Chapter 3

"'Years and years ago, before this land was settled by any but the Indians, King George of England sent men to this country to look for tall trees that would make good masts for his ships. They went up the rivers and lakes looking everywhere for the special trees. Here on these hills they found these great trees. So the men marked "K.G." on the trees, charted them on a map which they carried, and went on their way. But for some reason they were never cut and carried away to be used on his ships. There they stand to-day, strong and straight, marked for masts.'

"After the old man had finished his story and had left us, I said to my friend, 'Marked for a mast because it is straight and strong. I have a girl who also is marked for a mast and some day she will carry with her, under her colors, many boys and girls. We are sending her to the leaders' conference this summer so that she may begin to make ready for her work.' Mary, dear, it is wonderful to have been chosen by the King of England and to have been marked for use with his initials, but it is more wonderful to have been chosen by a greater king and marked with his name. Perhaps you can guess what the mark I see on you might be--It is C. L. Write and tell me all about the conference, won't you?

"Lovingly your friend,

"Margaret Lane."

'Twas a very thoughtful girl who went down the street. In one hand a long letter and in the other a closely written card. The one said, "Come and have a real jolly, good time." The other said, "Get ready for service." Which should it be?

As she sat in the hammock thinking of her good friend in Maine, there came again to her mind the last night Mrs. Lane had been with them. They had been talking over plans for the summer and Mrs. Lane had quietly said, "I like to think that a good time is one which you carry with you and which means more to you as the weeks go by than it did when you were enjoying it." Which good time would she carry with her longer? Which would make of her the finer girl? Which did she want most to carry with her? And as she thought, the way became clearer.

Finally she went to her room and returned in a few minutes with a writing case and pen.

"Dear George," she began. "Weren't you good to ask me to go with the family to the camp! I can't think of any camp where I would enjoy myself more and I surely appreciate the invitation. But I can't accept it this time for that is the time set for the conference to which I am really going this year. Our church has made it possible for me to go, and I know it will do much in getting me ready to be of help to those who have helped me so much. I shall have so much more to give when I have studied for the two weeks with those who know, and have given their lives to the service of others. 'Tis an opportunity that I couldn't miss--not even for two weeks with you all. Thank you just the same."

Mary read the letter, then as she sealed it, she said with a smile, "Marked for a mast! Marked for a mast! Surely I mustn't bend or break if I can be a mast some day and carry a king's colors. C. L.?... C. L.?... Ah, I have it. 'Tis the word that Mrs. Lane uses so often--a Christian Leader! 'Tis wonderful to have her think I have been chosen to bear such a splendid name. I can hardly wait to meet the rest of the girls, who also wear the mark of the King, who will be there at the conference. I may be--oh, I hope I am--marked for a mast."

HER NEED

She was just a girl with a foreign name, a foreign face and a bit still of a foreign dress. But she was a girl, just the same, and her face was full of longing. Her home was near to a settlement where many girls came for lessons and for play. But somehow they had never asked her to come, though often she had sat on the steps at night where they must pass her. She had seen them come with their arms about each other, talking and laughing and singing--and when they had passed, she had gone to her lonely hall bedroom and hidden her face in the pillow.

Oh, no, she didn't cry. She was too brave to cry. She just suffered alone and longed for help.

It had been a year since she had left the home across the sea and had come to join her father in the land where "work was plenty and friends were easily made." But she had found her father living where she could not and would not live. The friends he had made in America she could not and would not have for hers. So when she had grown proficient enough in the factory, she had gone to live in that loneliest of all lonely places--a boarding house.

The days had passed one by one. Some of the boarders called her fussy; some said she was cold; some said she was "stuck-up" and none of them had found that beneath the surface there was a sweet, gentle, lonely heart.

Then came the strike--and she was out of work. In the bank she had a few dollars but they had soon fled and now--oh, what could she do? The way was so black ahead. She couldn't go to her father and his friends. What could she do?

The girls passed her as they went to the settlement house but no one noticed her sad little face. So she slowly rose and wended her way down the street. Out of the poorer section she went, then down a long avenue till she came to a great church. The altar lights were lighted. All was quiet and restful, so she sat, and looked, and listened for the still, small voice that she longed to hear.

A long, long time she sat there, counting her beads. Then she slowly rose and entered the confessional, but when she came out there was still the look of longing in her face. Toward the altar she went. Perhaps in the communion she might find help for her troubled soul, and again she counted her beads.

