A SUMMER IN A CAÑON & POLLY OLIVER'S PROBLEM (Illustrated). Kate Douglas Wiggin

appetites.

      The boys expressed their intention of spending the night in unpacking their baggage and getting to rights generally, but Dr. Winship placed a prompt and decisive veto on this proposition, and they submitted cheerfully to his better judgment.

      Getting to bed was an exciting occupation for everybody. Dicky was first tucked up in a warm nest of rugs and blankets, under a tree, and sank into a profound slumber at once, with the happy unconsciousness of childhood. His father completed the preparations for his comfort by opening a huge umbrella and arranging it firmly over his head, so that no falling leaf might frighten him and no sudden gust of air blow upon his face.

      Bell stood before her hammock, and meditated. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘going to bed is a simple matter after all, when you have shorn it of all useless formalities. Let me see: I generally walk to and fro in the room, eating a bunch of grapes or an orange, look out of the window five or ten minutes, brush my hair, read my chapter in the Bible, take my book and study Spanish five minutes, on the principle of that abnormal woman who learned ninety-six languages while she was waiting for the kettle to boil in the morning—’

      ‘Must have been a slow boiler,’ interrupted Polly, wickedly. ‘Seems to me it would have been economy to sell it and buy a new one.’

      ‘Oh, Polly! you are so wilfully stupid! The kettle isn’t the point—but the languages. Besides, she didn’t learn all the ninety-six while the kettle was boiling once, you know.

      ‘Oh, didn’t she? That alters the case. Thank you,’ said Polly, sarcastically.

      ‘Now observe me,’ said Bell. ‘I have made the getting into a hammock a study. I first open it very wide at the top with both hands; then, holding it in that position, I gracefully revolve my body from left to right as upon an imaginary swivel; meantime I raise my right foot considerably from mother earth, with a view to passing it over the hammock’s edge. Every move is calculated, you perceive, and produces its own share of the perfect result; the method is the same that Rachel used in rehearsing her wonderful tragic poses. I am now seated in the hammock, you observe, with both hands extending the net from side to side and the right foot well in position; I now raise the left foot with a swift but admirably steady movement, and I am—Help! Help!! Murder!!!’

      ‘In short, you are not in, but out,’ cried Polly, in a burst of laughter; for Bell had leaned too far to the right, and on bringing the other foot in, with its ‘swift but admirably steady’ motion, she gave a sudden lurch, pulled the hammock entirely over herself and fell out head first on the other side, leaving her feet tangled in its meshes. ‘Shall we help her out, Meg? She doesn’t deserve it, after that pompous oration and attempt to show off her superior abilities. Nevertheless, she always accepts mercy more gracefully than justice. Heave ahoy, my hearties!’

      Bell was extricated, and looked sufficiently ashamed.

      ‘We are much obliged for the lesson,’ said Margery, ‘but the method is open to criticism; so I think we’ll manage in our ordinary savage way. We may not be graceful or scientific, but we get in, which is the main point.’

      The hammocks did not prove the easiest of nests, as the girls had imagined. In fact, to be perfectly candid about the matter, the wicked flea of California, which man pursueth but seldom catcheth, is apt, on many a summer night, to interfere shamelessly with slumber. On this particular night he was fairly rampant, perhaps because sweet humanity on which to feed was very scarce in that cañon.

      ‘Good-night, girls!’ called Jack, when matters seemed to be finally settled for sleep. ‘Bell, you must keep one eye open, for the coyotes will be stealing down the mountain in a jiffy, and yours is the first hammock in the path.’

      ‘Of course,’ moaned Bell,—‘that’s why the girls gave me this one; they knew very well that one victim always slakes the animals’ thirst for blood. Well, let them come on. I shiver with terror, but my only hope is that I may be eaten in my sleep, if at all.’

      ‘There was a young party named Bell,

       Who slept out of doors for a spell;

       When asked how she fared,

       She said she was scared,

       But otherwise doing quite well.

      ‘How’s that?’ asked Jack. ‘I shall be able to drive Bell off her own field, with a little practice.’

      ‘Go to sleep!’ roared Dr. Paul. ‘In your present condition of mind and body you are not fit for poetry!’

      ‘That’s just the point, sir,’ retorted Jack, slyly, ‘for, you remember, poets are not fit, but nascitur,—don’t you know?’ and he retired under his blanket for protection.

      But quiet seemed to be impossible: there were all sorts of strange sounds; and the moon, too, was so splendid that they almost felt as if they were lying beneath the radiance of a calcium light; while in the dark places, midst the branches of thick foliage, the owls hooted gloomily. If you had happened to be an owl in that vicinity, you might have heard not only the feverish tossing to and fro of the girls in the hammocks, but many dismal sighs and groans from Dr. Winship and the boys; for the bare ground is, after all, more rheumatic than romantic, and they too tumbled from side to side, seeking comfort.

      But at midnight quiet slumber had descended upon them, and they presented a funny spectacle enough to one open-eyed watcher. A long slender sycamore log was extended before the fire, and constituted their pillow; on this their heads reposed, each decorated with a tightly fitting silk handkerchief; then came a compact, papoose-like roll of grey blanket, terminated by a pair of erect feet, whose generous proportions soared to different heights. There was a little snoring, too; perhaps the log was hollow.

      At midnight you might have seen a quaintly despondent little figure, whose curly head issued from a hooded cloak, staggering hopelessly from a hammock, and seating herself on a mossy stump. From the limpness of her attitude and the pathetic expression of her eyes, I fear Polly was reviewing former happy nights spent on spring-beds; and at this particular moment the realities of camping-out hardly equalled her anticipations. Whatever may have been her feelings, however, they were promptly stifled when a certain insolent head reared itself from its blanket-roll, and a hoarse voice cackled, ‘Pretty Polly! Polly want a cañon?’ At this insult Miss Oliver wrapped her drapery about her and strode to her hammock with the air of a tragedy queen.

      Chapter III.

       Life in the Cañon—The Heir Apparent Loses Himself

       Table of Contents

      ‘Know’st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom,

       Where the gold orange glows in the green thicket’s gloom;

       Where the wind, ever soft, from the blue heaven blows,

       And groves are of myrtle, and olive, and rose?’

      On the next morning, as we have seen, they named their summer home Camp Chaparral, and for a week or more they were the very busiest colony of people under the sun; for it takes a deal of hard work and ingenuity to make a comfortable and beautiful dwelling-place in the forest.

      The best way of showing you how they accomplished this is to describe the camp after it was nearly finished.

      The two largest bedroom tents were made of bright awning cloth, one of red and white, the other of blue and white, both gaily decorated with braid. They were pitched under the same giant oak, and yet were nearly forty feet apart; that of the girls having a canvas floor. They were not quite willing to sleep on the ground, so they had brought empty bed-sacks with them, and Pancho’s first duty after his arrival had been to drive to a neighbouring ranch for a great load of straw.

      In a glorious tree near by was a ‘sky parlour,’ arranged by a few boards nailed high up in the leafy branches, and reached from below by a primitive ladder. This was the favourite sitting-room