Joan of Arc, they are calling you!”
Over the white sands of the Ipswich Beach, looking towards the long sand-bar, with about three-quarters of a mile of sapphire1 water sparkling between, the sportive cry rang, with a gay note of challenge under its playfulness:
“Come with the flame in your glance!”
And she came with the flame in her glance--no spirit Maid of Orleans returning to lead the gallant2 sons of the fleur-de-lys on bleeding fields--as who knows but she may have come to her France in its hardest hour! Not her, but a modern maid with the fire of the morning in her dark eye, a spiritual sense of the wild beauty around her in the quiver of her sensitive lips, with a brine-wet braid of black hair hanging down her back--needing, indeed, only armor and helmet, instead of blue overalls3, to make her, as she had been once before in tableaux4 for the Red Cross, a very fair representation of that Maid of France who, of old, left her sunny orchards6 to drive the invader7 from her soil!
“Come with the flame in your glance,
With a garden-rake for a holy lance!”
chanted Sara again, feeling that camouflage8 was not her only inspiration.
“Can’t you hear the bugle9 sounding?
Can’t you feel our pulses bounding?
Lead your comrades to the field!”
she caroled further, falling into step with the maid of the rake, and looking challengingly up into the dark eyes with the golden spark of fire--of fervor10--in them.
“I confess I wish ’twas any other kind of field, for once; that we had any other hill to take this morning but that same old heart-breaker of a converted sand-peak--from which the enemies, the weeds--witch-grass, rank beach-grass, wild pea, wild vetch--have to be driven back again and again, with barb-weed, instead of barbed wire, for the worst of all!” craved11 she, her chant sinking to a dirge-like sing-song, to which she matched her march to the war-garden on Squawk Hill, that discordant12 paradise of night-herons, so lately reclaimed13 from the barren dunes14.
“What!... What! Sara, you’re not weakening?” The Maid brandished15 her rake. “I wish I had a little more ‘pep’ in me, myself, this morning,” she acknowledged, a moment later, sinking her voice to a silky whisper, with a backward glance over her blue-overalled shoulder at the younger girls, fifteen of them--a bright-eyed, laughing brigade--who were following her to take the hill for the fiftieth time from an invading horde17 of weeds, ranker, stronger at the seashore than anywhere else--with a giant’s grip upon the sandy soil, from control of which they had been so lately ousted18.
“Well! you didn’t expect to be captain of the forces again this morning, did you, as you have been for three days past?” Sara looked up at her friend, the oldest girl of the Morning-Glory Group, now encamped upon the white beach behind them, who had kept incognito19 a secret that shone in the dark; who was determined20, upon her return to the city, to go to work, at anything, to release a man--a man for the front. “You thought our Guardian--Gheezies--would be able to lead us out to capture the hill, herself, to-day.”
“I hoped she would,” said Olive Deering. “But I could see that she still isn’t feeling very well after that little sick attack of the past week. So I persuaded her to save her strength for the Council Fire to-night--the ceremonial meeting on the sands--at which our little Green Leaf, Flamina, is really to be initiated21 as a Wood-Gatherer, and receive her fagot-ring; hitherto she has been only a novice22.”
“Won’t her voice enrich our Wohelo chant?” murmured Sara. “Sometimes when she’s by herself, skipping along by the sea, it seems to me as if I never, really, heard a girl sing before; it just fondles the air--sweetens everything about her. Listen to her now; that’s what she calls a ‘funny one!’”
The Green Leaf was dancing forward to the field now, her hands on her hips23, setting the other younger girls saucily24 swaying with her, to a dialect lilt of:
“In capo del monte,
In capo del monte,
Si fà l’amore
Fiorentina! Fiorentina!
E cip i tè ciop!
E cip i tè ciop!”
“E chippety chop! Chippety chop!” Olive laughingly echoed the last two lines as the little singer pronounced them. “I know what that song means,” she cried; “it’s about a lover going up a mountain to see his lady-love whose name is ‘Fiorentina’--Florence--and the ‘Chippety chop!’ is their airy chatter25. Oh! I’m so glad”--she waved her garden rake--“that the suggestion came from Headquarters that each Camp Fire Group should adopt a foreign-born sister. Listening to Flamina, nobody can think that the benefit will be all on her side; we’re getting some magic from her that breathes in that wonderful voice of hers, which, as you say, would soften26 a----”
“A corky carrot, eh?” sniffed27 Sesooā, her spirits dropping with a squawk from airy realms of love and song, to the skirts of the war-garden on Night-Heron Hill. “Well! Here’s such a passé vegetable row, a left-over from the crop which the farmer--Captain Andy’s enterprising nephew--planted himself early in the spring. Our late carrot-crop that we put in towards the end of June doesn’t need any sorcery of Flamina’s--or anybody else’s”--laughingly; “it’s a winner,” looking along green, feathery rows stirred by the sea-breeze, with here and there a terra-cotta rim28 just peeping above ground.
