The Camp Fire Girls on the Open Road; Or, Glorify Work

by Hildegard G. Frey

SAHWAH TO KATHERINE

Nov. 10, 19—.
Darling K:

This big old town is like the Deserted Village since you and the other Winnies went away. For the first few weeks it was simply ghastly; there wasn’t a tree or a telephone pole that didn’t remind me of the good times we used to have. Do you realize that I am the sole survivor of our once large and lusty crew? Migwan and Hinpoha and Gladys are at Brownell; Veronica is in New York; Nakwisi has gone to California with her aunt; Medmangi is in town, but she is locked up in a nasty old hospital learning to be a doctor in double quick time so she can go abroad with the Red Cross. Nothing is nice the way it used to be. I like to go to Business College, of course, and there are lots of pleasant girls there, but they aren’t my Winnies. I get invited to things, and I go and enjoy myself after a fashion, but the tang is gone. It’s like ice cream with the cream left out.

I went to the House of the Open Door one Saturday afternoon and poked around a bit, but I didn’t stay very long; the loneliness seemed to grab hold of me with a bony hand. Everything was just the way we had left it the night of our last Ceremonial Meeting—do you realize that we never went out after that? There was the candle grease on the floor where Hinpoha’s emotion had overcome her and made her hand wobble so she spilled the melted wax all out of her candlestick. There were the scattered bones of our Indian pottery dish that you knocked off the shelf making the gestures to your “Wotes for Wimmen” speech. There was the Indian bed all sagged down on one side where we had all sat on Nyoda at once.

It all brought back last year so plainly that it seemed as if you must everyone come bouncing out of the corners presently. But you didn’t come, and by and by I went down the ladder to the Sandwiches’ Lodge. That was just as bad as our nook upstairs. The gym apparatus was there, just as it used to be, with the mat on the floor where they used to roll Slim, and beside it the wreck of a chair that Slim had sat down on too suddenly.

Poor Slim! He tried to enlist in every branch of the service, but, of course, they wouldn’t take him; he was too fat. He starved himself and drank vinegar and water for a week and then went the rounds again, hoping he had lost enough to make him eligible, and was horribly cut up when he found he had gained instead. He was quite inconsolable for a while and went off to college with the firm determination to trim himself down somehow. Captain has gone to Yale, so he can be a Yale graduate like his father and go along with him to the class reunions. Munson McKee has enlisted in the navy and the Bottomless Pitt in the Ambulance Corps. The rest of the Sandwiches have gone away to school, too.

The boards creaked mournfully under my feet as I moved around, and it seemed to me that the old building was just as lonesome for you as I was.

“You ought to be proud,” I said aloud to the walls, “that you ever sheltered the Sandwich Club, because now you are going to be honored above all other barns,” and I hung in the window the Service Flag with the two stars that I had brought with me. It looked very splendid; but it suddenly made the place seem strange and unfamiliar. Here was something that did not belong to the old days. It is so hard to realize that the boys who used to wrestle around here have gone to war.

I went out and closed the door, but outside I lingered a minute to look sadly up at the little window in the end where the candle always used to burn on Ceremonial nights.

“Good-bye, House of the Open Door,” I said, “we’ve had lots of good times in you and nobody can ever take them away from us. We’ve got to stop playing now for awhile and Glorify Work. We’re going to do our bit, and you must do yours, too, by standing up proudly through all winds and weather and showing your service flag. Some day we’ll all come back to you, or else the Winnebago spirit will come back in somebody else, and you must be ready.”

I said good-bye to the House of the Open Door with the hand sign of fire and a military salute, and went away feeling a heavy sense of responsibility, because in all this big lonely city I was the only one left to uphold the honor of the Winnebagos.

And hoop-la! I did it, too, all by myself. The week after I had paid the visit to the House of the Open Door someone called me on the telephone and wanted to know if this was Miss Sarah Brewster who belonged to the Winnebago Camp Fire Girls, and when I said yes it was the voice informed me that she was Mrs. Lewis, the new Chief Guardian for the city, and President of the Guardians’ Association. She went on to say that she wanted to plan a patriotic parade for all the Camp Fire Girls in the city to take part in, and as part of the ceremony to present a large flag to the city. She knew what she wanted all right, but she wasn’t sure that she could carry it out, and as she had seen the Winnebagos the time they took part in the Fourth of July pageant, she wanted to know if we would take hold and help her manage the thing. I started to tell her that the Winnebagos weren’t here and couldn’t help her; then I reflected that I, at least, was left and it was up to me to do what you all would have done if you had been here. So I said yes, I’d be glad to take hold and help make the parade a success.

