Winona of the Camp Fire

The room they called the Den in Winnie Merriam's house was dark, except for the leaping wood-fire in the big stone fireplace. Around the fire sat and lay five girls. They had been toasting marshmallows, but they were past the point where you eat the ... Read more

The room they called the Den in Winnie Merriam's house was dark, except for the leaping wood-fire in the big stone fireplace. Around the fire sat and lay five girls. They had been toasting marshmallows, but they were past the point where you eat the toasted ones with pleasure or even steal the raw ones-which don't taste burnt-to eat surreptitiously. "Helen Bryan, you've been feeding Puppums all your marshmallows for the last ten minutes," accused Winnie, sitting up. She had been draping herself along a pile of cushions for the last fifteen minutes-thinking, evidently, for she had been quiet-a very unusual thing for chattering Winnie. Winnie Merriam was fourteen, but people usually took her for a year older, because of her slim height. She had big blue eyes in a face that was not regularly pretty, perhaps, but so gay and pink-cheeked and quick-smiling that people always said she was pretty-which does quite as well. Her chum, Helen, defiantly fed a last marshmallow to the fat near-fox-terrier in the centre of the circle, who didn't particularly seem to want it. Less