A man started a tradition of taking his young son camping every New Year’s Eve. Since they lived in the South, though it still got cold on New Year’s Eve, it was not the biting cold of the North and, with the older man and the young fellow bundled up warmly, the temperatures were not unbearable. But the son didn’t have the taste for camping and for nature that his dad did.

Their equipment was on the primitive side: No air mattresses, for example–they slept in plain old sleeping bags. And they slept inside an old World War I army surplus tent.

Alas, one year the well-worn tent finally succumbed to a rip in the canvas, and in the middle of the night a nocturnal bird got into the tent, startling the son horribly. Frightened, he grabbed up his backpack and sleeping bag, pulled his dad to his feet, and headed out into the night, running toward where they had left their van.

“Wait!” said the father, mindful that the son was leaving something behind. “Should owled and quaint tents be forgot?”