But, somehow, there was no prayer on the beads that seemed just what she wanted to say. Again, she went to the altar. But this time she lifted a face, white with suffering and thin from lack of food, to the face of the Christ above the altar and from the depths of her heart she prayed,

"O God! My God! I do not ask for money, though I am hungry. I do not ask for a home, though I am oh! so very lonely. I do not ask for work, though I have none. For only one thing I ask. Give me a friend. Oh, give me a friend! For Jesus' sake. Amen."

Again she walked back through the avenue and down the narrow street to her only home. The doors of the settlement were opened and the girls came out, happy as birds in the springtime. Quietly she watched them as they came nearer. Then suddenly one of them stopped.

"Excuse me for speaking to you," she said, "but our guardian heard that you lived in this house, so she asked us to come and invite you to come to Camp Fire with us next Tuesday. We are to have a supper together so that you will soon know us all and then we are to go for a hike together. Shall we stop for you as we go?"

For a moment she could not answer. In her throat was a lump so big that she could not swallow. Then she said in a low, sweet voice,

"Indeed I should like to go. Thank you for asking me."

And the girls passed down the street, singing their Camp Fire song.

But up in the little hall bedroom there was a girl with a foreign name, and a foreign face, and a bit of a foreign dress. She was on her knees, looking up at the heavens full of stars and over and over she was saying, "Oh, I thank thee. I thank thee. I have a chance to be a friend."

And her heart was content.

THE MESSAGE OF THE MOUNTAIN

"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth."... "Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." These were the two sentences that were neatly written on two pieces of paper on Marcia Loran's desk and the girl sat looking at them while the minutes went steadily by. How could they be? How could a power that made the earth be also in her life? How could it be?

Marcia had always been a reader of her Bible; she had always loved her mother's God and she loved Him now, but she was longing for help and no one seemed near to give it. And the reason for the need of this help was easy to give. The new girl who had moved into the next room had been laughing at her belief in God and Marcia knew no way to answer. She had hoped that her course in Bible at college would help her but somehow she seemed less able than ever to answer it now.

Who was God? Where was God? How could she know that these two verses could both be true? It was an honest doubt and she knew she must answer it before her mind could be at rest. She felt she could never ask the question in a letter to her mother, for mother must never know that she was questioning. Oh, if only some one knew how much she needed help!

But it was time for the picnic which the members of her class were to have, so she slipped the papers again into her Bible and went to the campus. They were to climb one of the mountains near by and dear old Professor Hastings was to be their guide. Old in years but young in heart and lithe still in limb, he stood out among the students as one of the best of the companions. As they climbed, Marcia kept near to him.

"I am looking," he said, "for a rare little flower which grows on this mountainside. Perhaps you can help me find it. It is very tiny and it grows in the crevice of the rock. But I am needing a specimen of it for my collection."

So together they looked in every crevice but not a bit of the little white blossom did they see.

Up, and up, and up they went. Some were tired and waited for the rest to climb and return. Some even went back down the mountainside. But when the top was reached, what a wonderful view spread out before them! Mountains and lakes and streams; villages and cities and lonely farms; beauty and calmness and majesty, all seemed to flood in at once on the minds and hearts of those who looked.

After they had rested a while, the old man lightly touched the hand of the girl and said,

"I have heard it said that one of my blossoms has been found on that cliff not far away. Will you come with me to see?"

So they began to search the cliff; then they found a hidden cave and explored that; Marcia heard a tiny stream of water trickling in the cave, and when she had found the water, she found also, close to the water's edge, a beautiful clump of waxy white blossoms, sweet and fragrant, and hanging tightly to the rock.

"Oh! oh! Come, sir," called the girl. "I am sure these are what you seek. Oh, how beautiful they are!" And they stooped to gather them.

But just at that moment a flash of lightning lighted the cave and the thunder rolled. In a moment the rain was coming in torrents, and the noise of the thunder as it rolled from cliff to cliff was terrifying. A giant pine tree which stood just before the entrance of the cave was rent from top to bottom and went crashing down the mountainside. The noise of the wind and storm was deafening. Pale and trembling, the girl pushed farther and farther into the cave till, crouching down, she touched something cool. It was the little white flowers.

They were not afraid. The rain might fall as hard as it would but it would not blast their beauty. They were protected by a bit of overhanging rock. The lightning might flash about the cave but it was calm inside. Who had made the tiny blossoms to grow here in the rock, protected from storm and blast? God! She, too, was being cared for while her companions might be in the fury of the storm. Who was caring for her? Her friend? No, he was interested in something at the entrance of the cave. God was caring for her even as he cared for the little blossom.

