“On the ringing of the bell,” came the announcement at supper, “each klondike must present a ‘stunt’ at the club house. Twenty minutes now to get up the performance. See who will have the best.” The smiling face of the head councillor indicated her confidence in her girls. She knew that they had plenty of interesting ideas in their heads and expected a good entertainment.

“Mercy,” said Virgie, “I couldn’t think up anything in twenty minutes, let alone get it ready!”

“O, yes we can,” said Isabel, “come on. Some of the old girls will know what they do here.”

There was hurrying and scurrying to klondikes and much laughter with the thinking and planning. “Suppose we think up the same thing some other klondike does,” suggested Marion, as she walked from supper with Frances. “O, we never do; don’t worry,” Frances replied.

Patty West had been transferred to Squirrels’ Inn in some shifting of councillors, and to her the girls of that klondike rushed. Patty was already racking her brains, she asserted, but so far nothing had occurred to her.

“I tell you what I have, Miss Patty,” said Cathalina, “something that Ann Maria said the girls at her school acted out one time and Mother was so amused, for she and her cousins used to do it,—I think it came out in the St. Nicholas or something when she was a girl, or maybe she found it in the old magazines at home. Anyway it is just an old poem called ‘The Ballad of Mary Jane’. Of course, we can’t learn it, but one of us can read it and the rest can take the parts and act it out, in pantomime.”

A brief rehearsal with a quick assembling of costumes and other necessary articles was all that was possible. Miss West was to do the reading, while Cathalina, who was familiar with the poem, was to be stage director, send on the actors at the proper time, cause the pasteboard sun to rise, and do the various duties connected with her position. Other klondikes were in the same state of interesting hurry. Fortunately the ringing of the bell was delayed a little, but by twenty minutes of eight, rows of big and little girls, the little ones in front, sat facing the “stage” of the club house. This was the little room or den at one end of the assembly room. Its walls extended only a short way, to indicate division of a sort, and a curtain could be drawn across if desired. Curtains were usually made from two sheets or two big blankets hastily hemmed to permit a rope to be drawn through, the rope then fastened to hooks or nails.

The audience was composed of those who did not take part in the actual performance presented by their group, or who would not be called on for some time. Clapping of hands indicated some impatience.

“Lights out!” called some one, and the switch for the main room was turned off. As the lights in the little room had not been turned on, all was in total darkness. Flashlights began to be turned on and brought a protest from the stage.

“Turn off your flashes! Don’t you know we hadn’t time to put up a curtain, and have to fix the stage? Please, girls.” These were the little folks from Laugh-a-lot and Little Content whose “stunt” came first.

Presently the stage lights came on disclosing a small child washing dishes, the dishpan on a chair, while June, dressed in a long skirt, with a scarf pinned around her shoulders and her hair done up high, was preparing a basket.

“Now, little Red Riding-Hood, get your cloak and let me put it on for you. Here, my child, are some nice fruit and a fresh blueberry pie for your grandmother. Go straight there and don’t stop to talk to any one on the way!” June’s finger was raised impressively.

“All right, Mother,” replied Red Riding-Hood in her most sugary tones, while the audience laughed. The mother fastened the red cape and hood that made somebody’s little rain coat, kissed her little girl, waved her hand to her as Red Riding-Hood set out, and followed her to the door where she stood, still waving. Then she returned to her rocking chair, picked up some knitting, and settled back with a great air of responsibility. Promptly the lights went out again and a few adjustments were made for the next scene.

When the lights went on the signs of housekeeping had been removed. A placard placed upon the table announced “The Woods”. Little Red Riding-Hood came strolling in, swinging her basket and looking at the birds. “O, aren’t you pretty? I guess you’re a song sparrow. O, what’s that?”

From the right of the stage came suddenly a terrible looking animal whose tawny coat looked much like one of the girls’ ponchos.

“Gr-rr-rr! Where are you going, little girl? Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.”

“O, I’m just going to take some fruit to my grandmother.”

“Where does your grandmother live?”

“Just in a nice little house on the edge of the wood.”

The rest of the story proceeded in due order, the children making up the lines as they went along, all of them, of course, being perfectly familiar with the story. The wolf duly found the grandmother in bed and ate her up with much scuffling and growling, putting on her cap and getting into her bed, a pallet on the floor. How innocently did little Red Riding-Hood ask, “What makes your teeth so long and sharp, Grandmother?” And how fiercely did the wolf reply, “All the better to-eat-you-all-up-with!” The scene and drama ended with the timely coming of the woodcutters and the demise of the snarling wolf.

Loud applause greeted the little folks who had thoroughly enjoyed playing the parts and were pleased that the girls liked their efforts. Hilary watching June, whispered to Lilian that she felt like hugging the child. “She looks and acts so like Mother!”

Squirrels’ Inn then put on The Ballad of Mary Jane in pantomime. Hilary as Mary Jane looked the prim school teacher in long dress, stiff shirt waist, high collar. Her hair was in a tight knot. She entered carrying a bag of school books, reading a small volume and passed and repassed at the front of the stage to show how “To teach the village school she walked each morning down the lane,” this maid who “could manufacture griddle-cakes and jest in ancient Greek.”

Frances Anderson was the “stalwart Benjamin”, who leaned on his hoe with open mouth and saw “the beauteous maiden pass at breaking of the dawn”. Little did he look like the future pirate who was to burst in and rescue Mary Jane, from her cruel father (Nora) with the “fatal knife”, and his rival, Lord Mortimer (Betty). Lilian, attired in the same poncho in which the wolf had appeared, and wearing paper horns, represented the cow from which Mary Jane dramatically rescued Benjamin by means of her umbrella.

A fashion show came next, requiring little stage setting but much dressing. This was given by one of the senior klondikes and was very pretty. Mrs. Astorbilt was first announced and entered in evening gown. She was followed by the sport girl, the business girl, and others for whom costumes could be prepared upon short notice, the Merrymeeting girl closing the parade, and wearing the full costume, with headband, armband, and a diamond upon her sweater. She carried a big volley ball under her arm and held up to view the Merrymeeting trophy cup. All the girls had looked so pretty that each had received hearty applause; but the Merrymeeting girl appealed to camp loyalty and was cheered vociferously with “rah, rah, Merrymeeting!”

An alphabetical romance was given by another cabin. In this the lines were of the alphabet alone, repeated with varying expression, occasional well known abbreviations, as q. e. d., i. e., or U. S. A., included.

The last stunt was called “Five Minutes in Laugh-a-lot.” Great curiosity was evident among the audience as in the darkness they could dimly see a figure arranged on the table and covered with something white. “Elaine?” “Operating room?” were suggested, but the stage director ordered silence and the lights were not turned on.

Dim figures stole in with flashlights. “Bz-zz-zz! Bz-zz-zz! Bz-zz-zz!” they sang, moving arms for wings and tiptoeing an insect dance around the table. It was now evident that this was a cot in Laugh-a-lot, the sleeper covered with mosquito netting which was merely a bit of suggestive stage property, having no foundation in fact. The mosquitos hovered around and now and then one would make a dive in her direction. Then hands would wave widly and the netting fail of its purpose. All this because little Dorothy Freneau’s plump cheeks had exhibited several mosquito bites for a day or two.

Presently the mosquitos joined hands, danced to the front and sang softly a mosquito song, written by the councillor under pressure in about five minutes. At its close they went out still buzzing, while some one from behind the table raised a large flashlight to indicate the coming of the sun. This was the farewell song: