uirements at night. A tea-basket for picnics. Quantities
of cart-oil. A piece of pumice stone (very thoughtful). There was also
a box of little India rubber pads with tintacks, the use for which (not
discovered till later) was to prevent the rattling of the furniture by
making it fit a little better. And in one of the cupboards was a bottle
of camphor pills, and a tin of tobacco labeled "For Tramps and Gypsies."

There was even a bookshelf with books on it: "Hans Andersen," "The
Arabian Nights," "Lavengro," "Inquire Within," "Mrs. Beeton,"
"Bradshaw" (rather cowardly, Robert thought), and "The Blue Poetry
Book." There was also "The Whole Art of Caravaning," with certain
passages marked in pencil, such as this:

"We pull up to measure the breadth of the gate, and if it be broad
enough, send forward an ambassador to the farm, who shall explain that
we would fain camp here, that we are not gypsies, vagabonds or
suspicious characters, that we will leave all as we find it, and will
not rob or wantonly destroy. And in case of need, he shall delicately
hint that we may incidentally provide good custom in butter, eggs,
milk, and half a dozen other things. Our ambassador must also, if it be
possible, secure a stall for the horse."

And this useful reminder:

"We must have water near at hand and a farm within reasonable distance,
and we should look for shelter from prevailing winds. We must avoid
soft ground, and it is a mistake to camp in long grass unless the
weather be particularly dry. We should be as far as possible from the
road if there is much traffic upon it. It is great advantage if there
is a stream or lake at hand for bathing. An old pasture field sloping
away from the road will often satisfy our requirements in low-lying
districts. And up among the moors we shall be content to take a piece
of level ground where we can find it. There will be nothing to disturb
us there."

And this excellent caravan poem:

"I love the gentle office of the cook,
The cheerful stove, the placid twilight hour,
When, with the tender fragrance of the flower,
And all the bubbling voices of the brook,

"The coy potato or the onion browns,
The tender steak takes on a nobler hue.
I ponder 'mid the falling of the dew,
And watch the lapwings circling o'er the downs.

"Like portals at the pathway of the moon
Two trees stand forth in pencilled silhouette
Against the steel-grey sky, as black as jet--
The steak is