canoeist
falls back on canned goods, never healthy as a steady diet, Brunswick
soup and eggs...The misery of that first campfire, who has forgotten
it? Tired, hungry, perhaps cold and wet, the smoke everywhere, the
coffee pot melted down, the can of soup upset in the fire, the fiendish
conduct of frying pan and kettle, the final surrender of the exhausted
victim, sliding off to sleep with a piece of hardtack in one hand and a
slice of canned beef in the other, only to dream of mother's hot
biscuits, juicy steaks, etc., etc." It is very well put, and so true to
the life. And again: "Frying, baking, making coffee, stews, plain
biscuits, the neat and speedy preparation of a healthy 'square meal'
can be easily learned." Aye, and should be learned by every man who
goes to the woods with or without a canoe.

But I was describing a first day's camping out, the party being four
young men and one old woodsman, the latter going along in a double
character of invited guest and amateur guide. When the boys are through
with their late dinner, they hustle the greasy frying pans and
demoralized tinware into a corner of the shanty, and get out their rods
for an evening's fishing. They do it hurriedly, almost feverishly, as
youngsters are apt to do at the start. The O.W. has taken no part in
the dinner, and has said nothing save in response to direct questions,
nor has he done anything to keep up his reputation as a woodsman,
except to see that the shelter roof is properly put up and fastened.
Having seen to this, he reverts to his favorite pastime, sitting on a
log and smoking navy plug. Long experience has taught him that it is
best to let the boys effervesce a little. They will slop over a trifle
at first, but twenty-four hours will settle them. When they are fairly
out of hearing, he takes the old knapsack from the clipped limb where
it has been hung, cuts a slice of ham, butters a slice of bread,
spreads the live coals and embers, makes a pot of strong green tea,
broils the ham on a three-pronged birch fork, and has a clean, well
cooked plain dinner. Then he takes the sharp three-pound camp axe, and
fells a dozen small birch and ash trees, cutting them into proper
lengths and leaving them for the boys to tote into camp. Next, a bushy,
heavy-topped hemlock is felled, and the O.W. proceeds leisurely to pick
a heap of fine hemlock browse. A few handfuls suffice to stuff the
muslin pillow bag, and the rest is carefully spread on the po