“UNCLE BILL! Uncle Bill! Council this afternoon!” came a chorus of voices over the stretch of water between the sailing dory and the Farwell’s launch which had just made a landing at her pier. “You just got here in time: three o’clock this afternoon,” added Fred, as he steered the dory closer to the launch. “Hey! Don’t run me down,” laughingly joked Mr. Farwell. “There, that’s better! Now, Miriam, come over here and kiss your old father.” As the dory gently glided alongside the launch, Miriam sprang aboard and hugged her jolly father. “Oh, papa! I’m going to win a coup to-day! I’m so glad you’re here to see me get it. And Paul’s going to have one of the green tassels cut off his badge, too. Cousin Fred has been training us all.” “Well, well! Fred has so many coups now, I suppose he can spare you some, eh?” “Oh, papa! you know I couldn’t take any one else’s coups! I have to win them myself!” declared Miriam. “Depend upon your Uncle Bill! Now, young ’uns—lively about it, if you’re going! I’m about starved and nothing will keep me here a minute longer. If I don’t show up at the house pretty soon, Bridget will think I’ve had luncheon, and what a calamity that would be! See you all later—three o’clock sharp!” And Uncle Bill caught up his suitcase, jumped out on the wharf, and called to his wife: “I’m starved! I’m starved! Fee fo fi fum!” Meantime Mrs. Farwell had been talking confidentially to Elizabeth and Miriam. Then, as she laughed and promised them to keep the secret, they left her. She watched them climb safely down to the dory again before she turned to give some orders to the Captain of the Zeus, finally turning to follow her shouting and singing lord and master up the path to the house. The two girls pushed off from the launch, Fred let the sheet run out and before a light southerly breeze, the little dory soon showed her heels to the wharf at one island and in about ten minutes was lying at the float-stage of the other. While Fred furled the sails of the dory, Billy ran Quiet reigned during the first part of the luncheon as every one was hungry. But as appetites abated, Billy started a discussion as to some of the entertainment for the Council in the afternoon. It appeared that he and Dudley and Paul had a motion picture play of a jitney which they were anxious to give. “Have you rehearsed it—do you know if it is any good?” asked Fred, sceptically. “You know we don’t want anything below par,” added Elizabeth. “Well, if you doubt us, we’ll do it right here to let you judge!” offered Paul, eagerly. “Guess you’d better,” replied Fred. So, the three boys left the table and placed three chairs—two side by side and one directly in front of the other two. Bill played the part of chauffeur and went through all of the motions of starting a jitney. No sooner was it running than a passenger (Paul) hailed him to stop. The chauffeur made the motions of applying brakes, getting out to open the door and assist the passenger inside, then tried to crank up again. No sooner had he succeeded in starting the engine again, than a second passenger (Dudley) hailed the jitney to stop. Billy repeated the same actions as before but the first “fare” refused to move over in the Again the chauffeur cranked and at last they were off! ’Twas the “rocky road to Dublin” all right, for the luckless passengers swayed and bumped in their seats, until suddenly the car stopped on a hill. Try as he would, the poor chauffeur could not start it again. He came to the door and implored the two passengers to help him push the machine up the hill. They were indignant but finally consented. The brow of the hill reached they all jumped in again and down the jitney coasted. Just as the engine was nicely started again, the car struck a rut and overturned. When Billy signalled the overturn, Paul, Dudley and he, tipped over the chairs and all lay sprawling on the floor. A chorus of “Hows” greeted the performance and the juvenile contingent judged it worthy of the Council audience. “Well, maybe we can improve on this, too, when we once feel the spirit of the Council move us,” ventured Billy. “Oh sure thing!” bragged Paul, chestily. And the others laughed heartily at his manner, but nothing daunted, Paul added, “Practice makes perfect, you know.” A quiet half hour was spent in signing up coup claims and looking over the Tally of the last Council. As the last Brave left his tent the chugging of engines was heard and the launch Orion rounded the south end of Sunset Island, while at the same time the Zeus arrived from Isola Bella. The Orion brought Aunt Edith and Uncle Tom from the mainland. With them were some visitors and Miss Travis, known to the boys and girls as Aunt Flo-flo. Aunt Edith introduced one