ry."

"Which manes, I'm to make myself ginerally useful; so here goes." And
Larry, springing through the bushes, proceeded to fulfil his duties, by
seizing a massive log, which Maxton had just cut, and, heaving it on his
powerful shoulder, carried it to the camp.

Each was immediately busied with his respective duties. Bustling
activity prevailed for the space of a quarter of an hour, the result of
which was that, before the moon left them in total darkness, the ruddy
glare of a magnificent fire lighted up the scene brilliantly, glanced
across the sun-burnt faces and vivid red shirts of our adventurers, as
they clustered round it, and threw clouds of sparks in among the leaves
of the stout old oak that overspread the camp.

"Now, this is what I call uncommon jolly," said Captain Bunting, sitting
down on his saddle before the cheerful blaze, rubbing his hands, and
gazing round, with a smile of the utmost benignity on his broad, hairy
countenance.

"It is," replied Maxton, with an approving nod. "Do you know, I have
often thought, captain, that an Indian life must be a very pleasant
one--"

"Av coorse it must," interrupted Larry, who at that moment was
luxuriating in the first rich, voluminous puffs of a newly-filled
pipe--"av coorse it must, _if_ it's always like this."

"Ay," continued Maxton, "but that's what I was just going to remark
upon--it's _not_ always like this. As a general rule, I have observed,
men who are new to backwoods life, live _at first_ in a species of
terrestrial paradise. The novelty and the excitement cause them to
revel in all that is enjoyable, and to endure with indifference all that
is disagreeable; sometimes, even, to take pleasure in shewing how
stoically they can put up with discomfort. But after a time the novelty
and excitement wear away, and then it is usual to hear the praises of
Indian life spoken of immediately before and immediately after supper.
Towards midnight--particularly if it should rain, or mosquitoes be
numerous--men change their minds, and begin to dream of home, if they
can sleep, or to wish they were there, if they can't."

"Get out! you horrid philosopher," cried Tom Collin as he gazed
wistfully into the iron pot, whose savoury contents, (i.e. pork, flour,
and beans), he was engaged in stirring. "Don't try to dash the cup of
romance from our lips ere we have tasted it. Believe me, comrades, our
friend Maxton is a humbug. I am an old stager myself; have l