“‘Invite them to the picnic–and don’t forget the cocoa!’” Tanpa laughed. “Just like them! We did promise to lay in a fresh supply of sundries, as we pass through the town to-night–if there’s still a store left open. And that reminds me, girlies, that it’s getting late. We have no right to keep the birds out of bed any longer, demoralizing the feathered world.”
But the Lightning had recovered its morale, its memory, prompted by a Morse code-card excitedly snatched from a green breast pocket and explored by the light of the dwindling torch.
“Invite–your–friends–to–our–d-a-n-c-e,” slowly spelled out Tomoke, giving back diamond for diamond.
She was beginning upon the word “A-ll”, but the pine-knot winked itself out in a dazzlement on “dance,”–in an effulgence of sparks that fell like golden rain upon the hearts of the visitors.
“Will it–will it be an outdoor affair–a piazza dance?” gasped Una. “Oh-h! I do love.... Now! Andrew!” She broke off suddenly at the chauffeur’s declaration that it was “magerful” show, “yon fire-talk”, that he never expected to see the like carried on by “tids o’ lassies”, but that it really wasn’t in him to stand there any longer rolling his eyes over it, like a duck in thunder. “Now, Andrew!” reasoned his employer’s young daughter. “You know that you’ve driven my father and mother, and Professor Lorry, too, to a dinner-party, where the professor is to give a talk about the Thunder Bird–and oh! may its fiery tale be a long one to-night–you won’t have to fetch them home for another two hours yet.”
“Hoot! It’s saft as peppermint. I am wi’ ye, Miss Una, but it’s time for all lassies to gang home,” returned the other with paternal insistence, lifting his cap in questioning appeal to the Guardian.
“He’s right, dear. We must be starting for the home camp, too–just as soon as we’ve seen that our fire is thoroughly extinguished,” said Tanpa. “Our paths don’t lie in the same direction, but we hope they often will in future. As to the dance, it will be a piazza affair, if the evening is fine–the festive wind-up of an exciting day, our White Birch anniversary which we celebrate with rites and symbolic dancing, in honor of our patron, our woodland lady, the leafing birch tree.”
“How lovely; per-fect-ly love-ly!” flowed from the visitors, both, in a silvery ripple.
“Well! how about your spending a few days in camp with us then–at our camp on the Bowl–if your elders are willing?” went on the gracious grown-up woman, with warmth as golden as the sunburst on her breast. “We’ll let Pemrose Lorry plant the tallest birch sapling in honor of the Thunder Bird. Long–long before it’s a full-grown tree, let us hope, the Bird will have made its great migration, crossing, not a continent, but space! And now, dears, au revoir! to meet again at Snowbird Cave.”