234 
FOREST AND STREAM 
May, 1920 
Sun-bathed glades surrounded by forests Mirror lakes tucked away among the hills 
THE LODGE OF THE FOUR WIDE WAYS 
HEED THE CALL OF THE OPEN FOR A WHOLE WIDE WORLD AWAITS 
YOU JUST BEYOND THE END OF YOUR FRONT YARD SIDEWALK 
T HE winds wander gently through the 
tops of the pines. Softly the low 
anthem of lofty harps drifts down 
to you. The crows caw above you, with 
the vibrant lure of a nomadic forest life 
in their cries. They re-echo a restless, 
vagabond note that has surged within 
you for days. You watch them as they 
lift from the lofty crests of the pines and 
flap in the sunlight. The black of their 
glossy plumage contrasts with the deep 
green of the pine needles. A golden sea 
of soft sunlight floods the aisles of the 
open woods. The friendly pines sough 
in answer to greetings from the random 
wild winds. 
You can vividly see this whole picture 
as you sit at your desk in the city’s bee- 
hive center. In reality the groves of the 
forested places may be far away, with 
their maze of meandering brooks and 
sun-bathed glades, but a breath of this 
new spring air coming through the win- 
dow and gently touching your forehead, 
will suddenly bring the whole world of 
woods close. You can actually hear the 
whispering sway of the boughs, see the 
new budding flowers. The thraldom of 
the asphalt and the “elevated” temporar- 
ily recedes. Oh, the tonic of that gust of 
air! Oh, the magic influence of it! 
We, the initiated of the Lodge of the 
Four Wide Ways, are sensitive to that 
mysterious wooing of the farther wild- 
erness To the veterans of us it is a 
poem, it is a song. It is a desire with 
all who have once paid their homage at 
the shrines of the ancient gods of the 
camp and trail. It is a love with all 
men who in their boyhood or later years 
have seen forests on their horizons. You 
are not normal if your heart quickens 
not to the annual lure. You are cheated 
of a precious seventh sense if you possess 
not in your blood the fret that yearly 
surges with the rising sap of trees. It 
is a curious heritage, a rich largesse, 
from the prehistoric dwellers of the 
smoke-mouthed caves in the shadows of 
the receding blue-white mountains of 
glacier ice and thickly forested glades. 
By FREDERICK W. FISCHER 
Let your memory dwell on past vaca- 
tions. Do you recall the cool streams 
of Northern countries? There, with your 
rods and vuri-colored flies and stout 
boots, you spent the warmest weeks of 
last summer. Those murmuring waters 
flowed through cool shadowed forests 
down the placid mirrors of lakes tucked 
away among the silent hills. The nose 
of your green-painted canoe nudged the 
lily pads and reeds of the nameless coves 
as you fished for pickerel in the glow of 
sunset. 
Do you recollect the lure of Southern 
waters? At this hour, but far from 
your presence, the wild-singing current 
of Econlockhatchee Creek is flowing, a 
Seek the heads of unguessed murmurous 
streams 
stream you found one day with the aid 
of a pocket compass and a faulty, in- 
complete map. You can, if you choose, 
still listen to the spell of its magic wat- 
ers, still follow the windings of its 
amber-red current, as it wanders in the 
company of its overhanging trees. 
Heed this call of the open. A whole 
wide, wild world awaits just beyond your 
front-yard sidewalk, just without your 
office door. There your thoughts may 
wing unfettered ways, there your feet 
can find unbeaten p'aths, there you may 
camp and loiter and explore to your 
heart’s content. 
W ALK, if no farther, at least to the 
edge of the towns, where the 
houses give way to thicketed dells 
and the streets merge into delightful by- 
paths under mingled patches of blue sky 
and wavering arras of foliage. Think 
gypsy thoughts and dream care-free 
dreams in the lazy warmth of the noon- 
day sun. The oaks are beckoning with 
every leaf a-whisper in the cares of the | 
passing breeze. The companion pines 
are welcoming. 
Stroll afar in the sunlit fields. Follow 
the sandy, ribbon-like beaches of inland 
lakes. Watch the shadows of summer 
clouds drift over marshes of wild grass. 
Crush underfoot the fronds of fern and 
pillows of moss that carpet the soil in 
the tunnels of the silent, half-moist I 
swamps. 
Roam ! Figuratively, spread your 
mind and body over the whole world — 
span it, encompass it, make it one with 
you and familiar to your eyes. Follow 
unknown trails to their unexplored ends. 
Make maps of what you find or sketches 
of scenes you contemplate. Be a path- 
finder. There is an army of restless, 
red-blooded men crowding at your elbows 
to gain your knowledge, to follow your 
blazed trees, to view vistas from new 
hilltops. They will study your pioneer- 
ing, assimilate your small gleanings in 
woodcraft, and relocating your routes, 
find the heads of unguessed streams. 
