With an armful of firewood, Lorry returned to the spring. The ponies nodded in the heat of noon. Dorothy, spreading their modest luncheon on a bright new Navajo blanket, seemed daintier than ever against the background of the forest. They made coffee and ate the sandwiches she had prepared. After luncheon Lorry smoked, leaning back against the granite rock, his hat off, and his legs crossed in lazy content.
"If it could only be like this forever," sighed Dorothy.
Lorry promptly shook his head. "We'd get hungry after a spell."
"Men are always hungry. And you've just eaten."
"But I could listen to a poem," he said, and he winked at a tree-trunk.
"It's really too warm even to speak of 'The Little Fires,' isn't it? Oh, I know! Do you remember the camp we made?"
"Well, I ain't had time to remember this one yet--and this is the first for us."
"And I don't believe you know a poem when you see one."
"I reckon you're right. But I can tell one when I hear it."
"Very well, then. Shut your eyes tight and listen:--
"'Do you remember the camp we made as we nooned on the mesa floor, Where the grass rolled down like a running sea in the wind-- and the world our own? You laughed as you sat in the cedar shade and said 't was the ocean shore Of an island lost in a wizardry of dreams, for ourselves alone.
"'Our ponies grazed in the idle noon, unsaddled, at ease, and slow; The ranges dim were a faëryland; blue hills in a haze of gray. Hands clasped on knee, you hummed a tune, a melody light and low; And do you remember the venture planned in jest--for your heart was gay?'"
Dorothy paused. "You may open your eyes. That's all."
"Well, it's noon," said Lorry, "and there are the ponies, and the hills are over there. Won't you say the rest of it?"
"Oh, the rest of it is about a venture planned that never came true. It couldn't, even in a poem. But I'll tell you about it some day."
Dorothy shook her head. "I am afraid it would spoil our real adventure. But if I were a boy--wouldn't it be fun! We would ride and camp in the hills at night and find all the little fires along the trail--"
"Well, I can't help bein' like I am. But sometimes I get lazy and sit and look at the hills and the cañons and mesas down below, and wonder what's the good of hustlin'. But somehow I got to quit loafin' after a spell--and go right to hustlin' again. It's a sure good way to get rested up; just to sit down and forget everything but the big world rollin' down to the edge of nothin'. It makes a fella's kickin' and complainin' look kind of small and ornery."