It's nothing like so pretty as the goldenrod.

By and by, Whittington," Philip felt for his pipe and filled it, "we'll have our wildwood bow and arrows done and we fancy somehow that our gypsy's wonderful black eyes are going to shine a hit over that.

Why?
Lord, Dick, you do ask foolish questions! Our beautiful lady's an archer and a capital one too, says Johnny--even if she does like beastly silver-rod." Somewhat out of sorts the Duke of Connecticut set off abruptly through the trees with the dog at his heels.
Having climbed over log and boulder to a road which cleft the mountain, he kept on to the north, descending again presently to the level of the camp, smoking abstractedly and whistling now and then for Richard Whittington, who was prone to ramble.

Philip was debating whether or not he had better turn back, for the moon was already edging the black ravine with fire, when a camp fire and the silhouette of a lonely camper loomed to the west among the trees.

Philip puffed forth a prodigious cloud of smoke and seated himself on a tree stump.
"My! My!" said he easily.