240 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



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

 ing 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 could 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 modestr 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 happy 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 



