168 PRAIRIE AND FOREST. 
' through the wild timber lands was never objectionable, we 
determined to make an effort to find it out. An old lum- 
berman, long superannuated, gave us our instructions thus: 
“First go through the wood two miles north, then incline a 
little to the westward, and after about half an hour’s walk- 
ing through a swamp you will strike a small brook, which 
follow up, and you will certain sure make the pond.”* To 
those who have not wandered through an American for- 
est such instructions will be perceived to be far from defi- 
nite; to the thorough woodsman, however, they would be 
sufficient. Before we left the township road where we 
were to branch off, there stood a shanty, at which we halt- 
ed to put up the horse and buggy in which we had thus 
far traveled. From the head of the establishment we made 
inquiries, who, calling to his son who was within, gave the 
following directions: “Bub,t take the gents, and show 
them the pond.” Now “Bub” was a most communicative 
youngster, about fourteen years of age, and, scenting a dol- 
lar in the distance, hopefully undertook the job. A cow- 
path we, the trio, followed for more than a mile, then we 
continued on what is familiarly designated a blaze road—id 
est, a path marked out by a tree at every hundred yards, 
more or less, having a piece scooped out of its bark. The 
walking was as bad as possible, for constantly we were de- 
layed by giants of the forest who had been prostrated by 
the gales of preceding winters. At length, tired and fright- 
fully worried by musquitoes, we reached a brook eight or 
ten feet in breadth, but deep and sullen as a canal; down 
this we pursued an erratic course till, between two lofty 
bluffs, we came upon a beautiful sheet of water of an area 
of about forty acres. To fish it from the bank was impos- 
* Small lakes in Maine are always called ponds. 
+ A Yankee father’s familiar way of addressing his son; daughters, af- 
ter the same manner, are called ‘‘ Sis.” 
