"Well, so much the worse for him, then!

frankly, Clo'-"

"I am all of a frankness, friend Clement!"

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But,

Come, now, dearest girl-here we are miles from anywhere and it must be eleven o'clock!"

"Thee is a poor guesser. 'Tis a good half-past by my un-Quakerly wrist-watch. We came monstrous slow-thanks to interruptions-for which thee, friend Clement, was responsible-quite as much as myself!"

But I say, you goose-have you any idea where we're going?"

"None whatever!"

Well-stop a minute till we talk about it!" "Let us proceed while we discuss!"

"But I should think you'd be all tired out!"

"Then thee knows little about me-and less about love

in general."

"Well, I confess "

"Is thee tired, friend Clement?"

"Not at all! But-"

"Then I am even less tired. Has thee never seen a butterfly-or an eagle, for I like the eagle better-soar when it recognizes its mate?"

"Oh, my dear-"

"Well, I'm soaring, friend Clement; it is thy part just to keep up till I decide it is time for soaring to stop!"

A LUCKY CHAPTER, IN WHICH TWO STRAYS, NOT ONLY FROM MANHATTAN MASKINGS, CHARADES, AND AMATEUR THEATRICALS, BUT FROM SOME RECENT MORE FUNDAMENTAL REVELS OF THEIR OWN, SIT UPON THE BROW OF A MOUNTAIN, WONDERING ABOUT THE WORLD BENEATH, AND COUNSELING HOW BEST TO BEAR A NOBLE PART, SEEING THAT HELL HAS MANIFESTLY CRACKED OPEN ACROSS SEVERAL CONTINENTS

NEAR the summit of Teyce Ten Eyck, as there are near the summits of several of the much-abraded Catskill peaks in the neighborhood, there is an unfailing spring of pure, cold water. Local tradition says that the great spring welling up from a cleft only a few hundred feet below the topmost crag of Bear Mountain, rises and lowers daily in response to the Atlantic tides. Most of the more sophisticated Woodbridgians deny this on general principles, not one of them, so far as is known, ever having gone up to see about it for himself. Perhaps not a dozen of them have been up to the nearer, and more accessible, if loftier, summit and smaller spring of Teyce Ten Eyck, even though they will tell you, with great enthusiasm, about the magnificent view from the summit, about the surprising spring, nearly three thousand feet above the valley, streaming up from a rock-hole as round as if drilled, not fifty feet below the eastern promontory of the second highest peak in the Catskills. Two decades after the Civil War, a large summer hotel

was built near the spring, anchored down to the ledges by guy-chains to keep it from being blown down into the village, equipped with negro waiters, a swimming pool below the spring, a fine line of eatables and drinkables, and rates ranging from ten to thirty dollars per day. It never prospered greatly, due perhaps to the creeping nature of the two-hour drive up from Woodbridge, making it more than three hours from the railroad, and finally burned down, heavily insured, in 1908. Of late years, four or five picnic parties, always boarders, never natives, visit the summit during the boarding season.

Near the spot where the verandah of the hotel used to look southeastward across miles of enminiatured country-as far as New York City, granted binoculars and a fine day, any true Woodbridgian will tell you— successive generations of picnickers have built, and even gone some way toward furnishing, a small cabin. It began with a few half-burned beams from the old hotel, grew by the addition of boards from one of the old blowndown barns, spiked together by hand-wrought nails picked up among the ashes in the hotel cellar, and began to be furnished by articles left by picnickers who didn't want to carry down as much as they had carried up. Sudden rainstorms, especially prevalent on the summit, were the best incentive to work on the cabin itself; blistering hot days, which August brings occasionally even to a Catskill peak, were the best for new furnishings.

The cabin had no windows, nor any door in the doorway, but it partially redeemed these architectural defects by the great advantage of a small stone fireplace; the original board chimney had gradually been superseded

by piled stone, a change for the better that was made compulsory for all houses in Woodbridge in the year 1670, and was adopted by the Teyce Ten Eyck cabin only about two hundred and forty years later—a very creditable compliance with fire laws, all things considered.

Shelves ran along both sides of the six-by-ten room; one represented the butler's pantry, the other the library and general knick-knackery. The butler's pantry contained several Mason jars, one always full of coffee, the other of sugar, since most picnickers came oversupplied with both commodities-several round coffee cans likely to contain a moldy scrap of bread, remnants that might once have been olives, or pickles, or bacon, or even an occasional unopened and usable can of these picnic delicacies. An especially large can, two-pound size, still bore, charcoaled across its rusty front in spite of the passage of some years, the enticing legend: "Fresh eggs." The contents, which were a great boon to every picnicking party, still had an undeniable odor of egg. Doubtless thoughtful picnickers added a fresh egg, from time to time, and renewed the charcoal legend, to the end that there might be greater joy in the hearts of the stout few adventurers who still visited the summit of Teyce Ten Eyck.

Under the shelves, on wooden pegs and nails, hung various discarded coats, hats, and sweaters, and on a birch beam that crossed midway the room at the level of the low eaves, a neatly folded steamer rug, still serviceable in spite of some rents, a tan army blanket, even more serviceable in spite of an accident with fire at one corner that had doubtless persuaded its former owner to leave it, and a red woolen blanket too grease

stained to appeal except to great chilliness, waited hospitably for accidental discoverers. There was a rectangular slab of bluestone at one side, raised on boulders for legs, so that it made a very acceptable seat, or at a pinch a shortish couch for one who didn't mind cramping and hardness. Sections of beams and a large, square stone or two suggested seats along the opposite wall. The library, above them, offered a choice of "A Tale of Two Cities," "Little Women," or "A Naturalist on the Amazon" to the literarily minded. A pickle bottle, holding a few withered briary stems that might once have been wild roses, gave an esthetic touch.

On the stone slab above the little fireplace, someone had scratched hieroglyphics that might have been intended for "Welcome." Aged iron frying pans on either side, a rusty tin tobacco-can on the hearth labeled "Matches," and a dilapidated market basket half-full of pine cones, carried out the same idea in a more practical way. A bit of board over the not very successful attempt at a mantel-shelf announced: "Ten Eyck Inn. Rates, $oo. a day, and down." It was before this announcement, revealed by the moonlight slanting in at the doorless doorway, that Clotilde and her Corporal stayed their soaring.

"Why, it's a perfect duck of an Inn!" exclaimed Clotilde, staring about. "Oh, look-Fresh eggs!""

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Say " commented the Corporal, almost ready to believe it. "An egg wouldn't go so worse, fried in one of those old pans!" He took down the can, got off the rusty lid after a struggle, with Clotilde standing at his shoulder, remarked "Whee-ew!" while Clotilde backed rapidly away, and slapped the cover back into the place.