delions
had seeded and the thistles had bloomed, when the corn stood heavy and
the cricket tuned his evening fiddle, when spots in the lawn turned
brown, where the sprinkler missed, when the baby waked and fretted, and
swearing, sweating men turned to the west and wondered what had held up
the sea breeze--Sir Christopher missed his supper. He vanished as
completely as if he had been kidnapped by the Air Patrol. Three weeks
went by and we gave him up for lost, although the children still prowled
about looking over strange premises, peeping through back gates,
trailing down unaccustomed lanes and along Calapooia Creek, for "We
_might_ find him," they insisted. Truly, "Hope springs eternal."

"Perhaps, he has gone back where he came from," said Daddy. "Perhaps, he
has grown tired of us."

But My Man's voice was a little too matter-of-factly gruff--indeed, he
had grown very fond of Sir Christopher--and as for the children, they
would accept no such explanation.

It was Curlylocks who found Sir Christopher--or did Sir Chris find
Curlylocks? Anyway, they came walking through the gate, my youngest
declaiming, "Kitty--kitty--kitty! _My_ 'ittle kitty!"

And since that time, every summer, Sir Christopher takes a vacation. He
comes back so sleek and proud and happy that he can hardly contain
himself. He rubs against each of us in turn, purring the most satisfied
purr--if we could but fully understand the dialect he speaks!--as if he
would impart to us something truly important.

"I declare," said Daddy, one day, "I believe that cat goes up in the
hills and hunts."

"Camps out and has a good time," added daughter.

"And fishes," suggested Ted. "Cats _do_ catch fish. Sometimes. I've read
about it."

Daddy nodded. "Seems to agree with him, whatever he does."

"Vacations agree with anybody," asserted my oldest. And then, "I don't
see why we can't go along with Sir Chris. At least we might go the same
_time_ he does."

"Mother, couldn't we?"--it was a question that gathered weight and
momentum like a snowball rolling down hill, for I had always insisted
that, with a big family like mine, I could never bother to go camping. I
wanted to be where things were handy: running water from a faucet,
bathtubs and gas and linoleum, a smoothly cut lawn and a morning
postman. Go camping with a family like mine? Never.

But the thought once set going would not down. Perhaps, after all, Sir
Christopher was right and I was wrong. For peo