It was already June and there was a feeling of summer in the warm air.
The season comes early to the capital and the gardens were gay with
flowers; roses clambered over porches and windows, fountains were
playing, and grass was green in the parks. Those who summered away were
fast leaving and the streets were not so full of people as earlier. Old
Georgetown retained its usual quiet, broken at intervals by a passing
trolley-car or an automobile climbing up the steep streets.

“There is one thing I like about Washington,” remarked Nan as the
carriage turned to cross the Aqueduct bridge, “we need only to pass
over the Potomac and we are in Virginia, and we can, moreover, see the
shores of our native state any time we choose. How lovely the green
banks look, Aunt Helen.”

“And the river, too,” said Jack. “I like those places where the trees
bend over to look at themselves in the water.”

Nan smiled at her little sister. Jack was wont once in a while to
surprise her by some such remark. She was a harum-scarum little
somebody, very sociable and impulsive though warm-hearted and with a
fearless spirit.

“And now we are in Virginia,” she went on as the carriage left the
bridge for the road.

“I don’t feel a bit different,” remarked her twin.

“Oh, don’t you? I do,” declared Jack. “I feel as if the blackberry
bushes and sumachs and the trees all belong to me.”

“I hear a bugle call,” said Mary Lee. “We must be near the post.”

They soon drew up amid a line of carriages overlooking the parade
ground where a body of cavalry went through the manœuvres. Horses
dashed hither and thither, there was a clash of sabres, a flash of
steel as the riders wheeled into position; then came the thud of
horses’ hoofs as they responded to orders. At last, after a furious
gallop and a mad slashing at pretended foes, the drill was over and the
carriages turned away.

“I liked it,” cried Jack. “Wasn’t it exciting when they waved their
sabres and went tearing around the field? I imagined them swooping down
upon the Indians when they did that.”

“I saw one man thrown,” said Mary Lee, “and his horse just trotted off
to his place in the stables quite as a matter of course. Wasn’t that
sensible?”

The driver by whose side she was sitting smiled. “Dem beases has lots
o’ sense, miss. Dese yer ones o’ mine don’ lak nothin’ bettah dan goin’
to one o’ dese yer drills. Dey knows jes’ as well when we turns fo’ de
bridge. Did yuh see how dey kep’ a-lookin’ an’ a-lookin’ lak dey want
ter be in de fiel’ deyselves?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t; I was so interested myself. I wish I had noticed
them. They are nice horses,” she added; “so sleek and well kept.” It
was a joy to her to discover a driver fond of his horses.

They drove on to Arlington, that fair estate, and all were silent as
they went through the embowered avenues where lay the quiet soldiers
who were at peace after great conflict. The elder girls and Miss Helen
were more than usually moved, for the old home of the Lees had been
that of their own kin, so they talked but little and were glad to pass
out of the gates before the sunset gun gave notice of closing. Across
the river arose the domes and spires of the capital city with the shaft
of the monument white against the sky.

“We’re going up that to-morrow,” announced Jack.

“I’m not,” declared Jean; “I’m going to the Zoo with Mary Lee.”

“Then you don’t want to go Juning to the Great Falls with me?” said
their aunt.

“’Deed and ’deed we do,” cried Jack. “We didn’t know that was on.”

“Is it to be a picnic, Aunt Helen? Won’t that be fun?” said Jean.

“Would you rather go there, to Alexandria, or to Mount Vernon?” asked
Miss Helen.

“We’ve been to Mount Vernon,” said Nan; “it would seem more picnicky to
go to the Falls, don’t you think?”

“Time was when it was very picnicky to go to Mount Vernon,” said Miss
Helen reminiscently. “I can remember when I was a girl that we used
to take luncheon and eat it on the grass there in front of the house.
Visitors were few then and the regulations were much less formal; one
almost felt as if she were visiting the family, we were given such
freedom. We could always get milk from the dairy, could have a clipping
from the garden, and had access to many places which now are shut away
from the public.”

“Then I shouldn’t think you would care to go there at all.”

“It doesn’t seem much of a privilege in comparison with the old free
and easy times.”

“Then we will vote for the Falls. Don’t you say so?” Nan appealed to
her sisters, who all agreed that it would be much more like going
a-Maying, or a-Juning as Miss Helen called it, if they took a luncheon
to the woods instead of making a pilgrimage to Washington’s old home.

As usual Jean was most particular in the matter of what was to fill the
lunch baskets and superintended in person the making of sundry special
sandwiches, the buying of a large bottle of stuffed olives, and the
careful packing of certain rich little cakes, so that her individual
basket showed no frugal meal. As Jack always depended upon receiving
a share of her twin’s provisions she did not trouble herself to look
out for more than crackers and cheese and a little fruit while Nan
with Mary Lee’s help saw to it that there was enough for a substantial
luncheon in the basket which was to serve themselves and Miss Helen.

Their way took them up the Virginia side of the river to where the
water of the Potomac dashed madly over the rocks in furious eddys and
fierce whirlpools, being whipped into froth as it was carried noisily
on to the clearer and quieter waters below.

“If it were in Europe or even in New England,” remarked Nan when they
had seated themselves on the river’s bank and were contemplating the
rushing stream, “this spot would be advertised and made one of the
places to which tourists would flock from all parts of the country, but
here it is not generally spoken of and one may say is scarcely known.”

“I am glad it is so,” declared Jack. “I like it just naturally wild
and the way it has been all these years. I don’t like the cleaned up
places, so neat and exact, all walled in and set around by particular
foot-paths with ‘Keep off the grass’ signs everywhere, and ‘Admission
twenty-five cents’ at the entrance.”

“That’s where we agree, my dear,” Nan told her. “But, Jack, my honey,
don’t try any dangerous leaps or adventurous heights as you are so
fond of doing. Once you get caught in those rapids there is an end to
Jacqueline Corner; we couldn’t possibly get you out.”

Jack peered seriously down into the seething waters. Nan’s words were
sufficiently terrifying to keep her away from ticklish places, and she
made no random ventures.

“It would be nice to camp up here,” remarked Mary Lee as she munched a
jam sandwich.

“Not as nice as some other places,” returned her aunt. “That gives me
an idea, girls. I’ll follow it up. Why didn’t I think of it before?
Capital! Just the thing! Why, of course it is! How stupid of me.”

“You are so mysteriously disjointed, Aunt Helen,” cried Nan. “What are
you talking about?”

“I can’t tell you exactly, myself, but you shall know to-morrow. I’ll
go to see Miss Stewart this very evening.”

This only whetted the curiosity of the girls, but their aunt changed
the subject and refused utterly to tell them what she had in mind.
Therefore they sat contentedly under the trees while they finished
eating their lunch, looking across at the shining length of canal, and
the tossing tumult of water between them and the verdant heights of
Maryland’s shores.

But Miss Helen was evidently so eager to further her plans that she
hurried them back before the afternoon was over and while the hucksters
were still crying strawberries in the drowsy streets of Georgetown and
the bugle calls at Fort Myer announced that the cavalry drill was in
progress.

[Illustration: CHAPTER II

IN PORTLAND]

CHAPTER II

IN PORTLAND

What was in Aunt Helen’s mind was made clear the next morning at
breakfast when she asked, “How should you all like camping out in
Maine?”

“Fine! Perfectly splendid. We’d love it above all things. Great!” came
from various quarters. “So that is what you were talking of yesterday,
Aunt Helen. Do tell us all about it.”

“Well, I followed out my intention of going to see Miss Stewart, who
not long ago was telling me of her very pleasant experience last
summer when she went to a camp in Maine. Her report was so good that I
continued the matter by calling on Miss Marshall, who is one of the two
ladies having the camp in charge. Everything appears so favorable that
after talking it over with your mother we have concluded it will be the
best thing for every one concerned to spend some time at this special
camp, and I shall telephone Miss Marshall at once that she may count
upon our party.”

“Exactly where is it?” asked Nan.

“On a lake not far from the border lines of Maine and New Hampshire,
with the White Mountains in sight, and a spur of them near enough for
any one to climb who feels so disposed.”

“Lovely! Go on. What are we to do there?”

“You can have a canoe, two, if you choose, and learn to paddle them.”

“Delicious thought,” cried Mary Lee.

“You will be able to take a walking tour up the mountain, sleeping out
in the open in order to be on hand to see the sunrise.”

“Capital idea!” This from Nan. “What else?”

“Oh, you can roam the woods, read, play games, drive, do anything that
comes to hand.”

“Shall we sleep in tents?” asked Jack.

“You girls will, though I believe there are two or three cabins; your
mother and I will occupy one.”

“Shall we have good things to eat?” asked Jean a little anxiously.

“Miss Stewart says so. Miss Marshall takes a real Southern cook from
here, so we can count on hot bread at least. Plenty of fresh milk and
butter are provided, vegetables from neighboring farms and fruit, too,
so that it sounds most alluring.”

“I should say it did,” returned Mary Lee. “It is the very nicest thing
possible. I am crazy about it, and it will do us all so much good to
live out-of-doors, mother especially. When do we start, Aunt Helen?”

“The camp opens the first of July, but I think we shall start on
somewhat earlier than that and take a week in Portland. It will be a
good centre for some excursions and we shall enjoy a short stay there,
I am sure.”

“’Way up in Maine; think of it,” said Jack. “I never expected to go
there.”

“But we were nearly there when we went to the Wadsworth school,”
objected Jean.

“I don’t call Massachusetts nearly,” returned Jack.

“Do we have to provide anything special?” asked Nan.

“Yes, I believe you are required to have certain things.”

“And what are they?”

“Bloomers, short skirts, flannel shirts or jumpers, blankets and
pillows; if there is anything else I have forgotten, but there is
plenty of time to find out.”

“What fun. May we go right away and get the things we know we shall
need?”

“You may if you like. I think I can go with you this morning. It
behooves us not to be too leisurely about it for June is upon us and
your mother wants to escape the hot weather of Washington. It will be
much pleasanter to wait in Portland for July than here.”

So that very day there was a shopping expedition to the Boston store,
to Kann’s and to various other places which should supply the needs
a camping out would mean. Then speedily as might be, the start for
the North was made; Washington’s broad avenues were exchanged for
the clean, hilly streets of Portland, swept by sea-breezes and quiet
enough after the busy cities of New York and Boston, to each of which
they had given a day. Neither place was unfamiliar, therefore there
was no sightseeing, only a flying visit to see their dear friends Mr.
Pinckney and Miss Dolores in New York, and from Boston a trip out to
the Wadsworth school to visit some of their schoolmates of two years
before. Charlotte Loring had entered college and her face was missed,
but Jo Keyes and Daniella Scott were on hand overjoyed to see the four
Corners.

The idea of camp appealed to both, to Daniella especially, for she had
begun life in the woods and its wildness still suggested the freedom
and unhampered days of her childhood. “I know papa will let me go if I
ask him,” she said when they urged her to be one of the party.

Jo, however, when they put the question to her, shook her
head. “Too expensive a treat for this child. Something like a
pitch-your-tent-on-our-back-lot would suit my purse better, none of
your modern elegancies such as summer camps are. If you had suggested
my packing my tent and my clothes in a canoe, lugging it across country
on my back and dumping it down by Lake Memphramagog or Molechunkemunk
Lake or some such Indian haunted spot, I might consider it, but as it
is, nay, nay, Pauline; Josephine has not the price.”

But here, as often before, Miss Helen came to the rescue, and after
marching Jo up and down the porch for a few minutes, during which there
was earnest conversation, the two returned to the group sitting at the
further end, and Miss Helen announced, “It is settled. Jo is going with
us.”

“If my family consent,” put in Jo as a proviso.

“Of course they will consent,” said Nan. “You know they will. My, but
that is fine, Jo. We consider you a great acquisition to our party.”

“Thanky kindly, marm. I’m ready to dance a jig for sheer joy. After all
these months of separation you Corners seem more desirable than ever.
Next year it’s a greasy grind for Jo if she goes to college, for she
will have to put herself through by sewing on skirt braids or doing
some such menial work for the rest.”

The idea of Jo sewing on skirt braids or anything else was so funny
that they all laughed. “Do try some other stunt than sewing, Jo,”
Nan proposed, “for I am sure your needle will never put you through
anything.”

“You don’t know what I can do till I try. I am like the man who was
asked if he could play the violin, you know; he said he couldn’t tell
for he had never tried.”

“What about you, Danny?” asked Mary Lee. “Of course you will write to
Mr. Scott at once.”

“Of course I shall. Let me see, the first of July is not three weeks
off, and school closes in less than a week; there will be about ten
days in between.”

“Oh, well, we can easily put in that time somewhere; I can go to Aunt
Kit’s; she wants me,” said Jo.

“And you will see Bruce,” exclaimed Jean. “How is he getting along, Jo?”

“Finely. You never saw a cat more made of. What shall you do with your
in-between, Danny?”

“Louise Burnett has been asking me for a visit after school closes,
and so has Effie Glenn.”

