"Did you put in the olives?" some one cried over the confusion of singing and talking.

"Do be careful of the stuffed eggs. It would be a shame to ruin an hour and a half of hard work."

"Tell the man to wait. I forgot my tea basket."

"Haste thee, nymph," called Edith Williams, after the fleeing Judy. "And bring your volume of Shelley along, there's a dear. I forgot mine."

"Bring my sweater," Nance called.

Already the van load of girls in front was moving down the avenue, while the crowd in the second van waited impatiently for Judy's return. The two big vehicles were decorated with lavender and primrose, the class colors, for this was the day of the Senior Ramble, and the whole class was off for the woods.

At last Judy appeared, laden with many things—a tea basket, a book, her camera and two sweaters; also a brass trumpet.

"Who says I'm not good-natured?" she exclaimed, handing up the articles and clambering into the vehicle. "I'm the kindest soul that ever lived."

"I'm glad you feel that way about it, Juliana. It must be a sweet personal satisfaction," remarked Edith, seizing the book and thrusting it into the pocket of her ulster.

The seniors were to ramble in Fern Woods that year, so-called not because of the superabundance of ferns, but because they were a part of the estate of Major Fern, father of Alice Fern. The Major had no objections to the students of Wellington and Exmoor using his woods for picnics, but the Exmoor boys were not given to such excursions and it was a long drive from Wellington, six miles over a rough road. However, Fern Woods it was to be this time, and away went the two vans, Judy blowing her trumpet with a grand flourish as they passed out of the Wellington grounds.

The Ramble was always the occasion for the most childish behavior among the seniors; a last frenzied outburst, as it were, before putting away childish things for all time and settling down to the serious work of life.

And now the seniors in the first wagon stood up and began singing back to the girls in the second wagon:

The seniors behind answered:

"I think this should be called the 'Senior Rumble,' and not ramble," some one said, as the wagon groaned and creaked on the hilly road.

"What's the matter with 'Grumble'?" asked Mabel Hinton.

But there was no real grumbling, although the six miles that lay between Fern Woods and Wellington included some rough roads. They were jolted and shaken and tumbled about and there were shrieks of laughter and cries of "Wait, wait! I'd rather walk!" But the stolid driver went calmly on without taking the slightest notice.

"One would think we were a lot of inmates in a crazy wagon," cried Molly, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes.

A box of salted nuts had come open and the contents were scattered all over the bed of the wagon, and some apples had tumbled out of a hamper and were rolling about under people's feet.

"If I had known—if I had only known that this was going to be the rocky road to Dublin, wild horses couldn't have dragged me," cried Jessie.

At last after a time of infinite confusion the wagons drew up at the edge of a forest and there was sudden quiet in the noisy company. It was as if they stood at the threshold of a great cathedral, so still and majestic were the woods. Through the dense greenness of the pines there was an occasional flash of a silver birch. The scarlets and yellows of oak and maple trees gleamed here and there, making a rich background for the somber company of pines.

"It was worth it! It was worth it," exclaimed the seniors, now that the worst was over.

The class had divided itself into three "messes" for lunch. After lunch it was to assemble in a body, sing the class songs to be bequeathed to the juniors, and do the class stunts which were familiar enough to all of them now. And first of all, by the unwritten law of custom, the seniors were to spend an hour communing with nature. This constituted the "Ramble." Judy had been delegated by the Ramble Committee to blow a blast on her trumpet when the time came to eat. In the meantime the drivers had taken themselves and their wagons down the road two miles to a small village where they were to rest and refresh themselves with food until half past four o'clock, when they were to return for the rambling seniors.

So it was that the three hampers of food were deposited in a safe and secluded spot under some bushes and left unguarded while everybody went off for the ramble.

Of course all this had been planned weeks ahead of time by the committee and the destination kept a profound secret, according to the traditions of the school.

Scarcely had the last unsuspecting senior disappeared in the pine woods, when a motor car rounded the curve in the road and stopped at the signal of an individual in a long dark ulster and a slouch hat well down over the face, who had leaped out from behind a clump of bushes on the other side of the road. Two other persons similarly disguised now jumped out of the car, leaving the chauffeur quietly examining the speedometer and seeing nothing.

"Do you know where they put them?" whispered one.

The other did not reply, but led the way at a run to the clump of bushes where the hampers had been left. In five minutes the three thieves, for such they certainly were, had stored the hampers on the floor of the car. Then they jumped in themselves.

"Go ahead!" cried the thief on the front seat, and presently the motor car was a mere speck in the distance.

In the meantime, the unconscious seniors rambled happily on. There were places to visit in the woods: a beautiful spring that bubbled out of the side of a rock and broadened into a basin below; an old log cabin, long since deserted and open to the weather, and last of all, "Charlie's Oak." Half a century ago, an Exmoor boy had hanged himself on this tree. Another Exmoor boy, many years later, had carved a cross on the tree and by that sign and others learned from Exmoor boys, they finally found the gruesome spot.

"Why did he do it?" asked Judy.

"It was never told," answered Nance, who had learned all there was to know concerning the tragedy from Andy McLean.