"Come, Marcia, come and watch the storm," called the professor. "I have never seen such a beautiful one. Isn't it strange that that electricity was all there in the clouds as we came up the mountain though we knew it not? I love to watch a storm for it shows so clearly the power and majesty of our God. Watch the trees bend with the wind! Listen to the rocks send back the sound of the thunder! See the little bird on yonder nest snuggling close to keep the little ones safe! And see, far away, the sun shining on the little village of the plain. We are in the storm, child, yet we are safe and sheltered."

With her hand held fast in that of her old friend, the fear gradually died away, and when the storm was over she, too, was glad she had seen from the mountaintop the wonder of a mountain storm.

Soon they gathered the little white blossoms, but not all of them found their way into the collection at the college. A little spray was tenderly pressed between the leaves of Marcia Loran's Bible and a third little slip of paper was fastened to the other two. It read: "God is great but God is love. I will trust him and not be afraid."

THE WINNING OF AN HONOR

Barbara Lewis was very much puzzled. All the girls in her camp fire were winning the right to embroider their symbol on the dress of their guardian and she wanted to do the same. But how could she? She had chosen for her name, "Chante--I _serve_," and she wanted to really win the right to have the name, but how could she? She was not allowed to go into the kitchen to help there at home, for the cook would leave if she were disturbed, so she couldn't do as some of her friends were doing and learn to cook. She couldn't serve mother, for mother was always away at the club or doing work about the country for the suffrage cause. There were maids to do the mending and the sewing, so how could she serve there?

Some of the girls could serve at their church, but her teacher had never asked her to do one thing, though she was always ready. Her teacher had not formed a club of her girls, so of course she knew them only on Sundays. There was no chance to serve the church. If she only knew the minister, perhaps he would suggest a way, but he was very tall and very dignified, so she just couldn't ask him. Whatever could she do?

It had been weeks since their guardian had told them that when they had earned the right to their names, they could embroider the symbol on her dress, and every day since then she had wished she knew what to do. Mary had chosen the name "Aka--I _can_," and when she had proved that she could break herself of using slang by using none for a whole month, she put a tiny little white flower on the dress, for she was using pure speech.

"Frilohe" was the name Grace had chosen and it meant, "_A friend who loves to help_." Grace's mother had been in the hospital and Grace had taken care of the brothers and sisters all the time, so, of course, they all agreed that she had earned the right.

And now Barbara felt that she just must think of a way. She would go to the library and ask her friend there if she knew what she could do to serve.

Now it chanced that from that library there were going out almost every day girls to tell stories to groups of children about the city. Sometimes they went to the orphan homes, sometimes to the hospitals, sometimes to the crowded streets. Into many needy places they were sent, and already the children were beginning to look for the gypsy-girls who were story-tellers. As Barbara entered the library, one of the girls was just leaving, so she stopped for a moment and told about her new work and how much she loved it.

"Aha," said Barbara, "I believe I could do that. I have read such lots and lots of stories, I am sure I could do that. I should love to try. But they haven't asked me. I couldn't volunteer, for mother would think me very bold. Oh dear, I am sure I could serve in that way."

All the way home she thought the matter over and then a plan came to her. Just back of the house there was an alley and the little children there were always looking through the fence at the flowers in her beautiful garden. She would tell stories to these little children and see what she could do. So she went into the house to find the stories she would use. All the afternoon she looked in her old books. Then she was sure she was ready.

For a long time she hesitated the next morning as she dressed. She must look her very best if she was to win the children. Finally she chose a little blue gingham dress that she liked much--perhaps they would like it too. It was only ten o'clock when she went into the garden to wait. Dear me! Weren't they coming this morning? One hour passed and then another half.

Just then Tommy, the boy who threw stones, and chased the cats, and did all sorts of things that were naughty, pushed his dirty face against the fence. Oh my, she could never tell stories to him! But Tommy saw her there in the garden and said:

"Wisht you would give me a posy. Mom's sick and she hain't got none."

Then the gate of the garden was opened and Barbara said:

"Of course I will give you some flowers for your mother. Choose what you would like and I will cut it with these shears."

"Um! Um!" said Tommy. "Um! I'd like some of them blue flowers. Say, I like blue flowers, and blue sky, and I like that blue dress. I wish Mary had a blue dress."

"And who is Mary?" said Barbara.

"Oh, she is one of my sisters," said Tommy. "You see, there is six of us and Mary is the pretty one. She has blue eyes and curls. Um! Um! I wish you could see her."

"I'd like to see her," said Barbara. "If you will go and bring her here I will tell you both a story. Would you like that?"

"Sure," said Tommy. "Sure I would. Kin I bring them all?" and off he ran with his precious flowers.

