240 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



I gave a faint groan in reply, and suggested his devis- 

 ino^ some other means. 



"I have it!'' he exclaimed, and turning to the tree I 

 had climbed, he drew himself to the lowest of the long, 

 out-stretching branches, and bearing it down within my 

 reach, gave me a chance to pull myself upward from the 

 smilax ; the only thing, indeed, that I Qould do. As I 

 secured my hold he withdrew, and I finally, by the re- 

 sistance of the bended limb, was free of the briers, and 

 left to painfully work my way to the trunk of the tree. 

 This took all my strength, and I needed much help to 

 enable me to reach home. It was no slight mishap I 

 had suffered, and the scars on my back made an excel- 

 lent map of the Micronesian archipelago. 



Prominent in the modest landscape, as we view the 

 " landing " from the boat, is a shapely beech, that mid- 

 way between the spring and the creek overhangs a 

 sparkling brook. It possesses no very marked features, 

 and certainly is not so large as one might think a tree 

 two hundred years old should be ; but it is a tree with 

 a history, and has had the honor of sheltering many a 

 naturalist, and bearing upon its bark their names or ini- 

 tials, cut by the naturalists themselves. These traces of 

 distinguished visitors have all disappeared ; but the tree 

 is still singled out for like attentions from others, for 

 contemplative ramblers and haj^py lovers have carved 

 either their names or initials in suggestive proximity. 



While endeavoring to decipher some of the older of 

 these names, cut half a century ago, I was somewhat 

 startled by a great roaring overhead, and the world of 



