5id{ I'UHief yie\i kiieW what tUs,. hi«ia?rit ih ttte, Aus- 
tralian biish ; ihdeed, -Hfiieh hefdihg fiis sH^ep lie liaa once 
found the bleached skeleton of an unfortunate itian, wlid 
had evidently perished in this way. I havfc learned frdnl 
experience that when you are lost you become so de- 
moralized that you cannot recognize places With Which 
you have been familiar for years. For some days — 
Turner ncA'er knew how many — he had wearily dragged 
himself along, frequently startled at coming across human 
tracks, which, however, on examination turned out to be 
his own, thus proving that he was moving in a circle. 
Finally, with tlie conviction that his case was hopeless, 
suffering from hunger and thirst, wandering aimlessly 
under a tropical sun, in his desperation he threw away 
first his swag, or bundle of clothes rolled in his blankets, 
and then from time to time he parted with everything 
but the clothes he wore, not even reserving his money or 
even his hat. 
After this all was a blank until he recovered from the 
sunstroke he was suffering from when I found him. In 
about ten days he was well enough to resume his journey, 
so giving him one of my hats I put him in a cart and 
drove him to the crossing of the Connor's River, where 
many teams passed daily hauling copper ore from the 
Peak Downs to the seaport of Broadsound. Having ar- 
ranged for his transfer to Broadsound, I parted from 
him, and I never saw or heard of him again. 
Truth is stranger than fiction. Many a time when I 
have been musing alone on the strangeness of many 
things that are always happening around us, I have re- 
called upon what a very slender thread Dick Turner's 
chances of being rescued from a horrible death had hung. 
If it had not been for the few chance words Harden 
had spoken about the Diamond mare, the man im- 
doubtedly would have perished, and his bones might have 
been swept into oblivion by the next flood, thus adding 
one more victim to the many thousands who are continu- 
ally being lost in the bush. E. Cavan Dance. 
Ancient Pines* 
I WAS greatly interested in Mr. Whitaker's tour through 
the Adirondacics, so well described in the current issue of 
Forest and Stream. It certainly brought back to me 
many incidents in connection with my first trip through 
the Maine wilderness years ago, particularly my visit to 
Bald Mountain on the shores of Moixe Pond, above the 
forks of the Kennebeck. 
We were homeward hound, and as we came down 
Aloxie we pulled our boat upon the beach and decided to 
tramp up the mountain and enjoy a view of the surround- 
ing country, clothed in a garment of many colors dyed by 
the hand of Jack Frost. 
Almost at the water's edge we encountered great pines, 
some of them three feet and over in diameter. Under our 
feet the moss was compressed until we almost sank knee 
deep in the vegetation. Climbing over great moss-covered 
windfalls, the dead and rotten wood crumbled under our 
weight. I never had a forest impress me with its 
"primevality," if I can so use the term, as did this particvi- 
lar spot. The smooth moss carpet and the gigantic moss- 
lined pines showed no sign that the man with an axe had 
been there before us, Those great trees stood tall and 
straight, until their meeting branches high up overhead 
gave one the idea of a succession of lofty cathedral aisles 
and arches. 
Many of those trees no doubt could show rings, three 
hundred and over, were . the cross-cut saw laid against 
them and their innermost recesses bared. 
I talked with an old timber cruiser once on the age of 
pine trees and their reproduction, and he related an inci- 
dent in connection with the age of the pine, which oc- 
curred up near Lake Itaska, in this State. He was pass- 
ing through a growth of very old pine trees, when his 
attention was called to a moss-covered mound two feet 
high. Disturbing tlie surface with his axe, he found 
underneath the moss and mold a layer of pitch. Con- 
tinuing his investigations he found what he called a pre- 
historic stump, the remnants of a pine tree that was 
fully three hundred years old when the standing giants 
around him were mere seedlings. And he argued in this 
way, that the stump of that particular windfall became 
covered with sap or pitch, and. thoroughly enveloped in 
this preserving material, it continued to hold its form long 
after the tree that had fallen- had become food for 
worms and beetles, and when time had finally turned the 
great tree into mold and mother earth, yet was the stump 
there to tell the tale. The cruiser expressed himself un- 
equivocally to the effect that the pitch-encased stump was 
the surviving link between the present and previous 
generation of pine trees, the last of the Mohicans. What 
caused that particular stump to become smothered in pitch 
he could not tell, but there the remains were pitch-pre- 
served and moss-covered, although the roots had long 
since rotted away and severed their connection with the 
stump above ground. 
