A TASTE OF MAINE BIRCH 103 



like the thought of a poet, and its grace and fitness 

 haunt the imagination. I suppose its production 

 was the inevitable result of the Indian's wants and 

 surroundings, but that does not detract from its 

 beauty. It is, indeed, one of the fairest flowers 

 the thorny plant of necessity ever bore. Our 

 canoe, as I have intimated, was not yet finished 

 when we first saw it, nor yet when we took it up, 

 with its architect, upon our metaphorical backs and 

 bore it to the woods. It lacked part of its cedar 

 lining and the fosin upon its joints, and these were 

 added after we reached our destination. 



Though we were not indebted to the birch-tree 

 for our guide, Uncle Nathan, as he was known in 

 all that country, yet he matched well these woodsy 

 products and conveniences. The birch-tree had 

 given him a large part of his tuition, and, kneeling 

 in his canoe and making it shoot noiselessly over 

 the water with that subtle yet indescribably expres- 

 sive and athletic play of the muscles of the back 

 and shoulders, the boat and the man seemed born 

 of the same spirit. He had been a hunter and 

 trapper for over forty years; he had grown gray in 

 the woods, had ripened and matured there, and 

 everything about him was as if the spirit of the 

 woods had had the ordering of it ; his whole make- 

 up was in a minor and subdued key, like the moss 

 and the lichens, or like the protective coloring of 

 the game, — everything but his quick sense and 

 penetrative glance. He was as gentle and modest 

 as a girl; his sensibilities were like plants that grow 



