great men and women of the world.

“But don’t think we are serious all the time,” she continued, her eyes brightening, “for we have heaps of fun. We take hikes; sometimes just a group go with their leader, but generally our Director takes the band. On these hikes we study woodcraft; that means we study the birds, their habits, and learn to know their songs and call-notes. We gather wild flowers, ferns, and grasses, and each girl reads up about the particular thing she finds and passes the information along. We study the trees, and the animals also by tracking their footmarks—well, to sum it all up, we study nature from growing things and living creatures.

“To read about things in a book is all right, Mrs. Morrow says, as it is helpful in identification and suggestion, but we strive to know things through personal experience. We are taught to find nature, too, in the crowded cities. That’s big, isn’t it?”

“Big!” echoed Nathalie, “the word big isn’t big enough to express it. I should say it meant—well”—she held out her arms, “the universe.”

There was something so responsive in her words and attitude, although they did not exactly express what she meant to convey, that Helen, with almost boyish frankness, held out her hand, crying, “Good! let’s shake. You are simply immense, Miss Page, or, in the words of our old French professor at school, ‘you—haf—much com—pree—henshun!’” This was said in mimic tone with laughing eyes, a shrug of the shoulders, and with outspread hands.

“We have indoor rallies, or Pioneer circles, also, Miss Page, when our Director gives us delightful little talks on ethical culture,—only ten minutes—” she pleaded laughingly, “also on history, astronomy,—we call them our star talks,—and other instructive subjects.

“You will be surprised, perhaps, but these talks are very interesting, not at all tiresome. The girls listen with all their ears and we learn an awful lot. One reason is that Mrs. Morrow loves young girls—for you see, she isn’t so very much older than we are—and she knows just how to talk to us, so that we don’t feel as if we were being preached at, or having wisdom jammed down our throats. It is just dramatizing serious things through play, so as to make us remember them as well as entertaining us. Then we have spelling-contests, cooking-matches,—I call them trials by fire,—sewing-bees, and all sorts of old-fashioned things.”

“But you have outdoor sports, too, do you not?” asked her listener, who was intensely interested.

“Indeed we do, any number of them: swimming, horseback-riding, rowing, canoeing, basket-ball, tennis, dancing, stilt-walking,—we make our own stilts,—kite-flying,—and we make our own kites, too. In fact, we do just about everything that stands for healthful recreation and wholesome fun. Isn’t that comprehensive enough?”

“How did you come to take the name ‘Pioneer’?”

“Well, you see it was this way; as the Boy Scouts strive to imitate the chivalry and higher qualities of the knights of olden times, so we, their sister organization, endeavor to emulate the sterling qualities of the early pioneer women. They learned to be courageous, resourceful, and efficient, as the home-makers of the brave men who founded this Republic—”

“Do you mean the wives of the Puritans and Pilgrims?”

“Yes, we mean all those women, North, East, South, and West,” Helen declared smilingly, “who helped their good men to build homes in the wilderness, who mothered their children with Spartan-like denial, and who—yes, who knew how to handle an old flintlock when they heard the cry of the Indian. Oh, no, I’m not originating, I am only an echo of Mrs. Morrow, who is way up on Colonial history.

“The Pioneer Girls,” she continued more seriously, “aim, by imitating the many qualities of these splendid women, to be worthy wives and mothers. Who knows?” she broke into a laugh, “the Girl Pioneers may be the mothers of men like Washington, Lincoln—O dear,” she stopped suddenly, “I am talking as if I had to speed a thousand words a minute!”

“Oh, go on!” cried Nathalie, inspired by her guest’s fervency, “I just love to hear you talk.”

“It is very good of you to say that,” declared Helen with a slight blush, “but I am almost ‘at the finish,’ as the boys say. But I must not forget to tell you that we love to gather around the open fire, cheer fires we call them, and tell stories. We generally try to make them stories about the pioneers, or heroic women, and sometimes we run in a story about some brave kiddie, for you know almost every one loves to hear about brave little children. Ah, that reminds me, did you ever hear about Mary Chilton? She was a real pioneer girl you know, for she came over with the Pilgrims.” Helen nodded her head impressively.

“No, I have read about Lola Standish, and I believe—yes—I saw her sampler once, and I am quite up on all the points of Priscilla’s courtship, but—”

“Who isn’t?” replied Miss Dame, “for she was a dear. Mary Chilton was a friend of hers. Why, don’t you remember she was the girl who made the bet with John Alden—slow old John—that when the little shallop struck Plymouth Rock (of course they never dreamed that they were going to make that old rock immortal) that she would jump on the rock first; and sure enough she did manage to land a second or so before John Alden.”

“Well, the Girl Pioneers aim high,” declared Nathalie, “and I certainly think they must be worthwhile girls. I shall love to meet your Pioneer friends—they cheered me up—” she added, “for they made me think of the girls at school, especially Grace Tyson. Why, she is so much like my chum that it almost seemed as if I were talking to her the other day! Your friends all have such happy faces, and ‘it is such a relief to see good red cheeks as made by Mother Nature,’ as Mother says. Some of the girls one sees in the cities nowadays have such a made-up appearance, especially those on the avenue Saturday afternoons in New York.”

“Yes, they have regular clown faces with their splashes of red, and their powdered noses,” returned her neighbor laughingly. “I always feel as if I wanted to tell them they had forgotten to rub the flour off. It doesn’t seem possible that any well-bred girl could think she looks nice all dabbed up in that way. But there, I am tiring you,” she added hastily, “so I am going to say good-by. Oh, I came very near forgetting to ask if you would like to have the girls call on you—I mean the girls of our group?” she hesitated. “I think you would like them, although they may not be as fashionable as your city friends.”

“Oh, but they are the kind of girls I like,” protested Nathalie hurriedly, “for I do not care for girls who are nothing but fuss and feathers. Please do bring your friends, for I know I shall like them, and then, too, they may tell me more about the good times you have.”

“Indeed they will,” said Helen with decision; “they will be only too pleased. When shall we come, will Thursday be a good day for you?”

“Yes, indeed; I shall be here—still in this old chair I presume; I shall watch for them with great impatience, for you know,” she added a little sadly, “they remind me of my schoolmates in the city. Oh, I have missed them dreadfully! Now, be sure to come—all of you!”

She rose in her chair to wave a good-by to her new friend, who, as she reached the gate, had turned and waved her hand.

Nathalie sank back in her chair with tear-dimmed eyes, for somehow that friendly salute had brought it all back—the