“Dear me,” ejaculated Nan, “how this all does remind me of the old
days. Has Blue China another parrot, Jo?”

“No, thank goodness, and this year she has been away a good deal so we
have been spared her prim presence.”

“Reminiscing does so fly away with time,” remarked Mary Lee as she
looked at her watch. “We must go if we are to get back to mother in
time for dinner. Well, girls, it isn’t good-bye, it is only _auf
wiedersehn_.”

“Or _hasta luego_,” put in Mary Lee who preferred Spanish for reasons
of her own.

“You are such a darling, Aunt Helen,” whispered Nan when they were
seated in the train. “It was just dear of you to do that for Jo.”

“I like Jo,” returned Miss Helen, “and I think she ought to be given
every chance. She has improved wonderfully.”

“Yes, I must say that she has. She used to be the slangiest creature I
ever saw; she is not near so boisterous either.”

“It seemed to me that it would be just as well if she didn’t go home
this summer. I don’t think her stepmother is the slightest advantage to
her.”

“Far from it. Well, if she does get through college she will then be
able to make her own way and live her own life. Isn’t Danny a beauty?
but she always was. Talk about improvement, there you have it. You
never hear her say nowadays such things as: ‘she gave it to you and I,’
or ‘those sort of girls.’ Dear me, we had a struggle with her to get
those two things all right. Now she seems like any other nice girl and
she visits the Burnetts and the Glenns constantly. The Glenns are so
very fond of her, and the Burnetts want her to spend the summer with
them at their seashore cottage.”

“She will enjoy the camp far more.”

“I am sure of it; one could see how eager she was.”

Portland reached there were three weeks still before them, but these
were by no means slow in passing. A trip to the beautiful Songo River,
to the various islands in charming Casco Bay, to the old town of
Brunswick to see Bowdoin College and the old Longfellow house; there
was no lack of places to go and at the end of two weeks they had not
exhausted all their resources, then suddenly upon the scene appeared an
entirely unlooked-for figure. The meeting came about in this way: Miss
Helen was making some purchases in one of Portland’s pleasant shops
when a gaunt, weather-beaten woman happened to be standing by her
side. She was peculiarly dressed, wearing men’s boots and a man’s coat
rather the worse for wear; on her head was a nondescript hat and her
bony, gloveless hands gave evidence of rough work. As Miss Helen gave
her name and address the woman looked at her sharply, then followed her
to the next counter before which she stopped.

“Excuse me,” began the stranger, “but I heard you give the name of
Corner. We don’t have that name up here, but my mother had relatives
of that name; she hasn’t heard from ’em for years, but she would be
that pleased if you happened to know any of the family in Virginia. You
speak like a Virginian and that’s why I made bold to mention it.”

“I am from Virginia, and my name is Corner,” returned Miss Helen. “What
is your mother’s name?”

“She’s a Hooper now. My father was Everett Hooper, but her maiden name
was Daingerfield and she was from Albemarle County, Virginia. Maria
Carter Daingerfield was her name before she was married.”

“Why, of course; she was my mother’s first cousin, I suspect.
I’ve often and often heard my mother tell the story of how Maria
Daingerfield was carried off prisoner by a Yankee officer; that is the
way she used to put it.”

“Yes, and that’s the way my mother still puts it. Well, well, well,
won’t she be pleased when I tell her?”

“She is still living?”

“Yes, but pretty feeble, keeps her room winters altogether. I do wish,
Miss Corner, that you could find an opportunity to come to see her. We
live up Sebago way; it’s easy getting there. You could take the train
to Sebago and I’d meet you, and if you could just set the day. Are you
alone here?”

“No, cousin---- Is your name Maria, too?”

“I’m Phebe, Cousin Phebe, if you like. No’m, I’m unmarried; I’m still
Phebe Hooper.”

“And I am still Helen Corner. My brother’s widow and her four girls are
here with me in Portland.”

“Fetch ’em along if they’d like to come. Come all of you and spend the
day. My, my, it’ll be like a breath of summer from the pines to mother.
Dear suz, I’m that excited I dunno as I shan’t miss my train. When did
you say you’d come?”

Miss Helen thought rapidly. “Where did you say it was?”

“About two miles from Sebago.”

“And that’s on the way to Fryeburg, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Then we might stop off on our way to camp.”

“Be you going to camp? Well, I declare. I cal’late you’d be just as
well off under a roof, but every one to his taste. When you going?”

“In about a week or ten days.”

“Why can’t you come make us a visit and stay that time? Where you
putting up?”

“At the La Fayette.”

“Dear me, we can’t give you hotel accommodations, but if you can be
content in our two spare rooms we’ll make you as comfortable as we can
in a farmhouse.”

“Oh, my dear Cousin Phebe, you are too kind; we couldn’t think of
bearing down upon you with such a legion, but we shall be delighted to
spend the day.”

Miss Phebe looked a little relieved. She did not wish to seem wanting
in that Southern hospitality whose traditions her mother had struggled
to keep alive, but to take in six strangers with their baggage would
have been an undertaking rather beyond her powers. “Then just name the
day,” she said, “and I’ll meet you. There is a good morning train and
it isn’t much of a trip. The sooner the better, for mother’s feeling
right smart now. She has a spell once in a while but she had one last
week and I cal’late she won’t have another for a while.”

“Then shall we say day after to-morrow?”

“That’ll suit first-rate. Give me time to get mother prepared. I’ll be
at the station sure. Good-bye. I’m so pleased to have met you. I’ll
look for you Thursday if it don’t rain.” She picked up the net bag she
carried and hurried off, Miss Helen looking after with an amused smile.

“Mary,” she said to her sister-in-law when she returned to the hotel,
“did we ever suppose we should pick up a relative here away down east?”

“Why, Helen, who is it? I’m sure I know of no one.”

“Who is it, Aunt Helen?” asked Nan looking up from some post cards she
had bought that day.

“Well, my dear, her name is Phebe Hooper.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Neither did I,” declared Mrs. Corner.

“Wait a minute. Surely you have heard of Maria Daingerfield.”

“Now I begin to see light. She is the one of whom the elder members
of the family speak with bated breath because she married a Yankee
officer. Her father practically disowned her, didn’t he? Cut her off
with a shilling, so to speak?”

“Yes, poor man, if he had so much as a shilling when the war was over.
He was very bitter, I believe, and I have heard mother say that Cousin
Maria had practically no intercourse with her family after she went
North to live. Well, my dear, I have this morning met her daughter
Phebe Hooper, a rough and ready sort of person, but I imagine she is
as good as gold. At any rate she is good to her mother and wanted the
whole party of us to come make them a visit. Of course I knew it was
out of the question to think of quartering six absolute strangers upon
them, but I liked her for asking; it showed that there was a lot of her
mother in her, though she talks like a Yankee, not of the best class,
either, and doesn’t look like any of our family that I ever saw. Well,
we compromised by my promising to take you all to spend the day with
them on Thursday. They live in the country near Sebago and I think
that it will not only be a pleasure to us but one to Cousin Maria, as
well. She is quite an invalid from rheumatism. It will be a great thing
for her to hear of her old home and those relatives we know something
about.”

“Won’t it be a lark?” said Nan. “Poor old dear! Imagine living all your
life away from Virginia when you were born there.” She spoke with such
fervency that Miss Helen laughed.

“You are the most loyal girl, Nan. You lead us to suppose that there is
but one state worth while and that it is our own.”

“Nan is a true Virginian,” said Mrs. Corner. “She probably will admit
that there are advantages elsewhere, but that preëminent above all
other spots is her native state. She feels a little sorry, I think, for
those who were not born in the Old Dominion.”

“I believe I do,” Nan acknowledged thoughtfully.

“Rather conservative and provincial, Nan,” warned Miss Helen. “You’ll
have to learn to be more cosmopolitan than that, else we shall have to
keep you traveling till you do see that each country, each state or
city has its own attractions and can make some claim over the rest. All
are not entirely good.”

“Munich came pretty near it,” said Nan with a thought to the charming
German city where they had spent six months.

“You are making progress if you can admit that much and yield it claims
over Virginia.”

“It has different attractions, of course, but----”

“Exactly. That is what I have been saying. No place on earth has
everything, but to return to Cousin Maria. Shall you all be ready to
take an early train? And, Mary, do rack your brain for reminiscences
for the entertainment of Cousin Maria. I am sure she will want to know
all about every Tom, Dick and Harry who was ever related to her in the
remotest degree.”

“We’ll be ready, won’t we?” Nan turned to Mary Lee who promised that
she would for one, then scenting a romance she said:

“How did it happen that she married a Yankee officer?”

“Quite in the approved way of romances. During a battle which took
place in the neighborhood, Captain Hooper was wounded and was brought
into the house. Cousin Maria’s father was in the Confederate army, so
were her two brothers; both brothers were killed, by the way, and that
was one reason for her father’s great bitterness of spirit. Cousin
Maria, her mother and her old mammy nursed Captain Hooper and in due
course of time the young people fell in love with one another, which
was a perfectly natural sequel. Well, he went away, Maria’s secretly
accepted lover. Later on the invading army burned the house to the
ground, which naturally added to old Colonel Daingerfield’s bitterness,
as it was the home of his forefathers. Maria, her mother and the old
mammy took refuge with a neighbor. The colonel’s rage, distress and
despair made him so violent that he could say nothing but evil of those
who fought on the other side, and once when he learned that Maria had
received a letter from an officer in the Federal army his fury knew no
bounds. So, poor Maria felt that it would be useless ever to expect
his consent to her marriage with her lover, though she managed to get
letters through the lines to him once in a while. After a while when
everything they possessed was swept away, and her mother died, she was
in despair. Her father was either gloomy, severe and forbidding or in
a paroxysm of rage when the future was mentioned, so she decided that
she would go to her lover whenever he could plan for their marriage,
then a little later on, when his company was encamped near the town
where she was staying, he dashed in one night with a couple of horses,
and, as she always maintained, literally carried her off prisoner. They
were married at once by the chaplain of the regiment and she went to
Washington to some friends there to remain till the war was over. She
never saw any of her people again.”

“I think that is a most thrilling tale,” said Mary Lee. “I am fairly
tingling with excitement, and I am so glad we are going to see the
heroine of such a story. Do you believe she will tell us more about it?
I should like to hear all the details.”

“Perhaps she will, though it may be that she will not care to talk of
it.”

“Did her father never forgive her?” asked Jack, who had been listening.

“I don’t know that. I hope so, though he can scarcely be blamed if he
didn’t. She was his only remaining child, and he felt that she had
deserted him, her home and the cause, not to mention her relatives.”

“I couldn’t desert my family for any man,” said Jack positively.

“I expect she was awfully homesick,” remarked Jean.

“I’d like to take her something, Aunt Helen,” said Jack.

“What should you like to take her, Jack?”

“Something from Virginia, if I had it.”

Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen exchanged glances. Jack was the most
warm-hearted child in the world and the thought was quite in character.
“I brought away some snap-shots of the old home and some of the scenery
around,” said Mrs. Corner. “They are some Dr. Woods sent me, but I can
get duplicates, I know. How should you like to get a small album to
put them in and give that to Cousin Maria?”

“The very thing!” exclaimed Jack. “That is a darling idea, mother.”

“I’ll show them to you if you will get them from my room,” said Mrs.
Corner. “They are on the shelf where the clock is, and are in a blue
envelope. We can select whatever seems suitable.”

Jack ran off highly pleased, but leaving all the others busily thinking
what they could carry as gifts to their down-east cousin.

[Illustration: CHAPTER III

COUSIN MARIA]

COUSIN MARIA

The romance surrounding Cousin Maria’s early days gave zest to the
expedition upon which the Corners started on the day appointed. Each
was provided with some gift; Jack, of course, carried her book of
photographs, Mary Lee took a little Indian basket, Jean had a box of
peppermints. “Old ladies always like peppermints,” she said. Nan had
wavered between a volume of Father Ryan’s poems and one of Thomas
Nelson Page’s collections of stories, but finally decided upon the
latter as perhaps Cousin Maria did not care for poetry.

It was not a long trip, and when they alighted at the station it was
still rather early in the day. Miss Phebe was there to meet them,
“booted and spurred,” as Nan said afterward. If the children had
not been prepared, and if they had not been too polite to stare,
they certainly would have gazed in amazement at the odd figure which
presented itself to their view as they stood waiting on the platform.
Miss Helen made the proper introductions which Miss Phebe acknowledged
in the set phrase, “Pleased to meet you,” and with a funny little
bob of the head. She led the way to a weather-beaten old buggy,
mud-splashed and dingy. “I cal’lated one of you could ride in here with
me,” she said, “and the rest could go with Nathan in the wagon. He’s
put a lot of clean straw in, and I guess you’ll go comfortable.”

“Oh, a straw ride? What fun!” cried Jack, to whom most novelties were
agreeable. “Aunt Helen, you can sit with the driver if you want to.” As
Jack always claimed this privilege for herself, Miss Helen was fain to
believe that either she was disposed to sacrifice herself to her aunt’s
comfort, or that riding on the straw-strewn floor of the wagon held
superior charms, so she smilingly acquiesced. They all clambered in
after Mrs. Corner had taken her place in the buggy, and the start was
made in a merry mood.

