486 
FOREST AND STREAM 
shadows dance on the ceiling of the tent. 
The idea of more climbing was to her an 
evidently distressing one. 
“I’m tired and I’m hungry too/’ she mumbled. 
“All right, good-bye,” I said, and started 
up the trail after Wallace and Jim, and Wal¬ 
lace Junior. 
In the i ear a few minutes later, a familiar 
clatter caused me to look bacK. Tommy was 
on her way! 
The climb from the tent to the summit of 
the westerly knob was short and steep. Hand 
over hand we clambered up. Sturdy spruces 
growing alongside the trail offered a friendly 
support; and after much puffing and wild 
scrambling on Tommy’s part, we found our¬ 
selves nearing the top. Then, suddenly the 
sky seemed to break downward through the 
twinkling canopy of leaves, and we stepped 
out on a smooth sloping crown of rock with 
the blue and green world spread out below us. 
Despite a summer haze which veiled the 
farther mountains like a delicate cloud ot 
smoke, we could see, it seemed, to the very 
verge of the Adirondack boundary. No view 
indeed, could have been more beautiful. The 
glimmer of lakes buried like pools of blue 
and silver in the sweeping hills of verdure; 
the noble contour of distant ranges; the liv¬ 
ing sea of emerald tree tops swaying gently 
at our feet; the measureless reaches of the 
sky, were realities that played like music on 
the senses and struck one’s thoughts with a 
winged exhilaratin. In the stillness ascend¬ 
ing to our ears from the valley below in a 
shaft of iiquid sound, floated the slow sylvan 
voice of a hermit thrush. Otherwise, except 
for an undertone of wind among the leaves, 
the silence was profound and absolute. 
“You can just see a little corner of Rac- 
quette Lake over that ridge,” remarked Jim 
handing me the long telescope which he habit¬ 
ually carried tucked sea-captain fashion under 
one arm. “That’s Forked Lake down there,” 
he went on, “and that one lying over the 
other way is Plumley Pond. The little feller 
you see right below us is called Owl’s Head 
pond after the mountain—grand hunting round 
there and good fishing.” 
“A big section of this country belongs to 
the Whitney Preserve, does’nt it?” someone 
asked. 
“Sure—pretty near all you can see oft in 
that direction,” replied the fire-warden, “and 
let me tell you right here in spite of the kick 
some people make about the rich man monop¬ 
olizing public land, these preserves and parks 
in the Adirondacks are a great thing. They 
hold the woods together; they’re a natural 
and protected breeding ground for deer, and 
considering the fish and game that runs off 
’em yearly on to state land, and considering 
besides the employment they supply to our 
people, I don’t think anyone that knows any¬ 
thing about them ever has a word to say 
except in their favor.” 
Having wound up his dissertation, Jim con¬ 
ducted us around to the north side of the knob 
and in turn pointed out Flatfish Pond, Moose 
Pond, and Rock Pond—all fair-sized bodies 
of water nestling amid the green of the wild¬ 
erness. And presently when we had looked 
our fill and discussed fire regulations and 
other things pertaining to the forest, we re¬ 
traced our steps in the direction of Jim’s tent. 
The trail being dry and slippery our return 
trip was marked at least for Tommy and 
Wallace Junior with some degree of excite- 
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A WINTER IN MICHIGAN. 
(Continued from page 461 .) 
During the latter half of November I hunted 
for the most part about the swamps and marshes 
in the hope of getting another hear or two and 
an elk—particularly the latter. This kept me too 
much about wet muddy places, and I usually came 
into camp late, wet and tired; also, I often got 
lost, and was obliged to lie on wet leaves, with 
little or no fire, and without supper. Such a 
course of life could not fail to affect the mp k st 
robust, and I soon began to feel the effects of it 
in cold streaks and flashes, which ran along the 
lim'bs like electricity and were immediately suc¬ 
ceeded by feverish, heat- I took the hint, and 
resolved to hunt the swamps and marshes no 
more. The resolve was a good thing, but it came 
too late; I was already booked for a severe run 
of “fever ’n’ ager,” and neither saltpetre nor 
quinine could save me—I tried both. 
To be continued. 
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