It was nine o'clock one sunny California morning, and Geoffrey Strong
stood under the live-oak trees in Las Flores Canyon, with a pot of
black paint in one hand and a huge brush in the other. He could have
handled these implements to better purpose and with better grace had
not his arms been firmly held by three laughing girls, who pulled not
wisely, but too well. He was further incommoded by the presence of a
small urchin who lay on the dusty ground beneath his feet, fastening
an upward clutch on the legs of his trousers.

There were three large canvas tents directly in front of them, yet no
one of these seemed to be the object of dissension, but rather a
redwood board, some three feet in length, which was nailed on a tree
near by.

'Camp Frolic! Please let us name it Camp Frolic!' cried Bell
Winship, with a persuasive twitch of her cousin's sleeve.

'No, no; not Camp Frolic,' pleaded Polly Oliver. 'Pray, pray let us
have Camp Ha-Ha; my heart is set upon it.'

'As you are Strong, be merciful,' quoted Margery Noble, coaxingly;
'take my advice and call it Harmony Camp.'

At this juncture, a lovely woman, whose sweet face and smile made you
love her at once, came up the hill from the brookside. 'What, what!
still quarrelling, children?' she asked, laughingly. 'Let me be
peacemaker. I've just asked the Doctor for a name, and he suggests
Camp Chaparral. What do you say?'