170 



RECREATION 



ful to keep parallel to the stream. Our 

 "Vest Pocket Guide'' told us that water 

 always flowed somezvhere. At every 

 step the water oozed from our shoes ; 

 at the least jar, our blanket rolls 

 emitted water, which soaked through 

 our flannel shirts and trickled down 

 our backs. 



Three hours later, we came to a small 

 wooden bridge that spanned the creek. 

 Turning to the left, we followed a nar- 

 row wagon road. Our feet were so 

 sore that we walked on the sides of the 

 soles of our shoes, or on the heels. 

 Wet, weary and splashed from head 

 to foot with mud, we finally came to a 

 farmhouse. 



The farmer lent us some dry clothes 

 and gave us a substantial dinner, dur- 

 ing which we gave him an account of 

 our experiences. When we mentioned 

 the bulls, our host became angry. 

 "Why didn't you stop them ?" he ex- 

 claimed. "I know them bulls, and I 

 know the man that owns 'em. He's 

 the meanest old rascal in this part of 

 the country. He lets his critters roam 



over the mountains, from early in the 

 fall till long towards Christmas." 



The next morning we drove five 

 miles to the train. When we took 

 leave of our host, we offered to pay for 

 his trouble, but he refused to accept 

 anything. We thanked him warmly, 

 and at Christmas time proved that our 

 appreciation was genuine. 



Early that evening we arrived in the 

 city, and made a 'bee-line' for the 

 house of the friend ( ?) who told us 

 about "Dismal Lake." 



"If he can't give a satisfactory ex- 

 planation of why he sent us up there, 

 I'm going to lick him," said John, 

 wrath fully. 



When we came to the house, our 

 friend answered the bell, and John de- 

 manded the explanation. 



"Well," said he, "you fellows had 

 been bothering me so about camping*, 

 that I decided to give you a dose that 

 would last you for several seasons — 

 and I guess I've been successful," he 

 added, laughing. Then he slammed 

 the door. 



A PIPE D R E . 



By MYRTLE CONGER 



Thy presence sweet, like scent of orient 



myrrh, 

 The atmosphere of all my thoughts, pervacl- 



est. 

 When I would sing of flowers and 



spring, 

 To sing of thee, they presence sweet, per- 



suadest. 



Ten thousand other fancies come to me, 

 Suggesting fairer worlds with heart-beats, 

 fearsome, 

 Before thy name, they flee in shame, 

 Lo ! sing I never but of thee — my meer- 

 schaum. 



