“‘I feel as if I were on the top of the world,’” pursued the letter, “‘The sky is so big, so near. And it seems to rest on the crests of these splendid old mountains. The Antlers is on a side hill, partly cleared of forest and running down to Raquette Lake. The hotel is white and it’s on the top of the slope. It’s a nice hotel, they say. I’ve only been in it twice. Almost nobody is ever indoors except at night or when it rains. And most of the people don’t live at the hotel itself. They live in the cottages and lodges and tents; and eat in the two big dining rooms that are houses by themselves. It’s the outdoorest place I ever saw. We row and fish and tramp and swim and loaf all day, and go on picnics. And late in the afternoons there’s a regular fleet of boats that put out into the lake to watch the sunset. “The Sunset Fleet,” I call them. And in the evenings we go to the open camps and lie back among the balsam boughs and watch the big camp fires and tell stories and sing college songs. And sometimes we coax Ed Bennett to come down to the camp with his violin and give us “_The Arkansaw Traveler_” or tell us one of his stories. He has the vocabulary of a college professor. He knows all the Adirondack books, and he reads us chapters from them. “‘And by ten o’clock, generally, everybody is in bed, sleeping as no one can sleep in town. One man in a tent left his mouth open when he went to sleep the other night, and made funny V-shaped noises that got all three of the dogs to barking and waked everybody up. There’s the _loveliest_ collie here. His name is Rex. He has adopted me and goes everywhere with me. Sometimes even when I haven’t any candy to give him. I wanted to buy him and take him home. But Mr. Bennett,--not Ed, but his brother, the proprietor,--won’t sell him for any price. Isn’t it horrid? Rex and Siegfried-Mickey would get on beautifully together, I know. And their color schemes harmonize so perfectly. “‘And--Oh, I forgot!--there’s a yellow kitten here, too, that’s made friends with me. And what do you suppose one of the boys did the other evening? We had a welsh-rarebit party at the open camp, and he poured beer all over the yellow kitten’s fur, just before we went away. And of course, cat-like, she licked it all off. And she came bounding into my room ten minutes later in a perfectly _scandalous_ condition. The beer she had licked up from her fur had gone to the poor little thing’s head. Her eyes were as big as saucers and she purred all the time like a wagon-ful of rattly steel rails. And she went dancing ’round in circles on three legs and trying to climb the wall; till she fell asleep in my waste basket. Wasn’t it a shame? I’m sorry I laughed. But she _did_ look so weird. And her fur smelt so horribly of beer that I _couldn’t_ pick her up and try to reason with her. Next day she was the living picture of remorse. I got her some ice to lap and put a blue ribbon on her.