UNDER THE MAPLES 



of drills and copper wire the master mechanic had 

 stitched the severed arms to their stubs, soldered 

 up the hole in the radiator, and the disabled car 

 was again in running order. 



On August the 31st we made our camp on the 

 banks of a large, clear creek in West Virginia called 

 Horseshoe Run. A smooth field across the road 

 from the creek seemed attractive, and I got the 

 reluctant consent of the widow who owned it to 

 pitch our camp there, though her patch of roasting- 

 ears near by made her hesitate; she had probably 

 had experiences with gypsy parties, and was not 

 impressed in our favor even when I gave her the 

 names of two well-known men in our party. But 

 Edison was not attracted by the widow's open 

 field; the rough, grassy margin of the creek suited 

 him better, and its proximity to the murmuring, 

 eddying, rocky current appealed to us all, albeit it 

 necessitated our mess-tent being pitched astride a 

 shallow gully, and our individual tents elbowing one 

 another in the narrow spaces between the boulders. 

 But wild Nature, when you can manage her, is what 

 the camper-out wants. Pure elements air, water, 

 earth these settle the question; Camp Horseshoe 

 Run had them all. It was here, I think, that I 

 got my first view of the nonpareil, or painted bunt- 

 ing a bird rarely seen north of the Potomac. 



An interesting object near our camp was an old, 

 unused grist-mill, with a huge, decaying overshot 



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