2So 



RECREATION.- 



camp fire, around him the great trunks of 

 trees growing dim and dimmer as they re- 

 cede from the circle of light cast by the 

 fire; overhead their branches waving 

 gently in the upward rush of heat from the 

 scorching flames. Across the fire he sees 

 the white walls of the tiny tent, and framed 

 in its opening, holding back the yielding 

 canvas, stands that dainty figure, the face 

 wreathed in a smile of welcome, the 

 tanned cheeks rosied by the dancing 

 flames, the full rich lips, that need no red 

 gleams to crimson them, parted, disclos- 

 ing 2 rows of teeth that shine like pearls, 

 tinged by the last rays of a setting sun. 



He throws down the arm load he has 

 brought from the boat out there in the 

 darkness, and as he undoes the bundles 

 he hears that merry laugh, as with nimble 

 foot and ready hand that dear shape 

 bustles to and fro preparing the camp sup- 

 per. Willingly he springs in quick attend- 

 ance to every imperious beck and call, 

 till with a dainty supper spread, such as 

 never graced other camps, she bids him sit 

 down, while with shining eyes she fans the 

 flushed cheeks. 



Once more the vision fades. The bright 

 sun shines on trees now brown and bare, 

 their branches bending beneath the weight 

 of icy snow. The ground is covered with 

 the same white mantle. He stands alone, 

 listening for the answer to the shrill whis- 

 tle he has just sent echoing down the steep 

 hillside. As he listens there comes the 

 quick report of the rifle against whose 

 stock he knows whose cheek is pressed. 

 A cry rings out on the frosty air from be- 

 low in the deep ravine; not a cry for help, 

 but one. in whose tone there is a ring of 

 such fierce joy as Joan of Arc's must have 

 rung when, clad in armor, sword in hand, 

 she waved on her followers. 



A scramble down the hill, a swift rush 

 through the screening undergrowth and 

 before him on one knee, the tiny rifle 

 striking ineffectual blows at a wounded, 

 maddened wolf from whose gaunt side the 

 blood is streaming, he sees — no sign of 

 fear on that delicate face — again the com- 

 panion of his visions. 



A quick spring forward; the old gun is 

 tossed aloft to fall with insane strength on 

 the shaggy head; the beast totters, makes 

 one vicious snap with those lean jaws, that 

 buries the great fangs deep into the little 

 rifle butt, then falls lifeless on the snow 

 beside the shattered stock of the old gun. 

 Even now as he sits in the quiet room 

 the cry of joy rings clear and loud and he 

 can feel the pressure of those arms around 

 his neck as the silken-tressed head sinks 

 on his breast. 



A cold shudder passes over him. He 

 starts. Gone the arm from his neck, 

 the dead wolf, the snowy trees. He opens 



his eyes to gaze straight into those pic- 

 tured ones above the mantel. The face is 

 pale and ghostlike in the cold light of the 

 window; the little rifle, with the deep 

 tooth marks in its wood; the old gun, 

 patched and mended, hangs crossed above; 

 the fire now is almost out; he sits buried 

 in the cushioned chair, alone. A few coals 

 glow dimly in the grate. He rises slowly 

 and piles on more wood. The smoke goes 

 eddying up the chimney, there is a snap- 

 ing and a crackle, a tiny tongue of flame 

 curls upward around the logs, another and 

 another, till the whole room is bright again 

 with the mellow light. He draws the cur- 

 tain across the window, nodding a good 

 night to the great peak beyond. 



He gives a puff or 2 to his pipe; it is 

 out and he shakes out the ashes into the 

 grate. From the bright-colored, figured 

 porcelain jar on the table near he fills it 

 anew; with the tongs from the fire he 

 rakes out a coal and holds it against the 

 tobacco, thinking as he does so of the 

 times she has held coal or match to his 

 pipe, watching with loving eyes while he 

 drew in the smoke to let it escape in blue 

 spirals. He puffs contentedly. As he sinks 

 back in the cosy chair his eyes seek those 

 above the mantel, and once more his 

 thoughts wander back. He sees the little 

 room, bare and cheerless till brightened 

 by her sweet presence, where night after 

 night he came home, his limbs wearied, 

 his hands, now soft and white, rough and 

 grimy from his daily toil, toil whose dark- 

 ness was brightened by the lovelight in her 

 starry eyes. He sees again the dainty 

 figure, the happy face, feels again the 

 thrilling warmth of the welcoming kiss as 

 she meets him at the door, charming away 

 with that happy laugh the vexations of the 

 day. 



He sees the little room now darkened 

 yet bright with that sunny face as it bends 

 over his sick bed, feels the loving touch 

 as his pillow is smoothed or the soft fingers 

 cool his brow fevered by pain, the fresh 

 dewy lips that press their sweetness on 

 his, cracked and heated. 



There is a sound of music in his ears; 

 bright lights glare before his eyes, a mur- 

 mur of voices, the heavy perfume-laden air 

 of the reception room; noted men and 

 beautiful woman are around him; he 

 speaks to this one. chats with that, but 

 ever his gaze wanders to where she is, 

 more than beautiful to him, garbed in 

 simple dress but rich and costly. A great 

 pride, a great joy fills him as he sees her 

 proud and happy face and meets the look 

 she gives ^iim across the crowded room, 

 a look he alone knows how to interpret. 



This is his work. By his toil of head 

 and hand, cheered and supported by her 

 sweet love and tender sympathy, he has 



