FOLLOWING A LOST TRAIL . 
47 
between Toadback and Coro way, and I know 
that four miles of it is about as good going now 
as ever it was.” 
It required little urging to induce Berry to 
join us, and our horse’s head was turned north¬ 
ward into the lumber road leading to the lost 
trail. As we drove away from fields, roads, 
and the surroundings of habitations, animal life 
grew less and less abundant, and plant life less 
varied. Around the farms robins, sparrows, 
and swallows are to be seen or heard at every 
hour in the day. Woodpeckers and chickadees 
abound in the orchards, and even hawks spend 
more time in sight of hen-yards than they do in 
the gloomy solitudes of the mountains. By the 
roadside goldenrod was in its glory, while St. 
John’s-wort was growing rusty. The pink of 
hardhack and thistles large and small, the yel¬ 
low of the mullein, the reds of fire weed, pas¬ 
ture lily, and the sumac fruit, the purple of 
vervain, early asters, and the persistent brunella, 
and the white of the exquisite dalibarda, of 
immortelles, arrowhead, and the graceful spiran- 
thes in turn caught the eye as the wagon rolled 
by pasture and sandbank, meadow, copse, and 
swamp. 
From Berry’s house we drove a long mile 
before the true primeval forest was reached. 
There, in a clearing of an acre or more, were 
