AT GORDON'S CAMP 27 



of thick woolen socks were drying to be ready 

 and warm for the morning's work. 



My thoughts went back to the stories I had read 

 of life in the days of long ago, and I turned over 

 and over in my mind the strange events of the day. 

 It was hard to wait for the morning light, when I 

 was to see the bear's den and take the pictures 

 without which I feared that no one would believe 

 my story. The spicy odor of the fir-bough bed 

 beneath me finally induced a drowsy forgetfulness, 

 however, and I dropped off to sleep. It was just 

 coming light when my bunk-mate poked me in the 

 ribs, and brought me back to the land of 

 realities. 



The men were sitting on the rough-hewn deacon 

 seat, putting on their long woolen socks pulling 

 them up over their trousers, which were wrapped 

 tightly round their ankles. They had scarcely 

 finished, when the cook with a big spoon beat a 

 vigorous tattoo on the bottom of a dishpan, to 

 notify us that breakfast was served. Baked beans 

 and pork, brown bread, saleratus biscuit, molasses 

 ginger-cookies, apple-sauce, tea and coffee were the 

 fare. 



Outside, the air was bitter cold, with the ther- 

 mometer standing at 20 degrees below zero; but 

 mere cold was nothing to these hardy woodsmen, 

 and after the dishes were washed, the cook sug- 



