IN THE HEMLOCKS 39 
northern hate and the red fox. In the last century 
a colony of beavers dwelt here, though the oldest 
inhabitant cannot now point to even the traditional 
site of their dams. The ancient hemlocks, whither 
I propose to take the reader, are rich in many 
things beside birds. Indeed, their wealth in this 
respect is owing mainly, no doubt, to their rank 
vegetable growths, their fruitful swamps, and their 
dark, sheltered retreats. 
Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished and 
torn by the tanner in his thirst for bark, preyed 
upon by the lumberman, assaulted and beaten back 
by the settler, still their spirit has never been 
broken, their energies never paralyzed. Not many 
years ago a public highway passed through them, 
but it was at no time a tolerable road; trees fell 
across it, mud and limbs choked it up, till finally 
travelers took the hint and went around; and now, 
walking along its deserted course, I see only the 
footprints of coons, foxes, and squirrels. 
Nature loves such woods, and places her own seal 
upon them. Here she shows me what can be done 
with ferns and mosses and lichens. The soil is 
marrowy and full of innumerable forests. Standing 
in these fragrant aisles, I feel the strength of the 
vegetable kingdom, and am awed by the deep and 
inscrutable processes of life going on so silently about 
me. 
No hostile forms with axe or spud now visit these 
solitudes. The cows have half-hidden ways through 
them, and know where the best browsing is to be 
