With careless or indiff’rent eye,
They stare, forbidding, cool and grim,
For they are not at home to him.
But we who love their ev’ry look
Like some enchanting fairy book....”
She threw out her arms towards them.
“We are their friends—they open wide,
To welcome Camp Fire Girls inside!
“That’s our marching song, part of it. She made it up for us—wrote it.” Pemrose glanced with fostering pride at Una, as she swung the dark poncho-roll carried over her right shoulder, with a rope crossing the left hip.
“What ‘Missie’ did! Miss Una!” To the elderly chauffeur his employer’s sixteen-year-old daughter was “Missie” still, as when she was six and he built her “dillycastles” on the seashore. “Hasn’t she the gift, now?” he murmured paternally. “But when it comes to the long tail o’ the day, will she be a home-body still upon the rough trail? I guess ye’ll all be drooping, ‘neb an’ feather.’ And she—she’ll be trailing that pack ahind her—I’m thinking!”