it fall in mists and drippings; it seeps into the ground, and is held by
the roots. If the trees are destroyed the rain rushes off on the surface
and floods the rivers. The forests store up water, and they do good in
other ways."

"We've got to have wood and lumber," said Hal.

"Of course we have. But there won't be any unless we go in for forestry.
It's been practiced in Germany for three hundred years."

We spent another hour talking about it, and if Hal's practical sense, which
he inherited from father, had not been offset by his real love for the
forests I should have been discouraged. Hal was of an industrious turn of
mind; he meant to make money, and anything that was good business appealed
strongly to him. But, finally, he began to see what I was driving at; he
admitted that there was something in the argument.

The late afternoon was the best time for fishing. For the next two hours
our thoughts were of quivering rods and leaping bass,

"You'll miss the big bass this August," remarked Hal, laughing. "Guess you
won't have all the sport."

"That's so, Hal," I replied, regretfully. "But we're talking as if it were
a dead sure thing that I'm going West. Well, I only hope so."

What Hal and I liked best about camping--of course after the fishing--was
to sit around the campfire. Tonight it was more pleasant than ever, and
when darkness fully settled down it was even thrilling. We talked about
bears. Then Hal told of mountain-lions and the habit they have of creeping