generous proportions soared to different heights. There was a little
snoring, too; perhaps the log was hollow.

At midnight you might have seen a quaintly despondent little figure,
whose curly head issued from a hooded cloak, staggering hopelessly
from a hammock, and seating herself on a mossy stump. From the
limpness of her attitude and the pathetic expression of her eyes, I
fear Polly was reviewing former happy nights spent on spring-beds;
and at this particular moment the realities of camping-out hardly
equalled her anticipations. Whatever may have been her feelings,
however, they were promptly stifled when a certain insolent head
reared itself from its blanket-roll, and a hoarse voice cackled,
'Pretty Polly! Polly want a canyon?' At this insult Miss Oliver
wrapped her drapery about her and strode to her hammock with the air
of a tragedy queen.



CHAPTER III: LIFE IN THE CANYON--THE HEIR APPARENT LOSES HIMSELF



'Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom,
Where the gold orange glows in the green thicket's gloom;
Where the wind, ever soft, from the blue heaven blows,
And groves are of myrtle, and olive, and rose?'


On the next morning, as we have seen, they named their summer home
Camp Chaparral, and for a week or more they were the very busiest