Chapter XII

OLD ROUND-TOP

"C. F. G.! C. F. G.!
We are the Camp Fire C. F. G.!
Oh! none with us can compare,
For we looked over
And picked the clover,
And the World 's lit up
With our Camp Fires everywhere!"

"And, fegs! wi' an aging, sober body
like mysel', if he isn't a-picking o' the
clover blossoms, he 's a-smelling o' them
the night," softly soliloquized Andrew,
the chauffeur, as he listened to that halcyon
song around the Pinnacle blaze--feeling
barred out of Clover Land himself, as
he lay among the ferns, because of the
"one sair memory", the whiff of heather
ever and anon wafted to his nostrils, as
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