The wholesome smell of clean, brown earth, the spicy tang of crushed herb and shrub, of cedar and juniper, mingled with a delectable and savory fragrance of steaming coffee and sizzling, spluttering venison.
Pete Johnson sat cross-legged before the fire.

This mess of venison was no hit-or-miss affair; he was preparing a certain number of venison steaks, giving to each separate steak the consideration of an artist.
Stanley Mitchell kicked the blankets flying.

"Whoo-hoo-oo! This is the life!" he proclaimed.

Orisons more pious have held less gratitude.
He tugged on one boot, reached for the other--and then leaped to his feet like a jack-in-the-box.

With the boot in his hand he pointed to the south.