of the visitors to the members of the Pentagoet Tribe. “This is my little friend Trixie Ashe—she has come to spend several weeks at Rosemary.” Trixie was about thirteen but looked older. Being the only child and always in the society of elders she felt out of her element in the camp of the young Woodcrafters. Then, too, she was expensively dressed in apparel more adapted for a house-party than for a rough outing. Trixie looked around with keen interest at the animated faces of the boys and girls she had heard so much about during the past few days. Her opinions, already formed of how such athletic young folks would look, underwent a sudden change. Before she had quite finished her survey, Trixie admitted to herself that she had never met a group of such fine-looking happy young people. She turned to Aunt Edith and remarked, “You didn’t exaggerate a bit, Mrs. Charlton, when you told “I am glad you like it, but really you know, these costumes are for ceremonial occasions only. No one could run or feel free in them for actual camp-life. We have a suitable uniform for every-day use,” returned Aunt Edith. During this interview, Mrs. Remington and Mrs. Farwell were giving Bridget with “the secret” (an immense layer cake) into Mose’s charge, for there were to be refreshments served at the end of the Council. “Come along now, Woodcrafters—it’s nearly three o’clock,” reminded Billy, leading the way to the Council place. The others followed and soon Fred, in full costume, took the Council Chair and opened the meeting by proclaiming: “Meetah Kola, nayhoonpo omnicheeyey nee-chopi”—meaning, “Hear me my friends, we are about to hold a council.” “Shingebis will now light the Council Fire after the manner of the Forest Children,” ordered Wita-tonkan, the Island Chief, turning to Billy as he spoke. Then Shingebis, “The Northern Diver,” brought his fire-sticks to the centre of the Council Ring and proceeded to make fire by rubbing the sticks briskly until an almost imperceptible wisp of smoke curled up from the tiny heap of black wood-dust that fell into The moment a spark glowed in this powder, the group of Woodcrafters greeted it with a “How!” and a louder chorus of “Hows” sounded as a flame burst forth from the handful of tinder which Shingebis applied. “Now know we that Wakonda hath been pleased to smile upon us,” said Wita-tonkan, solemnly. A few moments after the fire was burning well, the Chief took up the peace-pipe and explained that he was about to perform the peace-pipe ceremony. “First I light the cedar bark and kinnikinick, or dried red ozier dogwood bark, in the bowl of the pipe. Now I offer the peace-pipe to Wakonda, the Great Spirit and Maka Ina, Mother Earth, imploring their presence at the Council. The whole Council must answer ‘Noon-way’ or amen to these prayers. “Then I proceed to beg each of the Four Winds in turn to do us no harm from cyclone, cold, rain or heat. All present will please respond ‘Noon-way’ as before.” The visitors were quite impressed and when the first prayer came, “Hay-oon-kee-ya” (Be with us) the response was fervent. Then, as the pipe was presented to the West Wind, and Wita-tonkan cried, “Hay-oon-kee-oon-ee-ya-snee” (Come not upon us) the chorus of “noon-ways” was so loud that Mose and “When Ah git done wid dis lemyonade Ah’se goin’ out behin’ dose rocks an’ watch d’ show,” declared Mose. “Shure, an’ Oi’ll be wid’ye,” promised Bridget, emphatically. The peace-pipe ceremony being concluded and the Tally read, Wita-tonkan suggested that, there being so many visitors present, they make short work of preliminary business matters and proceed directly to the claiming of the Coups. “Are there any Honours to be claimed?” called Wita-tonkan. “Oh Chief!” said Miriam, standing up instantly to show her father her knowledge of Woodcraft, “I claim an Honour for standing broad-jump—five and a half feet.” “Have you the claim properly attested by three witnesses?” asked the Chief. “Here it is,” replied Miriam, holding out a paper. “And moreover, my witnesses are present in Council.” “Come forward, Miriam,” announced Wita-tonkan, taking the claim from her hand. He read it aloud to the assembled Council and asked, “You have all heard this claim, properly made out and witnessed, and now what is the pleasure of the Council regarding this matter?” Paul now stood, saluted and said, “Oh Chief! I second this motion.” Wita-tonkan then said to the assembly, “This claim has been duly moved and seconded and now, it is ready for the vote, there being no question of its validity. The Council will please make its wishes known by saying ‘How’ for approval, and ‘Wah’ for dissent.” Then the loud chorus of “hows” brought Mose and Bridget running from the kitchen to