---
title: Improvement Era
description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930.
authors:
  - Retsloff, D. C.
collections:
  - periodicals
tags:
  - magazine
  - improvement-era
periodical: Improvement Era
volume: 25
number: 8
published: 1922-06
publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations
publisher_place: Salt Lake City
language: en
type: magazine
reference: 'D. C. Retsloff, "Hospitality," *Improvement Era* 25, no. 8 (June 1922): 706.'
source:
  url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2508unse
  transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers.
  identifier: improvementera2508unse
start_page: 706
end_page: 706
rights:
  status: public-domain
  basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1922-06)
  source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera2508unse
  publication_year: 1922
  note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1922, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright.
---

# Hospitality
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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.