d buoyantly rise to ninety
degrees, and the sudden changes made for colds and coughs, that were not
easily cured by Mrs. Crane's nostrums.

"Fortunes of war," said Peter, serenely, and Shelby responded, "If
that's what they are, I'm a regular profiteer!"

Days went by, the hours filled with alternate joy and woe, but accepted
philosophically by willing hearts who had already learned to love the
vicissitudes of the wild.

One morning a portage route was of necessity winding and rough. Not as
much as usual could be carried by any of them and two or three trips of
two miles must be made by each.

Joshua arranged the loads to weigh about seventy pounds each, but these
became tiresome after a time. The work took all day, and when toward
sunset camp was made and the tired pleasure seekers sought rest, each
was far more exhausted than he was willing to admit.

"Had enough?" asked Peter, smiling. "Turn back any time you fellows say.
Want to quit?"

"Quit! Never!" declared Shelby. "Go home when you like, or stay as long
as you please, but no quitting!"

"It's goin' be nice now," put in Joshua, who was always sensitive to
any discontent with his beloved North land. "Nice fishin', nice
sleepin',--oh, yes!"

And there was. Rest that night on couches of spruce branches, that
rocked like a cradle, and smelled like Araby the Blest, more than knit
up the raveled sleeve of the hard day before.

And when they fished in a small, rocky stream, for heaven sent trout,
contentment could go no further. Unless it might have been when later
they ate the same trout, cooked to a turn by the resourceful Joshua, and
then, lounging at ease before a camp-fire that met all traditions, they
smoked and talked or were silent as the spirit moved.

The black firs showed gaunt against the sky; the stars came out in
twinkling myriads and the dash and roar of the river was an
accompaniment to their desultory chat.

"If I were a poet," Blair said, "I'd quote poetry about now."

"Your own, for choice?" asked Shelby, casually.

"You _are_ a poet, Gil," said Peter. "I've noticed it all the way along.
You don't have to lisp in numbers to be a poet. You just have to----"

"Well, to what?" asked Blair, as Peter paused.

"Why, you just have to want to recite poetry."

"Yes, that's it," put in Shelby, quickly; "understand, Gilbert, dear,
you don't have to recite it, you know, only want to recite it. If you
obey your impulse,--you're no poet at all."