"I can't make
a little black dot like that look like a man."
"In this particular sketch, for his purpose, he'd rather look like a dot
than a man, I dare say," said Harshaw.
"Well, shall I put him in? I can make a note of it on the margin: 'This
black dot is Mr. Daly, standing at the spring-head. He is six feet'"--
"But he isn't, you know," Harshaw says. "He's five feet ten--if he's that."
"Ten and a half," I hasten to amend.
Our lunch that day had been left in the boat. We went down and ate it
under the mountain birches at a spot where the Snow Bank empties into the
lagoon--not _our_ lagoon, as we called it, between our camp and the lovely
Sand Springs Fall, but the upper one, made by the springs themselves,
before their waters reach the river. In front of us, half embraced by the
lagoon and half by the river, lay a little island-ranch of about ten acres,
not cut up in crops, but all over green in pasture. A small cabin, propping
up a large hop-vine, showed against a mass of birch and cottonwood on the
river side of the island.
"What a place for a honeymoon!" said I.
"There is material there for half of a honeymoon," said Tom--"not bad
material, either.
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