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Flamina was a full-fledged Wood Gatherer now. The brightest silver spark in the night of her eye, beneath those curly lashes, was a reflection of the fagot-ring upon her finger.

The ceremony of her initiation, interrupted by the witch-stenciled war-plane, by the knights of the sky, with their clipped anecdotes of airdom adventures–their wingèd slang–had been gone through later upon the white beach, while:
“Drowsy wavelets come and go,
To weave a dream-spell ’round Wohelo!”

She was getting into her heart of hearts the Wohelo magic now; the triple ideals of Work, Health, Love–the cord that bound her to her Camp Fire Sisters, those daughters of the Sun, who, as she increasingly understood, wedded old and new, the poetry of the past–of races that went before them 佛山桑拿一条龙 upon American soil–with the reaching-out progress of the present.

And “there is that giveth and yet increaseth,” so the Bible says: every hour spent in truly naturalizing the little foreign-born sister, cultivating the freshly grafted shoot, with its transplanted green leaf, had been one of richness for the instructors, too; from Olive, who had improved her English, to Sara and Betty, who had helped to fashion her ceremonial dress, and Sybil who had wrought a leaf upon its bosom.

The music of her caressing song, whether it dwelt in childish passion, wild and tender, upon the country and sea she loved, recalling her own blue bay of Naples, or matched the mischief of her dancing footsteps, gay as the most elusive little leaf, in a
“Cip i tè ciop!
(Chippety chop!)”

warmed their blood to a more sparkling fire.

But, sweetest of 佛山桑拿交流区 all at this Peace Celebration–never to be forgotten–it added a new and soaring note to the song, fairest in Columbia’s ears: “America the beautiful!”
“And crown they good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea.”

Ah! well might the hearts of Columbia’s daughters swell–those of the Morning-Glory Group rejoice–for by the glow of the Council Fire on lonely beaches, by the encircling ring around symbolic candles, by welding ritual, poetry and song, in this the morning-glory hour of the World’s rebirth, after a night of pain, God had crowned America’s good with sisterhood:
“From Sea to shining Sea.”
CHAPTER XX CHRISTMAS OF 1918
The moving note which merged into melody at the first Peace Celebration, when War was, forever, as men hoped, a thing of the past, turned to mirth in the second one–the Christmas Ceremonial.

It was 佛山夜生活桑拿论坛 more than mirth in one girlish heart–one, at least. It was mounting thanksgiving which often sang itself into a sobbing prayer of joy, like the sun-curl upon the swelling wave when tumultuously it breaks.

For He had come back.

Lieutenant Iver Davenport–without as much hair as Peace Europa, because of the burning effects of mustard gas–slowly recovering from shrapnel-wounds, was back at Camp Evens, where once, in premature passion, he had rashly “bawled out” a sergeant, now, by the fortunes of war, a lieutenant like himself.

His mother and sister had been up to see him. They had sat by his cot in the base hospital, and Sara, knowing the sort of news for which he was thirsting, had told him all the story of their camping summer, making it center chiefly around one leading figure–that of the Torch Bearer, Olive Deering.

She 佛山桑拿按摩多少钱 described the waning fires of resolution upon the hill of the night-heron, when grit had gone glimmering, and how Olive had gloriously rekindled the flame from the glow in her own breast–and by the thought of what Soldier Brothers were enduring over there.

“It was from a letter about her cousin Clay–Clayton Forrest–that she read. He apparently did ‘his all’ over there, but came through, as–as did that other cousin of Olive’s, the rich banker’s son, who put in his time working in a shipyard on this side. Atlas, we nicknamed him because when we first saw him he was apparently holding up–supporting–with his back and shoulders a horribly heavy, raw, yellow ship’s rib–and the World with it…. That’s just how he felt; I know he did…. Never mind; I like him awfully well now–ever since I let him take my freak of a dory! Ha! 佛山夜生活地址 that’s another story.”

So Sara’s tongue ran on, a moved, at times a merry, flame, into the returned soldier’s ear.

“But,”–her voice retreated into the softest twilight of conjecturing speech–“but I don’t believe Atlas–or any one of her cousins–holds up Olive’s world. Perhaps I ought not to say it….”

