THE DEAD CAMP-FIRE 



rotten tent pins inclosing a rusty heap of 

 mould that once was a fragrant couch of 

 evergreens inviting tired men to rest, — 

 or you know they spent their nights in a 

 shanty, for there are the crumbling walls, 

 the fallen-in roof of bark which never 

 again will echo song or jest. 



This pile of fish-bones attests that 

 they were anglers, and skillful or lucky 

 ones, for the pile is large. If you are 

 an ichthyologist, you can learn by these 

 vestiges of their sport whether they sat- 

 isfied the desire of soul and stomach with 

 the baser or the nobler fishes ; perhaps 

 a rotting pole, breaking with its own 

 weight, may decide whether they fished 

 with worm or fly ; but whether you rele- 

 gate them to the class of scientific or 

 unscientific anglers, you doubt not they 

 enjoyed their sport as much in one way 

 as in the other. 



You know that they were riflemen, for 

 there is the record of their shots in the 

 healing bullet wounds on the trunk of a 

 great beech. For a moment you may 

 fancy that the woods still echo the laugh- 

 ter that greeted the shot that just raked 

 i66 