“And nobody appreciates its being a ‘corker’--not corky--any more than I do, except when one has to go to work to thin it out, as some of us will have to do this morning.... And to tell the truth,” Sara’s gold-tipped eyelashes twinkled, “I never felt less like work than I do to-day.”
“I don’t feel very much in the mood for it myself!” Olive, captain of the farming-forces, bit her lip, surveying the hill which she had to take, routing out invading weeds and the supernumeraries in the young ranks of the vegetables.
“My legs are trying to persuade me that it’s time for that evening ceremonial meeting now--wanting to wheel me back in the direction of camp,” whispered Sara whimsically, as the firefly glance of her brown eyes flitted over the too prolific30 rows, not of feathery carrots alone, but of flouncing beets32, tomatoes, beans, triumphant33 but tardy34 here at the seashore, likewise calling to be thinned out. “There’s no need for you to say how your cold feet are behaving, Olive; they’d be warm enough if you were off there, pow-wowing with the birds on the bar, or lying out on the home-sands, polishing off--poetically--the words of the candle-lighting ceremony which you have prepared for the Council Fire to-night. You know that you’re no enthusiastic farmerette; you’d a thousand times rather paint radio-dials for a?roplanes; ’fess up now!”
“Well! when I came here I hardly knew a potato-stalk from a flouncing beet31, but--but I’m pushing my green head above the soil,” confessed the Maid of the rake--the modern Joan--upon this humble36 field, the reclaimed desert looking down upon the fawning37 ocean, which had to be won from the enemy over and over again.
“The time’s past, however, honey”--Olive drew in her beautifully chiseled38 lower lip, which had rather a deep indentation under it, a rose-leaf nest resting upon the rounded ledge16 of the chin, which the girls called her shelf--the ivory shelf where she kept her inspirations--“the time’s past when any girl who is a girl wants to do only the things which she likes, in the way of war-work, leaving those that pinch slightly for others!... And now for the pinch! It’s time to begin. We’re out to make a showing for the U. S. A.--as our soldiers say--to stand back of them and help win the war. Let’s ‘tie to that’ with--with a hundred per cent of the best that’s in us, eh?”
But, ah! there are times for all when a hundred per cent on the best of our soul-stock seems exorbitant39 interest to pay for success in a struggle.
At the end of an hour’s work weeding and thinning out, fighting the enemy, grappling with prickly barb-weed, that nettled40 the ungloved fingers which boldly grasped it, routing out stubborn beach-grass, wild vetch, wild pea, on this sea-girt hill which seemed to have unregenerate leanings towards being a squawky desert still, even the Maid herself--Olive--began to feel resolution wavering.
“O dear! There never was an ancient village-street in France--or anywhere else--as crooked41 as my back feels at the present moment,” she murmured twistedly to herself. “There--there seems to be a ‘squawk’ in my courage, too! I want to knock off! I feel irresponsible--idle. Perhaps it was that mad frolic yesterday on the bar--getting to the heart of the wild life--the upset--ducking--when the big seal played submarine! It did something to me. Oh-h! to be, really, a heron, gull42, flippered seal, anything--anything that knows nothing about horrible--‘civilized’--war;... about carrying on in the teeth of not--wanting--to!”
She straightened her long, graceful43 back, the Maid, and stood for a minute gazing off across a mile or more of sparkling bay, to that green bar on which the high tide now held glassy revel44, beckoning45 to jollity with long, white fingers of foam46, after a manner to make her feel more irresponsible still.
At the end of that minute she became aware that, mystically, her mood had spread, or perhaps, in that harum-scarum frolic off the dazzling bar, the great marbled dog-seal had done more than heave the old settler into the air; he had capsized the morale47 of this little army of girls.
“Oh-h, goody! My grit’s gone glimmering48!” deplored50 Sara suddenly. “I hate this witch-grass; there’s a ‘squawky’ old witch in every tuft of it, I’m sure; it’s so rank an’ stubborn--so hard to rout29 out.”
