t. Next thing I knew,
some lunatic was yelling around camp about 'starbolin's,' and 'turning
out.' Guess I'll lay down and have my nap out."

"Yes," says the O.W., "I would. If I was a healthy youngster, and
couldn't get along with seven hours and a half of solid sleep, I'd take
the next forenoon for it. Just at present, I want to remark that I've
got the coffee and potato business underway, and I'll attend to them.
If you want anything else for breakfast, you'll have to cook it."

And the boys, rising to the occasion, go about the breakfast with
willing hands. It is noticeable, however, that only one pan of trout is
cooked, two of the youngsters preferring to fall back on broiled ham,
remarking that brook trout is too rich and cloying for a steady diet.
Which is true. The appetite for trout has very sensibly subsided, and
the boyish eagerness for trout fishing has fallen off immensely. Only
two of the party show any interest in the riffles. They stroll down
stream leisurely, to try their flies for an hour or two. The others
elect to amuse themselves about the camp, cutting small timber with
their little hatchets, picking fresh browse, or skirmishing the
mountain side for wintergreen berries and sassafras. The fishermen
return in a couple of hours, with a score of fair-sized trout. They
remark apologetically that it is blazing hot--and there are plenty of
trout ahead. Then they lean their rods against the shanty, and lounge
on the blankets, and smoke and doze.

It is less than forty-eight hours since the cross-pole was laid; and,
using a little common sense woodcraft, the camp has already attained to
a systematic no-system of rest, freedom and idleness. Every man is free
to "loaf, and invite his soul." There is good trouting within an hour's
walk for those who choose, and there is some interest, with a little
exercise, in cooking and cutting night wood, slicking up, etc. But the
whole party is stricken with "camp-fever," "Indian laziness," the dolce
far niente. It is over and around every man, enveloping him as with a
roseate blanket from the Castle of Indolence. It is the perfect summer
camp.

And it is no myth; but a literal resume of a five days' outing at
Poplar Spring, on Marsh Creek, in Pennsylvania. Alas, for the beautiful
valley, that once afforded the finest camping grounds I have ever known.

Never any more
Can it be
Unto me (or anybody else)
As before.

A huge tannery, six miles above Poplar