And, believe me, it was! Can you guess how many girls marched? Twenty-three hundred! Glory! I didn’t know there were so many girls in the whole world! The line stretched back until you couldn’t see the end, and still they kept on coming. And who do you suppose led the parade? Why, I did, of all people! And on a horse! Carrying the Stars and Stripes on a long staff that fitted into a contrivance on the saddle to hold it firm. Right in front of me marched the Second Regiment Band, and my horse pawed the ground in time to the music until I nearly burst with excitement. After me came the twenty girls, all Torch Bearers, who carried the big flag we were going to present to the city, and behind them came the floats and figures of the pageant.

I must tell you about some of these, and a few of them you’ll recognize, because they are our old stunts trimmed up to suit the occasion.

GIVE SERVICE was the most impressive, because it is the most important just now. It was in twelve parts, showing all the different ways in which Camp Fire Girls could serve the nation in the great crisis. There was the Red Cross Float, showing the girls making surgical dressings and knitting socks and sweaters. Another showed them making clothes for themselves and for other members of the family to cut down the hiring of extra help; and similar floats carried out the same idea in regard to cooking, washing and ironing. Yes ma’am! Washing and ironing! You don’t need to turn up your nose. One float was equipped with a complete modern household laundry and the girls on it had their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and were doing up fine waists and dresses in great shape, besides operating electric washing machines and mangles.

One float was just packed full of good things which the girls had cooked without sugar, eggs or white flour, and with fruits and vegetables which they had canned and preserved themselves, while the fertile garden in which said fruits and vegetables had grown came trundling on behind, the girls armed with spades, hoes and rakes. I consumed two sleepless nights and several strenuous afternoons accomplishing that garden on wheels and I want you to know it was a work of art. The plants were all artificial, but they looked most lifelike, indeed.

Besides those things we had groups of girls taking care of children so their mothers could go out and work; and teaching foreign girls how to take care of their own small brothers and sisters, so they’ll grow up strong and healthy.

There really seemed to be no end to our usefulness.

Behind the wheeled portion of the parade came hundreds of girls on foot, carrying pennants that stretched clear across the street, with clever slogans on them like this:

DON’T FORGET US, UNCLE SAMMY,
WE’RE ALWAYS ON THE JOB
* * * * * *
YOU’RE HERE BECAUSE WE’RE HERE
* * * * * *
AND THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING!
* * * * * *
WE ARE PROUD TO LABOR FOR OUR COUNTRY

And the people! Oh, my stars! They lined the streets for thirty blocks, packed in solid from the store fronts to the curb. And the way they cheered! It made shivers of ecstasy chase up and down my spine, while the tears came to my eyes and a big lump formed in my throat. If you’ve never heard thousands of people cheering at you, you can’t imagine how it feels.

One time when the procession halted at a cross street I saw a fat old man, who I’m sure was a dignified banker, balancing himself on a fireplug so he could see better, and waving his hat like crazy. He finally got so enthusiastic that he fell off the fireplug and landed on his hands and knees in the gutter, where some Boy Scouts picked him up and dusted him off, still feebly waving his hat.

