its rugged seam-scarred sides, the calcium light; the pine trees with
waving plumes, rising file on file like shrouded specters, form the
stage setting; the mountain brook, on whose bosom the moon leaves a
streak of molten silver, the footlights; while all the myriad voices
of the night, harmoniously blended, are the orchestra. Even the birds
in their nests, awakened by the firelight, join their sleepy chirpings
to the chorus.

It has something primeval about it, and one almost expects to see
Robin Hood or Friar Tuck step out into the firelight. The camp fire
carries one back to the days when the red men roamed the woods, sat
round their camp fires, listened to the talking leaves, and boasted of
their prowess.

What sweet memories linger round the camp fire, where the song of the
cricket brings to us recollections of boyhood's days on the farm, when
we listened to the little minstrel, joined to the voice of the
katydids, as their elfin music came floating up from field and meadow
in a pulsating treble chorus. Dear little black musician of my
childhood! Your note still lingers in my memory and brings before me
the faces of those long since departed, who sat around the fireplace
and listened to your cheery song. There was an unwritten law among us
boys never to kill a cricket, and we kept it as sacredly as was kept
the law of the Medes and Persians.

There is another side to the camp fire: the genial comradery of its
cheery blaze, after the supper is over and the pipes lit, which
invites stories of the day's catch. The speckled beauties are
exhibited, lying side by side on the damp moss at the bottom of the
basket. The tale is told of repeated casts, under the overhanging