mountains, and the sound of rushing water. 



Every camp we have made comes back 



to us; once more we hear the pack-horses 



feeding in the dusk, and the trout brook 



rippling among the cotton-woods. The 



faces of old camp companions return. 



Some are faces of friends grown rough 



\' , f from the wild life ; others, narrow-eyed 



%C and bronzed, are the faces of wilder- 



^Vi^/f n^ss men — low- voiced Indians, and 



"^ X 9' ^"^'^^^g.^ whites with no home but the mountains. 



'^' Once more we feel the pack and 



"tump-line," and stagger weary into camp as the 



sun dips beyond the ranges. 



But there is no sting in an arduous task well 

 done, and the memory of cold and sleet-numbed 

 bodies brings no suffering. 



The man who has never pressed a rifle-butt to 

 his cheek, does not know himself. Our wild side, 

 handed down to us from the stone age, can only be 

 aroused by warfare or the excitement of the hunt. 

 Life in the wilderness is arduous, savage, and hard; 

 but it is free as the mountain wind, and as open as the 

 sky. The wilderness man is rough; but he does 

 things with his hands and by the sweat of his brow. 

 He is a knight of the pack-strap and gun, and 

 his generosity and courage are as boundless as his 

 kingdom. And so when our thoughts drift back- 

 ward towards the old days, they rest lovingly on the 

 battered rifle — the "open sesame" of the wilder- 

 ness, and the out- door man's best friend. 



32 



