A WOODLAND GUEST There was gray beyond the flap of Philip's tent, a velvet stillness rife with the melody of twittering birds.

Already the camp fire was crackling.

Philip rose and dressed.
Beyond, through the ghostly trees where the river glimmered in the gray dawn with a pearly iridescence, a girl was fishing.

There were deeper shadows in the hollows but the sky behind the wooded ridge to the east was softly opaline.

As the river grew pink, mists rose and curled upward and presently the glaring searchlight of the sun streamed brilliantly across the river and the forest, flinging a banner of shadow tracery over the wakening world.
The girl by the river caught a fish, deftly strung it on a willow shoot beside some others and bathed her hands in the river.