Where Town and Country Meet 



be a camper, born and bred, to appreciate 

 it. Some one has aptly said that the nose 

 is memory's handle. Surely, nothing brings 

 back old sensations, feelings, experiences, 

 with such vividness and poignancy as a lin 

 gering odor. 



I stepped into the close, sweltering camp, 

 threw open shutters and windows, and sat 

 down on a camp-chair to feast my eyes on 

 well-remembered objects. There, under the 

 bunk opposite, stood the old gray chest, 

 filled with fishing-tackle and other sporting 

 gear. Already my fingers itched to unlock 

 it and overhaul its familiar contents. At 

 the end of the bunk was the table, with its 

 stained oilcloth covering, sugar-bowl, salt 

 and pepper grouped in the center, just as I 

 left them last fall ; and at the farther end the 

 little kitchen lamp with its olive-green paper 

 shade. 



On the opposite side of the room, in the 

 corner, were stove and wood-box, the little 

 stove red with rust, yet sound and ready 

 for roaring duty at the flash of a match, 

 the wood-box providently overflowing with 

 driftwood and fat pine knots. Nearer at 

 hand was the rude open cupboard, screwed 

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