In history we read that while the hardy pioneers toiled and suffered in
the New England forest the gay votaries of fashion danced and made
merry in the royal courts of Europe. And history repeats itself, for
while Minerva Skybrow and her girl companions decked the Skybrow lawn
with lanterns of many colors, and frilled their hair, and festooned the
rustic summer-house with streamers, the sturdy adventurers who swore
allegiance to the martial traffic sign of Pee-wee Harris were suffering
as no hardy pioneer had ever suffered before as they loyally partook of
the hunter's stew which their leader had prepared in the dishpan. If,
indeed, this novel concoction was the favorite fare of hunters, it is
no wonder that the race of hunters is becoming extinct. But our
business is not with the explorers.

The spacious lawn of the Skybrow home was bathed in the soft light of
many paper lanterns depending from cords strung from tree to tree.
Other lanterns nestled in the spreading trees like jewels in a setting
of foliage.

On that night the genial moon smiled down upon the Camp-fire Girls and
sent his myriad of rays like a serenading party to enliven the festive
scene. The place looked like some enchanted grove. A platform had
been built for the dancing, several little khaki-colored tents that had
done service in the North Woods (north of Bridgeboro) dotted the lawn,
the emblem of the Camp-fire Girls waved above the summer-house, bathed
in the glow of a small search-light, and, glory of glories, a small
tent nestling under a spreading elm near the moonlit river contained a
table which looked like a snowy monument reared in tribute to the god
of food.