As the clock struck eight-thirty Monday morning, on the last week in July, one Guardian, one dog, thirteen big girls and seven small ones lined up for their long-anticipated hike to Camp Karonya. They planned to walk half the distance that day, sleep at a farmhouse about half-way to the woods, and finish the next day at their destination. They were all in middies, with dark skirts, and the most comfortable slippers money could buy—it hurts to hike in tight shoes. They had hats, of course, but Edith Hillis, in addition, carried a parasol. Each girl carried her own night-things and drinking-cup and luncheon. The provisions, and the rest of the baggage, had gone over to the camping-place in Mr. Bryan’s automobile and Louise Lane’s father’s delivery-wagon.

Early as it was, quite a lot of people were out to see the girls off, and even Puppums curvetted proudly as he noticed the attention he was getting, for he was a very vain dog. He might well be vain, because Louise had attached a large label to his collar which said “Camp Fire Dog,” and he was not allowed to chew it off.

They walked slowly, and it felt very much like going to a picnic guaranteed to last forever. Presently someone started a marching song, and everyone joined in. They walked easily on, having a very good time as they went; and before they knew it noon had come, and it was time to have lunch.

They were near a meadow by this time, a big green meadow with trees at its edge, and they all sat down under the trees and unpacked their sandwiches and ate. Some of the girls had thermos bottles with them, with hot cocoa, but most of them preferred the concentrated lemonade Mrs. Bryan had brought along, mixed with water from a nice little brook which had been kind enough to flow quite near them.

“If it’s all going to be like this, won’t it be lovely?” said Winona, her eyes shining, as she took a large bite of sandwich, and then fed a generous share of the rest to Puppums, who lay quiveringly near her.

“It is nice,” said Helen more quietly. “I hope we’ll have weather like this the whole time ... gracious, what’s that?”

“That” was a distant squeal. Winona looked hastily around her to see what the Blue Birds were doing. But there were no Blue Birds there. The seven little girls were out of sight, but not out of hearing, for it was evidently one of them who had made the noise.

Winona and Adelaide jumped up and ran, but Louise and Edith sat placidly on.

“They will howl,” said Louise. “There’s no use always chasing after them.”

But when Winona and Adelaide arrived at the place the squeals had come from they were very glad they had done the “chasing.”

Florence, with little Lucy Hillis holding her, was sitting on the ground screaming steadily. The other girls were huddled together in a frightened group a little way off.

“What is it? What is it, Lucy?” cried Winona, frightened. Florence was making such a noise that it was no use asking her. Lucy Hillis, who was one of those quiet, old-fashioned little girls who always keep their heads, looked up, still holding Florence’s wrist.

“Florence’s cut herself,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s a bad cut. I don’t dare let go of it.”

Winona flung herself down by Florence and put her hands above Lucy’s shaking little ones, which then, and not till then, let go.

“Get me a stick, Lucy, quick—a strong one!” she said.

Lucy was back with the stick before Winona was through speaking. Winona pulled off her tie, that useful silk scarf of hers which had helped Edith out of the water, and bound it above Florence’s cut, twisting it tight with the stick. Then she asked Adelaide to tie Florence’s wrist again, below the cut. She did not want to take any chances, and she did not know yet whether it was a vein or an artery that Florence had hurt.

Then she sent Lucy flying for Mrs. Bryan, while she and Adelaide made Florence keep still.

“That Lucy child keeps her head,” said Adelaide approvingly.

“It wasn’t her wrist that got cut!” said Florence indignantly, stopping her sobs.

“How did it happen, Florence?” asked her sister. “Tell us—but don’t stir. Nobody knows what will happen if your wrist starts bleeding again.”

“Well, we were being Indian chiefs,” began Florence, “an’—an’ I was out on the warpath, going to scalp Molly Green. And I ran, and Molly ran, an’ I fell over a tree-root and the knife cut my wrist.”

“The knife!” said Winona, for nobody had mentioned a knife before. “Where did you get a knife?”

Florence hung her head.

“I—I borrowed your penknife out of your knapsack when you laid it on the grass to get lunch out of it.”

“The knife? I didn’t.”

“No; the knapsack,” said Florence meekly. “An’—an’ oh, dear sister, I’m so sorry!”

Winona could scarcely help laughing, worried as she was. When Florence had been naughty she always became suddenly very affectionate. At other times she wasn’t, especially.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said gravely. “I don’t know what Mrs. Bryan will say to you, nor mother, when she hears about it.”

“Let me see,” said Mrs. Bryan behind them. She had hurried over at Lucy’s summons.

“Oh, is it—is it an artery?” breathed Winona, as Mrs. Bryan bent over the wounded arm.

Mrs. Bryan laughed. “Nothing of the sort, you foolish child,” she said. “It’s only a deep cut. It didn’t even strike a large vein.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said Winona, drawing a long breath.

