Atmidnightyoumighthaveseenaquaintlydespondentlittlefigure，whosecurlyheadissuedfromahoodedcloak，staggeringhopelesslyfromahammock，andseatingherselfonamossystump。Fromthelimpnessofherattitudeandthepatheticexpressionofhereyes，I
fearPollywasreviewingformerhappynightsspentonspring-beds；
andatthisparticularmomenttherealitiesofcamping-outhardlyequalledheranticipations。Whatevermayhavebeenherfeelings，however，theywerepromptlystifledwhenacertaininsolentheadreareditselffromitsblanket-roll，andahoarsevoicecackled，\'PrettyPolly!Pollywantacanyon?\'AtthisinsultMissOliverwrappedherdraperyaboutherandstrodetoherhammockwiththeairofatragedyqueen。
CHAPTERIII:LIFEINTHECANYON——THEHEIRAPPARENTLOSESHIMSELF
\'Know\'stthouthelandwherethelemon-treesbloom，Wherethegoldorangeglowsinthegreenthicket\'sgloom；