Middletown transcript. [volume] (Middletown, Del.) 1868-current, 1912-03-16
CHAPTER III.
The Story and the Letters.

The Story and the Letters.
Imagine, II you please, the forest
primeval; yes, the murmuring pines
and the hemlocks of the poem as well,
by the side OF a rapidly rushing noun
tain torrent fed by the eternal SHOWS
of the lofty peaks of the great range.
A level stretch Of grassy land where
q mountain brook joined the creek
was dotted with clumps Of pines and
great boulders rolled down from the
everlasting hills-half an acre of open
clearing. On the opposite side of the
brook the canon wall rose almost
sheer for perhaps five hundred feet,
ending in jagged, needle-edged pin
nacles Of rock, sharp, picturesque and
beautiful. A thousand feet above ran
the timber line, and four thousand
feet above that the crest Of the great
est peak in the main range.
The white tents Of the little encamp-
ment which had cleaned so brightly
in the clear air and radiant sunshine
of Colorado, now stood dim and ghost
like in the red reflection Of huge
campfire. It was the evening Of the
first day in the wilderness.
For two days since leaving the
wagon, the Maitland party with its
long train of burros heavily packed,
its horsemen and the steady plodders
on foot, had advanced into unexplored
and almost inaccessible retreats Of
the mountains-into the primitive In
deed! In this delightful spot they had
pitched their tents and the perma-
nent camp had been made. Wood
was abundant, the water at hand was
as cold as ice, as clear as crystal and
as soft as milk. There was pas
turage for the horses and burrOs on
the other side of the mountain brook.
The whole place was a little amphi-
theater which humanity occupied per-
haps the first time since creation.
Unpacking the burros, setting up
the tents, making the camp, building
the fire, had used up the late remain
der Of the day which was theirs when
they had arrived. Opportunity would
come tomorrow to explore the coun-
try, to climb the range, to try the
stream that tumbled down a success
sion Of waterfalls to the right Of the
camp and roared and rushed merrily
around its feet until, swelled by the
volume of the brook, it lost itself in
tree-clad depths far beneath. Tonight
rest after labor, tomorrow play after
rest.
The evening meal was over. Enid
could not help think with what
scorn and contempt her father would
have regarded the menu, how his gorge
would have risen-hers, too, for that
matter!-had it been placed before
him on the old colonial mahogany of
the dining-room in Philadelphia. But
up there in the Wilds she had eaten
the coarse homely fare with the zest
and relish Of the most seasoned ranger
Of the hills. Anxious to be OF service,
she had burned her hands and smoked
her hair and scorched her face by
usurping the functions Of the young
ranchman who had been brought along
as cook, and had actually fried the
bacon herself Imagine a goddess
with frying pan! The black thick
coffee and the condensed milk, drunk
from the granite ware cup, had more
delicious aroma and a more delight
full taste than the finest Mocha and
Java in the dsintiest porcelain OF
France. Optimum condimentum. The
girl was frankly ravenously hungry,
the air, the altitude, the exertion, the
excitement made her able to eat any.
thing and enjoy 1t.
She was gloriously beautiful, too;
even her brief experience in the west
had brought back the missing roses
to her cheek, and had banished the
bistre circles from beneath her eyes.
Robert Maitland, lazily reclining
propped up against a boulder, his feet
to the IRE, smoking an old pipe that
would have given his brother the hor-
rors, looked with approving com.