A BED OF BOUGHS 159 



the opposite range or of the valley beneath, and he 

 is more at sea than ever; one does not know his 

 own farm or settlement when framed in these moun- 

 tain treetops; all look alike unfamiliar." 



Not the least of the charm of camping out is your 

 camp-fire at night. What an artist ! What pictures 

 are boldly thrown or faintly outlined upon the can- 

 vas of the night! Every object, every attitude of 

 your companion, is striking and memorable. You 

 see effects and groups every moment that you would 

 give money to be able to carry away with you in 

 enduring form. How the shadows leap, and skulk, 

 and hover about! Light and darkness are in per- 

 petual tilt and warfare, with first the one unhorsed, 

 then the other. The friendly and cheering fire, 

 what acquaintance we make with it! We had al- 

 most forgotten there was such an element, we had 

 so long known only its dark offspring, heat. Now 

 we see the wild beauty uncaged and note its man- 

 ner and temper. How surely it creates its own draft 

 and sets the currents going, as force and enthusiasm 

 always will ! It carves itself a chimney out of the 

 fluid and houseless air. A friend, a ministering 

 angel, in subjection; a fiend, a fury, a monster, 

 ready to devour the world, if ungoverned. By day 

 it burrows in the ashes and sleeps; at night it comes 

 forth and sits upon its throne of rude logs, and rules 

 the camp, a sovereign queen. 



Near camp stood a tall, ragged yellow birch, its 

 partially cast-off bark hanging in crisp sheets or 

 dense rolls. 