From Itasca to Moxie is a big jump, but we must hurry 
back and finish our story. Before we had tramped a great 
while we began to get into a more sparse growth, espe- 
cially as the slope of the mountain increased. In our 
path was a gigantic white birch, the bark on which had 
burst its fastenings and stood out in curly clusters to 
the very top of the tree. 
Our guide, taking a match from his pocket, struck it 
and ignited the fluffy birch bark, when, with the roar of a 
hundred furnaces, the flames encircled the tree and 
mounted heavenward, I imagine, much like an oil well 
gusher afire. I thought it a very dangerous experiment 
at the time, but the guide laughed at our fears and 
scouted the idea of a forest fire starting from such a 
beginning. We finally reached the granite formation, and 
in due course reached the top of the mountain, which 
proved to be a great, flat, granite surface, acres in ex- 
tent, covered with a thick mold, upon which the blue- 
berry bushes thrived as I have seen them thrive nowhere 
else. It was seasonable for the berries, and without 
stepping out of one's tracks, after taking a favorable posi- 
tion, we could reach out and eat one's fill of the blue, 
sweet fruit. We saw bear tracks and realized that the 
black bears knew where the good things grew. 
It was about noon when we reached the summit, and 
the view we enjoyed was something long to be remem- 
bered. The maples were abundantly in evidence, their 
ihtfehs^ stiafifct kties ttigiiteinitig iifi tine hntite: WOodlsind 
and contrastihg with the deep, dark green of the pines. 
The landscape on, all sides Was dotted witii little lakes^ 
which glistened like so maltly jewels in the bright sunlight; 
It was scenery one hated to leave, and which failed to 
tire the eye. 
It was many years ago, but those great, mossy, silent 
pine giants growing out of that moss-carpeted earth left 
an impress on my mind I never will forget, I can imagine 
the moose and deer wending their way at dusk through 
those silent sylvan avenues on their way to the lake to 
drink, and envy them their surroundings. I have often 
wondered if by this time the axe and saw had found my 
old friends and laid them low. Who of the readers of 
the Forest and Stream having lately been over that par- 
ticular ground can tell me? Chas. Cristadoro. 
John Burroughs. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
On the other side of the Hudson River, a few miles 
above this city, there lives in a little rustic house built 
by him'self, a man whose name is a household word 
throughout this entire country. He is loved not only 
because his books have brought sweetness and sunshine 
to many households, but because of the infinite charm 
which he throws around everything in nature, in which 
he so delights to studj- and reveal. 
Some few years ago it was my privilege and pleasure 
to have him join me on a trip for a few days to the lodge 
at Balsam Lake, situated some 2,560 feet above tide 
water in the Catskills, where we met a number of genial 
friends. 
On the first day after our arrival we contented our- 
selves with fishing in the lake, but on the next day we 
followed a path which had been opened to the top of 
Balsam Mountain, nearly 4,000 feet high, and on this trip 
we were charmed by the wonderful knowledge of Mr. 
Burroughs. 
There were flowers in our path and in the woods 
which we had never noticed, but he, with his wonderful 
knowledge of botany, discovered them and made them 
memorable forever; the sound of every insect was 
familiar to him, and he gave its name and he revealed to 
us their nature, and there was not a bird which he 
could not call by name — we never knew before the wealth 
of the flora and fauna in these mountains. 
Just below the crest of the mountain there is a spring, 
from which flows a stream which empties into Balsam 
Lake, and which has a temperature of 44 degrees the 
year roimd. 
On the crest of the mountain we had an observatory 
some 30 feet high, and from that Mr. Burroughs, with 
a field glass, could see toward the northwest the old 
farmhouse, some twenty-five miles distant, where he was 
born, and where he spent his boyhood days, and where 
he learned to know and love all that is beautiful in 
nature. 
It is hardly necessary to say that there is no charm in 
a trip to the woods or mountains equal to that of de- 
lightful companionship, and this trip with Mr. Bur- 
roughs was one of the most delightful of my life. 
