"There was fine wood in these parts
some years ago, before the telephone company bought up all the tall trees.
Uncle Frank--Major Dale, you know--was telling us only the other night
about it. Some ten years ago a telephone inspector came out here and
bargained for the whole grove--that is, all the good, sound trees. Then
the woodchoppers went back to Canada."
"Glad they left their hut, at any rate," remarked Tom, tossing an armful
of dry wood on to the stone hearth. "What do we cook?"
"Bacon, potatoes, cheese to toast, and--let me see. What else?" queried
Nat, rummaging through the basket of supplies.
"Bread and butter, pepper and salt, and a whole cake," announced Roger
with unconcealed glee.
"I guess that'll do," drawled Tom. "Sorry we didn't think to fetch
something ourselves."
"Oh, this is my treat," replied Nat.
"It was I who thought about the lunch," Roger reminded him.
"That's right, kid, you did. But then, you are always hungry, which may,
in a measure, account for your wonderful forethought."
The blazing fire had by this time warmed the place comfortably, and it was
jolly, indeed, to prepare the meal over the strong embers of good solid
oak.
An old grate had been found about the place, and upon this the sliced
bacon was spread, while the potatoes were dropped directly into the
embers. Norah had thought of everything, even paper napkins and picnic
knives and forks.
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