“Gone glimmering! I haven’t even a glimmer49 left,” sighed fair-haired Sybil, the Maid’s sister, gazing down at her round arm, bare from the elbow, which had twinkled as a galaxy--radio-painted--the night before. “Too much fun yesterday; it’s taken the ‘pep’ out of me--burnt it all away. I--I’d rather do anything than thin out these saucy51 beets, anyway; they’re so red-faced and flouncing, they--they just seem to giggle52 at you in the sun, when you’re tired and your back aches, and you don’t want to keep on.”
“Yes, like horrid53--bold--florid-faced girls; to-day I just want to smack54 every one that I pull up!” finished Lilia crossly. “I don’t mind grubbing in this sandy war-garden, when it’s an hour and a half in the morning and an hour and a half in the afternoon, but to put in the whole time, or most of it--two hours and a half, anyway--at a stretch, because we want to take it easy, later, and make ready for the Council Fire--why, that’s too much. I don’t care what anybody says; I’m going to rest a while!”
It was the same all over the broad semi-cultivated acres of lonely hillside. Everywhere courage had gone glimmering, or flickered55 out altogether.
Of the seventeen girls at work--two of the campers having been left at home to prepare dinner: Arline, whose symbolic56 rainbow was never more needed, and Betty, the evergreen57 Holly--not one was now carrying on, or, if at all, very lamely58.
A distant trio who had been raking over the earth around the vegetables, in order to renew the mulch--surface muck--and draw the moisture to that sandy surface--had, together with other unpaid59 volunteers whose tedious task was to fight insect pests with noxious60 tobacco-water, thrown down their arms ignominiously61, and sat down under a crooked tree, to chat.
“An infant carrot is, sure, a funny-looking thing; this one has a tail like a wood-mouse, only pink,” lazily moralized Sul-sul-sul-i, meaning Redstart--Little Fire--here, in this work-a-day field, Victoria Glenn. “I wonder how such a terra-cotta baby tastes--raw? Bah! Horrid!”
“I don’t care what anybody says; I’m going to rest a while.”
She bit into the vegetable baby and threw it from her, repeating the experiment, in “loafing” fashion, with another, and yet another.
“Why! you mustn’t waste them. We can cook those for our own use--save the winners to sell for the Red Cross--and to feed others. Oh! Oh! you’re not giving out, too, are you--Victory?”
The Maid’s voice broke upon the appealing cry. This change rung upon Victoria had served as a rally-word before, but evidently there was “little fire” left in the Victory girl now.
And, worst of all, Olive, the captaining Maid, the Torch-Bearer, felt as if, at the moment, she could give forth62 no fuel from her own spirit to feed the waning63 spark.
“If--if I don’t ‘pucker’ up--if I’m not true to my service-pin--the day is lost.” She glanced down at the red, white, and blue button upon her overalls. “Mercy! it is hot--getting hotter. We’re none of us in the mood for work; our legs are telling us that it’s time to fall in for a march back to camp, when it isn’t. If I can’t rally ‘the light that’s in me,’ pass it on to others, what good am I as a leader?... Hitherto I have not been a slacker!”
The feathery luxuriance of the carrot-plants, bending like green foam before the sea-wind, the far-off rows of sweet-corn, tall beans, taller than herself--Kentucky wonders--potatoes, and even the “giggling” beets, did a rural dance around her, to support that claim of the young soul.
And, yet--and yet--Olive knew that the “Joan” fire, with which she started out, had gone from her eyes, the Joan fervor from her heart.
For, after all, she was no hero-souled peasant Maid of middle ages, but a fun-loving, by nature ease-loving, girl, reared, as Sara had once said, “in cotton-wool,”--in padded luxury--who, occasionally, rebelliously64 felt, as now, that the shadow cast by the Great War and its burden of responsibility had fallen unnaturally65 upon her youth, as upon the otherwise care-free girlhood around her, making her old before her time.
While her feet trod the struggling soil of the war-garden she was aware of a secret garden within her, beckoning them; a garden of indolence--of ephemeral do-as-you-please delights--in which, indeed, she had rarely lingered since she became a Camp Fire Girl.
How was she to avoid its tempting66 gate now--how carry on at the task that “pinched”?
And the answer was, as it was to the Maid, Joan, of old, in her sunny orchard5, the whispering voices, bidding her look beyond herself--above!
“Our Father!” breathed Olive Deering softly, with a rush of tears to her wide dark eyes, which gazed away from her followers67, out over land and sea. “Great Spirit in Whom I live and move and have my being--invisible--Whom, yet, as it were, I have seen--strengthen me now; don’t let me shamefully68 weaken; help me to--carry--on!
