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 of the pines above the canvas,
these things get into one's blood, one's brain, and almost before you
know it the night is gone, and a whole chorus of song arises with the
coming of day.
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