“Come, turn in then, everybody,” Ruth called cheerily. “Here, Bab, you undertake the Welsh rarebit and get out the pickles and crackers. Mollie, get Hugh to help you open these cans of soup. Grace, you and Ralph, set the table and talk to Aunt Sallie, while I fry my precious bacon.”
“I never heard of such an extraordinary combination of things to eat. You will ruin your digestions,” was Miss Sallie’s comment. But she ate just as much as anyone else.
At midnight the girls were at last in bed. Hugh and Ralph, both wrapped in blankets, were in blissful sleep before the camp fire. They had scorned to accept the offer of the couch, wishing to enjoy camp life to the fullest extent. So peace followed good cheer in the hut.
CHAPTER XI
THE COON HUNT
| “Ere in the northern gale The summer tresses of the trees are gone, The woods of autumn all around our vale Have put their glory on.” |
chanted Ralph bowing low to Barbara, as she joined him in the clearing in front of their house before breakfast next morning. “See, mademoiselle, what a fine poem I have thought out for you! Behold in me the poet of the Berkshires!”
Barbara laughed. “You are a second-hand poet, I am afraid, Ralph. I happen to know that those lines were written by William Cullen Bryant. But come into breakfast and stop your poetizing. We have a busy day ahead of us.”