He is requested to get some water, to
throw on another log, to see what time it is, to note whether it
looks like rain. A buzz of conversation arises. She is sure she
heard something behind the shanty. He says it is all nonsense.
"Perhaps, however, it might be a mouse."
"Mercy! Are there mice?"
"Plenty."
"Then that's what I heard nibbling by my head. I shan't sleep a
wink! Do they bite?"
"No, they nibble; scarcely ever take a full bite out."
"It's horrid!"
Towards morning it grows chilly; the guides have let the fire go out;
the blankets will slip down. Anxiety begins to be expressed about
the dawn.
"What time does the sun rise?"
"Awful early. Did you sleep?
"Not a wink. And you?"
"In spots. I'm going to dig up this root as soon as it is light
enough."
"See that mist on the lake, and the light just coming on the Gothics!
I'd no idea it was so cold: all the first part of the night I was
roasted."
"What were they talking about all night?"
When the party crawls out to the early breakfast, after it has washed
its faces in the lake, it is disorganized, but cheerful. Nobody
admits much sleep; but everybody is refreshed, and declares it
delightful. It is the fresh air all night that invigorates; or maybe
it is the tea, or the slap-jacks.
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