Nathaniel, or Nat, as he preferred to be called, was a shrewd-looking,
lank young man, younger than his length of limb and huge fists would
indicate. He spoke in a high key with a slow, soft drawl and was not
backward in asking questions, though he vouchsafed replies to those
Miss Helen put to him, and by reason of which she learned that he was
Miss Phebe’s sole assistant except when the apples were to be gathered
or some other crop should be brought in.

“Me and her runs the place,” said Nat. “She works as good as a man when
it comes to some things. No, marm, she ain’t no hired girl. I fetch
in the milk; she tends to it. I look after the stawk, caow, and three
hawses; she tends to the fowls. We got a sight of apples last fall,
great crawp. I tended to gittin’ of ’em in, she tended to shippin’ of
’em. Taters same way. Yes, marm, we got a pretty good garden, not so
smart-looking as old Adam Souleses maybe, but I ain’t ashamed of it.
First corn I put in, didn’t the crows get every namable bit? Wal, I
rigged up a scarecrow and got out my shotgun, so I guess the second
crawp’ll stay where it was put. Your folks raise a sight of corn down
your way, don’t ye? Use it, too, I hear. I ain’t a mite stuck on corn
bread myself. She makes good sody biscuits, though the old lady does
complain she makes ’em too precious big. I like ’em that way. Don’t
have to say ‘Pass them biscuits,’ so often, or if they’re on the other
side of the table you don’t have to rise every few minutes to fork
one over. It’s a right sightly place, ain’t it?” He pointed with his
whip to a low white house whose barn was in such close proximity as to
be literally under the same roof. An extensive apple orchard, whose
blossoming was just over, stretched for some distance on one side.
Two poplars stood in front of the house and a weeping willow upon
the modest lawn around which the roadway extended. “That’s our tater
patch.” Nat indicated a field which they were passing. “We grow ’em big
up here.”

“They’re not the only things you grow big,” Miss Helen could not
forbear saying with a glance at the display of ankle below the blue
jeans.

Nat burst into a loud guffaw. “That’s right I swan it don’t seem as if
I’d ever stop growing, and these here pants hitches up higher every
time they come out of wahsh. Look at them sleeves, too.” He stretched
out a mighty arm which showed several inches of red wrist below the
band. “I won’t come of age for three years nearly, and look at me,
bigger’n git out. My grandfather was just that way, growed and growed
till they had to pile bricks on his head to keep him down so he could
stand up in the settin’-room.” He gave a wink over his shoulder at
Jack, who was taking this all in.

“What became of your grandfather?” asked Jack, standing up and hanging
on the seat where her aunt sat. “Did he keep on growing?”

“No, he stopped short of six foot six, and when he died there wa’n’t no
coffin big enough for him. Had to send to Portland and have one made
special. They didn’t surmise he’d need it so soon or they might have
had it ready beforehand so’s not to put the funeral off like they had
to.”

“Did he die suddenly?” asked Jack, interested in this lugubrious
subject.

“Yes, marm. Died awful suddent. Got up as well as you or me, eat his
breakfast, tended to his hawse, white hawse he had, come in the house,
fetched a few hacks and went.”

Jack sidled over toward her aunt and whispered, “What does he mean by
hacks? Did he keep a livery stable?”

Miss Helen could scarcely keep her face sufficiently grave to whisper
back: “No, dear, he means he coughed once or twice.”

“Wal, here we are and here we be,” announced Nat, drawing up his horses
before the gate. “I see Miss Phebe’s got ahead of us, but what can
ye expect with a load of six and her with only them two. Jest wait,
marm, and I’ll lift ye down.” He performed this office, if rather
ungracefully, certainly skilfully, for he swung the little figure of
Miss Helen to the ground as if she were a bag of potatoes. The others
clambered out at the tail of the wagon and went forward to where Mrs.
Corner and Miss Phebe stood on the little porch before the door. On
either side lilacs were in bloom and a climbing rose was trained over
the window.

The entry, covered with oilcloth, separated parlor from sitting-room.
The former, opened only on state occasion, had a queer, musty smell,
as of a place seldom aired. Haircloth covered furniture stood at stiff
angles. A marble-topped table bore a lamp, a photograph album, one or
two books and ornaments. There were two crayon portraits on the wall,
one of Captain Hooper in uniform, another of a young woman with two
children by her side. The four girls disposed themselves upon the long
sofa which stood primly against the wall.

“Isn’t it stuffy?” said Jack in a low tone to Nan.

Nan nodded.

“Why don’t they open the windows this lovely day, so the smell of the
lilacs can come in?” continued Jack.

Nan shook her head at the questioner, for Miss Phebe appeared upon the
threshold. “Mother’ll be pleased to see you,” she said, addressing Miss
Helen. “I think, if you’ll excuse me,” she turned to the girls, “that
she’d better not see you all at once; it might be too exciting for her;
she’s not used to much company. Do you mind waiting till she’s got
accustomed to your mother and aunt?”

The girls assured her that they did not mind in the least.

“If you’ll entertain yourselves with any of the books or things, we
won’t be long,” continued Miss Phebe apologetically. “There’s a box of
shells on the lower shelf of the whatnot; you might like to look at
them. My Grandfather Hooper was a seafaring man, and he brought them
home from foreign parts. Some of them are real pretty.” She stooped
down, lifted the box and set it on the broad window-sill, then she
conducted Miss Helen and Mrs. Corner to the room across the entry.

While the twins took possession of the box of shells Nan and Mary Lee
made a survey of the books on the table.

“They’re awfully stupid,” declared Mary Lee, reading the titles:
“‘History of Cumberland County,’ ‘The Life of General Grant,’ ‘Aids to
the Young.’ What a funny old book. Thomson’s ‘Seasons,’ Young’s ‘Night
Thoughts.’ Do look here, Nan, at the illustrations; aren’t they weird?
Oh, dear, I’d hate to be shut up long in this house. Do you suppose we
dare to open a window or go out-of-doors?”

Nan laid down a copy of Shakespeare she had found. “I don’t know,” she
replied. “Perhaps we’d better not take any liberties. I don’t suppose
it will be long before we shall be summoned.”

“Do look at this carpet,” continued Mary Lee; “isn’t it hideous? And
whoever heard of keeping a carpet down all the year round? And those
portraits are ghastly. Is the lady Cousin Maria, do you reckon, and is
the little girl Cousin Phebe? I seem to distinguish a faint likeness.”

“I should think it might be she. Let’s look through the photographs,
then maybe we can trace her all along succeeding years.”

They took the red morocco album over to one of the windows and began to
turn its pages, once or twice happening upon some photograph familiar
to them. “That’s Cousin Martin Boyd,” cried Nan. “He is in Aunt Helen’s
album at home, the old one that was her mother’s. And oh, Mary Lee,
the lady in hoops and a funny bonnet is Grandma Corner herself. It
isn’t a bit like the lovely portrait that used to be at Uplands, but I
recognize her. And there is father when he was a youngster. Don’t you
remember it? I fancy that very fierce-looking individual in Confederate
uniform is Cousin Maria’s father. The others must all be Hoopers by the
cut of the jib.”

“I don’t think they’re a very interesting lot,” remarked Mary
Lee, viewing the series of stiffly posed persons, bearded men in
long-tailed coats, women in hooped petticoats and beruffled gowns worn
long on the shoulder, and with hair arranged in waterfall curls. “They
take much better photographs now,” she commented.

“Of course. Probably the art was in its infancy when these were taken.”

“Certainly these people weren’t,” returned Mary Lee. “They look as
ancient as the hills, even the children.”

“Here comes Cousin Phebe with an order for our release,” said Nan. So
they put the album back on the table and stood waiting.

“Mother’s ready now,” announced Miss Phebe. “She was quite overcome and
I had to give her some drops, but now that she’s over the excitement
of the meeting she is quite happy and wants to see Grace Corner’s
grandchildren, she says.”

The girls filed in procession across the hall to the door of the
sitting-room which Miss Phebe opened disclosing a bright, cheerful room
with plants in the windows, a red table-cloth on the table, a bright
carpet, a sideboard set off with silver and glass. By an open fire sat
a little white-haired old lady in black gown and white cap who looked
up expectantly as the children entered. “Come right along, my dears,”
she said in a pleasant voice. “This is a great day for me. You’ll
excuse my rising, I’m so stiff with rheumatism.”

The girls came forward and stood a-row, Mrs. Hooper scanning each one
in turn as they were presented by name. “Nancy looks like the Corners,”
she decided, “Mary Lee like her mother’s family; the others are
composite; they are twins, you said, Phebe.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Little Jack Corner’s children. He was such a boy when he went into the
army. I remember well the day he came over to tell us he was going.
Dear me, dear me, so long ago, so long and here I am a New Englander.
Dear me, dear me.” She shook her head as she looked from one to the
other. All the old memories were stirred by this sudden appearance of
her kin.

Then the presentation of gifts took place, a process which while it
greatly pleased Cousin Maria reduced her to tears. “To think of it,
Phebe,” she whimpered, “my own flesh and blood kin and they’ve brought
me gifts as if they had known me all their lives. Oh, there are none
like them, none like my own people down South.”

“Now, mother,” said Miss Phebe in a tone which sounded severe, but
which really arose from hurt feelings, “I hope you remember that
father and I weren’t from down South.”

“Oh, you’re a good child, Phebe; I know that, and Everett was a good,
kind husband, but you are both alien, alien.”

This was pretty hard on Miss Phebe considering she had always been
the most dutiful and conscientious of daughters and sacrificed
herself daily for her mother, but as Miss Helen said afterward, “the
Daingerfields always were sentimental,” so Cousin Maria was allowed to
have her little weep and then recovered herself enough to become quite
animated over the gifts, all of which pleased her mightily, though the
photographs seemed to possess the greatest value in her eyes.

Miss Phebe slipped out, the duties of hostess and cook so clashing that
she was put to it in trying to fill both offices suitably. “Phebe’s a
good child; a better daughter than I deserve,” sighed Cousin Maria.
“She is a Hooper to the back-bone, I can tell you that; just like her
father’s people.” She turned suddenly and laid her hand on Miss Helen’s
arm. “Oh, I tell you, it wasn’t easy at first. Oh, my dears, you will
never know what it is to be as homesick as I was. I had a good, kind
husband and I loved him, but their ways were so different. I never
had been used to lifting a finger; always a houseful of darkies at
my beck and call; always neighbors to drive over and gossip. Oh, my
dears, when I saw my mother-in-law and her daughters doing their own
work, rarely visiting, keeping the parlor shut up year in, year out, no
dances, no fun of any kind, I was appalled. Of course I was looked upon
with coolness and dislike because I was a Southerner, but that did not
make as much difference as the other things, and when I learned what
was expected of me----” She shook her head and sighed deeply. “It was
uphill work, that learning their ways. Once or twice I was so unhappy
I was ready to fly from it all, but there was Everett, so kind and
considerate, though he could only half guess what I missed, and then
came my baby, my little son.” She paused and wiped her eyes.

Miss Helen gently patted her hand. “Never mind, Cousin Maria,” she
said, “that is all over now, and even if you had gone back, or if you
had never come away it wouldn’t have been the same. There were hard
times in Virginia and all throughout the South; the women down there
had to work as hard as here, after the war.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. When my little boy died I realized something
of what my parents suffered, and I felt it was a judgment on me for
leaving my father, so I could never rebel against the punishment, for
I could see it was just. Poor father! He did forgive me at last, you
know. When my baby died I wrote to him, but he did not answer till a
year later, but he forgave me.”

“I am so glad,” breathed Jack pressing nearer. “You know we think you
had such a beautiful romantic love story, Cousin Maria, and we were
so glad we could come to see you,” though in her heart of hearts she
was rather disappointed that the heroine of the tale should prove to
be this plain little old woman. “I wish you would tell us all about
it; how you ran away with Captain Hooper and all that; we are so
interested.”

Mrs. Hooper smiled reminiscently, then she turned to Mrs. Corner. “You
would know her for a Southern girl, so spontaneous and outspoken. Well,
dear, I will tell you how it was.”

Though Nan would like to have listened to this story she had an uneasy
feeling that Miss Phebe might need help, so she quietly left the room.
Nan was always the one who carried the heaviest packages, who ran
back for umbrellas, or lugged a double amount of hand-luggage, so it
was like her to do this. She conjectured that the kitchen would be at
the back and she set to work to find it, first opening the door of a
closet, then one which led out upon a back porch, but the third one
seemed to be right, as she found a little entry from beyond which came
sounds and odors which told of the kitchen’s whereabouts. As she paused
upon the door-sill Miss Phebe, busily stirring around, cried out, “Land
sakes!” as she saw the figure in the doorway.

“I thought perhaps I could help you, Cousin Phebe,” said Nan.

