Camp and Trail | Page 8

them.
"De bell done chime Fer de breakfast time!"
he shouted gleefully when all was accomplished. "Heah, yonkers! I
guess we may call dis meal breakfast jest as well as not, fer it's neah to
dawn now."

And the trio fell to voraciously, as he handed them each a steaming tin
mug and an equally steaming plate. The newly awakened youngster,
who had been cuddling his head sleepily against Neal's shoulder (a
glance showed that they were brothers), had clamored for his share of
the banquet.
"You haven't been lonely, Dol, I hope, have you?" said Cyrus, as a
whole flapjack, doubled over and drenched in sirup, disappeared down
his capacious throat.
"Not I," answered Dol (Adolphus Farrar, ladies and gentlemen),
shutting and opening a pair of steel-gray eyes with a sort of quick snap.
"Uncle Eb and I sat by the fire until twelve o'clock. He sang songs, and
told tip-top stories about coon hunts. I tell you it was fun! I'd rather see
a coon hunt than go out at night jacking, especially if I got a ducking
instead of a deer, like some bungling fellows I know."
"Don't be saucy, Young England, or I'll go for you when I've finished
eating," laughed Cyrus good-humoredly. "Who told you what we got?"
Dol winked at Uncle Eb, who had, indeed, entertained him with
giggling jokes about the unsuccessful hunters while they were stripping
off their wet garments.
Adolphus, being the youngest of the camping-party, was favored with
the softest pine-bough bed and the best of the limited luxuries which
the camp possessed, with unlimited nicknames,--from "Young
England" to "Shaver" or "Chick," according to the whims of his
comrades.
"Say, Uncle Eb, we're having a fine old time to-night--all sorts of
experiences! I guess you may as well finish that song we interrupted
while we're finishing our meal."
"All rightee, gen'lemen!" answered the jolly guide and cook.
The dog Tiger had retreated to the back of the camp-fire, where he lay
blissfully snoozing; but at a booming "Whoop-ee!" from his master,

which formed a prelude to the following verses, he shot up like a rocket,
and manifested all his former signs of excitement.
"Dey's a big fat goose whar de turkey roos'-- Ketch him, Tiger, ketch
him! En de goose--he say, 'Hit'll soon be day, En I got no feders fer ter
give away!' Oh, ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!
"Ketch him, oh, ketch him, Run ter de roos' en fetch him! He ain't
gwine tell On de dinner bell-- Ketch him, Tiger, ketch him!"
"Scoot 'long to bed now, you yonkers, or ye'll look like spooks
to-mo-oh! Hit's day a'ready," cried the singer directly he had whooped
out his last note.
And the "yonkers," nothing loath, for they had finished their repast,
sprang up to obey him.
"Isn't it a comfort that we haven't any trouble of undressing and getting
into our bedclothes, fellows?" Cyrus said, as they reached the wangen,
and prepared to throw themselves upon the fragrant camp-bed of fresh
green pine-boughs, which made the bark hut smell more healthily than
a palace.
The natural mattress was wide enough to accommodate three. The
boughs were laid down in rows with the under side up, and overlapped
each other. To be sure, an occasional twig might poke a sleeper's ribs,
but what mattered that? To the English boys especially--having the
charm of entire novelty--it was a matchless bed, wholesome, restful,
and rich with balsamic odors hitherto unknown.
The trio were stupidly tired; but on the American continent no happier
or healthier youths could have been found.
It had, indeed, been a night big with experiences; and there was one
still to come, which, to Neal Farrar at any rate, was as novel as the rest.
He had thrown himself upon his bough couch, too weary to offer
anything but the gladness of his heart for worship, when Cyrus touched
his arm.

"Look there!" he said. "If a fellow could see that without feeling some
sensations go through him which he never felt before, he wouldn't be
worth much!"
He pointed through the open door of the hut at the sky above the
clearing, over which was stealing a pearly hue of dawn, shot with a
tinge of rosy light, like the fire in the heart of an opal.
This made a royal canopy over the towering head of Old Squaw
Mountain,--near by now and plainly visible,--which had not yet lost its
starry diadem, though the gems were paling one by one. The shoulders
of the peak wore a mantle of purple, and the forest which clothed its
bulk was changing from the blackness of a mourning robe to the
emerald green of a sea-nymph's drapery.
The shutters of Night were rolling back, and young Day was stepping
out to cast her