As my fathers have tended,
And my fathers’ fathers,
Since time began,
The fire that is called,
The love of man for man,
The love of man for God.”
“An’ without those two fires this old world would be about as warm an’ cheerful as an ice-jammed hull, eh?” commented Captain Andy, intent upon the mature figure of the Guardian who, ruddily outlined in the flame-light, was placing upon the arm of the new Fire Maker the silver insignia of her rank, the Fire Maker’s bracelet.
“I think Jessica is the sort of girl who naturally tends that heart-fire without which the world would be out in the cold!” remarked Cousin Anne at this point, leaning forward from her seat upon a fallen tree-trunk. “One of her Camp Fire Sisters, Mŭnkwŏn—who is at the head of her high school class in composition—has blossomed forth into blank verse to celebrate the little incident of her dancing with the deaf-mute on the playground—and some other things which she has been trying to do for the child.”
“Yes, there’s Arline fluttering her poetic wing-feathers now!” smiled the artist.
“She does well to flutter ’em.” Captain Andy looked from under his heavy eyelids, massive like all else about him, at the girlish figure sitting nearest to the Council Fire, holding a paper near to the blaze which picked out the sportive rainbows of embroidery on her dress and in her pearly head-band. “Thunder! if she didn’t preen ’em at all, even if they’re only pin-feathers, she might lose the use of some valu’ble ones, like the poor old owl, there, that gave me a sore finger for trying to coax him to fly,” breezily.