Our line of march eventually brought us out at Lincoln Square, where the presentation of the flag was to take place. We stood in the shadow of the Lincoln Memorial monument, and who do you suppose presented the flag? Me again. In the name of all the Camp Fire Girls of the city, I ceremoniously presented it to the Mayor, who accepted it with a flowery speech that beat mine all hollow. Besides presenting the flag I was to help raise it. The pole was there already; it had seen many flag raisings in its long career and many flags had flapped themselves to shreds on its top. The thing I had to do was fasten our flag to the ropes and pull her up. In this I was to be assisted by a soldier brother of one of the girls who was home on furlough. He was to be standing there at the pole waiting for us, but when the time came he wasn’t there. Where he was I hadn’t the slightest idea; nor did I have any time to spend wondering. Mrs. Lewis had set her heart on having a man in soldier’s uniform help raise the flag; it added so much to the spirit of the occasion. Just at this moment I saw a man in army uniform standing in the crowd at the foot of the monument, very close to me. Without a moment’s hesitation I beckoned him imperatively to me. He came and I thrust the rope into his hands, whispering directions as to what he was to do. It all went without a hitch and the crowd never knew that he wasn’t the soldier we had planned to have right from the start. We pulled evenly together and the flag slowly unfolded over our heads and went fluttering to the top, while the band crashed out the “Star Spangled Banner.” It was glorious! If I had been thrilled through before, I was shaken to my very foundations now. I felt queer and dizzy, and felt myself making funny little gaspy noises in my throat. There was a great cheer from the crowd and the ceremonies were over. The parade marched on to the Armory, where we were to listen to an address by Major Blanchard of the —th Engineers.

The girls had all filed in and found seats when Mrs. Lewis, who was to introduce Major Blanchard, came over to me where I was standing near the stage and said in a tragic tone, “Major Blanchard couldn’t come; I’ve had a telegram. What on earth are we going to do? He was going to tell stories about camp life; the girls will be so disappointed not to hear him.”

I rubbed my forehead, unable to think of anything that would meet the emergency. An ordinary speaker wouldn’t fill the bill at all, I knew, when the girls all had their appetites whetted for a Major.

“We might ask the band to give a concert, and all of us sing patriotic songs,” I ventured finally.

“I don’t see anything else to do,” said Mrs. Lewis, “but I’m so disappointed not to have the Major here. The girls are all crazy to hear about the camp.”

Just then I caught sight of a uniform outside of the open entrance way.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “there’s the soldier who helped us raise the flag, standing outside the door. Maybe he’ll come in and talk to the girls in place of the Major.” I hurried out and buttonholed the soldier. He declined at first, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I literally pulled him in and chased him up the aisle to the stage.

“But I can’t make a speech,” he said in an agonized whisper, as we reached the steps of the stage, trying to pull back.

“Don’t try to,” I answered cheerfully. “Speeches are horrid bores, anyway. Just tell them exactly what you do in camp; that’s what they’re crazy to hear about.”

Mrs. Lewis didn’t tell the audience that the speaker was one I had kidnapped in a moment of desperation. She introduced him as a friend of the Major’s, who had come to speak in his place. The applause when she introduced him was just as hearty as if he had been the Major himself. The fact that he was a soldier was enough for the girls.

And he brought down the house! He wasn’t an educated man, but he was very witty, and had the gift of telling things so they seemed real. He told little intimate details of camp life from the standpoint of the private as the Major never could have told them. He had us alternately laughing and crying over the little comedies and tragedies of barracks life. He imitated the voices and gestures of his comrades and mimicked the officers until you could see them as plainly as if they stood on the stage. He talked for an hour instead of the half hour the Major was scheduled to speak and when he stopped the air was full of clamorings for more. Private Kittredge had made more of a hit than Major Blanchard could have done.

I never saw a person look so astonished or so pleased as he did at the ovation which followed his speech. He stood there a moment, looking down at the audience with a wistful smile, then he got fiery red and almost ran off the stage.

“I don’t know whether to be glad or sorry the Major’s not coming,” whispered Mrs. Lewis to me under cover of the applause. “The Major’s a very fine speaker, but he wouldn’t have made such a human speech. You certainly have a knack of picking out able people, Miss Brewster! You chose just the right girls for each part in the pageant.”

I didn’t acknowledge this compliment as I should have, because I was wondering why our soldier man had looked that way when we applauded him. He would have slipped out of the side door when he came off the stage, but I stopped him and made him wait for the rest of the program. A national fraternity was holding a convention in town that week and members from all the great colleges were in attendance. As it happened, our Major is a member of that fraternity, and, as a mark of esteem for the Camp Fire Girls, he asked the fraternity glee club to sing for us at the close of our patriotic demonstration.

