Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

appeared up the creek.

     In the half twilight, Fred and I went to the deserted farmhouse for water. The bright half moon was shining. All had been silent when we left camp, when we came back the air was filled with the odd calls of a myriad tree-frogs. Every branch of every tree seemed to have its frog. There was an air of uncanniness about them.

     The supper was as usual fine. The beefsteak fairly melted in our mouths and the baked potatoes, tho somewhat underdone, still had the sauce of the outdoors on them which made up for it. After supper we began to get our truck together. This accomplished we set out to make our way to the road again. This was no easy task despite the fact that we had an acetylline lamp. But finally after a rather wierd journey we came to the road again.  That was a weary walk home. I was too exhausted to take note of any­thing. The folks were still up and on the porch when we arrived.  They laughed when we reported that we had only caught two fish but we might