The Girl Scouts' Good Turn

"And it's somewhere there in fairyland--

It's where the rainbow ends!"

Marjorie Wilkinson hummed softly to herself as she skipped from place to place, adding the finishing touches to the effect she and her committee had planned.

It was the first Saturday of the regular fall term at Miss Allen's Boarding School. The girls were back again in their old places-all except the seniors of the previous year, who had graduated-and now the sophomores were preparing for the first social event of the year, their reception to the freshmen. Marjorie Wilkinson was chairman.

The clock struck seven, and she stood perfectly still in the center of the floor, viewing the result of their work. The bare, ugly gymnasium had disappeared; in its place was a little winter scene from fairyland. Cedar branches, decked with flakes of artificial snow, and great white snowbanks, completely hid the walls from view. Spread over the floor, except for a space in the middle reserved for dancing, were pine needles and more patches of snow; and everywhere frosty tinsel glimmered in the soft, blue light of the covered electric bulbs.

The girls walked lightly and spoke softly, as if they feared that by some rude noise they might break the magic spell of the scene.

Marjorie, wearing her first real party dress-a pale blue georgette, with a silver sash, and a narrow silver band about her forehead, seemed in perfect harmony with the blue and silver of the scene. But, standing gracefully erect, with one satin-slippered foot extended in front of the other, and her head thrown back as she contemplated the effect, she did not think of the impression she was making. It was not until Lily Andrews, her room-mate, drew her attention to her costume that she thought of herself.

"Your dress is just lovely with the rest of the effect," she said, putting her arm affectionately through Marjorie's.

"Thanks, Lil," replied the other girl carelessly. "Isn't the room wonderful? I think it's the prettiest scene, off the stage, that I ever saw!"

"It's lovely. They certainly can't help liking it, can they?"

"Poor freshies!" sighed Marjorie, with the infinite wisdom of the sophomore. "Remember how green we were?"

"Indeed, I do-and that first reception, when they still had the sorority! Didn't we just think Frances Wright and Ethel Todd were nothing short of goddesses? I wonder whether these freshmen know about our Girl Scout troop, and are as eager to make it as we were the sorority!"

But before Lily could reply, the orchestra, three players who came from the city, entered the room, and Marjorie hurried over to give them the final directions. When she turned around again, Lily had vanished; but near her stood Ruth Henry, her old friend from her home town, who had played the part of jealous rival ever since the girls had been at Miss Allen's.

"Hello, Marj!" She greeted her with the old familiarity; indeed, the girls were good friends now, in spite of all that had happened the previous year. "Your dress is sweet," she added.

"I'm glad you like it, Ruth. Yours is a dream, too!"

Ruth sat down on a chair near-by, and beckoned Marjorie to sit beside her.

"The freshies aren't here yet," she remarked. "We might as well rest. I want to ask you something."

Marjorie complied with her request as far as her physical presence was concerned. But her eyes wandered from one place to another over the room, reviewing the effect, and her mind was drifting from what Ruth was saying. But the latter hardly noticed her preoccupation, so intent was she upon her own interests.

"Listen, Marj!" She reduced her voice to an intimate tone. "Have you thought about our class president?"

"Our president?"

"Yes-not Doris Sands-of course, she is still president; but what I mean is-our next president!"

"No, I haven't," replied Marjorie, absently. "I never gave it a thought. Why?"

"Well, I have; and our class meeting is Monday evening, you know. I think we ought to talk it over, for it's important to get just the right girl."

"I suppose it is," admitted Marjorie, glancing nervously towards the door. "Why do you s'pose they're so late, Ruth?"

"Oh, they'll be along soon," replied Ruth, with annoyance. "It's hardly half-past seven."

But Marjorie could not content herself to sit still any longer.

"Well, it'll be hard to get anybody as good as Doris," she said, rising. "I wish it weren't against the Constitution to elect her over again."

"I hear my name being taken in vain," said a pleasant voice, and the girls looked up to see their pretty class president just behind them.

