Forests of Maine Part 15

"You see, it is _possible_," said Forester, "that we may be kept here in the woods a day or two; so we must use our provisions economically."

After breakfast, they went into the forest a little way, where they found that they were protected from the rain by the trees. This proved, as Forester said, that it had not been raining very long; and he thought, from appearances, that it would soon clear up.

At a little distance from their encampment, they found another hut, which was in better condition than either of those which they had seen before. It was covered with strips of birch bark, which made a very good roof. Some of these strips, or rather sheets, for they were quite large, had fallen down, and Marco ran and got one of them, exclaiming,

"What a monstrous sheet of birch bark!"

This sheet, which Marco lifted up from the ground where it was lying, was about four feet long and two feet wide. Marco wondered that so large a sheet could be got from any tree.

"What a monstrous tree it must have been!" said he to Forester.

"No," said Forester, "not very large. This sheet is about four feet long, which would make the tree only about sixteen inches in diameter."

"How do you prove that?" asked Marco.

"Why, the distance through a tree is about one third the distance round it," replied Forester. "Now, this bark grew around the tree, and it is about four feet long. Four feet is forty-eight inches, and one-third of forty-eight is sixteen. Now, sixteen inches in diameter would not be a very large tree."

"I mean to try this bark on some of these trees," said Marco, "to see how big a tree it will fit."

So Marco took up the sheet of bark. It was white and clean, especially on the outside, having been blanched by the summer rains. Marco, in order to carry the sheet more easily, put it upon his shoulders, drawing it up around his neck like a shawl.

"Cousin Forester," said he, "see my shawl. It would do for an umbrella, if I only had a handle."

So saying, Marco drew the sheet of bark up higher, holding it in such a manner that it covered his cap, rising into a point above his head. He held it in such a manner as to leave a little crevice open in front, to peep through, in order that he might see where he was going.

"See, Forester," said he,--"see my umbrella."

Forester looked at Marco's contrivance, and he immediately thought that such a sheet would be an important protection to the head and neck, in case they had to walk in the rain. He accordingly went to the hut and selected a sheet for himself, saying,

"This is not a bad plan. The most important point is to protect the head and neck, and this will do it pretty well. We can roll the sheets up and carry them under our arms, unless it rains fast, and then we can wrap them around us."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Having thus found a rude subst.i.tute for an umbrella, Forester thought that it would be best for them to set out on their journey. They accordingly returned to their encampment, and made preparations for resuming their march. As it was raining but very little at that time, they rolled up their umbrellas and carried them under their arms. Marco took the hatchet, and Forester the bag of provisions. Marco wanted to set fire to the hut which had sheltered them for the night. He wanted Forester to hear what a loud crackling the green hemlock branches, which they had put upon the roof, would make, when the flames from the wood below should envelop them.

But Forester would not consent to this. He said that some accident might possibly happen, by which they should be obliged to come back and spend another night there, though he hoped such a measure would not be necessary.

"I hope so, too," said Marco.

"We may lose our way again," said Forester.

"But then," said Marco, "we shall not come back to this place."

"Why, I have heard," said Forester, "of people losing their way in the woods, and, after a great deal of wandering, getting back to the place they started from. So that, _possibly_, we may wander about all day, and get back here at night."

"I hope not, I'm sure," said Marco. "I am tired of this old hovel."

"Why, the lumber-men stay in these places all winter," said Forester.

"Yes," replied Marco, "but then they know that they can get out whenever they please. We don't know that we can ever get out."

"That is true," said Forester, "and it makes a great difference."

"Don't you feel concerned about our finding our way out?" asked Marco.

"No," said Forester. "I make it a rule never to be _concerned_ about anything."

"Oh, Forester!" said Marco,--"I think we ought to be concerned when we get lost in the woods."

"No," replied Forester. "We ought to do the best we can to get out, but not to be concerned. To be concerned is to be anxious and unhappy. This does no good. Being concerned would never help us find our way out of the woods."

Thus talking, the two unfortunate travellers walked on, with their rolls under their arms. It was well that they took them, for, after they had been walking about half an hour, the sky grew dark, and, a short time afterwards, the rain began to come down in torrents. Forester and Marco unrolled their umbrellas, and wrapped them about their shoulders and heads; and, at the same time, they fled for shelter under an enormous pine tree, which grew in such a spot that its branches extended in every direction, and formed a canopy above them, which kept off a great deal of the rain. When the rain abated a little, they walked on.

Their plan was to get back to the place where they had left the main road the day before. But they were somewhat perplexed to find it. In fact, they met with several roads which branched off from the one in which they were walking. These were old tracks, made by the lumber-men, and were partly grown up to bushes. They wandered about among these paths for some time, and at last, to their great joy, they came out into a good beaten road, which Forester immediately thought was the one which they had been travelling in the day before. Notwithstanding Forester's philosophical resolution, never to be _concerned_, he could not help confessing that he felt somewhat relieved to find the right road again; and, as the sun was just breaking through the clouds at this time, they both thought that their prospects were brightening considerably.

CHAPTER XI.

THE s.h.i.+NGLE WEAVER'S.

The travellers walked on with fresh strength and courage, now that they thought they were in the right road. The road was, however, monotonous, being, for most of the way, through a dense forest; and it was so very similar to the road by which they had come the day before that they were convinced they were now right.

They went on, without any special adventure, for nearly two hours, when they arrived at what had the appearance of being an old wood road, which branched off at right angles to the one in which they were travelling.

The trees were somewhat more open here. This admitted the sun; and there were several raspberry bushes growing at the entrance of the wood road, with ripe raspberries hanging upon them, for the season of raspberries had now arrived.

Marco seized this fruit with great avidity. Forester followed his example, and began gathering the berries. The bushes were, however, not entirely dry, and they had to advance cautiously among them. In fact, they found it better to keep along the wood road, gathering the berries as they advanced. It was not a road, strictly speaking, for there were no marks of wheels upon it, or tracks of any sort, made by travelling.

It was only a s.p.a.ce for a road, made by cutting away the trees and bushes.

Along this opening, Forester and Marco slowly advanced, eating the raspberries which grew by the side of the way. After going on for a few rods in this manner, Marco suddenly exclaimed,

"Why, here is another camp!"

Forester looked up and saw, just before them, the remains of a sort of hut, somewhat similar to those which they had seen the evening before.

There was a large heap of chips and shavings about it.

"What can this be?" asked Marco.

"I presume," said Forester, "that it is an old s.h.i.+ngle weaver's establishment."

"What is a s.h.i.+ngle weaver?" asked Marco.

"A man who makes s.h.i.+ngles," replied Forester, "such as they use for covering houses. They make them of clear straight-grained pine, which will split easily and true."

So saying, Forester advanced towards the hut, and took up one of the pieces of pine, which had been split out for a s.h.i.+ngle. There were several of such pieces lying about among the chips and shavings. It was somewhat browned by exposure to the weather, but it had a very smooth and glossy appearance, s.h.i.+ning with a sort of silken l.u.s.tre.