Me, now, I'm more of a Joshua tree."
Donald Whiting laughed, as Linda intended that he should.
A minute afterward she slid the savory food from a skewer upon
one of the pie pans, tossed back the cover from the little table,
stacked some bread-and-butter sandwiches beside the meat and
handed the pan to Donald.
"Fall to," she said, "and prove that you're a man with an
appreciative tummy. Father used to be positively ravenous for
this stuff. I like it myself."
She slid the food from the second skewer to a pan for herself,
settled the fire to her satisfaction and they began their meal.
Presently she filled a cup from the bucket beside her and handed
it to Donald. At the same time she lifted another for herself.
"Here's to the barrel cactus," she said. "May the desert grow
enough of them so that we'll never lack one when we want to have
a Saturday picnic."
Laughingly they drank this toast; and the skewers were filled a
second time. When they could eat no more they packed away the
lunch things, buried the fire, took the axe and the field
glasses, and started on a trip of exploration down the canyon.
Together they admired delicate and exquisite ferns growing around
great gray boulders. Donald tasted hunters' rock leek, and
learned that any he found while on a hunting expedition would
furnish a splendid substitute for water. Linda told him of rare
flowers she lacked and what they were like and how he would be
able to identify what she wanted in case he should ever find any
when he was out hunting or with his other friends.
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