Miss Phebe looked quite taken aback and said nervously, “No, thank you;
I couldn’t think of letting you do such a thing.”

“But why not?” Nan could not understand the New England spirit which
scorned assistance and resented intrusion.

“Please,” she continued. “I always help Cousin Mag when I go over
there. Couldn’t I set the table?”

“Oh, no; I set that before I went to the train.”

Still Nan persisted. She stepped into the kitchen. “Well, I could pare
potatoes or something.”

Miss Phebe shook her head. “Nat did those after breakfast. There is
really nothing to do. I made the pies and doughnuts this morning, the
custards yesterday. There isn’t a thing to do but stir up some sody
biscuits. I’ve got the peas and potatoes on. Does your ma like tea or
coffee? and your aunt, what does she drink?”

Nan was doubtful. She knew her Aunt Helen depended upon her afternoon
tea, and missing it to-day might like it earlier. “Suppose I go and
ask,” she said.

“Oh, no, I can make both,” returned Miss Phebe hurriedly.

“But why, if it isn’t necessary?”

Miss Phebe murmured something about its not being polite. Her Puritan
conscience would not permit her to be slack in even so small a matter,
nor must her guests discover her wanting in hospitality, so as Nan saw
she would be really distressed if the question were carried further,
she gave up all idea of making inquiry, but begged Cousin Phebe to
allow her to skim the milk and cut the butter which finally she was
permitted to do.

“You must have been up very early to get so much done before you went
to the train,” remarked the girl.

“Not much earlier than usual,” was the reply. “I wasn’t up before four.”

Nan stared. Four o’clock! and she had been on the go ever since. “I
should think you would be worn to a bone,” she said looking at the wiry
spare figure.

Miss Phebe smiled grimly and said, with a little bridling of the head,
“We don’t believe in wasting daylight up here.” Surely the ante-bellum
days had departed for Cousin Maria Hooper who, in the other room, was
telling of the good old times before the war, when she “never raised
her hand to do a thing and was carried around on a silver waiter, my
dear.”

“If you want to get along you’ve got to work,” said Miss Phebe reading
something of Nan’s thought.

“Or else be smart enough to make others work for you,” returned Nan
laughing. “Isn’t it a sign of ability to plan what a duller brain
executes?”

“I was never taught to expect any one to do my work, and I never had
time to stop to ask such questions,” returned Miss Phebe with a little
asperity. “My father died when I was eighteen and I have been at it
ever since, trying to keep up the place and make a little out of it.”

“Shall I carry these in?” asked Nan, seeing it was out of place to
argue, and standing with bread-plate in one hand and butter in the
other.

“If you will be so kind.”

Nan went into the dining-room and set the things on the table,
then she helped Miss Phebe dish up, carrying in peas and potatoes,
pickles and jelly, doughnuts and “sody” biscuits, custards and pies
and lastly--wonder of wonders--fried chicken. This was Miss Phebe’s
chef-d’œuvre, a dish suggested by her mother and one which the
daughter had been taught to prepare years before. Yielding in this one
particular she offered a Northern bill of fare in other respects, to
Jean’s great satisfaction, who was delighted to see the array of sweet
things, doughnuts and pies, preserves and cake, custards and cookies.

“Even Emerson ate pie for breakfast,” remarked Miss Helen as they
settled themselves in the train late that afternoon. The day had been
an unforgettable one in many respects, in which the quaint, queer
figure of Cousin Phebe stood out alone.

“With so many excellent qualities, so many virtues, and yet so
unattractive,” said Mrs. Corner.

“No doubt if you could penetrate the crust you would find a warm
heart,” returned Miss Helen. “Cousin Maria is pathetic, and how she
clung to us! I am glad we promised to see them again before we leave
these parts. Poor Cousin Maria! Environment has forced her into a
growth different from that which nature and birth intended, and she is
worn out in the struggle. She told me nothing in life could have given
her such pleasure as our visit. One feels very humble before such a
state of things.”

“And yet,” said Nan, “there is nothing Cousin Phebe would not do for
her mother, and I believe she enjoyed our coming, too, though one would
never guess it except that she was so eager that we should come again.”

“I don’t believe she works a bit harder than Cousin Sarah,” commented
Jack.

“Oh, my child, Cousin Sarah never in her life got up at four o’clock in
the morning to make pies and doughnuts before breakfast,” said Nan.

“Nat says if we will come in the fall he will show us more apples than
we ever saw in our lives,” remarked Jean.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mary Lee; “he never saw the Albemarle pippins on
Cousin Phil’s farm up on the mountain.”

[Illustration: CHAPTER IV

THE START FOR CAMP]

CHAPTER IV

THE START FOR CAMP

In a few days came Daniella Scott and Jo Keyes, ready to join forces
with the Corners. Jo was in high spirits. This was her last year at the
Wadsworth school and she felt free as a bird, she declared. Daniella,
whose school-days had not begun till she was quite a big girl, was
still looking forward to several years of boarding-school life. The
prospect of a summer in the woods was perhaps dearer to her than to any
of the others.

There was first to be a short railway journey, then a long ride by
stage and finally a drive of two or three miles which would bring them
to the borders of a lovely lake set in the green-wood, and here they
would find the camp.

As they left the train, at a small town, a big old-fashioned stage,
swung on leathers, lumbered up. It was drawn by four horses and its
driver, a wiry old man, with a tuft of white beard under his chin,
called out, “Be you a-going to Friendship?”

“We are,” replied Miss Helen.

“How many air ye?”

“Eight.”

“Got many traps?”

“A small trunk apiece and some hand-luggage.”

The man rubbed his stubbly beard. “Wal, I guess I kin stow ye all away
and I dunno as we’ll break down. It’s a big passel o’ folk to kerry all
to oncet when there’s others wants to go, but git in all of ye, and
them as don’t want to set inside kin set out.”

Immediately there was a rush of six figures toward the stage.

“Here, here,” cried the old man, “ye ain’t every namable one o’ ye
going to git on top, air ye? The’ ain’t room for all of ye _and_ the
trunks.”

“Let some of the trunks go inside, then,” suggested Jo; “they are
small,” she said, pausing in her act of mounting a wheel in order to
clamber on top.

The old man fingered his bit of beard. “Wal, I dunno. Inside ain’t the
place for trunks; it’s for passengers. Jest you wait a minute and I’ll
see how big them trunks is and how many kin go on the rumble. Mebbe we
kin make room for everybody. If ye wouldn’t be so everlastingly in a
hurry ye’d have steps to climb up; they’ve got ’em up at the hotel.”

“Where’s the hotel?”

“Right ahead.” He pointed with his whip to a long white house, on the
porch of which several persons were standing waiting for the stage.

“It’s more fun to climb up this way,” said Jack clinging to the side
of the coach and feeling for the high step with her toe. “May I sit by
you?” she asked over her shoulder.

The driver chuckled. “What ye want to do that fur? I ain’t so pretty.”

“Oh, but I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’ll be bound ye would. All right; you’ve spoke first. Up ye go,” and
he gave her a boost which sent her to a footing by which she could
reach the seat.

“There’s room for you, too, Jean,” said Jack reaching down her hands,
and with the help of the others Jean was able to find a place by the
side of her twin.

The driver, meanwhile, had gone to gather up the trunks, which he
brought one by one, and managed to get the greater number strapped on
behind; the rest he found room for on top. “There,” he said, “I dunno
as we shan’t make it. Ef them folks at the hotel ain’t got a lot of big
stuff, I guess we kin. The rest of you gals git up here. Ye kin ride as
fur as the hotel anyway, and ef ye have to git inside then don’t say I
ain’t give ye a ride on top.”

Thus adjured, the four remaining girls mounted to the top and they
started off after a loud “Git ap!” to the horses from the driver.

Fortunately the passengers next gathered up were not many: a meek
looking woman with a little girl, and a man, whose only luggage
consisted of that in their hands except a suit case which was taken
inside. With a mighty crack of the whip and another “Git ap!” off they
started again past green farms, low white houses, tranquil ponds and
running streams, once in a while clattering through the long street
of a quiet village where a stop would be made, the mail delivered, a
passenger taken up or set down, and then off again.

Whatever the passengers inside may have felt, to the company of six
girls on top it was a journey of delight. The two on the front seat
with the driver were in a constant state of giggle, while the four who
sat a-row behind them were scarcely less mirthful. The driver informed
them his name was Noahdiah Peakes. “Named after my two grandfathers;
one was Noah, t’ other Obadiah, so they jest combined ’em and give
me the two names in one. I git Noey, gin’rally, though some calls me
No,--ole No Peakes. I made up a conundrum ’bout my name. Want to hear
it?” Of course they did and were asked, “Why am I like a table-land
when I’m to hum?”

“Something about No Peakes,” whispered Jean to Jack, but they could
not guess exactly and the answer was given: “Becuz there’s no peaks
there,” given with a big laugh and a slap of the thigh, followed by an
immediate relapse into entire gravity and a “Git ap” to the horses.

Noahdiah was fond of riddles, they discovered before they had gone far.
His stock of them lasted all the way to Friendship. Every now and then
he would turn his head over his shoulder and offer the girls behind him
one of his conundrums such as: “What does a lawyer do when he’s dead?
He lies still. Git ap!” or “Why is my head like the Artic regions?
Becuz it’s a great white bare place. Git ap!” Conundrums which touched
upon his name, his personal appearance, his dwelling place, were the
favorites, they discovered, and he was pleased to boisterousness when
Jo made up a new one at which Nan and Mary Lee groaned, “Why should we
depend upon you in an accident? Because you are our Maine chance.” He
chuckled and sputtered over this for some time, forgetting to say “Git
ap!” for at least a quarter of a mile.

At last they were set down at Friendship which they discovered
consisted of scarce more than a farmhouse and a country store. A
wagon would carry them the rest of the way. The new driver, who, they
learned, was the man about camp, had driven over for them, but looked a
little dubious when he saw the size of the party. “Guess I’ll have to
leave their traps, Noey,” he said.

“Wal,” answered Noahdiah, “I’d fetch ’em along myself but I’ve got to
git back, and moreover the stage couldn’t travel them rough roads.
Ain’t Al got no kinder buggy or nothin’ he kin take some of ’em in? the
mother and the aunt?”

“I’ll go in and see what Al kin do,” responded the man entering the
little store.

“Wisht I could go all the way with ye. I’d like first-rate to see ye
sot down comfortable before I left ye,” said Noahdiah confidentially.
“I dunno as I ever see a likelier set o’ young misses come to camp and
I’ve fetched over quite a few. Ye’re real friendly and sociable and
that’s what I like. Some o’ these here prim old maid schoolmarmy kind
don’t open their lips from Cross Roads to Friendship. You’d think they
was struck dumb, er ef they do speak it’s like their mouths was one of
these here medicine-droppers; the words come out jest as though they
was squeezed from a rubber bulb t’ other end. Here comes Al and ’Lish;
now we’ll see.”

After a short conference it was proposed that Mrs. Corner and Miss
Helen should wait till the buggy could be made ready when they and
their luggage could follow the wagon, ’Lish declaring that “six women
folks even if they wasn’t full growed, with luggage” he “cal’lated,”
would about fill a wagon.

“The buggy’ll be more comfortable, marm,” said Noahdiah, addressing
Mrs. Corner, “and I guess you’ll have the best of it.”

“But three of us in one buggy,” she returned.

“Wal, it’s good and wide, and ye ain’t so fleshy, neither of ye, and ye
kin set clost.” So there was nothing to do but make the best of it and
either remain till the next day when the wagon could return for them,
or forge ahead in the manner proposed. The latter course was finally
decided upon and they set out, bumping over a rough road for three
miles before the camp was reached.

Miss Marshall and Miss Lloyd gave them a hearty welcome and they sought
their quarters to prepare for supper which they were ready enough for,
after the long drive in the stage and the added one from the country
store.

“Real tents,” cried Jack. “Won’t it be fun? I never did sleep in a
real tent, Nan. Aren’t they cozy?”

Two tents, side by side, were given up to the party of girls, a little
log cabin being provided for Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen. This consisted
of two rooms, one with a fireplace where Mrs. Corner could have a fire
on damp days, a thing which she felt would be very necessary. There
was another cabin, a larger one, in the centre of the camp, where
the campers could congregate around a huge log fire on cool evenings
or could sit on wet days. It was really a charming place with plenty
of comfortable chairs, a big table piled with books and magazines,
rugs on the floor, and at the windows pretty chintz curtains. A porch
ran around on all sides, and here those who had already arrived were
congregated.

“Oh, I am so hungry,” said Jean when they had stowed away a few of
their belongings. “I wonder when we shall have supper.”

“Suppose you and Jack go and find out,” proposed Nan.

This was a mission highly relished by the twins, who after a few
minutes came back gleefully. “Supper in fifteen minutes, and we’re
going to have flapjacks and maple syrup,” cried Jean.

“Yes, and ham and eggs and fried potatoes. There’s a colored cook and
she knows just how to cook the kind of things we all like; we asked
her.” Jack gave this information.

