hemlocks, whither I propose to take the reader, are rich in many
things besides birds. Indeed, their wealth in this respect is owing
mainly, no doubt, to their rank vegetable growths, their fruitful
swamps, and their dark, sheltered retreats.

[Illustration: AT THE HEADWATERS OF THE DELAWARE
Overlooking Mr. Burroughs's boyhood home]

Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished and torn by the tanner
in his thirst for bark, preyed upon by the lumberman, assaulted and
beaten back by the settler, still their spirit has never been
broken, their energies never paralyzed. Not many years ago a public
highway passed through them, but it was at no time a tolerable road;
trees fell across it, mud and limbs choked it up, till finally
travelers took the hint and went around; and now, walking along its
deserted course, I see only the footprints of coons, foxes, and
squirrels.

Nature loves such woods, and places her own seal upon them. Here she
shows me what can be done with ferns and mosses and lichens. The
soil is marrowy and full of innumerable forests. Standing in these
fragrant aisles, I feel the strength of the vegetable kingdom, and
am awed by the deep and inscrutable processes of life going on so
silently about me.

No hostile forms with axe or spud now visit these solitudes. The
cows have half-hidden ways through them, and know where the best
browsing is to be had. In spring, the farmer repairs to their
bordering of maples to make sugar; in July and August, women and
boys from all the country about penetrate the old Barkpeelings for