MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



" King Charlie," I wended my way along a 

 mountain-side road. We belonged to an honora- 

 ble band of foragers w T ho had been despatched in 

 all directions in search of food ; for certain prom- 

 ised and greatly needed supplies had been de- 

 tained on the way and could not reach us until 

 the following morning. One of the foragers 

 shouldered his fishing-rod and went in quest of 

 the jewel-bedecked trout with which the lake and 

 the small streams of the neighborhood were 

 stocked. A little company of two or three made 

 their way to the tract where the raspberry bushes 

 flourished among the charred remains of fire-rav- 

 aged forest-trees. Others pushed on through the 

 bear-haunted bush to the one little store of the 

 entire region; while still other foragers, not 

 among the food-providers, but public benefac- 

 tors nevertheless, dragged from near-by forest re- 

 cesses the fragrant balsam fir boughs, which were 

 to blaze and snap and crackle on the great hearth- 

 stone of our camping-house dining-room, and bid 

 a merry defiance to the cool August evening of 

 the mountains. 



The little boy and I were bound for a farm- 

 house some two miles distant from our camping 

 quarters, the charge entrusted to us being to ob- 



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