"No-o, I haven't been there. But my father went down there during the
Civil War and helped clean up on the rebels!"

Sparks flew then and I forgot to be homesick. But he laughed and led me
toward my new home.

We strolled up a slight rise through wonderful pine trees, with here and
there a twisted juniper giving a grotesque touch to the landscape. The
ground was covered with springy pine needles, and squirrels and birds
were everywhere. We walked past rows and rows of white tents pitched in
orderly array among the pines, the canvas village of fifty or more road
builders. By and by we came to a drab gray shack, weather-beaten and
discouraged, hunched under the trees as if it were trying to blot
itself from the scene. I was passing on, when the Chief (White Mountain)
stopped me with a gesture.

"This is your home," he said. Just that bald statement. I thought he was
joking, but he pushed the door open and we walked inside. The tiny shack
had evidently seen duty as a warehouse and hadn't been manicured since!
But in view of the fact that the Park Service was handicapped by lack of
funds, and in the throes of road building and general development, I was
lucky to draw a real house instead of a tent. I began to see why the
Superintendent had looked askance at me when I arrived. I put on my
rose-colored glasses and took stock of my abode.

It was divided into two rooms, a kitchen and a combination
living-dining-sleeping-dressing-bath-room. The front door was a heavy
nailed-up affair that fastened with an iron hook and staple. The back
door sagged on its leather hinges and moved open or shut reluctantly.