the vantage point back of the boulder. The Chief, taking Miriam by the hand, congratulated her and presented her with the coup feather symbolising her attainment. She smilingly took her seat amid the pleased murmurs of the Pentagoet Tribe. “Any more Honours to be claimed?” asked the Chief. “Oh Chief! I have at last completed the requirements for the last rank in the Little Lodge,” cried Paul, springing to his feet. “I was eleven years old last month, so I am anxious to do this before I pass into the Big Lodge.” Paul had various sheets of paper signed by his witnesses at different times throughout the past year which he now presented to the Chief. Wita-tonkan read them aloud to the Council. “Know one wild bird for each year of your age.” Wita-tonkan continued: “Know one wild four-footed animal for each year of your age.” “I knew twelve animals my first year in Woodcraft,” said Paul. “Know one forest tree for each year of your age.” “I know more than enough for that too; we found so many kinds of trees at Wickeecheokee Farm last summer when the Little Woodcrafters spent a week in camp there,” explained Paul. “Know one wild flower for each year of your age.” “Oh, I know nearly enough to win the flower coup,” boasted Paul, looking around at the others. “Know one garden-flower or shrub for each year of your age.” Paul nodded that he had done this also. So Wita-tonkan read on to the last of the requirements now accomplished by Paul, until he read the last one which was: “Know one constellation for each year of age.” “Oh, I got that one easy! I only had to know three, but I was so near twelve years, that I just learned another one to make four for good measure,” ventured Paul. “Which is the good measure?” laughed Wita-tonkan. “I found Orion and know all about him,” declared Bridget, listening intently to this part of the Council procedure, gasped at the information vouched for by Paul. “Mose, shure an’ that hunter must hev been me ancistor—O’ryan! He war a king ov Oireland, God bliss the old Sod! An’ Oi’m tould that O’ryan alwiss carried a cloob too: a black t’horn cloob it war!” Moses looked sceptically at the rotund figure of the Farwell’s cook and doubted the truth of her imperial descent. But the name suddenly struck him as being familiar and he remembered where he had heard it so often. “Agh, shucks! It isn’t yo’ ancestor, Bridget, at all! They be talkin’ ’bout th’ Charlton’s motor launch—dat’s called ’Ryan affer a bunch ov stars!” declared Moses, complacently. “Shure, an’ don’ ye’se tink Oi don’ know me own fam’ly histry ov all th’ great men what come from th’ ole sod!” scorned Bridget, turning her broad back disdainfully upon Mose. “An’ don’t Oi know it war afther me great-grand-fayther that Misther Cha’ton named his boat ‘O’ryan’!” While the controversy lasted between the native of the Sunny South and the descendant of Kings from the Emerald Isle, Paul had the last tassel of inexperience cut from his Woodcrafter’s Badge and took The Chief then found no other Honours to be claimed so he proceeded to the entertainment of the guests present. “Are there any Braves eager to challenge each other?” asked he. “Oh Chief! I challenge Shingebis to a hand-wrestling match!” called Dudley, known in Council as Wahdago. “I accept, Oh Chief!” replied Billy, quickly. Then followed a mortal combat (?) between the two equally experienced Braves, until both were red in the face and puffing for wind. In the end, Wahdago lost an opportunity and Shingebis was quick to avail himself of the mistake. Thus the contest ended by awarding Billy the victory. “Any more challenges?” came from the Chief. “Oh Chief! I challenge Paul to a canoe tilting contest,” called Billy. “I propose that we defer that contest for the present and watch any game or match that needs to take place in the circle. We will go down to Treasure Cove later for the water sports,” advised Fred. Then Uncle Bill jumped up and raised his hand in salute. “Oh Chief! I challenge any one present to recite original poetry written for this or a similar occasion which has not yet been heard by others.” “I accept that challenge, Oh Chief,” laughed Elizabeth, Thereupon, Uncle Bill drew forth a paper and cleared his throat. Having made obeisance to the Chief and then to the guests, he read: Mpret. On Albania’s throne When the war clouds met Shivering alone Sat little Mpret. Said he to himself “As Wilyum of Wied There was far less pelf But much less need Of a quiet nest Where a prince might dream And sure of his rest Let his medals gleam. Now this ‘safety first’ Is good dope, I wot: This war is accursed I’ll go on my yacht.” The throne is empty: “It’s the one best bet, It will stay that way!” Said little Mpret. Applause greeted