stretched our tent wigwam fashion on some old Indian tepee poles, and,
without troubling ourselves to break brush for a bed, we all soon
joined Stanton in a dreamless slumber upon his rocky couch.

The night, like the day, was very warm, and when I aroused Pete at
sunrise the next morning (July second) to get breakfast the mosquitoes
were about our heads in clouds.

A magnificent panorama lay before us. Opposite, across the valley of
the Nascaupee, a great hill held its snow-tipped head high in the
heavens. Some four miles farther up to the northwest, the river
itself, where it was choked with blocks of ice, made its appearance
and threaded its way down to the southeast until it was finally lost
in the spruce-covered valley. Beyond, bits of Grand Lake, like silver
settings in the black surrounding forest, sparkled in the light of the
rising sun. Away to the westward could be traced the rushing waters
of the Red River making their course down through the sandy ridges
that enclose its valley. To the northward lay a great undulating
wilderness, the wilderness that we were to traverse. It was Sunday
morning, and the holy stillness of the day engulfed our world.

When Pete had the fire going and the kettle singing I roused the boys
and told them we would make this, our first Sunday in the bush, an
easy one, and simply move our camp forward to a more hospitable and
sheltered spot by a little brook a mile up the trail, and then be
ready for the "tug of war" on Monday.

In accordance with this plan, after eating our breakfast we each
carried a light pack to our new camping ground, and there pitched our
tent by a tiny brook that trickled down through the rocks. While