She ran off to get her First Aid kit out of her knapsack, and, coming back, presently had Florence bandaged up scientifically, and much impressed with the importance of what she had done.

“Will I have to be carried on a stretcher?” the little girl wanted to know.

“Not a bit of it,” said Mrs. Bryan briskly. “You will have to walk on your own two feet, like any other naughty little girl.”

“Oh, was I naughty?” said Florence cheerfully. “I forgot that!”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Bryan, “you were very naughty. I think we shall have to confine you to camp for two days, when we get there.”

“All right,” said Florence complacently, “but now please can’t I be carried on a stretcher? I should think I might!”

“All right, let’s,” said Louise, who had come up along with the rest of the girls, in Mrs. Bryan’s wake. “Only remember, Florence Merriam, once you get up on that stretcher you have to stay there.”

“Of course!” said Florence indignantly.

By this time all the girls were clustered about the interesting invalid, and the stretcher idea struck them all as a very fine one. It would help them to put the Wood Craft they had been learning into practice. Winona picked up her gory penknife, and began to wash it in the brook before she started to cut wood with it.

“Oh,” said Florence plaintively, “I thought you’d always keep it that way, to remember me by!”

“I’ll have chance enough to remember you without that,” replied Winona feelingly, and went off to look for poles with the others. Edith Hillis pulled her embroidery out of her knapsack and mounted guard over the Blue Birds, who were, however, a rather subdued flock by now.

Meanwhile the rest of the girls picked out four saplings which grew at the edge of the wood beyond the meadow, and nicked them at the bottom patiently till they fell. The next thing was to tie them together. But nobody had anything to do it with, till Mrs. Bryan remembered a bunch of leather thongs she carried.

“I always have at least two along for extra shoe-laces, when I’m camping,” she explained, “and they always come in use for something else before the time is over. An old guide up in the Adirondacks told me to do that, and it’s always a good thing for campers to do.”

The thongs bound the saplings into a frame, and Louise secured them to a knot that was newly learned, and the pride of her life.

“That can’t come out,” she said, surveying it with pleasure, for learning to do it had earned her a much-valued bead.

For the covering of the stretcher Adelaide produced an old gray shawl from her knapsack.

“Father made me bring it,” she explained rather shamefacedly.

“Just the thing!” said Mrs. Bryan heartily.

They wrapped it round the frame, and it went around three times, being large, so that a couple of pins held it fast. Then they lifted the gratified Florence on to it and started off down the road again. They had cleared up the fragments of their luncheon first, and buried neatly all the scraps and debris, so that there were no excursiony-looking boxes and crusts littering their resting-place.

The girls took turns carrying the stretcher, and as there were fourteen of them, counting Mrs. Bryan, many hands made light work. As Louise had prophesied would happen, after a little while Florence became restless. The other Blue Birds were having lovely times frolicking all over the road, chasing butterflies and picking flowers and playing with the dog. Florence found it rather stupid to sit in solitary grandeur on a stretcher, and listen to what Winona and Adelaide, before her, and Marie and Edith, behind her, were saying about their own affairs. So at the first stop to change bearers she wanted to get down. But Mrs. Bryan was firm.

“No, indeed,” she said, “the first thing Blue Birds must learn is to obey orders and keep promises. You promised to stay up there till evening, Florence, and you must do it.”

Florence pouted, but she stayed. She really had lost quite a little blood in her adventure with her sister’s penknife, and, though Mrs. Bryan did not tell her so, the walk might have been too much for her. She wriggled and yawned, and once sat up straight, till her bearers requested her to lie still. But presently she had a companion in misery.

It was nearly the end of the journey, and the farmhouse where the girls planned to stay the night was in sight. Winona, strolling on ahead, saw a small gray kitten prowling along the side of the road. It was a most unhappy kitten; it looked as if it hadn’t had a square meal since it could remember, and there was an ugly-looking place on its side as if something had worried it. It limped a little, too, poor little cat, and altogether a more forlorn animal would have been hard to find. But Winona pounced on it.

“Oh, you poor little cat!” she cried. “Look, Helen, some horrid dog has hurt it.”

“Oh, don’t pick it up!” said Marie. “It may have something awful.”

“Smallpox, maybe?” inquired Winona sarcastically. “Nonsense, Marie, the poor little thing’s been worried by a dog, and it hasn’t had enough to eat, that’s all. I’m going to adopt it.”

And in spite of Marie’s protests she picked it up and wrapped it in her handkerchief, and carried it back to Florence, who was wriggling on her stretcher, and wishing that she hadn’t demanded that evidence of invalidism.

“Here, Florence,” said Winona, “hold this kitty till we get to the farmhouse.”

“Oh, a kitty! Poor little thing!” cried Florence, adopting the cat on the spot, and letting it cuddle down by her, which it was willing enough to do, for it seemed to be as tired as it was hungry.

