the horse's head, got ahold of the bridle and led him,
meanwhile scrutinizing the ground over which I stepped.
At that I came near missing the trail. It was just a
darkening of the ground, a suggestion of black on the
brown of the grade, at the point where poles and logs
had been pulled across with the logging chain. I sprang
down into the ditch and climbed up beyond and felt with
my foot for the dent worn into the edge of the slope, to
make sure that I was where I should be. It was right, so
I led the horse across. At once he stood on three legs
again, left hindleg drawn up, and rested.

"Well, Peter," I said, "I suppose I have made it easy
enough for you: We have another twelve miles to make.
You'll have to get up." But Peter this time did not stir
till I touched him a flick with my whip.

The trail winds around, for it is a logging trail, leading
up to the best bluffs, which are ruthlessly cut down by
the fuel-hunters. Only dead and half decayed trees are
spared. But still young boles spring up in astonishing
numbers. Aspen and Balm predominate, though there is some
ash and oak left here and there, with a conifer as the
rarest treat for the lover of trees. It is a pitiful
thing to see a Nation's heritage go into the discard. In
France or in England it would be tended as something
infinitely precious. The face of our country as yet shows
the youth of infancy, but we make it prematurely old.
The settler who should regard the trees as his greatest
pride, to be cut into as sparingly as is compatible with