I remember he was a long time tying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rim of the basket, so that they hung on the outside.

Then he put a woollen shawl and an oilcloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over his shoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and, hang put on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that I could climb into the basket--a pack basket, that he had used in hunting, the top a little smaller than the bottom.

Once in, I could stand comfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from port to starboard.

With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped his way to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other.

Fred, our old dog--a black shepherd, with tawny points--came after us.