“Girls!” She turned again to the field, the humble, oft-won field. “Girls--Minute-Girls--Victory Girls--what on earth are we about, weakening, thinking of knocking off before the time for which we pledged ourselves is over, simply because we’re not in the humor for work? Bah! Nice volunteers we are! What would our Soldier Boys think of us? Oh! I’ve got a letter here that would shame us--right here in the breast-pocket of my overalls”--plucking it forth, waving thin checked sheets, pennon-like. “It--it’s to my father from the captain of that infantry69 company in which my Cousin Clay is--Clay, who carried the big basket of household goods for the little old Frenchwoman--helped her to get settled again----”
“Humph!” interjected Sara; she still disliked to listen to any eloquence70 bearing upon the war score of Olive’s cousins--even on the ordinary “innings” of that rich boy who, seen leading a blind horse under a blazing sun through a country shipyard, not a dozen miles away, was apparently71 not reveling in his task any more than they had been in theirs--the only score on which she would have liked to hear her friend dilate72 was Iver’s.
“The captain’s letter tells of an experience which the Boys had, away back in January, before they had been on the front lines at all--while they were still in training--in barracks, somewhere in France.” Thus Olive took up the story. “It was their first day in the practice-trenches73, (nine long miles from those barracks--about the worst day, for weather, the captain says, that he ever remembers) the men said ‘Sonny France’ had gone up front and got killed--sleet, snow, rain, mud--just a too-horrid sample of everything, girls!
“And after their nine-mile march to the trenches, the company put in long hours of hard work, training--practicing how to repel74 an attack, how to go over the top, ploughing round, knee-deep, in mud, with their gas-masks on--which the captain says is about as comfortable as walking about town on a day hot as this, with your head in a canvas bag.”
“Oh! we--we know a little about those chlorine-foolers--some of us--about the popping gas-cloud, too!” wetly exploded Sara.
“And then--then came the dreary75 march back to barracks in that freezing January weather, with the men tired almost to death.... But were they weakening, our gallant Boys of the Yankee Division?... our deary, cheery American Boys? No! No! They were singing. And one--one--the captain says, a mere35 lad, sang loudest of all--then dropped in his tracks as he reached the barracks! And shall we----”
“No-o, we--shan’t! We’re not ‘squawking’--crying quit! Not giving up! We’re out to make a showing, and we’re going to do it--no matter how hot the sun is, or how ‘witchety’ the weeds! Carry on’s the word; carry on!”
The failing squawk had, indeed, become a shout; it was a general cry, from one and all of the war-workers, for all had drawn76 near to listen--a sprayed cry, too, as if the gust77 sweeping78 up from the sea, over which that letter had traveled, brought a little brine on its wings.
“Just one thing morel” cried Olive, again the Torch-Bearer--the Maid. “I’ve read somewhere, though not in this letter, that when soldiers are marching a long distance, shoulder to shoulder, they can stand it much better than if one is hiking alone. There’s our lesson in team-work, girls; let’s take hold together--pull together, as we never did before--on the weeds, the superfluous79 vegetable chicks, the muck, or whatever it is! And--sing!”
“We don’t know how we’ll do it, but we’re on the way,”
started a voice, moved--half-laughing.
“We’re out to make a showing for the U. S. A.
There’s going to be a hot time before us this day,
But still we’ll make our showing ...”
The protest was triumphantly80 completed by the fresh breeze booming up the vegetables.
Two hours later a tired girl, with slight lines of weariness under her dark eyes, stole into the tent upon the white beach, flanking the mother-bungalow, which was, at present, hers and Sara’s.
She did not turn to her own corner, but to her friend’s, where was pinned to the translucent81 canvas a framed photograph, with a Service Star above it.
“Iver!” whispered Olive Deering, tremulously--and again the Maid’s look was on her face--“I’m trying to be worthy82 of you--of all our Boys--of our talk on that twilight83 balcony! I’m ‘holding the line!’ I’m carrying on!”
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1
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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2
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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3
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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5
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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ousted
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| 驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 )； 革职； 罢黜； 剥夺 | |
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incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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beet
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| n.甜菜；甜菜根 | |
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beets
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| 甜菜( beet的名词复数 )； 甜菜根； （因愤怒、难堪或觉得热而）脸红 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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37
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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40
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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42
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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43
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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44
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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46
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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49
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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52
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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53
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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54
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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55
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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57
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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60
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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63
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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65
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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67
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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68
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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71
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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72
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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73
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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75
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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78
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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80
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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81
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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82
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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83
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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