"Poor boy," cried Molly, seeing in her mind a picture of the body dangling from a lower limb of the old oak. "Let's make him a garland of leaves," she proposed, "just to signify that we are sorry for him."

The whole class now assembled at Charlie's Oak and proceeded to gather branches of autumn leaves. With the aid of a handkerchief and a ribbon, these were arranged in the semblance of a large wreath. On the fly leaf, torn from the volume of Shelley, Judy wrote:

"In memory of poor Charlie. May his soul rest in peace. Class of 19—, Wellington."

The wreath was laid against the tree and the inscription secured with a pin stuck into the bark. Then the Class of 19—Wellington went on its way rejoicing, never dreaming of the reward the wreath of autumn leaves was to bring them. Perhaps the restless spirit of poor Charlie felt grateful for the sympathy and whispered into the ear of somebody—at any rate, luck came of the incident of the wreath.

Not long after this, seniors roaming about the woods heard the blast of Judy's trumpet. It was still too early for lunch and they felt instinctively that it was a call to arms. Presently wandering classmates came running up from every direction like a company of frightened nymphs.

Just about this time an old gentleman, strolling down the wood path, paused at Charlie's Oak. He was a very youthful looking old man, his cheeks as ruddy as winter apples and his blue eyes as clear and bright as a boy's. He carried a cane which he used to toss twigs from his path. Two Irish setters followed at his heels sniffing the ground trodden down a little while before by the feet of numerous Wellington maids.

"Ahem! What's this?" remarked the old gentleman aloud, fitting his glasses on his nose and leaning over to examine the wreath. Then he released the inscription from the pin and carefully read it twice, replacing it afterward just over the wreath. Baring his head, he stood quite still under the limb for so long a time that the impatient dogs trotted off down the path, and then came back again to look for their master.

"Poor Charlie," repeated the old man. "May his soul rest in peace." With a sigh he put on his hat and started slowly down the path. "Poor Charlie, poor old Charlie," he was still saying, when he found himself on the edge of a company of very indignant and excited young women.

"This must be the Class of 19—Wellington," he was thinking as he turned to go the other way, when Margaret Wakefield in the very center of the crowd thundered out:

"It's an outrage! A miserable, cowardly trick!"

Some of the girls were actually crying; others looked grave, while still others conferred together in low indignant tones.

"I beg pardon, young ladies, has anything serious happened?" asked the old gentleman, lifting his hat politely.

There was a complete silence at this unexpected interruption, and then Margaret, ever the spokesman of her class, replied in a suspiciously tearful tone of voice:

"We've been robbed, sir. Somebody has stolen our luncheon."

"Dear, dear!" murmured the old gentleman, looking from one face to another with real sympathy, "dear, dear! but that was an unkind trick—and quite a large meal, too, I imagine," he added, noting the size of the company.

"Three hampers full," cried one girl.

"And we had worked so hard over it," cried another.

"Is this the Class of 19—Wellington?" asked the old gentleman.

"Yes, sir. We were giving the Senior Ramble."

"And while you were rambling thieves came and robbed you, eh?"

"We are disgraced," ejaculated Margaret.

"Do you suppose tramps could have done it?" Jessie asked.

"It would have been difficult to dispose of three hampers full," answered the old gentleman. "A tramp would have helped himself to what he could carry and nothing more."

"Could it have been Gypsies?" suggested Judy, fired with the romantic notion.

The old gentleman shook his head.

"I think the thieves rode in a motor car," he said. "As I crossed the road some little time ago I saw one waiting there for no apparent reason. I hardly noticed who was in it. Perhaps it was some of your own classmates. In my day the boys used to play tricks like that, worse ones, even. Exmoor was a lively place fifty years ago."

The old gentleman sighed.

"Wellington girls play tricks, too, sometimes, but not such mean ones," put in Margaret. "Once a girl cut the electric light wiring during an entertainment in the gym. But even that wasn't so low as this: making a crowd of people go hungry."

"Ah, I see," answered the old gentleman. "Well, that is scarcely to be mentioned in the same breath with cutting wires." He paused a moment and dug into the ground with the end of his cane thoughtfully. "Young ladies," he said presently, "would you do an old Exmoor boy the honor of lunching with him to-day?"

"Oh, how kind!"

"So many of us?"

"It's too much," a dozen voices answered.

"Not at all. There could not be too many of you. I am Major Fern. I live down the road a bit. You can find the house by the big iron gates opening onto the avenue." Major Fern looked at his watch. "It's now a little past twelve. May I expect you at a quarter past one? Mrs. Fern will be delighted. There are—how many of you?"

Margaret told him promptly.

"That's as small as an Exmoor class," he observed. "An unusually small class. But—I've heard of you from Miss Walker—an unusually bright one, I understand. It will be a great pleasure to entertain so many charming young ladies at once."

The girls were almost speechless with surprise and gratitude. Even Margaret was for once reduced to a state of shyness.

"We are very grateful to you, Major Fern," she said, after some hesitation, "and if you are sure it is not too much of an imposition, we accept with pleasure."

So it was that Charlie's Oak was the indirect means of bringing the Senior Ramble of that year to a successful termination.

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