The Camp Fire Girls at School by Hildegard G. Frey

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Besides, Aunt Phoebe constantly found fault with Hinpoha's manner of
reading. It was either too loud or not loud enough; either too fast or
too slow, but it was never right. That reading aloud was the last straw
to Hinpoha. After sitting still a whole afternoon getting her school
lessons, she longed to move about after supper, but then Aunt Phoebe
expected her to sit still the entire evening and entertain her with the
activities of the Early Presbytery. After nearly a week of this deadly
dullness Hinpoha was ready to fly. And yet Aunt Phoebe was not conscious
that there was anything wrong in the way she was treating Hinpoha. She
cared for her in her frozen way. She was merely trying to bring her up
in the way she herself had been brought up by a maiden aunt, not taking
into account that this was another day and age. In her time it was
considered the proper thing to shut down on all lightheartedness after a
death in the family, and she was adhering steadfastly to the old
principles. She was yet to learn that she could not force obsolete
customs upon a girl who had lived for sixteen years in the sunlight of
modern ideas.

All Hinpoha's troubles were confided to Nyoda, who sympathized with her
entirely, but bade her be of good cheer and hope for the time when Aunt
Phoebe would see for herself that the new way was best; and above all to
win the respect and liking of her aunt the first thing, as more could be
accomplished in this way than by being antagonistic. "I don't suppose
you could go for a long walk with me Sunday afternoon?" said Nyoda.

Hinpoha shook her head sadly. "We don't do anything like that on
Sunday," she answered, with resentment flaming in her eye. "We go to
church morning and evening and in the afternoon I am supposed to read
the Bible or a book by a man named Thomas a Kempis." Nyoda turned her
eyes inward with such a comical expression that Hinpoha forgot her
troubles for a moment and laughed.

"The Bible and Thomas a Kempis," said Nyoda musingly; "where did I hear
those two mentioned before? Oh, I have it! Did you ever read this
anywhere, 'Commit to memory one hundred verses of the Bible or an equal
amount of sacred literature, such as Thomas a Kempis'?"

Hinpoha hung her head, still smiling. "Why, Nyoda," she said, "there's a
chance to earn an honor bead that I probably wouldn't have thought of
otherwise!"

"Right-o," said Nyoda. "'It's an ill wind,' you know. And while you are
doing so much Bible reading you will undoubtedly come across something
about 'in the wilderness a cedar,' and will learn that most waste places
can be turned into blooming gardens if we only know how."

"Thank you," said Hinpoha, "I always feel less forlorn after a talk with
you." Her face brightened, but immediately fell again. "But what good
will it do me to work for honors?" she said sadly. "Aunt Phoebe won't
let me come to the meetings."

"Won't she really?" asked Nyoda in surprise. Hinpoha nodded, near to
tears. "I must see about that," said Nyoda resolutely. "I think if I
explain the mission and activities of Camp Fire she will not object to
your belonging. She probably has a wrong idea of what it means."

Accordingly Nyoda came a-calling on Aunt Phoebe that very night. In
addition to being very pretty Nyoda had a great deal of dignity, and
when she put on her formal manner she looked very impressive indeed. She
did not act as if she had come to see Hinpoha at all, but asked for
"Miss Bradford," and said she had come to pay her respects to her new
neighbor. She listened politely to Aunt Phoebe's account of her last
siege of rheumatism, admired her crochet work, and hoped she liked this
street as well as her former neighborhood. She said she had often seen
Miss Bradford's name in the papers in connection with various charitable
organizations and was very glad to have the honor of meeting the sister
of the prominent Judge. Aunt Phoebe was pleased and flattered at the
deference paid her. But when Nyoda announced herself as the leader of
the club to which Hinpoha belonged and asked permission for her to
attend the meetings, she refused. She was perfectly polite about it, and
did not mention her antipathy to Camp Fire, and taking refuge behind her
favorite excuse, that of being in mourning, stated that she did not wish
Hinpoha to go out in society.

"But this isn't 'society'," broke in Hinpoha desperately.

"A meeting of a club partakes of a social nature," returned her aunt,
"and is not to be thought of." And there the matter rested.

So Nyoda had to depart without accomplishing her mission. Hinpoha,
utterly crushed, followed her to the door, and Nyoda gave her hand a
reassuring squeeze. "Don't despair, dear," she whispered hopefully; "she
will come around to it eventually, but it will take time. Be patient.
And in the meantime read this," and she slipped into her hand a tiny
copy of "The Desert of Waiting." "Just be true to the Law, and see if
you cannot find the roses among the thorns and from them distil the
precious ointment that will open the door of the City of Your Desire
later on."

