'I don't know how they dress, and don't care,' said the younger man,
repacking his treasures.

Old Fog concluded to camp with his new friend that night and be off at
dawn. 'You see it is late,' he said, 'and your fire's all made and
everything comfortable. I've a long row before me to-morrow: I'm on my
way to the Beavers.'

'Ah! very intelligent animals, I am told. Friends of yours?'

'Why, they're islands, boy; Big and Little Beaver! What do you know,
if you don't know the Beavers?'

'Man,' replied Waring. 'I flatter myself I know the human animal well;
he is a miserable beast.'

'Is he?' said old Fog, wonderingly; 'who'd have thought it!' Then,
giving up the problem as something beyond his reach,--'Don't trouble
yourself if you hear me stirring in the night,' he said; 'I am often
mighty restless.' And rolling himself in his blanket, he soon became,
at least as regards the camp-fire and sociability, a nonentity.

'Simple-minded old fellow,' thought Waring, lighting a fresh pipe;
'has lived around here all his life apparently. Think of that,--to
have lived around here all one's life! I, to be sure, am here now; but
then, have I not been--' And here followed a revery of remembrances,
that glittering network of gayety and folly which only young hearts
can weave, the network around whose border is written in a thousand
hues, 'Rejoice, young man, in thy youth, for it cometh not again.'