birches. Corydon clasped her hands and cried out in rapture when she
saw it.

And Thyrsis, picturesque in his old corduroy trousers and his grey
flannel shirt, played the host. He showed them his domestic
establishment--wherein things were set in order for the first time
since he had come. He told all his adventures: how the cold had
crept in at night, and he had to fiddle to keep his courage up; how
he had slept in a canvas-cot for the first time, and piled all the
bedding on top, and wondered that he was cold; how he had left the
pail with the freshly-roasted beef on the piazza, and a wild cat had
carried off pail and all. He made fun of his amateur house-keeping--
he would forget things and let them burn, or let the fire go out;
and he had tried living altogether on cold food, to the great
perplexity of his stomach.

Then he gave a demonstration of his hard-won culinary skill. He
boiled rice and raisins, and fried bacon and eggs; and they had
fresh bread and butter, and jam and pickles, and a festive cake. And
after they had feasted, Thyrsis stretched himself and leaned back
against the trunk of a tree, and gazed up at the sky, quoting the
words of a certain one-eyed Kalandar, son of a king, "Verily, this
indeed is life! 'Tis pity 'tis fleeting!"

Afterwards he took Corydon for a walk. They climbed the hill where
he came to battle with the stormwinds, and to watch the sunsets and
the moon rising over the lake. And then they went down into the
glen, where the mountain streamlet tumbled. Here had been
wood-sorrel, and a carpet of the white trillium; and now there was
adder's tongue, quaint and saucy, and columbine, and the pale dusty