“Wild ones are best,” declared Beverly. “You’ll learn to know the difference. But don’t be fooled by the rich-looking Amanita. It’s deadly! Well, here’s our mushroom—not too much-room, as Reddy says.”
They stood at the entrance to one of the little brown tents. Anne stared. “Goodness!” she said. “And I shall have only half of that?”
Two narrow cots stood against the sides of the tent; a small mirror hung from the post between them at the farther end, over a rough box that seemed to serve for a dressing table. There were, besides Beverly’s steamer trunk already in place, two camp stools, and a clothes-line stretched across the tent, on which dangled certain girlish garments. That was all. What a contrast to the dainty boudoir Anne had left behind in Chicago!
“I keep things that mustn’t get damp inside my bed,” said Beverly demurely. “I don’t know what Tante would say. She is so tidy. Your trunk will go there, opposite mine.”
“I have three trunks,” answered Anne sulkily. “I don’t see where they can go.”
Beverly laughed. “All full of clothes?” Anne nodded. “Well, you’ll never want them here, I reckon,” drawled the Southern girl. “You’ll keep them in the store-room, and be glad to get rid of them. You will never need to wear anything but this—in Camp, at least.” She glanced down at her khaki costume. Anne sniffed.
“I never shall like it,” she said. “It’s so coarse and ugly.”
“I never shall like it,” she repeated in a letter to her father which she hastened to write that same afternoon, while she was supposed to be resting. (She did not write to her stepmother.) “Please don’t make me stay in this old camp!” Anne continued in her letter. “Mrs. Batchelder is lovely and kind. But she does the cooking herself! And we are all expected to help, taking turns at everything! And we have to take care of our tents, and sweep, and wait on table! Imagine it! There aren’t any servants; and they say it is the way the first settlers in America lived, only easier. I think it’s horrid! Please can’t I come to Canada, or wherever you are? I can keep out of the way, if you’re busy. And I won’t bother the baby.”
When Anne had finished her complaining letter she sat looking out of the tent into the trees, feeling very lonely. The Camp was silent, for it was the hour when those who wished to do so took their daily nap; while the others were expected to study or to keep quiet or to go away where they could be noisy without disturbing anyone else. Even the irrepressible Twins and Doughboy were invisible. Victor had taken them off on a small hike. Beverly had left Anne in undisputed possession of the tent. She and Cicely were going to pick wild strawberries for supper.
“I wonder what they are doing in Canada now?” thought Anne wistfully. “I wonder why Father wouldn’t let me come with them? It must have been Mother’s idea.” Ever since the baby came Mrs. Poole had acted oddly. But so had Mr. Poole. He had been different for a long time. There was something Anne didn’t understand, and it made her uncomfortable. Now they had sent her to this camp of strangers. It was very hard! Tears began to gather in her eyes, as Anne pitied herself.