"Pardon me for interrupting your tete-a-tete, but do you know who has charge of the games?" she asked.

"Lily," replied Marjorie. "But you needn't worry; she's all prepared."

"Good!" exclaimed Doris, glad to dismiss the matter from her mind. Then, "I certainly am crazy to get acquainted with the freshmen. I know most of them by sight now, and I've talked to two or three, but I don't know any of their names."

"Won't it be fun to pick out the Girl Scouts?" remarked Ruth.

"But we don't pick them, Ruth," protested Marjorie; "they pick themselves."

At this moment half a dozen freshmen entered the open door of the gymnasium, and the girls hastened over to welcome them and to make them feel at home. They walked in shyly, hesitating just inside the door, for everything was new and strange to them.

Marjorie was seized with a great longing to seek out all the retiring ones and tell them that she would be their friend. But perhaps some of the freshmen might resent this, and interpret her attitude as condescending. So she tried to content herself with entertaining as many different girls as she could, and remembering as many names as possible.

The first freshman to make any definite impression upon her was Florence Evans, sister of Edith Evans, the senior who had served as Acting Lieutenant of the troop at camp, and who still held that office. It was Florence that introduced herself to Marjorie. Neither bold nor shy, with a little more than the ordinary amount of good looks, she seemed unconsciously to possess the poise of her older sister.

"I have heard so much about you, Marjorie," she said, not hesitating in the least to use the older girl's first name; "Edith told me all about your winning the canoe at camp. And I have been so anxious to meet you!"

"Thanks," replied Marjorie, sincerely flattered that the senior whom she admired so much had seen fit to mention her name at home. "We certainly did have a wonderful time during the summer!"

"I'm crazy to be a Girl Scout!" said Florence, enthusiastically. "My room-mate, Mildred Cavin"-she nodded toward an attractive girl a few feet away, talking to Lily-"my room-mate and I talk of nothing else."

Ruth, who overheard the remark, smiled with conscious self-importance; but Marjorie's thoughts flew back to the time when she was in Florence's place: a freshman eager to make good among the upper classmen. But then it was a question of popularity and personal favoritism; now everything was different.

"It all depends upon yourself, Florence," she said. "You can become a Girl Scout if you will work hard enough. You must receive a mark of over eighty per cent on your first report, and you must make the hockey squad. Then you'll be among the first to join."

"Yes, I know. But isn't it dreadfully hard to get on the hockey team? With so many upper classmen, I mean?"

By this time Mildred Cavin, Daisy Gravers, and Esther Taylor-three more freshmen-had joined them. Evelyn Hopkins, Ruth Henry's room-mate, who had missed making both the sorority and the Scout troop the previous year, sauntered up, just as Florence asked the question.

"It's an impossibility!" she exclaimed, pettishly. "At least, if you're not in right with Miss Phillips, the Gym teacher who is Captain of the troop, you don't stand one bit of show!"

Marjorie colored at the words and the tone of this statement; she so much desired that her classmates appear dignified and well-poised to the freshmen.

Esther Taylor, a stylish girl with a flippant manner, laughed derisively. "Scouts don't mean much in my young life," she said, defiantly. "I'm no soldier-girl!"

Marjorie did not feel ready to go into the explanation of what Girl Scouts really stand for; she merely arched her brows and looked away indifferently. To her relief, the orchestra struck up a one-step, and the girls all separated to dance.

Games and dancing followed alternately, until the groups were entirely broken up, and everyone was acquainted. It was half-past nine when an intermission was called for refreshments to be served.

The sophomores disappeared into a screened corner to procure the ice-cream for their guests, and while they were waiting for plates, Marjorie again encountered Ruth.

"It's my opinion," remarked the latter, "that we've struck a bunch of lemons! I haven't met a single girl so far that has pep enough to organize a secret class meeting, or put up any kind of a fight against us sophomores! Why, I don't believe there will be one girl in the whole freshman class who'll make the Girl Scout troop!"

