The Campfire Girls at Camp Keewaydin | Page 9

that gushed out from the rock above their heads, trickling down
through ferns to be caught and held in the pool below, so still and
shining that it reflected the faces of the two girls like a mirror.
"Oh-h!" breathed Migwan in rapture, sinking down among the ferns
and lilies that bordered the spring and dabbling her fingers in the limpid
water, "I feel just like a wood-nymph, or a naiad, or whatever those
folks were that lived by the springs and fountains in the Greek
mythology."
Withdrawing her fingers from the water and clasping her hands loosely
around her knees, she began to recite idly:

"Dian white-armed has given me this cool shrine, Deep in the bosom of
a wood of pine; The silver sparkling showers That hive me in, the
flowers That prink my fountain's brim, are hers and mine; And when
the days are mild and fair, And grass is springing, buds are blowing,
Sweet it is, 'mid waters flowing, Here to sit and know no care, 'Mid the
waters flowing, flowing, flowing, Combing my yellow, yellow hair."
"That poem must have been written about this very place," she added,
dreamily gazing into the shadowy depths of the pool beside her.
"Who wrote it?" inquired Gladys.
"I've forgotten," replied Migwan. "I learned it once in Literature, a long
time ago."
Both girls were silent, gazing meditatively into the pool, like _ gazing
into a future-revealing crystal, each absorbed in her own day dreams.
They were startled by the sound of a clear, musical piping, coming
apparently from the tangle of bushes behind them. Now faint, now
louder, it swelled and died away on the breeze, now fairly startling in
its joyousness, now plaintive as the wind sighing among the reeds in
some lonely spot after nightfall; alluring, thrilling, mocking by turns;
elusive as the strains of fairy pipers; utterly ravishing in its sweetness.
Migwan and Gladys lifted their heads and looked at each other in
wonder.
"Pipes of Pan!" exclaimed Migwan, and both girls glanced around, half
expecting to see the graceful form of a faun gliding toward them among
the trees. Nothing was to be seen, but the piping went on, merrily as
before, rising, falling, swelling, dying away in the distance, breaking
out again at near hand.
"Oh, what is it?" cried Gladys. "Is it a bird?"
"It can't be a bird," replied Migwan, "it's a _tune--sort_ of a tune. No, I
wouldn't exactly call it a tune, either, but it's different from a bird call.
It sounds like pipes--fairy pipes--Pipes of Pan. Oh-h-h! Just listen!

What can it be?"
The clear tones had leaped a full octave, and with a mingled sound of
pipes and flutes went trilling deliriously on a high note until the
listeners held their breath with delight. Then abruptly the piping
stopped, ending in a queer, unfinished way that tantalized their ears for
many minutes afterward, and held them motionless, spellbound,
waiting for the strain to be resumed. They listened in vain; the
mysterious piper called no more. Soon afterward a bugle pealed forth,
sounding the mess call, and coming to earth with a start, the two girls
raced back to Ponemah with their water pitcher and then hastened on
into the dining room, where the campers, now all clad in regulation
blue bloomers and white middies, were already assembled.

CHAPTER III
THE GREAT MYSTERY SOUND
After supper the camp was summoned to the smaller bungalow for first
assembly and Sing-Out. Over the wide entrance doorway of this
picturesque building among the trees was painted in large ornamental
letters:
MATEKA
THE HOUSE OF JOYOUS LEARNING
This house, Dr. Grayson explained, was the place where all the craft
work was to be done. The light from the lamps fell upon beautifully
decorated board walls; wood-blocked curtains, quaint rustic benches
and seats made from logs with the bark left on; flower-holders
fashioned of birch bark; candlesticks of hammered brass, silver and
copper; book covers of beaded leather; vases and bowls of glazed clay.
At one end of the long room stood a piano; at the other end was the
huge cobblestone fireplace whose chimney the Winnebagos had

noticed from the outside; in it a fire was laid ready for lighting.
The seventy-five girls filed in and seated themselves on the floor,
looking expectantly at Dr. Grayson, who stood before the fireplace. He
was an imposing figure as he stood there, a man over six feet tall, with
a great head of white hair like a lion's mane, which, emphasizing the
ruddy complexion and clear blue eyes, contrived to make him look
youthful instead of old.
In a beautiful speech, full of both wisdom and humor, he explained the
ideals of camp life, and heartily welcomed the group before him into
the family circle of