"I've heard those words before," giggled Marjorie. "Haven't you, Irma?"

"Something very similar," laughed Irma.

Jerry grinned broadly.

"Shouldn't be surprised if you had," she admitted. "It's the first May I
ever remember that it hasn't rained. I hope the weather doesn't change
its mind and pour before we get home."

"Don't speak of it," cautioned Irma, superstitiously. "You'll bring rain
down upon us if you do. May is a weepy month, you know."

"Weeps or no weeps, I suppose we'll have the pleasure of seeing our dear
friends, Mignon and Muriel, to-day. I could weep for that," growled
Jerry, resentfully.

Arrived at the elm tree, the girls found the majority of their
classmates already there. To Marjorie's secret disgust, Marcia Arnold
was among the number of upper-class girls chosen to chaperon the
picnickers.

"Mignon's work," confided Jerry, as she caught sight of Marcia. "I hope
she falls into the river and gets a good wetting," she added, with
cheerful malice.

"Jerry!" expostulated Irma in horror. "You mustn't say such awful
things."

"I didn't say I hoped she'd get drowned," flung back Jerry. "I'd just
like to see her get a good ducking."

It was impossible not to laugh at Jerry, who, encouraged by their
laughter, made various other uncomplimentary remarks about the offending
junior.

The picnic party set out for the boathouse with merry shouts and echoing
laughter. The quiet air rang with the melody of school songs welling
from care-free young throats as the crowd of rollicking girls tramped
along the river road.

Spring had not been niggardly with her flower wealth, and gracious,
smiling May trailed her pink-and-white skirts over carpets of living
green, starred with hepaticas and spring beauties, while, from under
clusters of green-brown leaves, the trailing arbutus lifted its shy,
delicate face to peep out, the loveliest messenger of spring.

The girls pounced upon the fragrant clumps of blossoms and began an
enthusiastic filling of baskets. Held captive by the lure of the waking
woods, the time slipped by unnoticed, and it was after four o'clock
before the majority of the flower-hunters turned their steps toward the
boathouse.

Mignon La Salle, Muriel Harding, Marcia Arnold and half a dozen girls
who were worshipful admirers of the French girl, soon found flower
gathering decidedly monotonous.

"Let's hurry out of these stupid woods," proposed Mignon. "My feet are
damp and I'm sure