In five minutes he was back, followed by Mary and Katie and Jimmie and Mike and Susan--all dirty, all barefoot, and all in a hurry to see the flowers and hear the story. About this time Barbara began to feel queer inside. How could she ever keep them still? Suppose they should begin to run over her father's flowers! She almost wished she had not asked them to come. But she remembered for what she was working, and she said to herself, "Chante, _I serve_; Chante--_I serve_," over and over till her courage came back.

Then she seated them all on the steps and began. Susie wanted "Red Riding Hood," and Katie wanted "Goldilocks," so these were first. Then Mary wanted "Cinderella," but Tommy was not to be forgotten.

"I want a boy's story. Tell me the one you promised me or I'll push the rest all home," he said.

What could she do? She never remembered having read a boy's story. Oh dear, maybe she couldn't win Tommy.

Over and over in her mind went the stories she had gotten ready. Then she remembered one that she had loved years ago. It was about Cedric, the Knight. This was just the one for Tommy. So she told it to him while his eyes grew bigger and bigger. When the story was done, Barbara and Tommy were friends and Tommy had a new hero.

When the dinner bell rang, she was still telling stories to the dirty little group but she had forgotten why she was doing it, for she was living the stories with the children.

The days went by and every morning found Barbara out in the garden, if only for one story, but now the Lowinskys were not the only ones. They had brought their neighbors and friends till the group sometimes numbered forty. The steps had grown too small, so they had moved to the wall. Then that had not been satisfactory, so they had moved out under the trees away down by the little brook. Here the birds sang, the little brook whispered, and everything was just right for the little story-teller. Over and over she had told the stories with a new one now and then, but Cedric, the Knight, was the favorite one. Tommy always stood near Barbara and saw to it that all the boys were listening, so he had a fine chance to whisper, "Now my story. Please tell mine."

And she was telling it again one morning when she realized that some one stood near who was not a child. It was Miss Rose, her guardian, who listened for a moment and then drew back where the children could not see her. When the story hour was over, she was nowhere to be seen. But later in the evening a package was left at the door for Barbara. It contained that precious dress for which she had longed.

Pinned to the dress was a card which said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these, my little ones, ye have done it unto me." And below was written, "I shall be glad to have you put your symbol on my dress before Friday night so that we may tell the girls at the Ceremonial about your story-group."

Later when Barbara had finished the embroidery, it showed a tiny figure of a primitive woman surrounded by little children. And the little lady was telling them a story. She had found her way to serve.

DADDY GRAY'S TEST

May Langley had spent four happy years at the University, and now Commencement time had come. It had been easy for her to get her lessons, so she had had time to herself. She was pretty and was always well dressed; she could dance well and sing well, so of course she had been a favorite, especially with the boys.

But the coming of the end of the school life had brought to her a real problem. She knew some of the boys would want to write to her. Deep in her heart she knew that some of them already liked her more than a little. She could not write to all of them. Whom should she choose? Perhaps the one she chose would eventually be the one she should marry, so it was wise to choose with care. Over and over she turned the question in her mind.

There was Tom,--gay, careless Tom with a big heart and plenty of money. His father was an oil man and there was no other child. He had done little with his studies but he had given her many a good time. His life would probably be one of ease. Tom was really quite attractive.

Then there was Bob, the football player. Already his name was known throughout the country. It was great fun to go to games where he was to play, for she shared the honors with him afterward. He was rough and ready, and, at times, a bit too boisterous, but withal a good fellow.

Then there was Earl, the student. He had ranked first in his class but his books were all in all to him. A good position was waiting for him in a neighboring college and he had told her that he should marry so that he could have a home of his own to which the students might come.

There were others, too, but these three seemed to stand out first in her thoughts. How could she decide? She and her mother were alone in the world and mother was a helpless cripple and so could not come to the Commencement. For the first time in her life, she began to face the future seriously.

'Twas the Sunday of Commencement week and she was strolling across the campus when she saw in the distance dear, old Professor Gray--Daddy Gray, the girls called him.

"He is the very person to help me," she said to herself, and hurried to catch him before he left the campus.

"Daddy Gray," she began, "I have a queer question to ask you. I am choosing some boy friends whom I wish to have as friends after I leave. Tell me some principles on which to base my choice."

A rare smile crossed the face of the old man as he patted her golden hair.

"Good for you! I am glad you are thinking. Long, long ago when my own girlies were choosing their friends I asked them to remember two things as they chose--not only that the one they chose might be their husband, but that he also might be my son, and the father of their children. One thinks much more about the principles of the man who is to be father of their children than about the man whom they love and want to marry. You know what a high ideal your mother holds. Test your friends by that also. Never mind yourself--think of others."

Then he left her to think.