Four in Camp: A Story of Summer Adventures in the New Hampshire Woods

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“Maybe he’ll be back,” he whispered excitedly.

“Not he,” said Bob. “He’s scared to death. I’ll bet he’s half a mile away by this time. Hello!” He had drawn in his own line, forgotten in the excitement, and found the hook empty. “I got a bite at last.”

“So did the fish,” laughed Nelson.

Tom’s “whale” didn’t put in any appearance, but at the end of half an hour or so he had four fair-sized bass and two chub to his credit, while Bob had only one small perch to show.

“You win, Tommy,” he said, winding up his line. “The old farm is yours, to say nothing of the wood-lot on the hill. Now let’s get along. It’s after four and we ought to get to Morris Island by five.”

So they took to the paddles again and glided on through the channel that divided the island from the mainland. At the end of the island they met one of the steamers, her deck well filled with passengers who waved and shouted to them as they swept past. There was lots to see now, for they were well inshore and the houses and cabins were thick thereabouts. At the end of an hour their camp-site was in view. Morris Island lay well out in the lake and was one of the largest there. A few camps were scattered over it, but there was plenty of room for a night’s lodging. They crept along the shore until they found a little cove with a gravelly beach. Here they disembarked, stretched their limbs, and set about making camp.

The canoes were emptied, carried up under the trees, and laid bottom side up for the night. Tom went off after firewood, and the others unpacked the cooking things and set up the tents. Bob, who had had experience in camping, took command. The blankets were distributed, water was brought, and a big log was rolled down to the edge of the beach. Tom came back with his first armful of wood, and Bob set about the building of the fire. With some small stones dug from the beach he built a fireplace, the back wall of which was the tree trunk. Between the side walls he dug out the gravel for a depth of six inches, continuing the excavations for a foot or so in front. Then with a broad, flat stone he made a hearth, fixing it in such a way that there was a draft from front to back. On the flat stone he threw some dried grass and twigs and lighted them. Then Tom’s supply was drawn upon and in a moment there was a roaring fire. With the hatchet Bob cut a stout branch, sharpened one end, and thrust it into the earth so that it leaned over the fireplace. From this, just above the flames, he depended the water-kettle. The cooking utensils and the provisions were spread out and Nelson and Dan were set to cleaning the fish. The bread was cut—Tom managing to gash his finger in the operation—the coffee made, and the potatoes were washed and plumped into the boiling water. Meanwhile the skillet was leaning against the fireplace getting hot.

Dan and Tom and Nelson sat down and watched, jumping up now and then to do Bob’s bidding, but for the most part cultivating their appetites by observing the preparation of supper. Bob seemed to know just what to do and how to do it. By the time the potatoes were almost done the fish were frying in the skillet and the coffee-pot was singing a tune of its own.

Then plates were passed around and in a moment there was a deep and eloquent silence that lasted until Tommy, with a sigh, laid down his plate and reached for the frying-pan. “Work,” quoth Tom, “makes a fellow hungry.”