The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines

A small cavalcade was slowly winding down a steep, white road.
The bare, brown hills rose up on one side like the earth's friars of St. Francis, while on the other, at some distance away, the Pacific Ocean showed green and still. Near the shore the waves broke into white sprites of foam against the deep, incurving cliffs.
A girl riding at the head of the column reined in her horse, afterwards making a mysterious sign in the air with one upraised hand.
In answer to her signal the other riders, a group of Camp Fire girls, also stopped their horses. Across many miles sounded faintly the deep-toned voices of old mission bells.
I believe the mission is ringing a farewell to us, one of the girls remarked to the companion whose western pony had stopped nearest her own. To me, of all the Spanish missions we have seen so far, Carmel was the loveliest. ' Carmelo '—why, the very name has an enchanting sound!
Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With colors of romance!
I hear you call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land!
Borne on the swell 'of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past— I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last!
The girl who had been reciting possessed an odd, charming voice with a slightly hoarse note. She was small and had bright, almost copper-colored hair. Her slender nose, which had a queer little twist at the end, destroyed any claim she might otherwise have had to conventional beauty and yet curiously enough added to the fascination of her expression.
The other girl shook her head.
I don't agree with you, Marta. You seem to me in as great a state of enthusiasm over everything we have seen in California as if you were a native. I confess to you I am a little weary of visiting old Spanish missions. Personally I shall be glad when we are in our summer camp. The missions are so empty and so sleepy these days with their queer, dreamy old gardens and no one to be seen except an occasional tourist and a few old monks. Nevertheless I liked your recitation. Sometimes I wonder, Marta, if you intend imitating our Camp Fire guardian's career?