OUR ANNUAL CAMPING TRIP. 



ALFRED C. FOX. 



One beautiful day in August we set out 

 for our annual camping trip. There were 

 4 of us and we had worked hard to earn 

 our vacation. I do not think there could 

 have been a more mixed crowd. Two were 

 newspaper reporters, one was an embryo 

 mechanical engineer, and Wilson, the lad 

 with the long face, expected to become a 

 minister. 



The C. M. & St. P. Ry. dumped us at the 

 little town of Minocqua, Wisconsin, after 

 we. had been looking at pine trees and 

 swamps 18 hours. Minocqua is a metropo- 

 lis containing one flagpole and a little row 

 of general stores. 



By evening we had our camo all snug for 

 the night. It was on the North bank of 

 Little Tomahawk river ; among the pines in 

 the heart of the famous lake district of 

 Wisconsin. We were up with the sun, had 

 our first real camp meal, and were soon 

 fishing for muskalonge.. 



It is strange that a man can never entirelv 

 forget his business. For instance Denton 

 sat on the bank studying the working of 

 his reel. 



"I tell you what it is, Wilson," he said, 

 "I could improve on that multiplying gear 

 and " 



He did not finish his sentence, for just 

 then he got a "big one" on his line, and by 

 doing some poor playing, he promptly lost 

 his fish. That did not faze Denton. He 

 was too accustomed to having his largest 

 fish get away to let it bother him. He 

 threw his line back into the stream and 

 began to look about the landscape. 



"Say, fellows, there is enough waste pow- 

 er in this stream to drive a plant that would 

 light half of Chicago !" he called out. "All 

 you would have to do would be to put a 

 dam across that ridge and " 



That's as far as he got, for just then 



Falls said it would be a bully thing if Den- 

 ton could be damned. 



Falls was the next one to demonstrate 

 the fact that a man can't forget his business 

 training. While I was walking along a 

 slippery part of the bank, I had the ill-luck 

 to slip and fall head first into that ice-cold 

 stream. 



Before I had time to call for help or even 

 realize what had happened. Falls was bend- 

 ing over me, notebook in hand, and asking 

 me what my name was, and about 50 other 

 questions. He had already put down his 

 head lines: Chicago Man Nearly Drowned! 

 When I clambered out he was sore ; he 

 hates to lose a story. 



We all learned something in those 2 

 weeks. To tell the truth, we thought we 

 knew a little about the woods, but we did 

 not know what a little it really was. Wil- 

 son learned that it is bad policy to sten 

 out of a boat into water that looks as if 

 it is only 3 inches deen, if you happen to 

 be in a swamp at the time. We found him 

 after he had been in mud un to his ears 

 about an hour. He was badlv fazed, but 

 said something about not minding the water 

 so much, but it was the mud that he had 

 not figured on. 



I believe we were the most impressed by 

 what I learned. I know I shall never for- 

 get it. I was taking a quiet stroll in the 

 woods one morning, when I saw what I 

 thought was a bobcat. Any wise fellow 

 would have known by the smell what it 

 really was, but as I was not wise, I let flv 

 at it with my little Remington. My supposed 

 bobcat did the rest. I went down to the 

 river and got out of that suit of clothes as 

 fast as I could. The fellows handed me 

 some clean duds on the end of a pole. 

 Hereafter when I see anything that looks 

 like a bobcat, I am going to make my own 

 tracks. 



A school teacher at Three Rivers asked 

 her pupils the other day who Nero was. 

 The only response came from a little fel- 

 low who held up his hand. "Arthur," said 

 the teacher, "do you know who Nero was?" 

 "Yes, ma'am," he answered, proudly, "he's 

 the one we sing about in our Sunday 

 school." The teacher was unable to recall 

 any song in gospel hymns where Nero was 

 mentioned. 



"What is the song like, Arthur?" she 

 asked. 



"Nero, my God to Thee," said the child.— 

 Detroit Journal. 



97 



