leave-taking for half an hour's parting, while one went up the river to
try his luck, one down. Joyous reunion, with much luck or little luck,
but always enough for supper: trout rolled in cornmeal and fried, corn
on the cob just garnered from a willing or unwilling farmer that
afternoon, corn-bread,--the most luscious corn-bread in the world,
baked camper-style by the man of the party,--and red, red apples, eaten
by two people who had waited four years for just that. Evenings
in a sandy nook by the river's edge, watching the stars come out
above the water. Adventures, such as losing Chocolada, the brown
seventy-eight-year-old horse, and finding her up to her neck in a deep
stream running through a grassy meadow with perpendicular banks on
either side. We walked miles till we found a farmer. With the aid of
himself and his tools, plus a stout rope and a tree, in an afternoon's
time we dug and pulled and hauled and yanked Chocolada up and out onto
dry land, more nearly dead than ever by that time. The ancient senile
had just fallen in while drinking.

We made a permanent camp for one week seventy-five miles up the river,
in a spot so deserted that we had to cut the road through to reach it.
There we laundered our change of overalls and odds and ends, using the
largest cooking utensil for boiling what was boiled, and all the food
tasted of Ivory soap for two days; but we did not mind even that. And
then, after three weeks, back to skirts and collars and civilization,
and a continued honeymoon from Medford, Oregon, to Seattle, Washington,
doing all the country banks _en route_. In Portland we had to be
separated for one whole day--it seemed nothing short of harrowing.

Then came Seattle and house-hunting. We had a hundred dollars a month to
live on, and every apartment we looked at rented for from sixty dollars
up. Finally, in despair, we took two wee rooms, a wee-er kitchen, and