THE CAMP-FIRE 



ant fancies out of the border of dream- 

 land. 



There is no cooking comparable with 

 that which the camp-fire affords. To 

 whatever is boiled, stewed, roasted, 

 broiled or baked over its blaze, in the 

 glow of its embers or in its ashes, it im- 

 parts a distinctive woodsy flavor that it 

 distills out of itself or draws from the 

 spiced air that fans it; and the aroma 

 of every dish invites an appetite that is 

 never disappointed if the supply be large 

 enough. 



It cannot be denied that the camp 

 stove gives forth warmth and, with more 

 comfort to the cook, serves to cook food 

 of such tame flavor as one may get at 

 home. But though the serviceable little 

 imp roar till its black cheeks glow red 

 as winter berries, it cannot make shanty 

 or tent a camp in reality or impart to an 

 outing its true flavor. This can only be 

 given by the generous camp-fire, whose 

 flames and embers no narrow walls in- 

 close, whose hearth is on every side, 

 whose chimney is the wide air. 

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