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‘Climbing Plant’ or ‘P retty Flower’ for her Camp Fire name. But I believe there’s a story attached to the choice, some ‘cunning’ little anecdote of her childhood. Wi sh I could ferret it out! She seems, always, to have been called ‘Glory,’ nearly as much as Jessica,” answered Sesooā racily, she who in every day life bore no flaming cognomen, but was plain little, gay little, Sally Davenport, as full of quips and quirks, of lightning impulses and sudden turns as the wheeling firefly in her eyes.“Goody! I’d like to hear the anecdote, too. The Morning Glory name suits her so well that I thought she must have dreamed it— that it came to her in sleep— as I dreamed mine,” laughed the Rainbow, whose rightful name when she was not clad in a leather fringed robe of khaki, in moccasins and headband, and seated by a Council Fire, was Arline Champion. “But I call it absurd, meanly absurd, that if there’s any stor y about her and her name, we should not hear it, we who have named our Camp Fire (and it’s the best in the city, too, though I say it myself!), o ur whole group or tribe of fourteen girls, after her,” she went on with a stamp of her foot on the playground sod and with rainbowed emphasis。 she was t he shelltinted, demurely shining kind of fifteenyearold girl who unconsciously aims at carrying a rainbow in her pocket, to brighten the dull or tearwet day.“Oh! we didn’t exactly ‘name it after her,’” demurred Sally. “She happened to e here last winter to visit those rich girls, the Deerings, who are all fluff an’ stuff。 that exactly describes them, Olive and Sybil—— ” There was the least little green tinge of the spitfi