Hinpoha thrust the little book into her blouse, and when she was safe in
her own room read it from cover to cover. When she finished there was a
song in her heart again and a light in her eyes. Resolutely she turned
her face to the East and began her long sojourn in the Desert of
Waiting.

Nyoda pondered the problem for a long while that night, and the next day
she went to call on Gladys's mother. Mrs. Evans had taken a great liking
to the popular young teacher of whom Gladys was so fond, and cordially
invited her to spend as much time as she could at the house with the
family. It was to her, then, that Nyoda appealed for advice in regard to
Hinpoha. Mrs. Evans made a slight grimace when the facts were laid
before her.

"If that isn't just like Phoebe Bradford," she exclaimed indignantly.
"Trying to shut up that poor girl like a nun to conform to some
moth-eaten ideas of hers! If the Judge were alive that house wouldn't
look as if there was a perpetual funeral going on! I certainly will call
and see if I can do anything to change her mind, although I doubt very
much if that could be accomplished by human means."

The next day Aunt Phoebe was agreeably surprised to receive a call from
Mrs. Evans, "All the best people in the neighborhood are making haste to
call on the sister of Judge Bradford," she reflected complacently. Mrs.
Evans made herself very agreeable, speaking of many friends they had in
common, and finally led the conversation around to Hinpoha.

"The child looks very pale," she said. "I presume the death of her
parents was a terrible shock to her?"

Aunt Phoebe dabbed her eyes with her black-bordered handkerchief. "The
hand of misfortune has fallen heavily upon this house," she said
mournfully.

"It has indeed!" thought Mrs. Evans. Aloud she said, "You must not let
the girl grieve herself sick. Cheerful company is what she needs at this
time. Make her go out with the Camp Fire Girls as much as possible."

Aunt Phoebe drew herself up rather stiffly. "I do not approve of the
Camp Fire Girls," she said.

"Not approve of the Camp Fire Girls!" echoed Mrs. Evans in well-feigned
astonishment; "why, what's wrong with them?"

Just what the great objection was Aunt Phoebe was not prepared to say,
but she remarked that such nonsense had never been thought of in her
day. "And, of course," she added, hiding behind her usual argument,
"while we are in mourning my grandniece will not go out to any
gatherings."

"Why, I wouldn't think of keeping Gladys home for that reason," said
Mrs. Evans, seeing the subterfuge. "She went to a Camp Fire meeting the
day after her grandfather's funeral. It's not like going to a social
function, you know."

Aunt Phoebe shook her head, but her policy of seclusion for Hinpoha was
getting shaky. Mrs. Homer Evans was a power in the community, and what
she did set the fashion in a good many directions. Aunt Phoebe was very
anxious to keep her as a permanent acquaintance, and if Mrs. Evans gave
her sanction to this Camp Fire business, she wondered if she had not
better swallow her prejudice--outwardly at least, for she declared
inwardly that she had never heard of such foolishness in all her born
days. When Mrs. Evans went home Aunt Phoebe had actually promised that
after three months Hinpoha might attend the meetings as before. Those
three months of mourning, however, were sacred to her, and on no account
would she have consented to allow a single ray of cheer to enter the
house during that period.

CHAPTER III.

SOME TRIALS OF GENIUS.

"The sum of the angles of a triangle is equal to two right angles."
Migwan drew the construction lines as indicated in the book and labored
valiantly to understand why the Angle A was equal to its alternate, DBA,
her brow puckered into a studious frown. Geometry was not her long suit,
her talents running to literature and languages. Outside the October sun
was shining on the crimson and yellow maples, making the long street a
scene of dazzling splendor. The carpet of dry leaves on the walk and
sidewalk tantalized Migwan with their crisp dryness; she longed to be
out swishing and crackling through them. She sighed and stirred
impatiently in her chair, wishing heartily that Euclid had died in his
cradle.

