_the carousal at the previous night’s fire.

MORNING ON THE BLACK TUSK MEADOWS

HILL mists hang draped on Panorama Ridge and the East
CT Bluff. The Castle Towers, the Sentinel, and Garibaldi itsell
loom in solemn array around the still lake. A cool breeze

drifts down from Mimulus Creek, stirring the tree tops, and inspit-
ing the quiet column of smoke from the campfire to activity. A few
lone mosquitoes float above the camp, numb with the cold air. Th
tents hang dismally from their poles, with yawning flaps, showing
tumble of clothing and paint boxes within; on the table under thi
awning a collection of mugs, spoons and a cocoa tin bear evidence ol

Before the larger tent an old Army sleeping bag contains the slumber.
ing form of the Master; well out from the tents are deposited thret
additional forms. Here with a tangle of gold and a segment of su
burned forehead showing at the open end of the bag, reposes thi
Artist. This other bag contains the Boy, who is completely submerg:
ed in the downy folds. With his face turned to the sky, and thi
breeze occasionally lifting a stray black lock of hair, slumbers th
Youth. The others move at odd times, now to change position, now
drowsily waving off a too-ambitious mosquito, but not the Yout .
He sleeps like one of stone. 4
At the first touch of the sun’s rays on his eyes, the Youth stirs. #

mosquito, warmed by the glow which is now stealing over the camp
Seoul a PAGE 63) 7
al