THE CAMP FIEE. 29 



his hand, the sole relic the cat had left him for his 

 supper. 



It was a pleasant hour in the old woods, when our day's 

 travel was ended, yve had pitched our tent and drawn up 

 around our gipsy camp while the huge fire flickered and 

 crackled and lit up the green dome of the woods. The 

 tree trunks, for a long distance around, were lighted into 

 rugged distinctness, and behind them remained the wall 

 of shadow. The evening meal was ended. The negroes 

 had curled themselves up to sleep, and the rest of the 

 hunters settling themselves down to the easiest positions 

 they could invent, drew forth their pipes, the universal 

 solace to the Avanderer. The dogs still mumbled their 

 bones, around the fire, with an occasional wrangle over 

 some breach of canine etiquette, and the two ponies 

 appeared once in awhile, when the flame blazed brightly, 

 munching the wild grass that grew around. 



It was the hour for meditation, and my mind, blandly 

 composed by the fatigues of the day, the glowing light, 

 and the voluptuous climate, wandered back through 

 misty years. I saw the blue crisp waves of distant lakes, 

 and my hand held the tiller, and dear old faces looked 

 up at me from the thwarts of a swiftly sailing boat. My 

 cheek felt the free wind, my eyes filled with moisture, I 

 heard voices that " murmured proud pleasure soft and 

 low," and then I heard " zee-zee-zee-zip !" Ah, misery ! 

 what a mosquito ! And there is another — has been sit- 

 ting on my cheek for ten minutes, and I didn't see it. 



