irony of the saw. Farther along, on another clearing,
stands a square building labelled "Office," and still
farther on, guarded by sentinel trees and encircled
by wide piazzas, sprawls a low-roofed bungalow, its
main entrance level with a boardwalk ending in the
lake. This was Monteith's home. Here during the
winter's logging he housed himself in complete seclusion,
and here in summer he kept open house for
whoever would answer in person his welcoming
letters.

Anything so rude and primeval, or so comforting
and inviting, was beyond the experience of Muggles
and his friends. This became apparent before
they had shed their coats and unpacked their
bags. There was a darky who answered to the name
of Jackson who could not only crisp trout to a turn,
but who could compound cocktails, rub down muscular
backs shivering from morning plunges in the
lake, make beds, clean guns, wait on the table, and in
an emergency row a canoe. There were easy chairs
and low-pitched divans overspread with Turkey rugs
and heaped with piles of silk cushions; there were
wooden lockers, all open, and each one filled with
drinkables and smokables--drinkables with white
labels, and smokables six inches long with cuffs halfway
down their length; there was an ice-chest sampling
a larger house in the rear; there was a big, wide,
all-embracing fireplace that burst its sides laughing
over the good time it was having (the air was cool at