Confession: I let the Prince kiss my hand. After all, he saved my life, you know. You weren’t here and I had to have somebody kiss it.
Breaking camp at seven-thirty a short but pretty portage brought us to the three Bonnecherre and then to Lake Rod and Gun where we are now tenting. Butter-ball ducks flew by on the way, and we saw a few partridges and deer, but not much big game, for moose are farther north. Last night was an eventful one; wolves howled, the wind blew, the rain descended. Suddenly our tent fell down amid loud cries for help. Boris came to our rescue, but tripped over a rope and stood on his head from whence issued a flood of Russian. Which, if I could have understood it, would probably have paralyzed me for a week. Later a muskrat came and ate up all our chocolate.
Third Day’s remarks at supper:
Aunt: “Oh, but I’m so tired! I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Checkers: “I’m hungry! I’d like to be the muskrat.”
Sybil: (Holding his hand under cover of her poncho) “I’m a frozen dog, but I’m having the time of my life.”
Prince (sotto voce): “Only forty-eight hours more.”
Polly: “Can’t be too few for me.”