She broke off, mistily, as her eyes met her brother’s, with the homing hunger in them; her brother who had temporarily lost his hair–but not his smile!

“Do you mean–mean to say”–he began, in the old headstrong way. “Ah, well! nothing matters, girlie, except that I’m at home–at home, alive, and can soon see–everybody–for myself. Although I don’t know whether they’ll let me out of here before Christmas, or not. If they do–if I should be discharged from the hospital, and sent to the Casualty Detachment–why, I might get 佛山桑拿按摩酒店 back to you sooner–sooner than I hope for, now.”

“Quite–unexpectedly–perhaps?”

The sister’s heart gave a flying leap.

“Possibly. But don’t look for it! As I say, what does–anything–matter, except that I will be back with you–sooner or later?”

The Flame suddenly bowed her wet cheek on the narrow cot next his; the ring in the last words, the whole world of relief, gave her for the first time an inkling into the soldier’s lot over there; no letter of his had done so.

“While the fight was on, all was Advance–and a heart full of cheers!”

“I–I was always Iver’s best chum–he said so–but I suppose I’ll have to resign myself now to the fact that when he went over the top at Chateau-Thierry and St. Mihiel–four times he led his men over the top, once into that Belleau wheat-field, yellow in the morning, red at night, and again into the meadow where he remembers thinking, before he was shot down, that the clover was sweet, even if he couldn’t smell it for the gas–his real thoughts, when he had any, were more of another girl than of me. Well! I can’t be jealous about that, as I was over the things he left with me! Oh! if he only could be discharged before Christmas–and spend it with us!”

Such was the tenor of the sisterly thoughts as the train bore her back to the home city of Clevedon, now daily witnessing the return of officers and men who wore upon their right sleeve the gold stripes telling of service in France–supplemented often and nobly by the added gold which spoke of wounds.

“Dear me! I wish they–the doctors up there at Camp Evens–would pronounce him better, turn him over to the Casualty

Department; then he’d probably get his discharge right away, and arrive home unexpectedly–perhaps! Oh-h!”

The bliss of the latter possibility was the spirit in Sara Davenport’s feet which kept them moving elastically from room to room of her father’s suburban bungalow on the day before Christmas Eve. It was a red-hearted wreath here, a garland there, typifying the matchless thanksgiving of this Christmas in many a heart, to be green while life should last–and the heart have a reminiscent throb!

It was creaming, frothing, whipping, mixing, and cutting into diamond shapes which borrowed luster from the diamond mine of contingent expectancy within such as had never transfigured cookies before.

For if Iver should possibly arrive, not even the type of fare set before aviators on a moonlit beach and jollified by the airy slang of

space, was meet for the returning You!

“Those air-scouts would call these coated chocolate bars creamed joy-sticks,” thought Sara, as she reverted to candy-making and Camp Fire recipes. “Well! if Iver should be with us, again, on Christmas Day, every mouthful I eat will be a joy-stick–tasteless except for the joy. Oh-h! just suppose he should come to-night while I’m out–attending that Christmas Ceremonial at the Deerings’ home.”

“Maybe I could send him to fetch you,” returned her mother, to whom the latter remark was made aloud. “But, to my mind, there’s hardly a chance of it!… Here’s a box which has just come for you, daughter!”

“Oh, good gracious! it couldn’t be–from–him?”

No! It was a bunch of pearl-white Christmas roses grown in the conservatories of Manchester-by-the-Sea.

With it was no accompanying card, but a sheet of creamy, rough-edged, masculine note-paper, on which were a series of rather clever pen-sketches: overalled girls wielding rake, hoe, and sprayer upon a sea-girt hill; on the next page, a youth steering a blind horse between reefs of lumber, then with his back bent under a ponderous ship’s rib–a girl defying him–lastly, that girl upright in a dory that might have escaped from some boat-bedlam, signaling to Coast Guards.

“Atlas knew what would appeal to a Camp Fire Girl, with a taste for primitive picture-writing,” murmured the Flame to herself, nursing the starry roses, the stars in the eyes above them shining through those gold-tipped lashes, like a rayed nebula. “Well, well! I suppose this is a sort of silent tribute to the fact that we all–all–came through the Game with our wings, as an aviator would say; that we weren’t grounded in what we set out to do!”