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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

Wait till I get that cabin built,
with a big fireplace at one end. We'll be more comfortable, and things
will look a little rosier. This thing of everlasting hurry and hard
work gets on anybody's nerves."
The best of the afternoon was still unspent when the haystacking
terminated, and Bill declared a holiday. He rigged a line on a limber
willow wand, and with a fragment of venison for bait sought the pools
of the stream which flowed out the south opening. He prophesied that
in certain black eddies plump trout would be lurking, and he made his
prophecy good at the first pool. Hazel elected herself gun-bearer to
the expedition, but before long Bill took up that office while she
snared trout after trout from the stream--having become something of an
angler herself under Bill's schooling. And when they were frying the
fish that evening he suddenly observed:
"Say, they were game little fellows, these, weren't they? Wasn't that
better sport than taking a street car out to the park and feeding the
swans?"
"What an idea!" she laughed. "Who wants to feed swans in a park?"
But when the fire had sunk to dull embers, and the stars were peeping
shyly in the open flap of their tent, she whispered in his ear:
"You mustn't think I'm complaining or lonesome or anything, Billy-boy,
when I make remarks like I did to-day.


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