In the chill dark we felt for a spot to pitch our tent. Spiky mesquite caught and tore our hair nets. Texas’ millions of untenanted acres brooded over our human unimportance, till a charred stick or empty tin can, stumbled over in the dark, became as welcome a signal as Friday’s footprint to Crusoe. Jointing our useless little spade, we dug a trench in the soft sand for our hips to rest in, hoisted our tent-rope over a thorny branch, folded blanket-wise our auto robes, undressed and crept inside our house. The lamps of the car gave us light to stow away our belongings, and its lumbering sides screened us from the road. With a sense of elation we looked at the circling stars through our tent windows, and heard the wind rise in gusts through the bare branches. The world becomes less fearsome with a roof over one’s head. Dawn is the camper’s hour of trial. I woke from a dream that a mountain lion had entered our shelter, when Toby sat up excitedly. “I just dreamed a bear was trying to get in,” she said. The coincidence was forboding, yet no menagerie appeared. Our aching hips, tumbled bedding and chilled bodies made us dread the long hours to breakfast. Toby hinted I had my share and more of the blanket. I had long entertained a similar suspicion of her, but was too noble to mention it. We portioned out the bedding afresh, vowed we never again would camp out, and in a moment it was eight o’clock of a cold, foggy morning. Yesterday the sun had been hot enough to blister Toby’s cheek. Today was like a nor’-easter off Labrador. We were too cold to get up, and too cold to stay shivering in the tent. It seemed a stalemate which might last a life-time, when suddenly indecision crystallized, exploded, and we found ourselves on the verge of the ice-cold stream compromising cleanliness with comfort. How different seems the same folding stove viewed on the fifth floor of a sporting goods store in New York, and in the windy open. Piffling and futile it appeared to us, its natural inadequacy increased by our discovery that our fuel cans were locked in our trunk, and the lock had become twisted. It further appeared that most of our cooking outfit was interned in the same trunk. Accordingly I tried to build a fire, while Toby took down the tent. Camp cooking is an art which I shall not profane by describing our attempts to get breakfast that bleak morning. The fire smouldered, but refused to break into the bright cheery crackle one hears about, and finally, untempted by the logs of green mesquite we hopefully fed it, went out entirely. We breakfasted on the remains of last night’s supper, washed down with a curious sticky mixture made of some labor-saving coffee preparation. Realizing that it took more than the outfit to make good campers, we went our subdued way. Our water bag bumped on the running-board, falling off frequently, and once we retraced ten muddy miles to retrieve it.