EARLY MORNING

A coot breeze shook the fly-bar, and early sun-
light filtered through its folds. There was a stir of
leaves and a gust of scent, and a lapping sound
from the river.

From the four silk walls of the little tent the
canvas roof stretched neatly to a central point and
was supported there by the upright stem of a young
spruce. A few clumps of green needles still clung
to the top end above the white patches where the
axe had trimmed the bark. No, the pole surely
wasn't quite straight; too long, perhaps, or else
the damp canvas had contracted and bent it a little.
There was a mosquito near the pole, looking very
big and black against a patch of sunlit canvas. Small
shadows moved slowly and vaguely. The scent
was very sweet in the cool air; very sweet and
cool: 2.5

“Time?”

“Size.”

“Heck!”

Shirt; belt; where is that belt? Here, under your
eiderdown, fathead: moccasins; we’ll need the fly-

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