(“’Twas I who bought the ‘moccasins,’—such a pretty little pair of shoes with buckles!” put in Olive sotto voce.)
“And where’er her Camp Fire Sisters
Pitch their tents by lake or river,
This the deed shall be remembered
Of Welatáwesit—Morning-Glory!”
wound up Arline triumphantly, much to the embarrassment of the subject of the poem who sat midway of the circle round the Council Fire, shielding her scorched cheeks from the flame-light.
“Good! I call that pretty good!” Captain Andy clapped heartily. “’Tain’t poetry, but it goes—like a vessel under a ‘jury rig,’” with a discounting wink.
“Pshaw! I could write rafts of that stuff,” came softly from Olive Deering. “I do try my hand at it sometimes, but Sybil laughs at me.”
“Yes, no sooner did she get here this evening than she fell to composing a poem about that old caged owl:
“An owl he longed for his greenwood tree,