106 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 
the road presently crossed another railway 
track, and then, in a few rods more, came 
out into the sunny pine-woods, as one might 
emerge from a cathedral into the open day. 
Two men were approaching in a wagon (ex- 
cept on Sunday, I am not certain that I ever 
met a foot passenger in the flat-woods), and 
I improved the opportunity to make sure 
of my course. “Go about fifty yards,” said 
one of them, “and turn to the right; then 
about fifty yards more, and turn to the left. 
That road will take you to the mill.” Here 
was a man who had traveled in the pine 
lands, — where, of all places, it is easy to 
get lost and hard to find yourself, — and 
not only appreciated the value of explicit 
instructions, but, being a Southerner, had 
leisure enough and politeness enough to give 
them. I thanked him, and sauntered on. 
The day was before me, and the place was 
lively with birds. Pine-wood sparrows, pine 
warblers, and red-winged blackbirds were 
in song; two red-shouldered hawks were 
screaming, a flicker was shouting, a red- 
bellied woodpecker cried kur-r-r-, brown- 
headed nuthatches were gossiping in the dis- 
tance, and suddenly I heard, what I never 