"I'd be willing to bet a box of the best chocolates made that Edith Evans' sister makes it!" retorted Marjorie. "She's just the type!"

"I guess you're right," admitted Ruth; "but if you'd ever talk to that funny little thing over near the piano, you'd be disgusted with freshmen, too. She sort of keeps her mouth open, as if she weren't quite all there, and makes the queerest replies-or else none at all. But she's the most hopeless one I've struck yet."

"Who is she?" asked Marjorie, peeping around the screen and looking towards the orchestra. "That little girl in pink?"

"Yes-with the scared look."

"What's her name?"

"Alice Endicott," answered Ruth. Then, "But why all this interest, Marj?"

"No special reason, except that I'm sorry for anybody that is lonely. I think I'll try to make friends with her."

"You always did enjoy the 'Big Sister' act, didn't you?" jeered Ruth. A sarcastic little gleam came into her eyes. "How about Frieda Hammer?" she asked, pointedly. "She didn't turn up, did she?"

Ruth referred to the country girl whose father had worked on the farm where the Scout camp was situated the previous summer. The girl had come to the kitchen tent three separate times, at night, and upon each occasion had stolen a great deal of food. Upon the final occurrence she had been detected and identified, but although she had admitted the theft to Miss Phillips when she was later accused, she made no attempt at apology or explanation. The girl's ignorance, her wildness, her lack of advantages, had touched the pity of Marjorie and Frances, and some of the other softer-hearted Scouts; accordingly, the troop had voted to send Frieda to public school in the fall, assuming her support as their public Good Turn. Marjorie had been tremendously enthusiastic over the project, while Ruth, on the other hand, had thrown cold water upon it from the beginning. Now that the girl had not appeared as she had promised, Ruth felt elated; Marjorie, in her turn, was equally cast down.

"She may come yet!" she answered, defiantly, putting more hope into her tone than she really entertained. "Mrs. Brubaker wrote to Miss Phillips that Frieda's baby sister was sick! So probably she'll come in a week or so."

Marjorie succeeded in obtaining two plates of ice-cream and some cakes, and, holding them high above the heads of the crowd, made her way to the distant corner indicated by Ruth. She found the freshman still sitting alone, half hidden by an overhanging evergreen, gazing dejectedly into space.

"Pardon me," said Marjorie pleasantly, "may I give you some ice-cream?"

The girl looked up suddenly, and for an instant her brown eyes met Marjorie's. She seemed pale and thin, and her eyes appeared unusually large and liquid, as if tears were never far from the surface.

"Thank you," she muttered, rising and taking the plate.

"And may I sit with you?" continued the older girl. "At least, if you are not expecting--"

"No, no; nobody is with me!" She flushed painfully at the reference to her own unpopularity.

"Ruth Henry said she was just talking to you," said Marjorie hastily, trying to cover her embarrassment. "And your name is Alice Endicott, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And who is your room-mate?" pursued Marjorie, wondering why the girl, whoever she was, should desert Alice, knowing how shy she was.

"Esther Taylor," replied the freshman; "but she doesn't bother much with me."

It was obvious that poor little Alice was both homesick and lonely, and Marjorie's heart warmed toward her as it might to a lost child. She chatted pleasantly all through the intermission; then, securing her a partner for the next dance, she left with the promise to seek her again.

When the party was all over, and the tired sophomores were getting ready for bed, Marjorie, who still felt the sting of Ruth's taunt, remarked to Lily,

"Well, if we can't do our Good Turn for Frieda Hammer, we can do one right here for the new girls, to keep them from being homesick. I, for one, intend to try."

"I'm with you," agreed Lily, as she crawled into bed.

But Ruth Henry's last waking thoughts were of a different nature: how she might best succeed in gaining the class presidency for herself.

"If I go at the thing boldly," she decided, "there is no reason why I should fail. And I mean to do it, if I never accomplish another thing as long as I'm at Miss Allen's!"

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