a2 The Mountaineer 
For one whole day, it seemed the object of the Mountain- 
eers to build camp. Cook tents were raised. For those who 
desired, small sleeping tents were put up; but best of all were 
the wonderful boudoirs constructed in the tiny groves by cut- 
ting out underbrush. In fact, in a moment certain groves 
were transformed into apartments fit for the most fastidious 
of sylvan princesses. On a tiny peninsula, a combination of 
tripod, bucket and fire provided hot water at any time. 
Over in the western section of camp was a cozy hollow 
protected from the cold evening winds, where the camp fires 
were held. One of the most delightful features of the club 
outings are these camp fires. Here we used to gather each 
evening like fire worshippers of old, with President Meany to 
lead in the ceremonial. He would tell weird tales of the In- 
dians, or stories of the early explorers who made history in 
our great Westland, or perhaps he would read verses from 
his own pen, inspired by the scenery or by some dainty moun- 
tain flower. Other gifted members spun yarns of their ad- 
ventures in mountains of foreign lands and in our own great 
highlands; of nights on erupting volcanoes; of hair-breadth 
escapes amidst snow and ice and storm. Then a spice of Kip- 
ling added its flavor. Certain evenings were devoted to real 
frolies. Particularly memorable was the night when Miss Got- 
lotsofgreenbacks was joined in mock matrimony te my Lord 
Montague de Montmorency by the Rey. Rockandrye. The 
ring bearer, flower girls, bridesmaid, best man, bride’s mother 
and bride and bridegroom were all of the masculine gender, 
most gloriously arrayed; and as the bride came in, to the 
strains of Lohengrin’s Wedding March, with evelashes dropped 
demurely upon bearded cheek, the whole company were very 
much affected. The members of the company had attired them- 
selves as became guests at such a wedding and it passed off 
with great eclat. 
We had music, grave and gay, and in such a company of 
Nature lovers is always found a great store of quotations, so 
the Sunday evening programs were deyoted to Nature poetry 
and were classics in their wavy. 
Then, a certain morning, while the dew was still on the 
grass we were wakened by strains of music so exquisite as 
to seem a part of a lovely dream. It was Largo, played by 
our violiniste Miss Margaret Coenen. Standing as she did 