the conclusion of this little skit and Uncle Bill resumed his seat, bowing with a conqueror’s air, as if to say he knew the laurels were his. But he also knew that he had no mean competitor in Elizabeth, who now stood up and prefaced her verse. “Every one here knows that the first sail of the season is not all joy—particularly if it is choppy, or if Several of those present began to laugh for they sensed the trend of Elizabeth’s prologue as referring to a sickly time Uncle Bill experienced during his first sail on troubled waters. “My poem is called ‘Sea-sick,’” explained Elizabeth. “The mate was sick, the Captain too, The passengers and ‘hand’; The breeze was strong enough to slew The boat around the strand. The waves were some unpleasant heights; They bumped the trusty boat We lay beneath the seats and sights, And wished we weren’t afloat. A land-loom came into our view, A hull-down took from sight, The hulls of tugs and steamers blue— But we wished it was night. A herd of porpoises then came And bobbed about our ship: We had no wish to see a fish— The sky-line seemed to dip. We tacked our boat and went ashore And had a solid meal. We did not want to feel much more The way we just did feel!” When Elizabeth finished, every one cried “How” and Aunt Edith declared she was deeply affected by the vivid description—it almost made her seasick! “Who was mate on that trip?” asked Uncle Tom. “Fred was mate and I was the ‘hand’ but I won’t tell tales on the Captain—let him speak for himself,” laughed Elizabeth. “Well, I was the passenger and I can swear to my feelings,” exclaimed Billy, looking at his Uncle Bill. But Uncle Bill returned the look boldly and murmured: “From what you say, that sure must have been some sail!” “Wah! Wah!” cried a number of voices and everyone laughed. The poetry had to be judged for other virtues than mere fidelity of description, so the “palm” was awarded to the composer of “Mpret.” Following this verse contest, Billy announced that he and two friends would produce a moving picture play depicting a jitney in distress. So many impromptu additions were shown that the rough and tumble “movie” was highly applauded by the other children. This over, the Chief stood up. “For a change in the programme, I think we will call upon Pah-hlee-oh, The Moon Maid, to entertain us by dancing the Storm Cloud.” Fred had signalled Elizabeth while the Jitney act was being done, and she slipped away from the circle unseen by the others. At the beating of the tom-toms The Storm Cloud dance is one of the most graceful of the Indian Dances and Elizabeth was well-trained so a genuine treat was given the visitors that day. Then to the surprise of every one present, Uncle Tom stood and said, “I challenge Uncle Bill to a tub-tilting match.” This also proved a great success, for Uncle Bill, always ready to provoke fun and laughter, did his part with great gusto. The result was that the exact rules were not followed but far greater sport was furnished by the two heavy performers in unexpected actions and twists and ferocious grimaces. After a Folk Song contest and Character Dances were given, every one walked down to the Cove to watch the canoe tilting between the two boys with Captain Ed and Benton as seconds. This was interesting as the boys were well matched, but Billy came off victorious at last, having upset his opponent by thrusting the soft-padded pole suddenly in the pit of his stomach. Billy and Dudley dressed and then a Talk Fest was started by the Chief against Dudley; as they finished the victory was accorded Dudley with the remark, “He’s the fastest talker on the hemisphere!” The appearance of Mose, carrying a huge tray of “Ah d’clare t’ goodness, d’ way dem fo’kses ack in dat Woodcraf’ bisnis, an’ den go an’ git such empty stomacks, is amusin’ t’ me! Jus’ look at dem vacant plates—would yo’ b’lieve dey had ben piled up high wid san’witches an’ fixin’s t’ say nuffin of th’ cake an’ lemyonade!” Bridget had been taxed to the limit by the great demand for lemonade, and she sniffed disdainfully: “’Twar mesilf ez beat twelve aigs in th’ layer cake! No wonder it melted away like snow in July! Not a crumb fer the cook, ayther!” Mose looked compassionately at the defrauded cook and remarked: “Ah’ve hearn say dat a good chef neveh gits lef’ fo’ a bite! Now Ah’m a fust-class cook so Ah had a good big snack o’ dat twelve aig cake befoh it passed outen my control!” Bridget sent Mose a resentful look and flounced angrily from the kitchen, while Mose shook with silent amusement at his competitor in culinary arts. The guests departed in the sunset glow and the Pentagoet Tribe felt that they had acquitted themselves unusually well, thereby earning a good night’s sleep. |