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As the fire-maker's hand was laid on the trespass board, even as his inconsequential muscles were braced to rip it loose from its post, a squeal from the girl in the blue picture hat and the Nile-green georgette waist, checked his mirthful activities. Now, there was nothing remarkable in the fact that the chromatic lass had squealed.
Stools and odd chairs were brought down from the attic. On the floor were two Indian rugs Mrs. Burton had induced the Indian woman near the Painted Desert in Arizona to weave for her with the special Camp Fire design, the wood-gatherer's, the fire-maker's and the torch-bearer's insignia, inserted in the chosen shades of brown, flame color, yellow and white.
Encircling the centerpiece, made not of real wood of course but of paper bonbons, were three groups of logs representing the insignia of the three orders of the Camp Fire, the wood-gatherer's logs having no flame, the fire-maker's a small one, while the torch-bearer's flame of twisted colored paper seemed to glow as though it were in truth of fire.
Fire is a great servant. It's the most wonderful thing man ever did learning to make a fire, and tend it, and control it. Have you heard what it says in the Fire-Maker's Desire? But, of course, you haven't. You haven't been at a Council Fire yet.
"I wonder if you would like me to recite the fire-maker's song?" she asked. "I haven't the right to say it yet, but it is so lovely that I would like you to hear it." Betty stared and laughed. "Do fire-makers have songs?" she demanded. "How queer that sounds! Perhaps the Indians used to have fire songs long ago when a fire really meant so much.
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