the Christmas
Child coming down the Shadow Trail!

The Saucy Seven

Probably Bob Stuart would never have been asked to join the camping
party had he not been the best canoeist in the Club. He was so much
younger than the other half dozen that composed the party that his
joining was much discussed, but there were no two opinions about Bob's
paddling nor yet about his ability to pitch a tent, cast a fly, shoot
small game at long range, and, when you are far up North, on a canoe
cruise, and have to depend on the forest and river to supply your
dinner, you don't sneer at an enthusiastic fisherman or a good shot. So
one royal August day Bob found himself on the train with six University
graduates, bound for "up North," for a glorious three weeks' outing.
Their canoes, tents and duffle were all stored away in the express car
ahead. Their cares and their studies were packed away in the weeks left
behind, their hearts as merry, their clothes as hideous as a jolly crowd
of merry-makers could desire. It was a long, hot, dusty railway journey,
but at last the tiny Northern railway station hove in sight, the rasping
screech of the sawmill rivalled the shrill call of the locomotive, and
directly behind the little settlement stretched the smooth surface of
"Lake Nameless," ready and waiting to be ruffled by the dip of paddle
blades.

It does not take long for seven practical campers to get their kit and
canoes in shape to pitch canvas for the night, and just as the sun
dropped behind a rim of dense fir forest, "the Saucy Seven," as the boys
had christened themselves, lighted their first camp fire and hung their
kettle for supper. The two tents were already up, white and gleaming
against the lake line, the three cruising canoes were safely beached for
the night, blankets were already spread over beds of hemlock boughs, and
the goodly smell of frying bacon arose temptingly in the warm, still,
twilight air. Seven hungry mouths took a long time to be satisfied, but
the frying-pan and the tea-pot were empty at last, and the boys ready to
turn in early, after their long journey and busy settling. The first
night in camp is always a restless one. The flapping tent, the straining
guy ropes, the strange wild sounds and scents seem to prop your eyelids
open for hours. The night birds winging overhead, the far laugh of loons
across the waters, the twigs creaking and snapping beneath the feet of
little, timid animals, the soft singing