"I can't study with all this noise going on!" she groaned, flinging her
pencil and compass down in despair. Indeed, it would have taken a much
more keenly interested person than Migwan to have concentrated on a
geometry lesson just then. From somewhere upstairs there came an
ear-splitting din. It sounded like an earthquake in a tin shop, mingled
with the noise of the sky falling on a glass roof, and accompanied by
the tramping of an army; a noise such as could only have been produced
by an extremely large elephant or an extremely small boy amusing himself
indoors. Migwan rose resolutely and mounted the stairs to the room
overhead, where her twelve-year-old brother and two of his bosom friends
were holding forth. "Tom," she said appealingly, "wouldn't you and the
boys just as soon play outdoors or in somebody else's house? I simply
can't study with all that noise going on."

"But the others have no punching bag," said Tom in an injured tone, "and
Jim brought George over especially to-day to practice."

"Can't you take the punching bag over to Jim's?" suggested Migwan
desperately.

"Sure," said Jim good-naturedly; "that's a good idea." So the boys
unscrewed the object of attraction and departed with it, their pockets
bulging with ginger cookies which Migwan gave them as a reward for their
trouble. Silence fell on the house and Migwan returned to the mastering
of the sum of the angles. Geometry was the bane of her existence and she
was only cheered into digging away at it by the thought of the money
lying in her name in the bank, which she had received for giving the
clew leading to little Raymond Bartlett's discovery the summer before,
and which would pay her way to college for one year at least.

The theorem was learned at last so that she could make a recitation on
it, even if she did not understand it perfectly, and Migwan left it to
take up a piece of work which gave her as much pleasure as the other did
pain. This was the writing of a story which she intended to send away to
a magazine. She wrote it in the back of an old notebook, and when she
was not working at it she kept it carefully in the bottom of her
shirtwaist box, where the prying eyes of her younger sister would not
find it. She had all the golden dreams and aspirations of a young
authoress writing her first story, and her days were filled with a
secret delight when she thought of the riches that would soon be hers
when the story was accepted, as it of course would be. If she had known
then of the long years of cruel disillusionment that would drag their
weary length along until her efforts were finally crowned with success
it is doubtful whether she would have stayed in out of the October
sunshine so cheerfully and worked with such enthusiasm.

Migwan's family could have used to advantage all the gold which she was
dreaming of earning. After her father died her mother's income, from
various sources, amounted to only about seventy-five dollars a month,
which is not a great amount when there are three children to keep in
school, and it was a struggle all the way around to make both ends meet.
Mrs. Gardiner was a poor manager and kept no accounts, and so took no
notice of the small leaks that drained her purse from month to month.
She was fond of reading, as Migwan was, and sat up until midnight every
night burning gas. Then the next morning she would be too tired to get
up in time to get the children off to school, and they would depart with
a hasty bite, according to their own fancy, or without any breakfast at
all, if they were late. She bought ready-made clothes when she could
have made them herself at half the cost, and generally chose light
colors which soiled quickly. She never went to the store herself,
depending on Tom or scatter-brained Betty, her younger daughter, to do
her marketing, and in consequence paid the highest prices for
inferior-grade goods.

Thus the seventy-five dollars covered less ground every month as prices
mounted, and little bills began to be left outstanding. Part of the
income was from a house which rented for twenty dollars but this last
month the tenants had abruptly moved, and that much was cut off. Migwan,
unbusiness-like as she was, began to be worried about the condition of
their affairs, and worked on her story feverishly, that it might be
turned into money as soon as possible. She was deep in the intricacies
of literary construction when her mother entered the room, broom in hand
and dust cap on head, and sank into a chair.

"Do you suppose you could finish this sweeping?" she asked Migwan. "My
back aches so I just can't stand up any longer."

"Why can't Betty do it?" asked Migwan a little impatiently, for she
thought she ought not be disturbed when she was engaged in such an
important piece of work.

"Betty's off in the neighborhood somewhere," said her mother wearily.
"Did you ever see her around when there was any work to be done?" Migwan
was filled with exasperation. That was the way things always went at
their house. Tom was allowed to upset the place from one end to the
other without ever having to pick up his things; Betty was never asked
to do any housework, and her mother left the Saturday dinner dishes
standing and began to sweep in the afternoon and then was unable to
finish. Migwan was just about to suggest a search for the errant Betty,
when she remembered the "Give Service" part of the Camp Fire Law. She
rose cheerfully and took the broom from her mother's hand.