“And we eat out-of-doors on the verandah of the big cabin. We saw the
tables all set,” said Jean.

“Lights are out at nine,” Jack went on, “so we can all go to bed at the
same time. We get up real early; no one wants to sit up late because
they are so healthy tired.”

Nan laughed. “If they are all as healthy tired as I am I don’t blame
them.”

“There are such funny-looking people here,” Jean continued; “you can’t
tell what they really look like. I saw two or three coming along from
the lake; they had on great big farm hats and bloomers. They had oars
or something over their shoulders and they looked like huntresses or
Amazons or some such thing.”

“We’ll look just the same ourselves once we get going,” Mary Lee told
her. “It must be time for supper, girls. Let’s go over.”

The summons came before they were all fairly ready and one need not
doubt that full justice was done to the ham and eggs, the flapjacks,
the draughts of country milk and the delicious strawberries and cream.

After supper the new arrivals strolled down to the lake to see the sun
set behind the mountains, and to watch the colors of the sunset sky
reflected in the still waters. Then there was a little talk in the
big living-room but one by one lapsed into silence, and finally all
confessed that nothing seemed so desirable as the thought of going to
bed, so off they went before nine o’clock saw the lights all out.

The girls were all up betimes the next morning. There was so much to
do, so many places to explore, so much to learn.

“I must find some one willing to teach me to paddle, first thing I
do,” announced Nan, “for I can see that canoeing is going to be the
principal amusement.”

“That’s what I want to do, too,” Jack decided.

“I’ll wait for a day or two before I try my hand,” Mary Lee resolved.
“By that time some of you all will have learned and can coach me;
meanwhile I will look up the birds; there must be a great many in so
wild a place.”

“That’s just what I will do, too,” Jean decided. She generally adopted
Mary Lee’s suggestions.

So the party divided, Mary Lee, Jean and Daniella joining in a tramp
through the woods, Jo, Nan and Jack starting forth to take their first
lesson in paddling a canoe; some of the girls, already old stagers,
good-naturedly offering to teach them. It is not the easiest thing in
the world to learn, and certainly not a thing to be acquired in one
short day, but Nan went into raptures over the exercise, and went at it
heart and soul, so that before so very long she could force her canoe
forward a short distance without its turning around and around, and
could manage to get the stroke at least once out of half a dozen times,
so by noon they returned hungry and elated. A little later came the
second division of the party. These had discovered a beaver’s dam and
were quite delighted with their morning’s explorations.

“Sometimes the girls take supper down on the rocks, build a fire and
have a jolly time,” the girls informed Mrs. Corner.

“Let’s do that this evening,” suggested Jack.

“Don’t use up all your resources the first day,” warned Miss Helen.
“There is still novelty in eating out-of-doors on the verandah, and in
living in a tent. Wait till those things begin to pall upon you.”

“There is the excursion to the mountain; we must take that while the
weather is good.”

“But I would not undertake it right away. Remember you have several
weeks to employ; I should scatter the novelties at due distances along
the way.”

Acting upon this advice they restrained their ardor and spent the
remainder of the day in reverse order; those who had devoted the
morning to the lake, spending the afternoon in the woods and vice
versa, so that it was a tired lot of girls who were very ready for bed
when nine o’clock came. Mrs. Corner and Miss Helen had been wise enough
not to overfatigue themselves and had simply rested after their tiring
journey of the day before.

“Those are two right nice girls who were with us this morning,” Nan
told Mary Lee as they were on their way to the tents.

“And I liked those who were with us this afternoon,” returned Mary Lee.

Nan laughed. “So we shall not want for company if we get mad with one
another. There will be no flocking by one’s self and sulking this trip.
There is just a pleasant number in the camp. We can become acquainted
with them all, and yet there are enough of us to feel perfectly
independent if we want to go by ourselves. How did you get along with
your paddling?”

“Only fairly well,” returned Mary Lee somewhat dubiously. “I suppose
one can’t expect perfection at first. Daniella took to it like a duck.
She always does such things well.”

“She is in her element, and doesn’t she look great in this rough
costume?”

“Yes, you see she was born a maid of the woods. She is never much of a
talker, but any one can see how happy she is.”

“Yet she can talk, and interestingly, too, when you get her started.”

“Oh, to be sure, but I fancy she will always be a little shy.”

They were not up so early the next morning but that Daniella was before
them and out on the lake practicing with her canoe. She did indeed
look a picture as she stood up in her short skirt, her big hat shading
her radiant face, her cheeks glowing, and her lovely golden brown hair
gleaming in the sun. “If I were an artist,” cried Nan, “I would say:
Kindly keep that pose, Miss Scott.”

“Being the next best thing to an artist I will say it,” said Jo
bringing her camera into focus. “There, I have immortalized you,
Daniella.”

Then Jack declared she wanted Jo to take a photograph of her in a canoe
to send Mr. St. Nick. Of course Jean could not let this go by without
demanding one of herself in the same attitude. Mary Lee would like one
for Miss Dolores and Daniella wanted one of Nan for her own collection,
so it ended in various cameras being brought forth and a series of
pictures being taken; no one was ready to stop till her first roll of
films was exhausted. By this time they had gone rather far afield.

“It must be getting on,” said Mary Lee, looking at her watch. “Dear,
oh, me, girls. I should say so. Come to breakfast. Don’t you smell the
delicious fumes of coffee?”

Unencumbered by long skirts, and free of limb in jumpers and leggings
the girls darted off, racing back to camp full tilt, Jean, though the
most eager as to appetite, the least fleet of foot, and therefore
bringing up the rear.

[Illustration: CHAPTER V

UP THE MOUNTAIN]

CHAPTER V

UP THE MOUNTAIN

In two or three days the girls decided that they could no longer
wait to join the party which was preparing for a mountain climb. The
start was made in a wagon which would take them about twenty miles
to the foot of a steep up-winding road which was only possible for
pedestrians. In bloomers, big hats and flannel blouses, a leather strap
around their waists upon which was hung a tin cup, and wearing leathern
leggings to protect them from the briars or something worse, they made
ready. Each had made into a pack a small pillow, a rubber blanket and a
woolen one and had further provided herself with an alpenstock. There
were about a dozen in the party, which was led by Miss Lloyd, a cheery
little woman full of resources and with a fund of humor which would
serve a good purpose under difficulties.

“We are to sleep out-of-doors just like soldiers,” remarked Jack with
satisfaction as she watched the preparations.

’Lish tossed the packs one after another into the wagon. “Pile in,” he
cried, and the girls obeyed with alacrity.

“I hope it won’t rain,” remarked Florence Yardley scanning the sky
anxiously.

“Now, Flo, don’t be a wet blanket,” said her chum, Carrie King.
“Suppose it does rain, who cares?”

“So much more fun,” agreed the rest.

“We haven’t on such flimsy attire that it will make any difference,”
said Bertha Stine. “What are you kicking about, Floss?”

“Oh, I’m not kicking,” returned Florence subsiding. “I suppose one may
mention a preference for good weather when our object is to see the
sunrise to-morrow morning.”

“Our object is to have a good time regardless of weather. If there
happens to be a sunrise that is what we want; if it rains that is what
we want. Isn’t that the proper spirit, Miss Lloyd?”

“Beautifully proper. I couldn’t ask for a fairer philosophy than that.”

“And there’s this about it,” Bertha went on. “If we miss a sunrise this
time we can try it again and still keep our object in anticipation. In
other words if we don’t have our cake and eat it, we can eat our pie
and keep our pudding. Isn’t that it, girls?”

“Exactly. ‘So say we all of us,’” they chanted.

Having stowed away the last pack, seen to it that the provisions were
safe and at the last moment going back for a water bucket, ’Lish at
last gathered up his reins and off they started waving merry farewells
and making the woods ring with a gay song which went something like
this:

  “When ’Lisha takes us ’way from camp
  We use a bright blue wagon,
  And each girl cries ‘What lovely roads!’
  Though they’re not much to brag on.
        Thanky ma’am.”

At the end of each stanza the girls rose to their feet and sat down
again violently, crying in chorus, “Thanky ma’am!” Every now and then
some one contributed a new verse which was sung lustily.

“It prevents our getting cramped from long sitting,” explained Bertha.
“It is also good for our lungs and keeps up our spirits.”

Once in a while as they came to a steep hill some of the party would
get out and walk, and when a wayside spring appeared there was a
scramble to fill the tin cups.

By sundown the foot of the mountain was reached and preparations were
made for supper. Brushwood was plentiful, therefore a fire was readily
managed. Miss Lloyd produced a frying-pan in which slices of bacon soon
sizzled. Carrie King was delegated to watch the coffee which began to
boil over and was rescued only after heroic efforts. Then the girls
fell to and ate heartily, deciding that coffee from tin cups was not so
bad after all and that bacon and bread made a dish fit for any king,
“including Carrie,” remarked Bertha.

“Apple turnovers!” exclaimed Jean. “Oh, Miss Lloyd, what a nice supper.”

“Crackers and cheese, please, ma’am,” called out Jo.

“I’ll take a cookie.” Jack made known her choice.

There was milk for those who preferred it and water from a spring near
by.

It was almost dark by the time they had finished their meal. The stars
began peeping from a rack of clouds; a little stream tinkled on its way
from the mountain to the lake; an owl hooted in the distance. The girls
spread their rubber blankets on the ground and without undressing,
pulled their woolen covers over them, each having selected the softest
spot she could find.

But in spite of the long ride, the excitement of such an unusual
experience kept Nan awake, and she lay looking up at the stars
twinkling down at her. The clouds were drifting away and from the blue
spaces one after another a golden eye appeared. For a long time she lay
thinking, but finally she fell asleep. She was roused after a while
by hearing suppressed giggles from Jack who lay next her. She sat up,
leaned over and whispered, “What’s the matter, Jack? Haven’t you been
asleep?”

“Yes,” said Jack, also in a whisper, “but I was wakened up by something
walking over me. I was a tiny bit scared and then I saw such a funny
little animal sitting by me and looking at me with such a ridiculous
expression that I had to laugh. When you moved it went off. What do you
reckon it was?”

“I can’t imagine. What did it look like?”

“I can’t tell, for it wasn’t light enough for me to see very well. I
could only make out its funny little face. It wasn’t a rabbit.”

“Nor a fox?”

“No, not so big.”

They sat up watching for the return of the little beast, but it was
evidently not in a humor for making a second visit, so finally, getting
drowsy, the two sisters moved nearer one another and in a short time
fell asleep, not to waken till a call from Miss Lloyd announced that
they must begin their mountain climb.

Then the identity of the mysterious visitor was discovered, for he
had left a token of his presence in the shape of a porcupine quill
which Jack found sticking in her blanket. She proudly secured it as a
souvenir after finding out from ’Lish what it was.

“There’s quite a few of them porcupines around here,” the man told her,
“and they ain’t so pleasant to meet up with sometimes, for they can
throw their quills quite disagreeable. You was lucky not to git that in
some part of your body ’stid of in your blanket.”

It was a long and arduous climb up the mountain. Two or three of the
party, Jean among them, gave out and waited on the roadside till the
others should come down. The rest reached the top just in time to see
the red ball of the sun enter a bank of clouds.

“There; I knew it would rain,” exclaimed Florence.

“Where’s any rain?” demanded Carrie.

“You’ll see,” was the rejoinder.

“I suppose we may not rest too long,” said Miss Lloyd, “for I fear
Florence may be right and that we are in for a rain.”

They had taken a slight breakfast before making their climb, and
decided not to stop for anything more till they had gone a little
further on where they could find shelter in case of a shower, so after
they had been joined by those waiting half-way they did not tarry to
rest but continued the downward path.

They had scarcely gone many rods before they met a party of people
going up; two men and two young women, the former in spotless
flannels and neatly polished shoes, the latter in fresh white frocks,
rose-wreathed hats and filmy veils. They looked very natty and fine. As
they passed they gave supercilious stares at the company of girls in
stout shoes, farmer hats and flannel blouses.

“But, oh, dear me,” said Jo to Nan, “what a get up for the mountains.
Do they think they are at Bar Harbor, forsooth, or do they expect to
find a hotel around the next boulder? Imagine what they will look like
when they have gone through brambles and thickets and over dewy grass.
I shouldn’t like to pay their laundry bills.”

“It’s raining,” exclaimed Florence as the first fugitive drops began to
patter. “What did I say?”

“Oh, Floss, we can stand the rain better than we can your torrent of
I-told-you-sos,” said Carrie.

“Who cares if it does rain?” queried Jo. “We aren’t wearing white
frocks and rosebud hats. If you want to hear any growling, I would
advise seeking that party of silly-billies who have just passed us. It
won’t matter if we do get wet.” But by the time they had reached their
camping place of the night before the rain was coming down in good
earnest and they were glad to seek shelter in a little hut not far off.

“You can at least be under cover there,” Miss Lloyd told them. “We
must have something to eat first thing, for I am sure you are all half
starved with nothing but sandwiches since before dawn. I will make some
coffee and fry some bacon, so you can have a little something hot.”

