“It ithn’t a musical inthrument at all,” she declared indignantly. “It ith nothing but a common old black comb.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong,” answered Jane. “These combs are new. I bought them in the village store this very day. Listen, dears. This is the combietta. It makes music through its teeth, and plays any tune you call for.”
“Wonderful,” laughed Miss Elting. “There is something very familiar about this marvelous musical instrument. Combietta, do you call it, Jane?”
“Sure I do. But the name is my own invention. The music is as old as the combs themselves and I don’t know how old they are.”
“I remember having made music with combs when I was a girl in short frocks,” nodded the guardian. “Play, Jane, and show the girls how to make music.”
Crazy Jane folded one of the square slips of paper over the teeth of one of the combs, then placed the comb’s teeth between her own.
“Zu—zu—zu-zee-zee-zah,” she breathed through paper and comb, which strange sounds were instantly interpreted by Jane’s companions, as “Come Back to Erin.”
Each girl with a cry of delight, now snatched up a comb, wrapped it in the thin paper and joined enthusiastically in the chorus of “Come Back to Erin.” Tommy Thompson, fully as delighted as her companions, leaned against a tree making hideous noises on her comb; Miss Elting, sitting on a stump, eyes fixed on the foliage far above her, was an enthusiastic performer in the combietta concert.
“Now, ‘Marching Through Georgia,’” she cried.
“I can’t play fast enough to play that,” complained Buster.
“Then play anything you like,” answered Harriet, with a merry laugh.
“Yes. Make a noise. You don’t all have to play the same tune. This is a celebration,” shouted Jane. “What we want is noise and lots of it to celebrate the victory we are going to win.”
And noise there was, a perfect pandemonium of sounds, principally inharmonious.
A sudden, startling chorus of yells and a burst of music from the forest, brought the girls’ concert to a sudden stop. Lights flashed from the bushes near at hand, whirling about them in giddy circles like great pinwheels. The Meadow-Brook Girls were surrounded by wildly yelling figures, strange flaring lights—and music.
“Indianth!” screamed Tommy. “We’ll all be thcalped. Oh, thave me!” Then the little lisping girl ran like a frightened deer, for the protection of the Meadow-Brook Girls’ tent.