‘That’s just the point, sir,’ retorted Jack, slyly, ‘for, you remember, poets are not _fit_, but _nascitur_,—don’t you know?’ and he retired under his blanket for protection. But quiet seemed to be impossible: there were all sorts of strange sounds; and the moon, too, was so splendid that they almost felt as if they were lying beneath the radiance of a calcium light; while in the dark places, midst the branches of thick foliage, the owls hooted gloomily. If you had happened to be an owl in that vicinity, you might have heard not only the feverish tossing to and fro of the girls in the hammocks, but many dismal sighs and groans from Dr. Winship and the boys; for the bare ground is, after all, more rheumatic than romantic, and they too tumbled from side to side, seeking comfort. But at midnight quiet slumber had descended upon them, and they presented a funny spectacle enough to one open-eyed watcher. A long slender sycamore log was extended before the fire, and constituted their pillow; on this their heads reposed, each decorated with a tightly fitting silk handkerchief; then came a compact, papoose-like roll of grey blanket, terminated by a pair of erect feet, whose 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 cañon?’ 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 CAÑON—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 colony of people under the sun; for it takes a deal of hard work and ingenuity to make a comfortable and beautiful dwelling-place in the forest. The best way of showing you how they accomplished this is to describe the camp after it was nearly finished.