re in the midst of our lament, in steps fate, just as usual."
"My breakfast, 'tis of thee, Sweet bunch of hominy, Of thee I sing!"
sang the Captain in a quavering baritone, as he stirred the hominy cooking in a kettle swung over a wood fire in the "kitchen" on Ellen's Isle.
"Oh, I say, look out, you're getting ashes into it," called Katherine warningly, looking up from her little "toast fire" nearby, where she was crisping slices of bread held on the end of a forked stick.
Katherine and the Captain were cooks that morning and had the job of getting breakfast while the rest took an early dip in the lake. It was the first week in July. Three days ago Ellen's Isle was an uninhabited wilderness and the only sound which broke the stillness of its dark woods was the rushing of the wind in the pine trees, or the lapping of the water on the little beach. M