VII

Without the Time of Day

"Jonathan, did you ever live without a clock,--whole days, I mean,--days and
days--"

"When I was a boy--most of the time, I suppose. But the family didn't like
it."

"Of course. But did you like it?"

"Yes, I liked it all. I seem to remember getting pretty hungry sometimes,
but it's all rather good as I look back on it."

"Let's do it!"

"Now?"

"No. Society is an enlarged family, and wouldn't like it. But this summer,
when we camp."

"How do you know we're going to camp?"

"The things we know best we don't always know how we know."

"Well, then,--_if_ we camp--"

"_When_ we camp--let's live without a watch."

"You'd need one to get there."

"Take one, and let it run down."

As it turned out, my "when" was truer than Jonathan's "if." We did camp.
We did, however, use watches to get there: when we expressed our baggage,
when we sent our canoe, when we took the trolley car and the train; and
the watch was still going as our laden craft nosed gently against the bank
of the river-island that was to be our home for two weeks. It was late
afternoon, and the shadows of the steep woods on the western bank had
already turned the rocks in midstream from silver to gray, and dimmed the
brightness of the swift water, almost to the eastern shore.

"Will there be time to get settled before dark?" I asked, as we stepped
out into the shallow water and drew up the canoe to unload.

"Shall I look at my watch to see?" asked Jonathan, with a note of amiable
derision in his voice.

"Well, I _should_ rather like to know what time it is. We won't begin till
to-morrow."

"You mean, we won't begin to stop watching. All right. It's just seventeen
and a half minutes after five. I'll give you the seconds if you like."

"Minutes will do nicely, thank you."

"Lots of time. You collect firewood while I get the tent ready. Then it'll
need us both to set it up."

We worked busily, happily. Ah! The joyous elation of the first night in
camp! Is there anything like it? With days and days ahead, and not even
one counted off the shining number! All the good things of childhood and
maturity seem pressed into one mood of flawless, abounding happiness.

By dark the tent was up, the baggage stowed, the canoe secured, the fire
glowing in a bed of embers, and we sat beside it, looking out past the
glooms of the hemlocks across the moonlit river,--sat and ate ci