She learned many more things in the
next few days. She learned how to entice the chipmunks that
crossed her path, streak o' sunshine, streak o' shadow. She
learned to broil bacon over a fire, with a forked stick.
She learned to ride trail ponies, and to bask in a sun-
warmed spot on a wind-swept hill, and to tell time by the
sun, and to give thanks for the beauty of the world
about her, and to leave the wild flowers unpicked, to put
out her campfire with scrupulous care, and to destroy all
rubbish (your true woodsman and mountaineer is as
painstakingly neat as a French housewife).
She was out of doors all day. At night she read for a while
before the fire, but by nine her eyelids were heavy. She
walked down to the Inn sometimes, but not often. One
memorable night she went, with half a dozen others from the
Inn, to the tiny one-room cabin of Oscar, the handy man
about the Inn, and there she listened to one of Oscar's far-
famed phonograph concerts. Oscar's phonograph had cost
twenty-five dollars in Denver. It stood in one corner of
his cabin, and its base was a tree stump just five hundred
years old, as you could tell for yourself by counting its
rings.
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