The singers came frolicking in from some banquet they had been attending, in a very frisky mood, and sang one funny song after another until our sides ached from laughing. I stole a glance now and then at Private Kittredge, beside me, but he never noticed. He was drinking in the antics of those carefree college boys with envious, wistful eyes. At the end of their concert the singers turned and faced the great flag that hung down at the back of the stage and sang an old college song that we had heard sung before, but which had suddenly taken on a new, deep meaning. With their very souls in their voices they sang it:

“Red is for Harvard in that grand old flag,

Columbia can have her white and blue;

And dear old Yale will never fail

To stand by her color true;

Penn and Cornell amid the shot and shell

Were fighting for that torn and tattered rag,

And our college cheer will be

‘My Country, ‘tis of Thee,’

And Old Glory will be our college flag!”

The effect was electrical. Everybody cheered until they were hoarse. I looked at Private Kittredge. His head was buried in his hands and the tears were trickling out between his fingers. I was too much embarrassed to say anything, and I just sat looking at him until, all of a sudden, he sat up, and reaching out his hand he caught hold of mine and squeezed it until it hurt.

“I’m going back,” he said brokenly.

“Going back?” I repeated, bewildered. “Where?”

“Back to camp,” he replied. Then he began to speak in a low, husky voice. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “I’m not what you think I am. I’m a deserter. That is, I would have been by tomorrow. My leave expires to-night. I wasn’t going back. I didn’t want to go into the army. I didn’t want to fight for the country. I hated the United States. It had never given me a square deal. My father was killed in a factory when I was a baby and my mother never got a cent out of it. She wasn’t strong and she worked herself to death trying to support herself and me. I grew up in an orphan asylum where everybody was down on me and made me do all the unpleasant jobs, and at twelve I was adrift in the world. I sold papers in the streets and managed to make a living, but one night I went out with a crowd of boys and some of the older ones knocked a man down and stole his money and the police caught the whole bunch and we were sent to the Reformatory. After that I had a hard time trying to make an honest living because people don’t like to hire anyone that’s been in the Reformatory. I never had any fun the way other boys did. I had to live in cheap boarding places because I didn’t earn much and nobody that was decent seemed to care to associate with me. I was sick of living that way and wanted to go away to South America where no one would know about the Reformatory, and make a clean start. Then I was drafted. I hated army life, too. All the other fellows got mail and boxes from home and had a big fuss made over them and I didn’t have a soul to write to me or send me things. I was given a good deal of kitchen duty to do and everybody looks down on that. I kept getting sorer and sorer all the time and at last I decided to desert. I got a three-days’ leave and made up my mind that I wouldn’t go back. I was just hanging around the street killing time this afternoon when I saw a crowd and stopped to see what the excitement was about. Then all of a sudden you looked at me and motioned me to come over and help you raise the flag. It was the first time I had ever touched the Stars and Stripes. When the folds fell around my shoulders before she went sailing up, something wakened in me that I had never felt before. I couldn’t believe it was I, standing there raising the flag with all those people cheering. It intoxicated me and carried me along with the parade when it went to the armory. Then again, like the hand of fate, you came out and pulled me in and made me speak to the girls. I had never spoken before anyone in my life. I had never ‘been in’ anything. It made another man of me. All of a sudden I found I did love my country after all. I did have something to fight for. I did belong somewhere. It did thrill me to see Old Glory fluttering out in the wind. That was my country’s flag, my flag. I was willing to die for it. I’m going back to camp to-night,” he finished simply.

I gripped his hands silently, too moved to speak.

All the while we were talking there the crowd had been busy getting their things together and going out and nobody paid any attention to us sitting there in the shadow under the gallery. Now, however, I was aware of somebody approaching directly, and along came the Mayor, gracious and smiling, to shake hands with the speaker of the afternoon.

“Those were rattling good stories you told,” he said in his hearty way. “I say, won’t you be a guest at a little dinner the frat brothers are giving this evening, and tell them to the boys? That’s the kind of stuff everybody’s interested in.”

And off went the man who had never had a chance, arm in arm with the Mayor, to be guest of honor at a dinner in the finest hotel in the city!

Jiminy! Do you see what the Winnebagos have gone and done? They’ve saved a man from being a deserter! I’ve promised to write to him and get the rest of the girls to write and send him things, and I’ll bet that he’ll be loyal to the flag to the last gasp.

Now aren’t you glad you’re a Winnebago?

Your loving old pal,
Sahwah.