see the boy so radiant, so
full of fire at the killing of a beautiful creature of the woods. Then
again I remembered my own first sensations. Boys are blood-thirsty
little savages. In their hunting, playing, even their reading, some
element of the wild brute instinct dominates them. They are worthy
descendants of progenitors who had to fight and kill to live. This
incident furnished me much food for reflection. I foresaw that before
this trip was ended I must face some knotty problems. I hated to shoot
a squirrel even when I was hungry. Probably that was because I was not
hungry enough. A starving man suffers no compunctions at the spilling
of blood. On the contrary he revels in it with a fierce, primitive
joy.

"Some shot, I'll say!" declared Romer to his uncle, loftily. And he
said to me half a dozen times: "Say, Dad, wasn't it a grand peg?"

But toward the end of that afternoon his enthusiasm waned for
shooting, for anything, especially riding. He kept asking when the
wagon was going to stop. Once he yelled out: "Here's a peach of a
place to camp." Then I asked him: "Romer, are you tired?" "Naw! But
what's the use ridin' till dark?" At length he had to give up and be
put on the wagon. The moment was tragic for him. Soon, however, he
brightened at something Doyle told him, and began to ply the old
pioneer with rapid-fire questions.

We pitched camp in an open flat, gray and red with short grass, and
sheltered by towering pines on one side. Under these we set up our
tents. The mat of pine needles was half a foot thick, soft and springy
and fragrant. The woods appeared full of slanting rays of golden
sunlight.

This day we had supper over before sunset. Romer showed no effects
from his long, hard ride. First he wanted to cook, then he fooled
around the fire, bothering Isbel. I had a hard time to manage him.
He wanted to be eternally active. He teased and begged to go
hunting--then he compromised on target practice. R.C. and I, however,
were too tired, and we preferred to rest beside the camp-fire.

"Look here, kid," said R.C., "save something for to-morrow."

In disgust Romer replied: "Well, I suppose if a flock of antelope came
along here you wouldn't move.... You an' Dad are great hunters, I
don't think!"

After the lad had gone over to the other men R.C. turned to me and
said reflectively: "Does he remind you of us when we were little?"

To which I replied with emotion: "In him I live over again!"

That i