•THE JOYS, OF CAMP LIFE 



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was but a repetition of the night be- 

 fore. 



When I was seated on the projecting 

 limb of a tree, about thirty feet from 

 the ground, I had a good chance to 

 note our surroundings. 



Dismal Lake was aptly named ; that 

 is, the 'dismal' part of it was. If the 

 person who named it could see in it 

 anything resembling a lake, he had bet- 

 ter eyes than I have. Dismal Swamp 

 would have been more appropriate. 

 The lake, which was a quarter of a mile 

 in circumference, and had an average 

 depth of not more than two feet, was 

 surrounded by high, heavily-wooded 

 mountains. To our right, a little bab- 

 bling brook entered ; and directly in 

 front of us, on the opposite side of the 

 lake, a similar stream flowed from it. 

 Bordering the lake, from the water's 

 edge to the woods (a distance of 

 twenty-five feet), was a marsh. 



I called to John, who was in a nearby 

 tree watching the bulls: "I think the 

 best thing for us to do is to get away 

 from here as soon as we can, and find 

 some place where we can cook our 

 breakfast undisturbed. I'm about 

 starved." 



"So am I," he replied. "We can't 

 cook, eat, hunt or fish. I don't know 

 of anything to keep us here — unless it's 

 the bulls." 



As our enemies were at a safe dis- 

 tance, we descended from our perches 

 and packed our outfit. Then, skirting 

 the east shore of the lake to its outlet, 

 we followed its rugged, winding course 

 for perhaps a mile. Presently, we met 

 another stream ; and at the junction of 

 the two was a miniature sandy beach, 

 on which the sun's rays smiled fondly. 

 It proved irresistible. We threw our- 

 selves on the warm sand. Before we 

 realized our actions, we were stripped 

 and splashing about in the cool, clear 

 water. 



After our bath, we drew on only 

 shirt and trousers. An hour later, we 

 were eating our first substantial meal 

 since leaving home, thirty-six hours 

 before. The bacon was burned, the 



rice was tough, but it was a decided 

 improvement on our former attempts. 

 We threw the dirty dishes at the fool 

 of a tree, to be washed later. Our 

 blankets we spread on the warm sand 

 and a few moments later my chum and 

 I were in dreamland. 



When I awoke it was dark. I rubbed 

 my eyes and sat up. A cold rain 

 struck my face. I reached for my 

 clothes, but could not find them. 

 Throwing off my blanket, I arose to 

 my feet and continued the search ; step- 

 ping on sharp stones, and numerous 

 twigs, and stubbing my toes at every 

 step. My exclamations of delight (?) 

 awakened my comrade. He joined me. 

 Crawling and walking, alternately, 

 we groped for our clothes. A half- 

 hour later, we found them — soaked. 

 After wringing out the surplus water, 

 we put them on. 



"Ugh!" came John's voice from the 

 darkness, "but these trousers have 

 shrunk." 



As our matches were wet, we could 

 not start a fire. If we could have read 

 the print in our "How to Become a 

 Camper, in Six Lessons," no doubt we 

 could have learned just what to do 

 about it. 



Meanwhile, the rain came down 

 steadily. We found our wet blankets, 

 squeezed out as much water as we 

 could, wrapped them around us, and 

 with our backs against a tree, pre- 

 pared to spend the night. Soaked to 

 the skin, and shivering with the cold, 

 we sat there in a semi-conscious condi- 

 tion all through the long night. To- 

 ward morning the rain ceased, but the 

 dark clouds threatened another heavy 

 storm. 



When daylight appeared, we crawled 

 from our blankets and discovered that 

 we were wearing each other's trousers. 

 Our provisions were scattered over the 

 wet ground and utterly ruined. The 

 tin dishes were lying here and there, 

 half filled with water. 



Taking only our blankets and rifles, 

 we forded the swollen stream and 

 struck through the woods, being care- 



