They had two rainy, cold days, with a northeast wind blowing and deep mud in the roads.  The children complained of the cold.  After a few miles’ travel they stopped at an old hunter’s camp facing a great mossy rock near the road.

“Guess we’ll stop here for a visit,” said Samson.

“Who we goin’ to visit?” Joe asked.

“The trees and the fairies,” said his father.  “Don’t ye hear ’em askin’ us to stop?  They say the wind is blowin’ bad an’ that we’d better stop an’ make some good weather.  They offer us a house and a roof to cover it and some wood to burn.  I guess we’ll be able to make our own sunshine in a few minutes.”

Samson peeled some bark and repaired the roof and, with his flint and tinder and some fat pine, built a roaring fire against the rock and soon had his family sitting, in its warm glow, under shelter.  Near by was another rude framework of poles set in crotches partly covered with bark which, with a little repairing, made a sufficient shelter for Pete and Colonel.  Down by a little brook a few rods away he cut some balsams and returned presently with his arms full of the fragrant boughs.  These he dried in the heat of the fire and spread in a thick mat on the ground under the lean-to.  It was now warm with heat, reflected from the side of the great rock it faced.  The light of the leaping flames fell upon the travelers.

“Ye see ye can make yer own weather and fill it with sunshine if ye only know how,” said Samson, as he sat down and brushed a coal out of the ashes and swiftly picked it up with his fingers and put it into the bowl of his clay pipe.  “Mother and I read in a book that the wood was full o’ sunlight all stored up and ready for us to use.  Ye just set it afire and out comes the warm sunlight for days like this.  God takes pretty good care of us—­don’t He?”

The heat of other fires had eaten away a few inches of the base of the rock.  Under its overhang some one had written with a black coal the words “Bear Valley Camp.”  On this suggestion the children called for a bear story, and lying back on the green mat of boughs, Samson told them of the great bear of Camel’s Hump which his father had slain, and many other tales of the wilderness.

They lived two days in this fragrant, delightful shelter until the storm had passed and the last of their corn meal had been fed to the horses.  They were never to forget the comfort and the grateful odors of their camp in Bear Valley.

On a warm, bright day in the sand country after the storm they came to a crude, half finished, frame house at the edge of a wide clearing.  The sand lay in drifts on one side of the road.  It had evidently moved in the last wind.  A sickly vegetation covered the field.  A ragged, barefooted man and three scrawny, ill clad children stood in the dooryard.  It was noon-time.  A mongrel dog, with a bit of the hound in him, came bounding and barking toward the wagon and pitched upon Sambo and quickly got the worst of it.  Sambo, after much experience in self-defense, had learned that the best way out of such trouble was to seize a leg and hang on.  This he did.  The mongrel began to yelp.  Samson lifted both dogs by the backs of their necks, broke the hold of Sambo and tossed aside the mongrel, who ran away whining.