"Lie down a while, mother," she said, plumping up the pillows on the
couch. Mrs. Gardiner sank down gratefully and Migwan put away her story
and went at the sweeping. She soon turned it into a game in which she
was a good fairy fighting the hosts of the goblin Dust, and must have
them completely vanquished by four o'clock, or her magic wand, which had
for the time being taken the shape of a broom, would vanish and leave
her weaponless. Needless to say, she was in complete possession of the
field when the clock struck the charmed hour. Being then out of the mood
to continue her writing, she passed on into the kitchen and attacked the
Fortress of Dishes, which she razed to the ground completely, leaving
her banner, in the form of the dish towel, flying over the spot.

"What are you planning for supper?" she asked her mother, looking into
the sitting room to see how she was feeling.

"Oh, dear, I don't know," said Mrs. Gardiner. "I hadn't given it a
thought. I don't believe there's anything left from dinner. Run down to
the store, will you, and get a couple of porterhouse steaks, there's a
dear. And stop at the baker's as you come by and get us each a cream
puff for dessert. Betty is so fond of them." Migwan returned to the
kitchen and got her mother's pocketbook. There was just twenty-five
cents in it. Migwan realized with a shock that it would not pay for what
her mother wanted, and her sensitive nature shrank from asking to have
things charged.

"I won't buy the cream puffs," she decided. "I wonder if there is
anything in the house I could make into a dessert?" Search revealed
nothing but a bag of prunes, which had been on the shelf for months, and
were as dry as a bone. They did not appeal to Migwan in the least, but
there was nothing else in evidence. "I might make prune whip," she
thought rather doubtfully. "They're pretty hard, but I can soak them.
I'll need the oven to make prune whip, so I will bake the potatoes too."
She hunted around for the potatoes and finally found them in a small
paper bag. "Buying potatoes two quarts at a time must be rather
expensive," she reflected. She put the prunes to soak and the potatoes
in the oven and went down to the store. "How much is porterhouse steak?"
she asked before she had the butcher cut any off.

"Twenty-eight cents a pound," answered the man behind the counter.
Migwan gave a little gasp. The money she had would not even buy a pound.

"How much is round steak?" she inquired.

"Twenty-two," came the reply.

"Give me twenty-five cents' worth," she said. It did not look
particularly tender and Migwan thought distressedly how her mother would
complain when she found round steak instead of porterhouse. "But there
is no help for it," she said to herself grimly, "beggars cannot be
choosers." She stopped on the way home to get the recipe for prune whip
from Sahwah. Sahwah was not at home, but her mother gave Migwan the
recipe and added many directions as to the proper mixing of the
ingredients. "Is--is there any way of making tough round steak tender?"
she asked timidly, just a little ashamed to admit that they had to eat
round steak.

"There certainly is," answered Mrs. Brewster. "You just pound all the
flour into it that it will take up. I hardly ever buy porterhouse steaks
any more since I learned that trick. I am having some to-night. It is
one of our favorite dishes here. Round steak prepared in this way is
known in the restaurants as 'Dutch steak,' and commands a high price."
Considerably cheered by this last intelligence, Migwan sped home and got
her prune dessert into the oven and then set to work transforming the
tough steak into a tender morsel.

"What kind of meat is this?" asked her mother when they had taken their
places at the table.

"Guess," said Migwan.

"It tastes like tenderloin," said her mother.

"Guess again," said Migwan gleefully; "it's round steak."

"The butcher must be buying better meat than usual, then," said Mrs.
Gardiner. "I never got such round steak as this out here before."

"And you never will, either," said Migwan, swelling with pride, "if you
leave it to the butcher," and she told how she had treated the steak to
produce the present result.

"I never heard of that before," said her mother, amazed at this simple
culinary trick.

Next the prune whip was brought on and pronounced good by every one and
"bully" by Tom, who ate his in great spoonfuls. "I see I'll have to let
you get the meals after this," said Mrs. Gardiner to Migwan. "You have a
knack of putting things together, which I have not."

Migwan was too tired to write any more that night after the dishes were
done, but she was entirely light-hearted as she wove into her bead band
the symbols of that day's achievements--a broom and a frying pan. She
had learned something that afternoon besides how to prepare beefsteak.
She had waked up to the careless fashion in which the house was being
run, and her head was full of plans for cutting down expenses. Monday
afternoon, on her way home from school, Migwan saw a farmer's wagon
standing in front of the Brewsters' home, and Mrs. Brewster stood at the
curb, buying her winter supply of potatoes.

"Have you put your potatoes in yet?" she asked as Migwan came along.

