r sundown, so they set about camping for the night. A wise
camper always prepares bed and shelter in daylight, if possible. While
Rolf made a fire and hung the kettle, Quonab selected a level, dry place
between two trees, and covered it with spruce boughs to make the beds,
and last a low tent was made by putting the lodge cover over a pole
between the trees. The ends of the covers were held down by loose
green logs quickly cut for the purpose, and now they were safe against
weather.

Tea, potatoes, and fried pork, with maple syrup and hard-tack, made
their meal of the time, after which there was a long smoke. Quonab took
a stick of red willow, picked up-in the daytime, and began shaving it
toward one end, leaving the curling shreds still on the stick. When
these were bunched in a fuzzy mop, he held them over the fire until they
were roasted brown; then, grinding all up in his palm with some tobacco,
and filling his pipe he soon was enveloped in that odour of woodsy smoke
called the "Indian smell," by many who do not know whence or how it
comes. Rolf did not smoke. He had promised his mother that he would
not until he was a man, and something brought her back home now with
overwhelming force; that was the beds they had made of fragrant balsam
boughs. "Cho-ko-tung or blister tree" as Quonab called it. His mother
had a little sofa pillow, brought from the North--a "northern pine"
pillow they called it, for it was stuffed with pine needles of a kind
not growing in Connecticut. Many a time had Rolf as a baby pushed his
little round nose into that bag to inhale the delicious odour it gave
forth, and so it became the hallowed smell of all that was dear in his
babyhood, and it never lost its potency. Smell never does. Oh, mighty
aura! that, in marching by the nostrils, can reach and move the soul;
how wise the church that makes this power its handmaid, and through its
incense overwhelms all alien thought when the worshipper, wandering,
doubting, comes again to see if it be true, that here doubt dies. Oh,
queen of memory that is master of the soul! how fearful should we be of
letting evil thought associated grow with some recurrent odour that
we love. Happy, indeed, are they that find some ten times pure and
consecrated fragrance, like the pine, which entering in is master
of their moods, and yet through linking thoughts has all its power,
uplifting, full of sweetness and blessed peace. So came to Rolf his
medicine tree.

The