SUMMER CAMPS AND CAMPERS 



249 



Years ago in a far Southern 

 State I stood by my father's 

 side, watching an endless line 

 of prairie schooners, winding 

 down the dusty red clay road. 

 Riding beside many of the 

 covered wagons, on their seats 

 and trudging patiently behind, 

 were solemn-looking Indian 

 men, the -last of the Seminoles 

 on the long trail to the Indian 

 Territory. 



My father and I rode to the 

 camp which had been made 

 several miles below and spent 

 hours there. It was an ex- 

 perience that I shall never 

 forget, and even now, in the 

 midst of a happy time in a 

 camp of my own, my mind returns to 

 the one made by the Indians on the side 

 of the great trail. It was a place of 

 utter loneliness and bleak dispair, A 

 camp in which even the dogs were silent. 



Driven from the sunny borderland of 



ON THE BANKS OF A MAINE STREAM. 



By Dr. J. J. Kirkbride. 



went silently, but their actions ex- 

 pressed relentless opposition to the will 

 of the Great Father, opposition that 

 never found action. 



In the morning I was again on hand 

 to see the train under way. When the 

 the gulf to the bleak plains of the West, last wagon, with its blackened pots and 

 to an unknown country where new con- pans dangling from the axle, disap- 

 ditions were to be faced,, these stoics peared over the hill, my eyes grew wet, 



A SUSPENDED WALL TENT. 



