We boiled a pot of black currants and wild gooseberries and we ate it to the last berry, though, as the poet said afterwards, it was a quart of concentrated quinine. And we made a rosy layer of wild black-currant candy in the frying-pan which was not allowed to remain long unconsumed. We had no food in our knapsacks, only a little sugar, but we counted ourselves happy though hungry because we had been up on top of a great mountain and had come down. “A joy to the heart of a man is a goal that he may not reach,” says Swinburne. And a greater joy still is the joy of reaching it. That is what we have been doing all day. “Call it ‘Doing the Impossible’ and thinking well of ourselves,” adds the poet when I read this to him: [Illustration] _“My master builder!” said the lady When she made the master builder Climb to the top of his new building, Risking his life and doing the impossible a second time. She made him do it, but he doing it was a hero. He showed his manhood to her By doing something that could not be done. “The impossible or nothing” be our cry. Don’t you loathe the perfectly possible? I do._ [Illustration: SWEET LADIES DO STOP ROLLING YOUR EYES] XV. PEOPLE IN CAMP A DAY’S steady tramping brought us to a camp, and then we bathed in St. Mary’s Lake and washed every separate item of linen, even that which we wore, and we sun-baked ourselves on the hot beach while the clothes dried, and we made a clean appearance at last among fair women and brave men, and we took supplies on which to vagabondise for days on the slopes of Going-to-the-Sun Mountain. It was a curious experience to be absolutely alone on the mountains so long and then suddenly to come on a large congregation of tourists. Going-to-the-Sun Camp is a spectacular point in the recognised tour of Glacier Wilderness. “We are doing the four days’ tour,” is the common explanation which visitors gave us. Or, “We are making the triangular trip.” One’s eyes naturally rest on the ladies, who are nearly all in seeming male attire, and some of this attire fits and some does not; some of it suggests homes where men are rare and breeches have to be imported. But they all look pretty well in this simplicity. Girls in mauve and violet jumpers, shiny leather belts, and leg-o’-mutton breeches sit with us at supper and explain that to-day was their first day on a horse--and they know it. “Are you tired?” say I. “You can tell the world,” is the reply. Near us stands a girl in tan riding costume, violet stockings, white shoes, and bobbed brown hair in a hair net. She is talking to two well-built youths, standing with their legs apart, and the girl, imitating their styles, droops forward to them as they chaff one another. She will not stray far. The same may be said of a well-fed lady of sixty, pampered and neurotic, but sitting in a riding jacket and very baggy breeches and nervously smelling at an ammonia bottle. Grandma in trousers is rather portentous.