“It’s the out-door life that appeals to me!” declared Alice. “That’s why I like the Camp Fire Girls. We can make our organization an excuse for all sorts of adventures.”
“Well, we certainly may have some if we go camping,” suggested Natalie, as they separated at a corner. “Good-bye.”
And little did the girls realize what the events of that night were to bring forth; nor how they were to exert an influence on their lives. For that Gypsy played a strange part in the experience of the Camp Fire Girls.
“Oh, I do hope they won’t cut-up too much!”
“I hope Blake brings that Indian book he promised.”
Four girls, gathered about a table in the library of the Anderson home, listened as the tramp of feet was heard on the porch that May evening. There were whispers, and then a weird whoop echoed.
“Horrid things!” pouted Mabel. “I told Phil if he didn’t behave he couldn’t come in.”
“Ha-nah-do-see-dah—kam-chat-kah!” called a voice. “Little maidens of the camp fire!”
“Oh, behave yourselves!” ordered Mabel, going to the door, but she could not smother the laughter out of her voice, and it broke into a merry peal as she beheld her brother and his two chums.
They stood on the steps, wrapped in old blankets, their faces outlined with colored chalk, and parts of a feather duster tied in their hair.
“How!” gutturally mumbled Phil, as he stalked into the hall, followed by Jack and Blake.
“We come for heap big peace-talk,” went on Phil.
“Oh, don’t be silly!” admonished his sister, but the boys preserved their gravity, even if she did not, and her half-hysterical laughter brought her friends from the library.
“Aren’t they funny!” exclaimed Natalie, who, having no brother of her own, might be expected to take more than a casual interest in those of other girls.
“Thank you, pale-faced maiden,” spoke Blake. “You are as the breath of the pine tree, and——”
“Oh, what a lovely name,” murmured Natalie. “I wish I could have it for mine. Are there any Indian words for that, Blake?”
“It is written in the book, pale-faced maiden—Chee-ne-Sagoo—breath of the pine tree.”
“Isn’t it beautiful—the name I mean,” she said, as she accepted the volume the blanketed Blake held out.
“It is like thyself, pale-faced maiden,” and he bowed.