“Where? There’s no chimney in here,” said Florence. The girls stood
peeping into the little cabin which was open to them.

“You’ll see. Go in, go in. You look like a flock of drabbled hens
standing before a hen-coop,” Miss Lloyd laughed. “Shoo! Shoo!”

The girls skurried in out of the wet to find a very primitive sort of
house with earthen floor and rough log sides. A couple of benches and
a stool were all the furniture. A small window let in the light on one
side.

“It’s pretty poor comfort to sit in wet clothes,” complained Florence.
“I’ve no doubt I shall take my death.”

“You might if you had a cotton frock on. You’re no worse off than the
rest of us,” said Bertha. “What did you come to camp for, anyway,
Floss?”

“Not to get wet.”

“Well, then, you ought to have stayed at home. It’s part of the
performance. With a good dry bench to sit on and a roof over you what
more do you want? Look at Miss Lloyd out there; she has actually
started a fire and there she is in this downpour acting as if she were
really going to cook something. Did you ever?”

“The fire is burning, too, of all things,” exclaimed Jo looking out.
“She has made a sort of oven, you see, but why doesn’t the smoke get
into her eyes?”

“Because she keeps away from the windy side. Isn’t she a duck?”

“She must be, not to mind the wet,” returned Jo. “I’m going out to help
her, being seized with a desire to be a duck, too.”

She went out leaving the others to watch the ingenious manipulation of
the frying-pan. They all crowded around the one small window to watch
proceedings. Presently from the opposite direction they heard voices
and the doorway was darkened by the figure of a man.

“I beg your pardon,” he began hesitatingly, “would you mind very much
if we came in?”

The girls huddled around the window turned to see the party they had
encountered on the way down the mountain, but in what a forlorn and
unhappy state. The crisp white frocks were drenched and stained, the
red of rose had run into the green of ribbon on the flower-trimmed
hats, the thin stockings fairly oozed water and the natty tan shoes
were sodden and muddy. The men looked scarcely less limp than their
companions, for their straw hats were out of shape, their trousers
soaking, their collars flabby from the moisture which trickled from
their hats.

“Oh, come in if you like,” said Bertha, who, in her prerogative as
eldest, was spokesman for the rest. “You can probably find a dry end of
plank somewhere.”

The place was small and the benches already nearly occupied, but the
newcomers promptly took possession of what remained for them and sat in
stony and miserable silence watching the rain pour down.

Presently Jo appeared, gaily bearing a large wooden platter of bacon in
one hand and a carefully held paper bag in the other. “Here you are,”
she cried, “smoking hot! Come a-running! Oh!” She stopped short at the
unexpected apparition of the new arrivals and looked so taken aback
that her friends all giggled. But it was only for a moment that Jo was
nonplussed. It might have been a restaurant and the girls of her own
party the guests upon whom she alone waited, for all the attention she
gave the four huddled on the bench near the door. “Bacon and rolls for
eight,” she began again. “I hope, ladies, you will not criticize the
bacon, but the fact is our chimney is smoky and the cook says you must
excuse it if she has scorched it a bit. I am sorry, too, to announce
that a burglar broke in last night and stole all our silver, so if you
will kindly adapt yourselves to the familiar adage, ‘fingers were made
before forks,’ I think you will get on very well. The second course is
on its way.” She passed around the bacon and the bag of rolls. Each
girl was hungry enough to be glad of anything to eat.

As she paused before Bertha she said something in a low tone. Bertha
peeped into the bag and then nodded. Jo removed two of the rolls and
laid them aside, then picking up the plate of bacon she went toward the
four forlornities and said, “Would you like some of this? I’m sorry
we can’t offer you a Delmonico feast but it’s better than a feast of
Barmecide.”

One of the young men looked brightly up and said heartily, “That’s
awfully good of you. I am afraid we shall be robbing you.”

“No, there are more eatables outside when we can get at them. I believe
our man is drying them out or something. We’ll be glad if you will
accept this slight token of our hospitable intentions.”

The young man took the plate and passed it to his neighbor. “Won’t you
have some, Mabel?” he asked.

She looked at the charred edges of the bacon scornfully.

“I never eat burnt food,” she answered.

The young man flushed up. “You’ll have some, Kitty,” he continued,
passing the plate to the other young woman.

“Thanks,” she said a little more graciously and helped herself to the
most appetizing looking piece.

“Mabel” deigned to take a roll at which she nibbled gingerly, “as if
expecting it to poison her,” commented Jack to her twin. The first
young man, however, seemed genuinely glad of what came his way and was
profuse in his thanks. “Kitty” expressed herself faintly grateful. The
second young man also gave reluctant thanks, “But he ate all he could
get, just the same,” said Jack.

Jo did not wait to consume her own roll but took it with her as she
went out. As she passed him the first young man sprang to his feet.
“Can’t I be of some service?” he asked. “You are so kind to share with
us. I wish you would let me be of some assistance.”

“No, thank you,” returned Jo. “Our man is outside and is very capable,”
and out she went.

After a time she appeared at the little window. “Girls,” she whispered,
“’Lish has rigged up an awning, out of the rubber blankets, for the
wagon, and has some dry straw in it. The rest of the eatables are quite
dry and Miss Lloyd thinks we’d better not attempt to transport them
here in all the rain. Don’t you think we might leave the castle to the
lords and ladies and take to the tented plain?”

Every girl immediately made for the door in a jiffy, without so much as
a word of farewell to the uninvited guests, and in another moment the
four silent strangers had the place to themselves while the girls under
’Lish’s improvised shelter made merry over ginger ale, hard-boiled
eggs, biscuits and cakes. The coffee had come to grief through the
sudden giving way of one of the stones which propped the coffee-pot,
and Miss Lloyd was unable to save more than a cupful which all insisted
she should drink herself.

In the goodness of her heart Miss Lloyd proposed that they should send
some of their abundance to “those that sit in darkness,” she said, but
every girl’s voice was raised in protest.

“Horrid, disagreeable, stuck-up creatures,” cried they, “not a crumb
shall they have. They have already had enough to keep them from
starving, and they may thank their stars they had that much; it was
more than they deserved. Why didn’t they provide themselves with some
food, foolish things?”

“They probably meant to go over the mountain and on to the next
village, but the rain altered their plans,” Miss Lloyd said.

“Then let them take the consequences. If they had behaved like white
folks we’d have been ready to divvy up with them,” said Jo. “Although,”
she added, “I must say the first young man was very nice. If we could
have toled him away from the rest I shouldn’t care.”

“Of course not,” remarked Mary Lee with meaning.

Jo made a face at her and subsided.

The rain continued for the rest of the day, but ’Lish proposed that
they “jog along toward home,” keeping themselves under the rubber
blanket canopy. So, toward dusk a chorus of cheerful voices was heard
by those anxiously waiting at camp. The voices were singing:

  “When ’Lisha brings us home to camp,
  All in the driving rain, sirs,
  You’ll maybe look for frowns and groans,
  But you will look in vain, sirs.
        Thanky ma’am.”

[Illustration: CHAPTER VI

CANOEING]

CHAPTER VI

CANOEING

No pastime was so popular at camp as canoeing. To send the light,
graceful barks over the smooth waters of the lake to some favorite
shadowy nook where glimpses of the mountains appeared between the
waving branches of the trees, to spend an hour then with a book, or to
watch the birds, or perhaps only to lie at full length on the grass and
dream, and then to take up the paddles again, all this was exactly the
kind of thing which appealed to every one of the girls.

“I think you might sometimes let me go with you,” said Jack one morning
to her eldest sister. “You never seem to think I ever want to be with
any one but Jean. Of course I am fond of Jean, but I am just as fond of
you, and half the time she wants to do something I don’t want to do, so
I think you might take me out in your canoe.”

“How do you know but that I shall want to do something you don’t want
to do?” returned Nan.

“Well, I’d be no worse off,” maintained Jack. Nan laughed and Jack felt
that her case was won, but she added, “Besides, you promised to teach
me how to paddle and you never have done it. I never have a chance to
paddle because the older girls always want to do it. Everybody says you
are a fine paddler, Nan.”

“And you are a fine tease as well as a flatterer,” responded Nan. “All
right, kitten, I’ll take you, and may I not live to regret it.”

The final clause had no effect upon Jack who, having gained her point,
went off well satisfied and was waiting at the lake when her sister
appeared, paddles over her shoulder and book under her arm.

“Are you going to read to me?” asked Jack.

“No, sir,” returned Nan with emphasis. “One would think you were an
infant in arms. You can provide your own entertainment. I didn’t invite
you on this expedition, you may remember. If I waste my energies
showing you how to paddle I am fulfilling all my part of the bargain.
Get in, and don’t tumble all over yourself or you will upset.”

They started off in fine style, Nan really becoming interested in
giving instructions to her apt pupil who tried hard to heed her
warnings of “Not that way. Don’t use your paddle like that. Don’t you
see you only turn around and around and will never get on? Take care.
Bear on more weight. That’s it; now,” and so on till Jack finally
caught the swing and kept steadily at it in unison with Nan’s “one,
two, three.”

At last the canoe swung around into a sheltered inlet where overhanging
boughs fairly touched the water and a little stream emptied itself
into the lake. Here Nan announced she would go ashore. “Now,” she said
to Jack, “you can do anything you choose except fool with the canoe.
I forbid that. You can go berrying, or fish, or study birds or do
anything reasonable like that. I am going to read.” She settled herself
comfortably in a small depression between the roots of a far-reaching
tree and left Jack to her own devices.

Jack’s devices, be it said, were seldom like other people’s, and on
this occasion her inclination was to follow up the tinkling stream
till she came to a rotten log fallen across the water. Upon this, it
struck her, she would experiment to see how far she could venture
without the log’s giving way. “Even if it should break and I went in,”
she said to herself, “I couldn’t get very wet, for the stream isn’t
at all deep.” The log proving stronger than she anticipated, the
excitement of the enterprise soon faded away and she sought out other
employment. She tried to catch in her hands the little silvery minnows
which darted through the clear water, but they were too fleet and too
wary. She listened to the birds and recognized the notes of several.
Then she climbed the bank and went afield for berries. She discovered
a clump of bushes from which she garnered quite a treasure. These she
carried in her hat to share with Nan, but before she reached the tree
where Nan was sitting she decided to pin some leaves together in the
form of a basket to be filled with the berries she had gathered. This
occupied some time. Nan accepted the offering very graciously, but
was too absorbed in her book to notice more than that Jack had found
entertainment and to feel satisfaction in the fact.

“I wish I had brought a book,” murmured Jack, as she consumed her last
berry and perceived that Nan was not to be inveigled into a protracted
conversation.

She tried climbing a tree, getting very warm, and sticky from the gum,
as it happened to be a spruce-tree, and not feeling much ambition to
try a second climb, she went down to the lake where the canoe lay and
regarded it thoughtfully. She looked up to where her sister sat some
distance away. “She didn’t say I wasn’t to get into it; she only told
me not to fool with it. It won’t do any harm just to sit in it,” she
said to herself. She drew the canoe in and stepped over the side, then
tried to push off, but to do this she found she must use a paddle.
This she did, and presently found herself afloat. It was a delightful
sensation, and she decided that since she had gone thus far she would
make use of her opportunities and would practice paddling for a little
while. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” she told herself. “I don’t have
to obey Nan; she isn’t my mother, and I will never learn if I don’t
practice. The big girls want the canoes all the time, and it’s so
seldom I get such a chance.” She stood up and was soon sending the
canoe jerkily through the water.

Meanwhile the sun had found its way through the boughs of the tree to
Nan’s book, falling directly on its pages. She looked up. “It must be
nearly noon,” she said; “the sun is almost directly overhead. We must
get back if we are to be in time for dinner. Jack!” she called, rising
to her feet.

There was no answer, and she turned toward the little stream which ran
through the field where she knew Jack had gathered the berries, but no
Jack responded to her repeated calls. “Where in the world can the child
have gone?” murmured Nan. She went toward the lake, following its
brink till she came to the spot where the canoe had been left. There
was not even the canoe. Lifting her eyes she saw at some distance away,
Jack paddling lustily, though rather ineffectually. Curving her hands
each side her mouth, Nan gave the long call which the campers used for
their signal. Jack heard and gave answer. Nan beckoned vigorously. Jack
evidently was making an effort to return, but in her anxiety to do so
she lost the little skill she had acquired and could only turn the
canoe helplessly around.

“Oh, dear,” said Nan, “if I could only swim I’d try to get out to her,
for she never can bring the thing in that way; she might try all day.”
She looked up and down the lake to see if other canoes were in sight,
but it so happened that those who had been out had already returned
that they might not miss the noon meal, it being later than Nan
realized. There was only one of two things to be done; either walk back
to camp or wait till some one appeared. After a moment’s thought Nan
decided to wait, for she did not want to desert Jack. “If anything were
to happen to her I’d never forgive myself,” she said. “No doubt some
one will be coming along after a while.” She sat down where she could
see Jack’s manœuvres. She was still too far away to give any orders
which might be heard as the wind was in the wrong direction to bear her
voice distinctly, and it was after repeated efforts to make Jack hear
and understand that she gave up trying.

