But the home was picturesque and quaint, and the smells of the virgin forest all about were sweet and bracing. The light mountain air hinted at frost. Innumerable birds twittered their good-night melodies in the treetops. Frogs croaked in satisfaction in the ditch that watered the alfalfa. A few hens troubled with insomnia loitered about the yard, crooning to themselves as they pecked hopefully at pebbles that looked like grain. The brook sang softly its unchangeable song of the days when the mountains heaved as the earth grew cold, the travail that gave it birth. “Just make yerselves to home, folks,” invited the mountaineer. “Ye c’n turn yer stock on th’ ’falfy if ye ain’t afraid o’ founderin’ ’em. Lot’s Wife she don’t care for ’falfy. She likes to browse offen th’ sage an’ bresh. I’ll look at my rain gauge, an’ then I’ll chop some wood and we’ll get a fire goin’.” He fluttered to the alfalfa patch and gave studious attention to something on the ground. Then he returned to the tired party, and sighing, “Not a drop!” he began helping to off-saddle the steaming animals. The quartette left Henry to his own domestic serenity in the little cabin, themselves camping at a decent distance from the house on a spot where Henry had neglected to distribute his heterogeneous treasure trove. They built a cheery campfire, over which Mary Temple cooked supper. Then when Shirttail Henry had rejoined them they settled down for a discussion of the morrow’s undertaking. “She’s a rarin’ trip,” Henry said discouragingly. “First ye gotta finish climbin’ this here mountain here, and then ye’ll come on a level valley where they’s a lake. They’s salt grass and bluejoint around the lake, but the frost’s ketched it by now, an’ it’ll be dryin’. Yer stock’ll eat it, though, and fatten on it. An’ that’s th’ place to pasture ’em till ye get back ag’in. “So now we’ve disposed o’ th’ critters. An’ then we hike across th’ valley an’ cut up a cañon on th’ other side. In th’ cañon they’s a crick that empties into th’ lake. Well, then we folly that crick for ten miles, maybe--an’ it’s a job. All boulders bigger ner my cabin, an’ down trees an’ th’ like. Well, then we’re pretty high up, an’ now we cut across through th’ timber towards Dewlap Mountain. That’s where we’re headin’ for. “Now and then we’ll be seein’ th’ mountain, but not often. We gotta go by compass--at least you folks would. I go by guess and by gosh. Well, then, that’s a matter o’ twenty mile to th’ foot o’ th’ peak, and up it’s a heap more.