It was my privilege a year or two ago to stand near 
the old farmhouse where he was born, and from there 
look up to the observatory where we had stood a few 
years before — and as I stood in the deep valley extend- 
ing northerly from Roxbury, with mountains rising on 
either side, with their luxurious growth of trees and 
foliage, and learned how they had teemed with deer and 
birds and flowers when Mr. Burroughs was young, I 
learned whence came the mantle which he has worn so 
gracefully for many years, and which will never fall upon 
the shoulders of another. J. S. V. C, 
Dec. 9. 
A Walk Down South —IX. 
I LEFT the cheerful farinhouse of White, the foreman 
bricklayer, on Monday morning, Nov. 13. William White 
hoisted my pack to the top of a high load of corn fodder. 
I folloAved the basket to the top of the load, and on the 
crackling leaves and stalks ten or eleven feet above the 
road, settled for a ride almost to Tyrone. One of the 
streaks of luck which a pedestrian meets with had given 
me a ride of more than five miles. 
It was a chilly morning, with a threatening sky. It 
seemed about to rain, but the ride was not rendered un- 
comfortable. One sinks into the load on a corn rack, and 
the wind does not find its way through the flying ribbons 
readily. In fact, the rounded top seemed to throw the 
breeze over one's body, it striking the face merely. The 
wind, it may be mentioned, does not chill a face on which 
the beard has been permitted to grow so much as it does a 
smooth-shaven face. The discomfort of a skin-tight shave 
on a cold morning, when every breath strikes the chin 
like the blast from a furnace, and the cold air comes 
like the wind from melting snow in the spring, is too 
great for the good appearance does. 
The road past Bald Eagle (Olivia P. O.). to Vail and 
Tyrone along which I rode on the corn fodder looked to 
be as level and good as any that I had seen. In places a 
"regular railroad embankment" had been made, and on a 
wheel it must be delightful riding. On the corn it cer- 
tainly was. The load swayed and tossed in a way that 
made me gasp at times, and I watched the driver to see 
if he was getting ready to jump from an upsetting load. 
He made no sign. It was the usual tilting and rolling of 
such wagons, apparently. That it was not at all severe I 
soon discovered by lining the pole with the tongue of 
the wagon. What seemed to be feet was only a sway of 
inches. What, must it be on almost equally high loads of 
hemlock bark which have to go along rough hill roads, 
with mud holes hub deep and rocks axle hngh, with the 
swagger of 4,500 pounds instead of that of a thousand? 
Quail are spreading up and down the Bald Eagle Val- 
ley from the Nittany Club preserve, and some hunters 
say the pheasants and wild turkeys are increasing slowly. 
Rabbits are very plentiful evei-ywhere that they can find 
shelter. They are stupid little beasts, and easily confused 
by things new to their experience. 
At the east end of Tyrone I slid down from the load, 
caught my pack and succeeded in swinigng it to my 
shoiildes'S; "iWe ieijl^ too (SohVfeiniehi' fest tor k ihH 
stiraps were adjtisted. It began to sprinkle slightly as I 
waved good bye to White, Two boys dowtn the road 
asked "What lUck?'* ahd I replied "Good," but it Was not 
in the sense they meant, as I knew, so that was a sort of 
lie, and just the kind a hunter must often take refuge 
behind. 
In Tyrone I heard of other pedestrians. A pair went 
through there a couple of years ago who had "wagered"' 
that they could walk to Arizona from New York in sixty 
days. It was said that this couldn't be done; the walkers, 
however, winked, and said, in ef¥ect, that there was more 
than one way to skin a cat. 
I searched Tyrone for maps of Maryland and West 
Virginia, but could find none. "Nobody would , ask for 
them once in ten years," it was said. There was a hard 
shower that wet the store sidewalks, which I missed. 
There were five stores, in the windows of which guns 
were prominently displayed, that I noticed. Hunters are 
plentiful thereabouts. 
From Tyrone to Bellwood is seven miles of picturesque 
roadway, but of the kind which must be seen. Two kil- 
deer plover were in a marshy place half a mile short of 
the bridge over the creek. At the creek a Jew peddler 
with a horse and wagon pulled up his rig and demanded 
to know where I was going. I told him with meekness. 
"Where ye from?" he snapped. I told him I'd just come 
through Tyrone. 
"What ye sellin'?" was his next burst. 
"What ye take me for?" I ripped out, "a measly peddler 
— you ought to be able to tell I don't belong to that kind 
of a gang." 