Migwan stopped. "I don't believe we ever bought them in large
quantities," she answered. "How much are they a bushel?"

"Sixty-five cents," said the farmer. Migwan made a quick mental
calculation. At the rate they had been buying potatoes in two-quart lots
they had been paying a dollar and seventy-five cents a bushel. Migwan
came to a sudden decision.

"Are they all good?" she asked Mrs. Brewster.

"They have always been in the past years," answered Sahwah's mother,
"and I have bought my potatoes from this man for the last six winters."

"How many would it take for a family of four?" asked Migwan.

"About five bushels," answered Mrs. Brewster.

"All right," said Migwan to the man; "bring five bushels over to this
address." The potatoes were duly deposited in the Gardiner cellar,
without asking the advice of Mrs. Gardiner, which was the only safe way
of getting things done, for had she been consulted she would surely have
wanted to wait a while, and then would have kept putting it off until it
was too late. It was the same way with flour and sugar. Migwan found
that her mother had been buying these in small quantities at an
exorbitant price, and calmly took matters into her own hands, ordering a
whole barrel of flour, because there was more in a barrel even than in
four sacks. A certain large store was offering a liberal discount that
week on fifty pounds of sugar, and Migwan took advantage of this sale
also.

Then she had a terrified counting up. Those three items, potatoes, flour
and sugar, had used up every cent of that week's income, leaving nothing
at all for running expenses. All other supplies would have to be bought
on credit. Migwan made a careful estimate of the necessary expenses for
the coming week, and pare down as she might, the sum was nearly fifteen
dollars. The loss of the rent money was making itself keenly felt.
"Mother," she said quietly, looking up from her account book, "we can't
live on fifty-five dollars a month. We must rent the house again
immediately."

Mrs. Gardiner made a gesture of despair. "The sign has been up nearly a
month, and if people don't make inquiries I can't help it."

"Have you been in the house since the last people moved out?" asked
Migwan.

"No," said Mrs. Gardiner; "what good would that do? I haven't the time
to go all the way over to the East Side to look at that old house.
People know it's for rent, and if they want it they'll take it without
my sitting over there waiting for them."

Nevertheless, Migwan made the long trip the very next day after school
to look at the property. "It's no wonder no one has been making
inquiries for it," she said when she returned. "The 'For Rent' sign was
gone and I found it later when I was going back up the street. Some boys
had used it to make the end piece of a wagon. Then, the plumbing is bad
and the cellar is flooded, and the water will not run off in the kitchen
sink. These must have been the repairs the old tenants wanted made when
you told them you had no money to fix the house, and so they moved. I
don't blame them at all.

"Then, there is another thing I thought of when I was looking through
the rooms. You know that big unfinished space over the kitchen? Well, I
thought, why can't we make a furnished room of that? There is space
enough to build a large room and a bathroom, for part of it is just
above the bathroom downstairs. A large furnished room with a private
bath would bring in ten dollars a month. It is just at the head of the
back stairs and the side door where the back stairs connect with the
cellar way could be used as a private entrance, so the tenants of the
house would not be disturbed in the least. It would cost over a hundred
dollars to do it, most likely, but we could borrow the money from my
college fund and the extra rent would soon pay it back." Migwan's eyes
were shining with ambition.

Mrs. Gardiner shook her head wearily. "We never could do it," she
answered. "Something would surely happen to upset our plans."

But Migwan was not to be waved aside. She had seen a vision of increased
income and meant to make it come true. She argued the merits of her idea
until Mrs. Gardiner was too tired of the subject to argue back, and
agreed that if Miss Kent approved the step she would give her consent.
Nyoda was therefore called into consultation. She looked at the house
and saw no reason why the improvements could not be made to advantage.
The house was in a good neighborhood, and furnished rooms were always in
demand. She advised the step and gave Mrs. Gardiner the names of several
contractors whom she knew to be reliable. Mrs. Gardiner was a little
breathless at the speed with which things were moving, but there was no
stopping Migwan once she was started. A contractor was engaged and work
begun on the house one week from the day Migwan had thought of the plan.

Meanwhile financial matters at home were in bad shape, and Mrs. Gardiner
willingly gave over the distribution of the family budget to Migwan. She
herself was utterly unable to cope with the problem. And Migwan
surprised even herself by the efficient way in which she managed things.
By planning menus with the greatest care and omitting meat from the bill
of fare to a great extent she made it possible to live on their slender
income until the rent would begin to come in again.

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