Dead pines, with branches like spears, lay along the
trail.
We came upon a little clearing, where there was a rude log-cabin with a
stone chimney. Skins of animals were tacked upon logs. Under the bank was a
spring. The mountain overshadowed this wild nook.
"Wal, youngster, here's my shack. Make yourself to home," said Hiram Bent.
I was all eyes as we entered the cabin. Skins, large and small, and of many
colors, hung upon the walls. A fire burned in a wide stone grate. A rough
table and some pans and cooking utensils showed evidence of recent
scouring. A bunch of steel traps lay in a corner. Upon a shelf were tin
cans and cloth bags, and against the wall stood a bed of glossy bearskins.
To me the cabin was altogether a most satisfactory place.
"I reckon ye're tired?" asked the hunter. "Thet's some pumpkins of a climb
unless you're used to it."
I admitted I was pretty tired.
"Wal, rest awhile. You look like you hadn't slept much."
He asked me about my people and home, and was so interested in forestry
that he left off his task of the moment to talk about it. I was not long in
discovering that what he did not know about trees and forests was hardly
worth learning. He called it plain woodcraft. He had never heard of
forestry. All the same I hungered for his knowledge.
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