Now we must be going, for the season’s getting late,
And we go marching on.”
“You see,” Jo laid down her paper, “the beauty of this is that we don’t have to have any rhymes, only meter, and it is a sort of hymny thing appropriate for a camp. Of course the Glory, glory hallelujah comes in to make it more like a camp-meeting.”
“It’s perfectly fine, Jo. How did you come to think of it?” asked the girls.
“Oh, it was Nan’s idea, as you might know. She started it and I helped out with the lines. I’m going to do an Irish monologue and we have some good jokes. Noahdiah Peakes ought to be here to ask conundrums.”
“That gives me an idea,” said Nan jotting something down on the margin of her paper.
The boys, who had gone off in the wagon, returned with a pile of roasting ears, and some mysterious articles which they hustled into their tent.
“Did you get any fireworks?” asked Jack on the alert.
“We did, indeed,” Ran told her. “We bought out all that Al Davis had, and I think we shall have quite a show.”
“Are they what you took into the tent?” inquired Jack, her curiosity still unsatisfied.