I prepared the big fish (and I had a desperate time getting the
skin off), while my wife, who is one of the daintiest cooks in the
world, made the fire in the stove, and got ready the rest of the
supper. She fried the fish, because I told her that was the way
cat-fish ought to be cooked, although she said that it seemed very
strange to her to camp out for the sake of one's health, and then
to eat fried food.

But that fish was splendid! The very smell of it made us hungry.
Everything was good, and when supper was over and the dishes
washed, I lighted my pipe and we sat down under a tree to enjoy the
evening.

The sun had set behind the distant ridge; a delightful twilight was
gently subduing every color of the scene; the night insects were
beginning to hum and chirp, and a fire that I had made under a tree
blazed up gayly, and threw little flakes of light into the shadows
under the shrubbery.

"Now isn't this better than being cooped up in a narrow,
constricted house?" said I.

"Ever so much better!" said Euphemia. "Now we know what Nature is.
We are sitting right down in her lap, and she is cuddling us up.
Isn't that sky lovely? Oh! I think this is perfectly splendid,"
said she, making a little dab at her face,--"if it wasn't for the
mosquitoes."

"They ARE bad," I said. "I thought my pipe would keep them off,
but it don't. There must be plenty of them down at that creek."