FOREST AND STREAM 
5+6 
Doings at Blueberry Camp. 
BY ROBERT PAGE LINCOLN. 
J. Pierson Hungerford lay sprawled out 
on the grass in the attitude of one who has 
partaken copiously of green, apples and has 
used fresh milk as a wash. One moment he 
was tied up in a knot, and the next his 
feet shot out with an alarming jerk that threat¬ 
ened a collapse of his lower anatomy. An 
unsuspecting person would have come to the 
conclusion that it was hut a matter of moments, 
yet closer scrutiny would have been sufficient to 
show that his face was wreathed in a thousand 
and one smiles that rivalled the comic supple¬ 
ment rising sun. 1 stopped dead in my tracks 
and bit off the song 1 was endeavoring to ren¬ 
der. My jaw sank in wonder. 
“What in the name of all that is human has 
gotten into your system. Has somebody been 
tickling your funnybone with a feather?” 
Hungerford relieved himself of one last 
despairing shout of laughter and sat up red¬ 
eyed and exhausted. 
“Funnybone! Good heavens! I haven’t 
laughed so since the time the bees got after my 
father. When it comes—when it comes to—to 
funny things, just look at this.” Hungerford 
swung his fat stomach around, and by gradual 
degrees became assured of his equilibrium. 
Nov. i, 1913. 
-- 
Down he plumped and searched around in the 
grass for some moments, then a shout announced 
that he had been successful. 
"There you are!” pointing to a blade of 
grass. 
In painful wonderment I bent down and sur¬ 
veyed the spot in question. There, pursuing its 
innocent way over that avenue of green, I 
marked a measuring worm which shot forward 
and back with regular motion, arching itself 
with haughty dignity every time the front part 
and the back part met. 
“And you mean to tell me you would bust 
the buttons off your valuable trousers on a 
thing like that!” I bent a severe gaze upon him, 
drawing my breath and staggering back. “When 
you see me laugh at a thing, take it as a cue. 
I never laugh unless I am compelled to.” Hun¬ 
gerford coughed apologetically behind his hand, 
but showed symptoms of another severe out¬ 
burst. Such was Hungerford. Happy are they 
who are fat. 
From a distance we heard our camp mates, 
and the fact that dinner was ready, or nearly 
so, was welcome information to us. Therefore, 
we hurried campward. Beachcraft was presid¬ 
ing over the frying-pan, and the fish that were 
curling brownly in that receptacle had assuredly 
swam their last swim. I hung up the embryo 
fish I had lured to destruction that morning, and 
broke five legs of a fly that dared to trespass 
upon it. Flartley at just that moment was heard 
approaching from the north. He was carrying 
a fish stringer in one hand, and in his other 
beefy one he clung desperately to a rod which 
he stopped now and then to poke in the ground. 
He was puffing like a steam roller and was 
carrying on a conversation with his reel in tones 
of utter disgust. Close inspection showed us 
that the two dollar and a half line was in a 
hopeless tangle. Although my face assumed the 
expression of a coroner, inwardly I was help¬ 
less. 
"Been fishing?” I asked casually. 
Jamison S. Flartley winked the tears of per¬ 
spiration out of his red-winged eyes and planted 
his foot deliberately in the ground. He was too 
tired to look scornful; there was just pity in 
his expression. 
“Not at all; not at all! Been lassoing aero¬ 
planes,” he replied testily. Just then his rov¬ 
ing eye impaled the fish dangling from the 
stringer on the oak. I could forgive him the 
cigar store Indian scrutiny; he dramatically al¬ 
lowed it, but never the observations that fol¬ 
lowed. 
“Been buying fish again, haven’t you?” he 
suggested. 
It was then that I rose to the occasion with 
that lofty dignity that sets man in another class. 
“I have the honor of being the man who caught 
the fish, and I'd like to see you do better. You— 
you might be a fisherman.” Hartley evinced 
great surprise at the information. 
"Well, it’s safe to say you hooked it. I 
always heard you were pretty good at that. 
Flungerford here says you spent an hour on 
that last fish you got, and that in leaning over 
on the bank you accidentally slipped and fell 
in. Then you came to camp with that big fish 
yarn. Oh, yes, I know. Leastways,” indicating 
the fish on the tree, “one wouldn’t be smitten 
by a bad case of indigestion after he has stowed 
that thing away in his inner man.” 
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