our woodland lady, the
leafing birch tree."

"How lovely; per-fect-ly love-ly!" flowed from the visitors, both, in a
silvery ripple.

"Well! how about your spending a few days in camp with us then--at our
camp on the Bowl--if your elders are willing?" went on the gracious
grown-up woman, with warmth as golden as the sunburst on her breast.
"We'll let Pemrose Lorry plant the tallest birch sapling in honor of the
Thunder Bird. Long--long before it's a full-grown tree, let us hope, the
Bird will have made its great migration, crossing, not a continent, but
space! And now, dears, _au revoir_! to meet again at Snowbird
Cave."

CHAPTER XIII

COBWEB WEED

"Well! you certainly are the laziest bunch; you'd carry a whole bakery
in your knapsacks rather than do any cooking--especially if there are
girls around. Lazy as Ludlam's dog you are! Next time--next time, I'll
set you to peeling potatoes."

It was the chaffing voice of the Scoutmaster, Malcolm Seaver, which
spoke, addressing some twenty scouts who were scattered about the
vine-draped entrance to Snowbird Cave, where, yearly, the little
gray-white junco birds--otherwise snow-birds--fluffy balls, with no
heads to speak of, wintered among the low hemlocks near the cavern's
mouth and fed upon the spicy hemlock bark.

"I--I wonder if you could tell me of what breed Ludlam's dog was, sir?
If he could burn up daylight chasing his tail any better than this crowd
can, lolling around on a picnic, he must be the limit."

The answer came with the low, drawling laugh of Stud Bennett, otherwise
Studart, brother to Jessie, the "merle's" calling mate, who was himself
playing fiddle-faddle in the sunshine, after a four-mile hike.

"Humph! Well, _I'm_ off to locate a spring--where's the blue
bucket? When I get back you'll _have_ to turn to, you dummies,
build a fire and unpack the commissariat--otherwise rolls by the dozen.
The 'duff' and Frankforts are in the 'Baby', I guess." The Scoutmaster
shot a glance at a big, brown duffle bag reposing on a mound, capable of
containing ten bags of rations, each pertaining to individual scouts on
a long hike, yet hardly sufficient to transport the "cates", the
luncheon for eighteen Camp Fire Girls and twenty scouts, plus a couple
of invited guests, on a Together picnic.

"Are there any boys and girls who are dying to come with me, to prospect
for water?" he put forth alluringly, to the rhythmic swing of the big
water bucket in his