the rocks to a spot where the trees were as Mr. Rogers had described. He tried to press through, and failed. Then he just scrambled out on top of them, and tried to walk. With every step he half disappeared from sight, while the rest looked on, laughing.
After a few steps, he came back. His hands and face were scratched, and there was a tear in his trousers.
"Excuse me!" he cried. "Gee, the Dismal Swamp has nothing on those mountain spruces! Golly, I begin to admire the man who made this path up here!"
The spruce boughs were so tough, in fact, that only the tips could be used for bedding, and the boys had to trim the branches with their knives to make their bunks on the ground. The camp-fire was built of dead spruce, with some live stumps added, and a kettle of water kept beside it lest a spark ignite the trees close by. Night had come on before supper was ready, and with the coming of night it grew cold, colder than the boys had guessed it could be in July. They put on their sweaters, which, all day, they had been complaining about as extra weight, and they kept close to the fire while Art, with the skill of a juggler, tossed the flapjacks from one side to the other in his fry pan, catching them neatly as they came down. The wind rose higher, and began
