Josephine Chase
Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders in the High Sierras
language
(Transcript Jan. 11, 2016)
Grace Harlowe's Overland Riders in the High Sierras by Josephine Chase
“Who is this Stacy Brown that you girls are speaking of?” questioned Emma Dean as the Overland girls sat down to dinner in Grace Harlowe’s hospitable Haven Home.
“He is my Hippy’s nephew,” Nora Wingate informed her. “You will like ‘Chunky,’ as he is known to his friends, and I promise you that he will keep this outfit from getting lonely,” added Nora laughingly.
“He was one of the members of the Pony Rider Boys’ outfit,” volunteered Grace. “You know we have heard of them several times on our journeyings. They used to go out in search of adventure every summer, so Stacy is a seasoned campaigner. We shall need him where we are going, too.”
“By the way, where are we going, Grace?” spoke up Elfreda Briggs. “I believe our destination is to be in the nature of a surprise—a mystery, as it were.”
“I just dote on mysteries,” bubbled Emma. “Of course I could have learned all about it had I not been too conscientious.”
“That is characteristic of your sex,” replied Hippy Wingate soberly. “May I ask you how you could have found out?”
“I thank you for the compliment, and regret exceedingly that I cannot return the compliment in kind. How could I have found out? Why, by the transmigration of thought.”
“The what?” cried Elfreda laughingly. “Is this some new freak, Emma Dean?”
“It may be new with me, but the principle is as old as the ages. I belong to the Society for the Promotion of Thought Transmigration. Our great and Most Worthy Master lives in Benares, India, where numbers of the faithful journey for instruction and inspiration once every two years.”
“Do you mean to say that you belong to that fool outfit?” wondered Hippy.
“I am happy to say that I do. I joined last winter, and, novice that I am, I have realized some remarkable results,” replied Emma.
“Nora, we ought to take her to a specialist before we start on our journey. It won’t do to have a crazy person with us. She might get us into no end of trouble,” suggested Hippy.
“Humph! I’d much prefer to be crazy than to have a bungalow head,” retorted Emma scornfully.
“A bungalow head?” exclaimed the girls.
“Yes. A bungalow has no upper story, you know.”
“Who is this Stacy Brown that you girls are speaking of?” questioned Emma Dean as the Overland girls sat down to dinner in Grace Harlowe’s hospitable Haven Home.
“He is my Hippy’s nephew,” Nora Wingate informed her. “You will like ‘Chunky,’ as he is known to his friends, and I promise you that he will keep this outfit from getting lonely,” added Nora laughingly.
“He was one of the members of the Pony Rider Boys’ outfit,” volunteered Grace. “You know we have heard of them several times on our journeyings. They used to go out in search of adventure every summer, so Stacy is a seasoned campaigner. We shall need him where we are going, too.”
“By the way, where are we going, Grace?” spoke up Elfreda Briggs. “I believe our destination is to be in the nature of a surprise—a mystery, as it were.”
“I just dote on mysteries,” bubbled Emma. “Of course I could have learned all about it had I not been too conscientious.”
“That is characteristic of your sex,” replied Hippy Wingate soberly. “May I ask you how you could have found out?”
“I thank you for the compliment, and regret exceedingly that I cannot return the compliment in kind. How could I have found out? Why, by the transmigration of thought.”
“The what?” cried Elfreda laughingly. “Is this some new freak, Emma Dean?”
“It may be new with me, but the principle is as old as the ages. I belong to the Society for the Promotion of Thought Transmigration. Our great and Most Worthy Master lives in Benares, India, where numbers of the faithful journey for instruction and inspiration once every two years.”
“Do you mean to say that you belong to that fool outfit?” wondered Hippy.
“I am happy to say that I do. I joined last winter, and, novice that I am, I have realized some remarkable results,” replied Emma.
“Nora, we ought to take her to a specialist before we start on our journey. It won’t do to have a crazy person with us. She might get us into no end of trouble,” suggested Hippy.
“Humph! I’d much prefer to be crazy than to have a bungalow head,” retorted Emma scornfully.
“A bungalow head?” exclaimed the girls.
“Yes. A bungalow has no upper story, you know.”
- Pages
- 145
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