In addition to the information conveyed, the letter contained an
invitation which delighted me. Anthony wrote that he and his mother were
about returning home. The long vacation would begin in a few days, and
they wished that I should go with them for a visit. Few things could
have afforded me greater satisfaction than this. The wild
forest-country, of which my school-mate had told me much, I regarded as
peculiarly a region of romance and adventure.

It was a beautiful morning early in July when we three, with a team and
a driver, left the Mohawk valley and climbed the Deerfield hills, making
our way northward. On the evening of the first day we readied the hills
of Steuben and gained a first glimpse of that broad, beautiful
forest-level, known as the Black River country, which stretches away
toward the distant St. Lawrence. The next day we descended to this
level, and, following the narrow road through forests, and clearings,
and little settlements, and villages, arrived just at nightfall at the
home of my friends. It was a small, unpainted, wooden house, standing
near the road. Back of it were barns and sheds, and I saw cattle and
sheep grazing. The zigzag rail fence common to the region surrounded the
cleared lots in sight, and in front of the house, across the road, were
the wild woods. A wood-thrush, or veery, was pouring out his thrilling,
liquid notes as we arrived. A white woman and a large, black, shaggy dog
came out of the house to welcome us; and a few minutes later I had the
best room, up-stairs over the front door, assigned to me, and was a
guest in the domicile of my friend Anthony.

The location was a delightful one, about three miles west of the little
village of Champion, near which was a small lake, where we spent many
morning hours. From a height not far away we had glimpses, in clear