His round, dark face and heavy, flattish nose worked 
independently for a moment and then his manner was 
modified. We talked for some time good-naturedly about 
roads, distances and weathers. 
"Ef I was going your way I would gif you a ride," he 
said, as he started away, and I told him I was just as 
much obliged. 
At Bellwood I found my way to the trolley track and 
waited for the car to come. The trolley runs from Bell- 
wood to Altoona, seven miles away. Then another line 
takes one into Hollidaysburg, seven miles further still. 
So far I had seen my route from Beech Creek, but beyond 
that there was a route to select, usually a task .of some 
little trouble. 
The ride into Hollidaysburg, was not so pleasant as one 
might suppose. The car traveled too fast — -I could not see 
where I was going. It was nearly dark, too. and there 
was nothing to be sure of while the car sped on across 
farms, over a stream, along line fences and past woods 
dimly seen. I was reminded at one place of the many 
lines that seek Coney Island from the City Hall, New 
York. A broad field suggested the flat marsh-like 
meadows near the sea. After dark lights here and there 
told of farmhouses or mere suburban residences. At 
Altoona I stood on a corner suggestive of Brooklyn 
streets to await the Hollidaysburg car. The rest of the 
ride I lost, save that I reached Hollidaysburg in no 
pleasant frame of mind. I was lonesome and Ipmesidc. 
I rode to the end of the line and went to the hotelj 
arriving in time for supper. The food was messed on 
the table and everybody reached and grabbed for it. It 
was raining, and travel was out of question, so, I stopped 
for the night. My room faced a foundry, and "for hours 
I watched the stacks spouting flame — which cheered me 
up some. It rained and snowed all the next day. I had 
caught cold during the night, so I waited over, writing 
up the diary and letters while half a dozen youngsters 
or so stood around eating apples or bologna, and making 
grabs at the string which binds my writing materials. 
Failing in other amusement and pastime, I studied the 
hall signs : 
Then I watched the snow come down till dark. At 
rnail time I got some letters, and slept many hours that 
night, awakening in the morning with a chuckle. I was 
glad, too, of the general grab-off system at the table. I 
could and did eat a big meal. 
It was a cold, raw morning when I got out of doors, 
with now and then a flake of driven snow in the air. As 
soon as I could I went to the post offlce, and then headed 
for Cumberland under the pack. The road I followed 
seemed to be bearing too nearly west, but I went half a . 
mile or more before I met any one to ask as to the way. 
The man was a hunter, who carried a percussion-cap rifle, 
which was once a flintlocjc — a highly ornamented weapon. 
It was charged with shot 'and smokeless powder — a three- 
century-in-one arrangement. Back on the hills that morn- 
ing he saw a couple of gray squirrels, but the "powder 
didn't work very well." 
He pointed my true road to me. It was across a deep 
valley, but I went to it down a farmhouse lane, over a 
field and up another farm lane. The high ridge to the east 
was dusty with snow, and further on, where the road 
followed a side hill through thin woods, snow bunting 
joined me for a dozen rods or more, eight or nine of them 
keeping me company, showing how agile they were among 
the grape vines and on the underbrush. They answered 
my whistles and were almost as familiar as chickadees. 
The road followed up the valley of Beaver Dam Creek. 
Above Freedom a farmer with the reddest whiskers I ever 
saw gave me a ride for four miles, and then his road 
turned off to the foothills of the Alleghany Mountains, ten 
miles away. 
At King's Post Office, a shot up in the second growth 
on the right side told of game. A few moments later a 
large man, rather round and jolly in appearance, came 
over the fence as I was walking by. He had a single- 
barreled breachloading gun in one hand and a rabbit in the 
other. He was the district school teacher. 
A couple of miles further on, night began to be felt, so 
I stopped for a bed in a barn. "Father was away" at the 
first house, but at the next one I was welcome, even 
though there was no work I could do for my supper and. 
breakfast. In the morning, after a comfortable night in 
the hay, I took a picture as some recompense for the 
trouble I had made and the food I had eaten, About g 
o'clock I started on. It ^vas snowing Hard, with large 
damp flakes. Crows were flying westward overhead at in- 
tervals, but otherwise there was no life in sight — even the 
cows were hidden in the barns. For a couple of hours I 
met no one, traveling through a good tracking snow, with 
no tracks in it, save where red squirrels left the split-rail 
fences to cross the road, as two did. On a bush top there 