Jack struggled for a while and then sat forlornly and let the canoe
drift. Nan watched anxiously. If it should strike a snag or if Jack
should move unwarily and upset the canoe what could Nan do? Her anger
at Jack’s disobedience was lost in apprehension. Further, further
on the little boat drifted, very slowly, for there was not a strong
current. Nan arose and walked along the bank that she might keep
opposite her sister, feeling that she must be as near as possible, at
the same time realizing that she would be powerless in case of any
accident. She registered a vow that she would learn to swim forthwith
that she might be ready for such emergencies.

After what seemed an unconscionable time she heard the faint sound
of voices coming nearer and nearer, and around the bend she saw a
canoe coming with two girls in it. Again Nan gave the call, which was
answered promptly, and presently she could distinguish Jo and Daniella,
who directly made their way to where Nan stood.

“Hallo!” was Jo’s greeting. “What are you doing up here by yourself,
and why didn’t you come back to dinner? I thought Jack was with you.”

“Jack was,” replied Nan, “but there’s where she is now,” and she
pointed to where the canoe was drifting.

“The little monkey! Do you mean to say she took your canoe off and left
you no way of getting back?”

“Oh, I could have walked, but I didn’t want to leave her up here alone.
You see she’s lost her head and can’t do a thing with the canoe, so she
is just letting it drift. She managed all right at first, but when she
tried to get back she became so scared that she forgot all I had told
her. I couldn’t get to her nor she to me, but I didn’t want to leave
her absolutely in the lurch. Is dinner over?”

“Yes, long ago. We came away just after. We all came to the conclusion
that you two had taken something with you and had preferred to picnic.
It’s a burning shame.”

“I do feel the pangs of hunger,” acknowledged Nan, “although we had
some berries a while ago, but they are not very satisfying. Could you
girls go out there and bring that little sinner back, do you think?”

“Why, of course. Come, Daniella,” and Jo turned the canoe in Jack’s
direction. So before very long Jack was rescued from her unpleasant
situation, and was brought back a repentant culprit to her sister.

Now that her sister was out of danger Nan felt her anger returning,
and after giving one withering look at the offender, she turned to her
friends and said: “We’ll not keep you, girls, for I know you are out
for a good time. We’ll go back and see if we can find anything to eat.
I am almost starved.”

“I am afraid you will get no dinner,” Jo said. “You know the rule is
‘no meals after hours,’ and you know how cross old Hetty is if she is
disturbed when she has cleared away.”

“I’ll risk her crossness,” returned Nan lightly. “She can’t do more
than refuse me. Thanks, girls, for coming to the rescue.”

She stepped into the canoe and pushed off, not deigning to give Jack a
word.

Very meekly sat Jack. “Won’t you forgive me, Nan?” she asked after a
while. But she might have spoken to a graven image for all Nan gave
sign of hearing, and Jack lapsed into silence, though at intervals she
repeated her question plaintively.

Once arrived at camp, Nan shouldered the paddles and marched directly
to her tent, Jack meekly following. The place seemed deserted. Both
girls knew that this was the time for their mother’s afternoon nap.
Most of the girls were off on some expedition, and upon inquiry they
learned that even ’Lish had gone away with the wagon. Hetty was not to
be found, so there seemed nothing to do but “grin and bear it.”

In her various excursions hither and thither about the camp grounds,
Nan had kept up the same stony attitude toward Jack who followed
closely at her heels, but at the conclusion of the unprofitable search
she at last broke forth into speech. “As if it weren’t enough for
you to worry me nearly to death by being out there alone.” She began
turning her vials of wrath upon Jack. “Those canoes are the most
ticklish things, and if you had happened to upset nothing could have
saved you. You couldn’t swim, neither could I. You would have been
drowned before my very eyes.”

“I wish I had been, if you are going to talk to me that way,” replied
Jack tearfully. “I was just going to practice a little, and got along
beautifully at first till I got scared about getting back.”

“Practice! I wish you’d not take it into your head to practice quite
so near dinner time. I suppose I shall be laid up with a headache from
going without food for so long.”

“Oh, Nan, I _am_ sorry,” answered Jack wofully. “I’m hungry, too.”

“Well, you ought to be.” And Nan turned scornfully away, going within
her tent and forbidding Jack to follow her.

Left alone Jack took counsel with herself. What could she do to
propitiate Nan? It was a very rare occasion when Nan turned upon her in
this way. Usually it was this sister who screened her and acted as a
buffer when others were making attacks, so it was all the more terrible
to have Nan so very, very angry. It was because she was hungry, no
doubt. All persons were cross when they were hungry. If she could find
something to eat, she might perhaps gain forgiveness. She took her
courage in her hand and invaded the kitchen, but all was clean and
orderly, not even a crust of bread to be seen. Jack wondered if it
would be wrong to pursue her investigations as far as the pantry, but
even if her conscience had allowed her she found the door closed and
locked between this place and the kitchen. Next she thought of hunting
up Miss Lloyd or Miss Marshall, but Miss Lloyd had gone away, she
learned from Florence Yardley who had declined to join the expedition
which Miss Lloyd had headed. Miss Marshall was lying down. Some of the
girls were still on hand, Florence informed her, and one or two of the
ladies, not Miss Helen; she had gone with the others, so had Mary Lee
and Jean.

Rather than explain why she and Nan had not had dinner, Jack moved off
to continue her consideration of the situation and at last determined
upon a course which she proceeded to carry out.

Three hours later, Nan, having somewhat recovered her equanimity,
appeared at her mother’s cabin. “Where is Jack?” she asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Mrs. Corner. “I thought she was with
you.”

“So she was, but----” Nan told her tale.

“I am so thankful she wasn’t drowned,” said Mrs. Corner sighing, “that
I can’t think of anything else just now, but poor Nan, had you no
dinner?”

“Not a mouthful. Oh well, it is only an hour to supper time. I can
stand it, I reckon. I’ll go see what has become of Jack. One cannot yet
trust her out of sight, you see. I’ll tether her to a tree next time I
take her canoeing, that is, if we land anywhere, otherwise it won’t be
necessary.”

“I really think Jack is old enough to stop such tricks,” said Mrs.
Corner. “We could excuse it when she was younger, but she ought to be
gaining some discretion at her age.”

“She has lots more than she used to have; she seldom gets into any
awful scrape, and it used to be a daily occurrence.” For all her
morning’s experience Nan was ready as usual to take up the cudgels in
Jack’s defense. “Where are the others?” she asked.

“Gone off to Pine Knob, at least some of them have.”

“We met Danny and Jo going up the lake; but for them I suppose Jack
would still have been drifting.”

“Don’t speak of it, Nan; it makes me shudder to think what might have
happened. I shall forbid Jack’s ever going out without some older and
more experienced person.”

“That is just what you’d better do. There is one thing to be said for
Jack; she always minds what you tell her, even though she doesn’t have
the same respect for my orders. The girls will be back soon. I will go
hunt up Jack and send her to you.”

She went out, searched the camp from one end to the other, but no Jack.
Florence Yardley had seen her and reported the conversation. Hetty had
returned to her duties but had seen no Jack. Nan went along the path
and entered the country road leading to the village. Jack might have
gone to meet the wagon which would return that way. Looking down the
road she did see, not the wagon, but some one coming along slowly, a
figure which she presently recognized as Jack’s. In a few minutes she
came up, hot, dusty, travel worn. Her hands were full of packages.
At sight of Nan she set down one of her paper bags and wiped her
perspiring face.

“Oh, Nan,” she cried joyfully, “I hoped I’d meet you before I did any
one else. Come right over here under these trees. I’ve brought you
something to eat.”

“Brought me something to eat?” cried Nan in astonishment. “Where did
you get it?”

“At the village. There’s a right nice store there, you know.”

“At the village? Why that is three miles away. You don’t mean to say
you have walked there and back, six miles? I should think you would be
dead beat, this warm afternoon.”

Jack’s lip trembled. “It was right far,” she acknowledged, “but I knew
I’d made you miss your dinner and I didn’t want you to have a headache;
besides I wanted to punish myself.”

“You poor little midget,” exclaimed Nan, gathering the culprit to her
and kissing the flushed cheek.

The tears sprang to Jack’s eyes, and she turned away saying, “I’m so
glad you forgive me. Please eat something,” she added earnestly as she
opened her packages to display a nondescript collection of stale cakes,
hard candies and uncertain fruit.

Whatever Nan may have thought of the quality of the feast provided,
she gave no sign, but did her best by it, and if Jo was surprised to
see how small an appetite Nan had for her supper, there was no reason
given for it then, but it was explained later and at the same time
Jo and Daniella were begged not to tell the others of the morning’s
misadventure.

So peace was restored. Jack had punished herself, and if tired in body,
was at least serene in mind when she went to bed that night.

[Illustration: CHAPTER VII

A RAINY DAY]

CHAPTER VII

A RAINY DAY

“Raining!” exclaimed Mary Lee in disgusted tones one morning as she put
her head out between the flaps of the tent. “Now what are we going to
do, I’d like to know?”

“Oh, there’ll be something to do,” returned Jo who was arranging
her hair before the small mirror. She and Daniella were Mary Lee’s
tent-mates. “It will excite our imagination and invention and give us a
little variety. We’ve managed to spend other rainy days to advantage,
why not this?”

“Such a philosopher,” remarked Daniella shaking out her bright locks.
“It’s bound not to be dull where you are, Jo.”

Jo dropped a curtsey and went on with her toilet, talking all the time.

Daniella, having tied her thick braids neatly, went to the door of
the tent. “My, it suttenly do rain, as Mitty would say. We’ll need
umbrellas in order to get to breakfast, which of course will be indoors
on such a morning.”

“Umbrellas, nothing,” responded Jo. “I shall put on my golf cape and
run between the drops. I expect to be out in the rain half the day.”

“Oh, Jo, do you?” This from Mary Lee.

“Of course. What’s the use of being in a free and easy place if you
can’t be free and easy? Where is the use of rubber boots, bloomers and
flannel blouses if you can’t wear them? Me for the dribbling woods,
the squishy paths, the oozy road.” It was on such occasions that Jo
reverted to hilarious slang.

“Then I’m with you,” said Daniella selecting her dingiest and shortest
skirt.

“Count me in, too,” added Mary Lee. “There, I’m ready for the fray,”
she said buckling a leather belt around her trim little waist and
picking up her golf cape. “I’ll run next door and see what Nan is
thinking about.”

“Give my love to her and tell her to study up her fire motive; we’ll
want it later in the day,” said Jo.

Mary Lee found Nan already dressed and hunting around for her rubber
boots. Jean and Jack occupied the tent with her and they, too, were on
hands and knees looking under the cots for the lost articles.

“What are you all doing?” asked Mary Lee.

“Looking for my rubber boots,” Nan told her.

“Sillies! Don’t you remember, Nan, you lent them to Florence Yardley
one day? She probably hasn’t returned them. I’ll go over and get them
as long as I am prepared for wet weather.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Nan gratefully. “That is good of you, Mary Lee.
Never mind, kiddies, they’re probably across the street.”

“It’s a pretty wet street,” said Jean looking out at the drenched path
upon which the drops were steadily pouring from the overhanging trees.
“What are you going to do, Nan, to-day?”

“Oh, sit by the fire and spin, I suppose. It will be a good day in
which to darn stockings, write letters, mend, and read.”

“Goodness!” cried Jack. “Such hateful things, all but the reading, and
one gets tired of that all day. What are you going to do, Jean?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t think so crickly. Probably I shall find a
lot of things. I’ve a puzzle picture I’ve been saving.”

“Oh, yes, so have I. I forgot them.”

“And I may write to Mr. St. Nick.”

“Then I’ll write to Carter. That’s two things. We might invent a game,
Jean; we’ve always intended to and now is our chance.”

“Yes, we might do that.”

Here Mary Lee returned with the boots in her hand. “Florence says she
is very sorry she forgot to return them, though it is my opinion she
was about to put them on to wear to breakfast.”

“Oh, Mary Lee, you’re so suspicious!” Nan reproved her.

“Well, why were they right there on the floor?”

“Maybe she was going to bring them over to me as she came by.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Mary Lee expressively. She had not much love for
Miss Yardley, who, a little older than the Corner girls, treated Mary
Lee especially with as magnificent a superiority as her two years’
seniority would allow. “Jo and Danny say they don’t mind the rain at
all,” said Mary Lee after a moment, sitting down on Nan’s trunk to
watch her sister draw on the boots. “So we’re going into the woods just
as usual. We’ve prepared for it and if we get soaking, why, we will
just stand it, and when we get back we can put on dry things.”

“I think that will be fine,” declared Jack. “I’ll do that, too, Jean.”

