And it was very cold near the icy bank. The boys shivered, and turned back toward camp.
"We'll go with you, Art, and see you bake that bread," said Rob.
But they didn't. While Art went on, the rest made a side trip in to Hermit Lake, to see the reflections of the moon and stars in the glassy water. Not one, but a dozen hermit thrushes were singing now in the thickets of fir. It was lonesome, and cold, but very beautiful here, and the bird songs rang out like fairy clarions.
"This is as lonely as the Lake of the Dismal Swamp," Rob remarked, "and as beautiful."
"It's a heap sight colder, though," said Peanut shivering.
Back in camp, they found Art with his tin of bread dough propped on edge in front of a great bed of coals, with coals banked behind it and on the sides. The others kicked off their shoes and stockings, put on their heavy night socks, rolled up in their blankets under the lean-to, and, propped upon their elbows, watched Art tending his bread, while they talked in low tones.
One by one the voices died away to silence. Finally Rob and Mr. Rogers were the only ones awake. Then Mr. Rogers asked Rob a question, and got no answer. He smiled.
"Well, Art," he said, "all the rest seem to think
