It was late when Mr. Benjamin Jarvis’ barn-warming broke up, and later when the guests rode and drove away down the canyon. In Mr. Crusoe’s rig, save from one occupant, conversation and laughter never ceased until they turned down the avenue of cottonwoods. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger came in for his share of the observations from all but Vivian—his general superiority over the other rangers, his good English, the interesting line between his eyes, and his air of having seen the world. Miss Bumps was admired and complimented. The stature of the biggest Biering cow boy brought forth exclamations. The capacity of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as a host received loud praise. In short, no one was omitted, even to the youngest Wilson baby, who had looked so adorable as he lay asleep in the bin.
It had been a memorable evening, Aunt Nan said, as they gathered around the big fire which Hannah had kept for them, for a last half hour before bed-time. She thought they all needed just such an occasion, so that they might carry back home with them a knowledge of real Wyoming 234 hospitality which knew no strangers. Of course, they had seen it all summer long, she added, smiling at Virginia, but the courtesy of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis had made them one with all Elk Creek Valley and Bear Canyon.
“I’ve been thinking all the evening of the little poem we learned last Christmas, Virginia,” she said. “You know, the one about the fire. I guess the big bon-fires at Mr. Jarvis’ made me think of it, and now this one at home brings it back again. You remember it, don’t you?”
Virginia did remember. She repeated it softly while they watched the flames and listened. Vivian, in her corner, was glad no one could see the red which crept into her cheeks.
“That’s what the people out here do,” said Aunt Nan after a little when Virginia had finished. “They’re not afraid to give back the ‘love and laughter’ which Life has given them. I think we reserved New Englanders can learn a lesson from Mr. Jarvis and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and all the other people we met and be more willing to give back what we’ve had given to us.”
For a long hour after she had gone to bed Vivian remembered the lesson she might have learned from the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and would not; the love and laughter she might have given the guests of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis and did not. Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she lay looking through the tent opening at the mountains—great, silent souls beneath the stars. They gave back—just everything, she thought.
“Can’t you sleep, Vivian?” Virginia whispered 236 from her bed across the tent. “What’s the matter?”
Vivian told half the truth.
“It’s that poem,” she said petulantly. “Of course it’s lovely, but I can’t get it out of my mind, and I hate to have things run through my head like that!”