84 Musings by Camp- Fire and Wayside 



snaps, and other curiosities of the bakery. Lemon- 

 ade is no sort of lemonade anywhere but in the 

 woods. The absence of tart fruits gives a keen 

 appreciation of the lemon, its acidulous soul reduced 

 to docility by the persuasion of sugar, and by the 

 way, not clarified sugar. The white granulated 

 sugar gives you nothing but sweet. Take the light- 

 est brown ; we bought a two hundred and fifty-pound 

 barrel of it at four cents per pound. It does not 

 have the strong molassesy tang of the sugar-cane, 

 but a suggestion of it only. Light brown sugar in 

 lemonade is a tropical reminiscence. It is a dream 

 of the live-oak, of the gold-orange glistening in the 

 green, of the trailing mosses and blooms of the 

 Antilles. 



The patriotic rite of the lemonade and cakes, 

 the union of the wheat-fields of Dakota with the 

 fruits and sweets of Georgia, esto perpetual duly 

 observed — the boys so tired they could scarcely 

 drag themselves off to bed — I retired with the rest, 

 but soon found that it was not my night for sleep- 

 ing. Now, if there is any sensation unmitigated in 

 its meanness it is staring wakefulness when you 

 know you ought to be asleep. I positively will not 

 have anything to do with it. I know of nothing 

 meaner or more humiliating to human dignity, 

 unless it be a heresy trial. So after seeing that 

 my bedfellow, one of the Wills, was sleeping cool 

 and sweetly, I rose, dressed, waked up the camp- 

 fire, and watched the stars. The moon was setting 