“Are you sure——” began Marie again.

Marie’s father was a professor in the high-school, and as a result she knew about more kinds of germs than the rest had ever heard of.

“Mother lets us bring in hurt animals, always, and look after them,” said Winona. “Germs can’t get you if you’re careful. We can wash our hands in disinfectant as soon as we get to the farmhouse. I have some in my first-aid kit.”

“And what are you going to do with the cat?” asked Louise, coming up to the other side of the stretcher and surveying the much-discussed animal without great affection.

“Keep it, if Mrs. Bryan doesn’t mind, as it doesn’t belong to anyone,” said Winona coolly. “It ought to make a good camp mascot.”

Louise eyed the kitten again—they were nearly at the farmhouse by this time.

“It isn’t exactly my idea of a mascot,” she said candidly. “What about Puppums? I thought he was elected to the position.”

“Well, then, the kitty can be the under-mascot,” said Winona undauntedly. “Anyway, when I get through nursing her she’ll be a perfectly good cat—see if she isn’t!”

“I doubt it!” said Louise and Marie together, as if they had been practising a duet.

“Wait!” said Winona as they mounted the steps.

There were plenty of rooms, for the farm people took boarders all August; but even so, there were not enough for nearly twenty people. However, Mrs. Norris, the farmer’s wife, had been prepared beforehand for the descent, and she had extra cots made up and ready in all the rooms, and unlimited hot water for baths.

Winona did not come in when the others did. She sat down on the porch floor, pulled out her first-aid kit for the second time that day, sent Florence in for a basin of warm water, and set about doctoring the kitten. She sponged off the torn place in its side, and the little hurt in one of its hind legs that had made it limp. This last was only a scratch, but it had stiffened. She rubbed salve in the hurt places. Then she bandaged the cat’s leg very successfully. But when it came to tying up the side—for the cat would certainly have licked the salve off if she could—it wasn’t so simple. There wasn’t anything to fasten the bandage to. Finally she wound it round and round the meek little animal, and sewed it up on top. The cat looked as if it had on a large and fashionable sash, but it did not object. Then Winona gave it some evaporated cream out of a can in her knapsack, watched it while it ate, which it did till the belt tightened dangerously, and took it into the house with her. Florence took the basin back to the place she had gotten it from.

“Does this kitten belong to you?” Winona asked the landlady, who was hurrying about a long table in the dining-room, putting dishes full of steaming things on the table.

“Bless my soul, no!” she answered, stopping with a pan of baked beans poised in mid-air. “Why, I do believe that’s the kitten that belonged to Medarys, down the road, and they moved away last week. Well, poor little thing, the dogs must have got after it. It’s a mercy it got away at all.”

“People who abandon cats that way ought to be left out in a wilderness themselves, without anything to eat,” said Mrs. Bryan warmly, as she came up behind them.

“Ain’t it so?” said the landlady. “I’ll get somebody to drown the poor little thing to-morrow.”

“Oh, no! I’ll keep it if it’s nobody’s,” Winona said eagerly. “You don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Bryan?”

“If it hasn’t mange,” said Mrs. Bryan prudently.

“It hasn’t,” Winona and Florence assured her together. “It’s only hurt.”

“Very well,” said the Guardian; and the Merriams ran off to wash their hands in disinfectant and straighten themselves generally for supper. They left the cat in their room.

That certainly was a supper. When you have walked all day in the open you feel as if you could eat a house, if nothing tenderer offers itself. Even Nataly Lee, who was genuinely tired to death, was hungry. The girls stood behind their chairs for a moment, saying one of the Camp Fire graces softly in unison. Then they sat down, and ate as if lunch had been only a dream.

After supper the hostess showed them her long parlor and invited them to make themselves at home. But they were all too sleepy to frolic. Louise, who was untirable, did indeed unsling her banjo from across her shoulder and try to sing, but she interrupted herself in the middle of “Nellie Gray” with a gigantic yawn. The Blue Birds were all asleep in their chairs, and had to be marched off to bed half conscious. It was only eight, but the elder sisters and cousins who took them up liked the looks of the white cots very much, and—well, it seemed so useless to go downstairs again, some way. So Winona and Adelaide and Louise and Elizabeth, and Marie, who was looking after such Blue Birds as had not sisters along, simply went to bed, too, when they had attended to their charges. The other girls sat sleepily downstairs for awhile, waiting for their friends to come back. And then they, too, came upstairs and went to bed—and by eight-thirty there was nothing to be heard of seven Blue Birds, thirteen Camp Fire Girls, a dog and a cat, but twenty even breathings from as many cots, an occasional snore from the back porch where Puppums was tied, and a loud, ecstatic purr from the corner of Winona’s cot, where the Medary’s late kitten was privately spending the night.