Hospitality

Hospitality By D. C. Retsloff The afternoon shadows were lengthening and wrapping the deep canyons of the mountains in folds of soft dusky blue velvet as I came to a path crossing the trail. It was a well worn path and I followed it. It ended at the rocky doorstep of a weathered log cabin more than half hid- den by long, red-brown branches of southern mahogany. On the rough hewn white pine door was tacked a paper, and on it in cramped script was written: "Stranger — The door's unlocked. Go in. There's plenty of uncooked eats in the tin pails. There's wood in the leanto and water in the spring, just up the canyon. Build a fire, cook enough for two, and make your- self comfortable till I come. I quit work when the sun kisses the peak of old Baldy. "John Bush." The fire was snapping — the potatoes and warm water bub- bling— the bacon sputtering, and the red glow from the warped old stove adding a homey bit of color to the brown room when John Bush entered. He was tall and sturdy, wilji snow white hair, a weathered skin, and eyee as alert as those of a young chipmunk. He was a prospector of the old school. His leathery face beamed as he thanked me for the warm meal and the glowing stove. We sat on the rude step and talked until the evening star hid herself behind the distant peaks. The warmth still lingered in the room, the pines higher up the mountain whispered to each other, the faint murmur of the little stream running away from its Spring mother reached me as I lay between the soft gray blankets in one of the built-in bunk ends. I am glad that I lost my way; glad that I followed the worn path; glad that I met John Bush, and more than all else, glad to know that in some corners of this busy universe there is still found the fine old art of hospitality. Scat Diego, Ced.