with a chorus always coming in at the wrong times. Those who are not asleep want to know why the smoker does n’t go to bed. He is requested to get some water, to throw on another log, to see what time it is, to note whether it looks like rain. A buzz of conversation arises. She is sure she heard something behind the shanty. He says it is all nonsense. “Perhaps, however, it might be a mouse.”
“Mercy! Are there mice?”
“Plenty.”
“Then that ’s what I heard nibbling by my head. I sha’n’t sleep a wink! Do they bite?” “No, they nibble; scarcely ever take a full bite out.”
“It's horrid!”
Towards morning it grows chilly; the guides have let the fire go out; the blankets will slip down. Anxiety begins to be expressed about the dawn.
“What time does the sun rise?”
“Awful early. Did you sleep?”
“Not a wink. And you?”
“In spots. I ’m going to dig up this root as soon as it is light enough.”
“See that mist on the lake, and the light just coming on the Gothics! I ’d no idea it was so cold: all the first part of the night I was roasted.”
“What were they talking about all night?”
When the party crawls out to the early breakfast, after it has washed its faces in the lake, it is disorganized, but cheerful. Nobody admits much sleep; but everybody is refreshed, and declares it delightful. It is the fresh air all night that invigorates; or maybe it is the tea or the slapjacks. The guides have erected a table of spruce bark, with benches at the sides; so
