3o8 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



At dusk of the still winter day the cold of in- 

 terstellar space drops down among the treetops 

 and seems to reflect back toward one's marrow 

 from the snow beneath. Then I like to preface 

 the homeward trip by one more campfire. A 

 grove of young white pines provides the best ma- 

 terial for a quick fire. The upper boughs of 

 such trees so shade the lower ones that they die, 

 but remain dry and brittle on the trees, full of 

 pitch, making the finest kindling material in the 

 woods. It takes but a strong pull to break such 

 limbs off near the trunk and they may be broken 

 into stove length over the knee or in the hands. 

 Even in a rain the tiny twigs of these limbs will 

 light at the touch of a match and no snow can 

 be so deep in the winter woods but they are im- 

 mediately available. They make a smokeless fire 

 that gives off a fine aroma and much heat. In its 

 ruddy glow is home, its flickering flames weaving 

 an ever-changing tapestry on the gathering dusk, 

 the black pines standing like beneficient genii 

 watching over the altar flame in the snow. 



Many a woodland thing will stand at gaze just 

 beyond the circle of this campfire whose flare may 

 shine back from the eyes of a wandering deer. 

 More likely it will shine from the eyes of the only 



