AT GORDON’S CAMP a7 
of thick woolen socks were drying — to be ready 
and warm for the morning’s work. 
My thoughts went back to the stories I had read 
of life in the days of long ago, and I turned over 
and over in my mind the strange events of the day. 
It was hard to wait for the morning light, when I 
was to see the bear’s den and take the pictures 
without which I feared that no one would believe 
my story. The spicy odor of the fir-bough bed. 
beneath me finally induced a drowsy forgetfulness, 
however, and I dropped off to sleep. It was just 
coming light when my bunk-mate poked me in the 
ribs, and brought me back to the land of 
realities. 
The men were sitting on the rough-hewn deacon 
seat, putting on their long woolen socks — pulling 
them up. over their trousers, which were wrapped 
tightly round their ankles. They had scarcely 
finished, when the cook with a big spoon beat a 
vigorous tattoo 6n the bottom of a dishpan, to 
notify us that breakfast was served. Baked beans 
and pork, brown bread, saleratus biscuit, molasses 
ginger-cookies, apple-sauce, tea and coffee were the 
fare. 
Outside, the air was bitter cold, with the ther- 
mometer standing at 20 degrees below zero; but 
mere cold was nothing to these hardy woodsmen, 
and after the dishes were washed, the cook sug- 