But Jean was too fastidious to care about getting wet and decided she
would prefer to remain under cover. She tipped along daintily under
an umbrella when the others, regardless of weather, rushed to the log
cabin where breakfast was spread, and she took much satisfaction in
announcing that she didn’t get a bit wet.

“I did,” said Jack triumphantly; “my feet are soaked.”

“You didn’t wear rubbers?” said her mother.

“No, mother, what was the use? I shall get a great deal wetter pretty
soon, and besides my rubber boots have a hole in them, and it makes it
a lot worse than having none at all.”

“But they are quite new, Jack.”

“I know, but I cut them on the rocks, I think, one day when I was
wading in the lake.”

“I really don’t think you should go out then.”

“Oh, never mind,” put in Miss Helen. “It won’t hurt her to get wet if
she doesn’t get chilled, and if she will change her clothes as soon as
she comes in.” So Jack was allowed to go.

About half a dozen or more girls started off for a walk in the rain
after breakfast, Jack the most enthusiastic of them all. She returned
barefooted and joyous, though drenched to the skin, as were the others,
who declared they had never enjoyed anything more.

“It was just like being an animal,” Jack told her mother; “a fox or a
duck or something, for you didn’t have to think of your clothes and you
didn’t care how wet you got. It was lovely to feel the rain in your
face and trickling down your back.”

“It must have been,” laughed Mrs. Corner, “though the trickles down
the back don’t appeal to me materially. That part doesn’t sound very
delightful.”

“It was though,” maintained Jack, spreading out her toes to the blaze
of her mother’s open fire. “And another thing is,” she went on; “when
you get so very wet it’s so nice to be getting dry, just like when you
are tired it is nice to get rested, or when you are hungry it is nice
to eat. We had a lovely time, Jean. We hollered just as loud as we
could, and we saw another porcupine.”

“What was he doing?” asked Jean, immediately interested.

“He was down by a little black pool. Nan said it was ink that was in it
and that he had gone there to write a letter with one of his quills.
She said he would dip it in and write on a big leaf.”

“How could he when the leaves were all wet?”

[Illustration: “IT WAS JUST LIKE BEING A DUCK.”]

Jack threw back her head and laughed joyously. “Of course he
couldn’t do it at all, wet leaves or dry, you silly little goose. Nan
just said that, but he did roll himself into a funny ball, all spikey,
when he saw us. We were going as far as the beaver dam but most of the
girls wanted to come back, so we came.”

“Where are they all?”

“Over in the big living-room, I think. They were all going there.
Let us go, too, Jean. Maybe they will be having some fun we might be
missing.”

Jean quickly agreed, and Jack having donned dry clothes was content to
seek the big cabin under shelter of an umbrella.

In the big living-room with its huge stone fireplace, most of the
campers were congregated. A fine log fire leaped and snapped cheerily.
Around the large table half a dozen girls were seated writing; some
others were reading near the windows, while on the skins spread upon
the floor before the hearth were those who had been Jack’s companions
during the walk to the woods. As usual, Jo had the floor, and was
making them all laugh by an account of some of her exploits at school.

Jack seated herself on the outskirts of the group and picked up a
dictionary which Daniella had carried over. She turned the pages
thoughtfully and presently said to Jean, “If I had another dictionary
I could invent a game.”

“Here’s another one,” said Jo, handing over a small black volume. “I’m
never safe without it. Tell us about your game, kiddie. Perhaps we’ll
all take a hand. Fire ahead.”

“Well, but you see you would all have to have dictionaries.”

“Perhaps we can scare up enough. Go on and tell us first and then we’ll
see.”

“Well,” began Jack, “it’s this way: You choose a letter of the alphabet
and then you take a certain number of the hardest words you come to,
say ten words; they must be awfully hard that the others aren’t liable
to know the meaning of, and then you write something using the words in
what you write, then the rest have to guess what the words mean. The
one who guesses the greatest number gets the game.”

“Oh, I see,” said Nan thoughtfully. “That’s not bad, kitten. Suppose we
try it just to see how it goes. Dictionaries! Dictionaries! Who has a
dictionary, or two? Don’t all speak at once.”

By dint of inquiry and search as many as eight dictionaries were
discovered and handed around to those who cared to try the game.

“Now,” said Nan, “the letters will have to be chosen or allotted, or
something.”

“You begin, then, Nan, with A,” proposed Jo. “I’ll take B, next fellow
C, and so on down the line.”

“That’s a good plan. We’ll adopt your suggestion, Miss Keyes.”

“We must have paper and pencils, of course,” Jo went on. “I’ll go see
what I can scare up.”

“Aunt Helen has pencils galore, and writing pads, too,” Nan sang out
after her.

“Very well,” responded Jo, and she was off in a twinkling to return
directly with the necessary articles.

Nan had been thinking over the game. “There is another way we could
do,” she said. “We could begin by having one person do the writing,
incorporating the ten words, as it were; each person could then have a
copy and all guess the same words so that it would give an equal chance
to all. In that case one dictionary would do the work. How is that,
Jack?”

“I think that is better. Let’s try that way first, and the one who wins
the game can write the next set.”

“Dear, oh, me,” groaned Daniella, “then I hope I may not guess the
greatest number of words, for I could never compose anything.”

“I don’t believe I could, either,” admitted Jean.

“Oh, there’s nothing like trying,” said Nan. “Who shall begin, girls?”

“You do it, Nan. You have the pen of a ready writer,” said Jo.

“I think you have the same brand of pen yourself,” Nan declared.

“Never mind, you begin, and when you have written the thing, hand it
down the line.”

“If we had a blackboard I could write it on that and all could see it,
but failing a blackboard there will be copies. I’ll underline the words
to be guessed.” She set to work and in a few minutes had produced the
following:

“The king put on his _abacot_, left his study of _abiogeny_, and called
his _abacist_ from his _abacus_. ‘Calculate,’ he said, ‘how many
_abele_ trees it would take to form an _abatis_ one quarter of a mile
long. May I be struck with _ablepsy_ if I do not _absterge_ my kingdom
of those pestilent invaders who swarm in as thickly as _acarids_ on an
_Abraham-man’s_ shin.’”

“Whewee!” cried Jo. “You certainly have done it, Nan. I’m blest if I
know one of the words, but I’m good at guessing, and perhaps I shall
strike one or two. Hand over.”

Nan passed the paper along and Jo began to scribble. “I call this an
extremely intellectual game,” she remarked, as she wrote the last
word. “Jack, you are a dabster. I don’t see how you ever thought of it.
I am sure it does credit to an older and wiser head than yours. We’ll
do this often and enlarge our vocabularies. Here’s your paper, and may
you make good use of it.”

Jack, much elated, took the paper and set to work, but could guess
very few of the words, though Jean did much less well. Language was
not Jean’s strong point. No one was allowed to examine her own paper
till all were provided with copies, and then they were given a certain
length of time for their guessing.

“Time’s up,” cried Nan, who had been watching the clock.

“Oh, dear,” came sighs from all quarters.

“How many have you, Jo?” asked Nan.

“Seven,” was the reply, “though of course I haven’t an idea whether
they are right. I’ve written the definitions below, as you will see.”
She handed over her paper.

“Pretty fair,” said Nan, looking over the list. “I will allow you the
six at least. Jack, what have you to say?”

Jack confessed to three, though she couldn’t be sure they were correct.
She, too, handed over her paper, and Nan went down the line to discover
that Mary Lee had guessed four, Jean two, and poor Daniella but one.
So Jo was declared winner and was presented with a stale ginger cookie
as a prize.

“I don’t feel myself worthy of this great honor,” declared Jo, “and
I trust you ladies will agree with me when I say that I consider
the distinguished author of this delightful pastime should be the
recipient of your royal prize. Miss Jacqueline Corner, allow me, as a
committee of one, on behalf of this enthusiastic company here gathered,
to present you with this mark of their approval, appreciation, and
esteem.” And resting the cookie upon the fire-shovel, she advanced with
it to Jack, who, overcome with laughter, snatched the cookie and took a
bite.

“A crumb! A crumb!” cried Nan. “I, too, shared in the devising of this
wonderful game. Just one crumb, fair lady, from your feast.” Then she
fell upon Jack, the rest followed suit, and in a few minutes not even a
crumb remained of the prize. Then dinner was announced and all trooped
out.

The afternoon was given over to letter writing by many, but Jo and
her cronies were seen whispering and giggling together, and when
supper was over the result of their conference was discovered, for
first Jo appeared in a startling costume, big hat decked off with all
the ribbons and ornaments she could collect, a remarkable bodice, a
trained skirt, long gloves, and many chains and bracelets. She carried
a red umbrella, and though she couldn’t sing a note, she gave a
nonsensical song in a sort of recitative to Nan’s banjo accompaniment,
the refrain being: “I was never so put out in all my life.” There were
references to the rainy day, to the little foibles of this or that one,
the incidents of their camp life, and so on, so she easily carried
off the honors, and was called on for an encore with such enthusiasm
that she gave what was described as “Jo’s special stunt.” She was an
excellent mimic, and her monologue won for her peals of laughter. Mary
Lee and Daniella followed with a dance, which the Corners had learned
in Spain and which Mary Lee had taught Daniella, who did it very well.

Then Jo announced: “The great event of the evening. I bring before you
the wonderful musical prodigy, Miss Nannette Corner, aged only eight,
and already one of the world’s foremost musicians, whose performances
bring tears to the eyes of her audience upon every occasion of her
appearance.” Then was led up tall Nan, clad in one of Jean’s white
frocks which came up to her knees. Her hair hung down her back and was
tied with blue ribbons. She wore slippers and short stockings, and
looked, as Jack said, “a sight.” She performed “Home Sweet Home” upon
a comb, and was presented with a bunch of onions tied with pink ribbons.

“It was a great success,” every one declared.

“Who says a rainy day isn’t fun?” asked Jo, as they went to their tents.

“It has certainly been mighty jolly,” acknowledged Mary Lee.

“But I haven’t darned a single stocking,” said Nan.

“What are you talking about, girl?” said Jo. “You can darn stockings
any time, but when are we inspired as we have been to-day? Answer me
that.”

“Oh, don’t you believe but that I was glad of an excuse to get out of
it,” confessed Nan. So they parted for the night, and in a little while
the only sound to be heard was the gentle rain pattering on the leaves.

[Illustration: CHAPTER VIII

AN EARLY DIP]

CHAPTER VIII

AN EARLY DIP

Almost every morning were seen barefooted figures scudding across the
grass from the tents to the lakeside, and next would follow a great
splashing about to the accompaniment of much laughter.

Jack, who always enjoyed going further in her discoveries than any one
else, was one morning wading just beyond where Nan was taking her early
dip. The sun had not been up very long and there was a rosy light upon
land and water. Every blade of grass was shining with dew and the birds
were twittering in the trees or were dipping their wings in the lake as
they flew over. Nan was appreciating it all immensely. “There’s nothing
like early morning to give one the true loveliness of a spot like
this,” she was saying to Jo, when Jack came splashing through the water
toward her.

“Oh, Nan, Nan,” she cried, “come up here with me; there’s a poor
something caught in the bushes, like Abraham’s ram. Do come see what it
is.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Nan. “A bird, an animal or what?”

“It’s an animal. I don’t know whether it’s wild or not. I only saw its
eyes and they were lovely.”

“Well, I’ll come, but I won’t promise to go very near. We don’t want
to be too much in a hurry to rescue wildcats or things like that, you
know. This is properly Mary Lee’s province. She’d march right up to the
creature, yank it out and be clawed for her pains. Come on, Jo, let’s
go see what the thing is. Perhaps it’s your friend the porcupine, Jack.
He may have come to call on you.”

“Oh, porcupines don’t have big eyes like these. This is something much
bigger.”

“Oh, is it? So much the more dangerous, I should judge. However,
there’s no harm in looking. Where is it?”

“Just in that clump of bushes over there.”

The three proceeded cautiously. At their approach the imprisoned animal
struggled wildly to free itself, and the girls stood still, fearing
lest it should suddenly become disentangled and pounce upon them. After
a few moments the struggling ceased and they could see only two great,
soft, startled eyes peering through the thicket. “They look to me like
the eyes of a deer,” Nan said at last. “It certainly is not a wildcat
nor a fox. I tell you what to do, Jack; go back to camp, hunt up ’Lish
and tell him about it. He will know as soon as he sees it. The poor
thing is in trouble anyway. It probably came to the lake for a drink
and has become tangled up in all those wild grape-vines and brambles.
Probably it heard us coming and was startled so it didn’t notice where
it was going. Run on, now, Jack. We’ll wait here till you get back.”

Jack was ready enough to obey and was not long in reappearing with
’Lish. Nan and Jo meanwhile had donned shoes and stockings and had
slipped on waterproofs while they waited to see what would happen next.

’Lish, stooping and squinting and shading his eyes from the sun, which
was by now fully risen, at last declared: “It’s a young deer for
sartin. Poor crittur, I’ll go down and git it loose.” He approached