THE FORESTS.
March had come—the month which is usually considered the beginning
of spring, though in the part of the country where Clinton resided
it seemed more like the last month of winter. The winter school had
closed, and as it was too early to commence labors on the farm, the
scholars were enjoying a long holiday. There was little for Clinton
to do, at home, and even his father was at leisure much of the time,
having chopped and hauled his year’s supply of wood, cleaned and
repaired his tools, and done such other jobs as are usually deferred
to the winter season. The deportment of Clinton, since his frank
confession of the errors into which Jerry had led him, had been
unexceptionable, both at home and at school. He seemed like himself
again. His parents began to feel sorry that they had deprived him of
his promised journey to Boston, although he had never once spoken of
the matter from the day they announced their intention. In talking
over the subject one evening after the children had gone to bed, they
concluded to make up for Clinton’s disappointment, in part at least, by
treating him to an excursion of another kind. The next morning, at the
breakfast table, Mr. Davenport introduced the matter by saying:—
“Clinton, you’ve behaved pretty well, for some time past, and as I
believe in rewards as well as punishments, I am going to propose to
treat you to a little excursion, next week. Where should you prefer
to go—to Portland, or to Bangor, or back into the forests, among the
loggers? As the sleighing is now excellent, and bids fair to remain so
for a week or two longer, we will take Fanny—or rather she shall take
us; and you shall decide to which of these points we shall steer.”
“I should like to go to either of the places, first-rate,” said
Clinton, “but I don’t know as I have any choice about them. I’ll leave
it with you to say which shall be the trip.”
“No,” resumed his father, “you think the matter over to-day, and
perhaps you will find that you have some preference.”
Clinton did so, and after weighing in his mind the attractions of the
several places, he came to the conclusion that he had rather visit
a logging camp, of which he had heard so much, than to go to either
Portland or Bangor. He had already once visited the former city, and
the other had no special interest for him, beyond any other large
place. So he informed his father of his decision, and the logging camp
was determined upon as the object of their journey.
The rest of the week was spent in preparing for and talking about
their approaching excursion. Clinton watched the weather very closely,
and was constantly on the look out for a storm; but no storm came,
though there were at times indications of foul weather, which somewhat
dampened his ardor. His mother cooked a large amount of dough-nuts,
ginger cakes, fried apple pies, and other eatables convenient for a
journey; for they were going through a section of the country which was
little settled, and might have to depend upon themselves, in part at
least, for their provisions. The sleigh was cleaned, and even Fanny
received extra care, and an extra allowance of fodder, in consideration
of the long jaunt before her.
Monday morning, at length, came. The weather was just what they
desired. The sun shone pleasantly, the air was mild, and the
sleighing,—which had not been interrupted for a day, since the first
considerable fall of snow in December,—was smooth and easy. Mrs.
Davenport stowed away in the sleigh-box, under the seat, an ample
supply of provisions for the journey; and, also, a quantity of extra
clothing, to be used in case they should need a change. Nor did Mr.
Davenport forget to provide something for Fanny’s comfort on the way.
He lashed a bag of grain between the dasher and the front of the
sleigh, and inside he put as much hay as he could conveniently carry,
tied up in wisps of a convenient size for bating the horse. Some
friction matches, an umbrella, a rifle, a hatchet, and two good buffalo
skins, completed their outfit.
The sun was hardly half an hour up, when Clinton and his father bade
good-bye to Mrs. Davenport and Annie, and started on their journey. The
logging business is carried on most extensively around the head waters
of the great rivers in the northern part of Maine. These, however,
were too far distant, and the roads to them too little travelled, to
be visited with much pleasure or even safety, at this season of the
year. The camp which Mr. Davenport intended to visit was situated on
one of the tributaries of the Kennebec river, about forty miles from
Brookdale. Here they could obtain quite as correct an idea of the
loggers’ life as they could by going farther north, though the business
was carried on upon a smaller scale at this place.
Fanny trotted off at a brisk pace, and soon the travellers found
themselves upon a road where no houses nor cultivated land could be
seen,—but tall forest trees rose on each side, and spread away in the
distance as far as the eye could see.
“What lots of woods,” said Clinton; “I don’t see why they go so far
after logs, when they are so plenty around here.”
“I suppose one reason is,” said his father, “that these forests are
not very convenient to a stream, so that the logs could not be easily
floated down to the saw-mills. Perhaps, too, the land belongs to
somebody who thinks the lumber will be more valuable by and by than it
is now. There are many large tracts of wood scattered over the State,
even in parts which have been settled for years.”
“I should think it would take a great many ages to use up all the wood
there is in this State,” continued Clinton.
“I hope it will be a great while,” remarked Mr. Davenport, “before we
are as badly off for wood as they are in some parts of the old world.
What would you think of buying fire-wood by the pound? Yet this is
the way it is sold in Paris and many other European cities. A man who
had travelled a great deal, once told me that he had known wood to
sell at the rate of eighty-five dollars a cord, in Naples. In France,
and Spain, too, wood is very scarce, and as but little coal is used,
the people learn to be very economical in the use of fuel. He says it
would cost a fortune for a man to keep up such fires in his house, in
Paris, as we do here. The trimmings of fruit trees and grape vines, and
everything that will burn, is carefully saved. Lumber, for building
purposes, is also much dearer than it is here, and is much less used
than with us. But some people think the time will come when wood and
lumber will be as dear here as they are now in Europe.”
Patches of fenced lands, some of which had evidently been cultivated,
now began to appear, and in a few minutes a little settlement of
farm-houses became visible; but the travellers did not stop, and were
soon again in the forests, with no signs of civilization around them
but the road upon which they travelled. Most of the pine trees had been
cut down, in this tract, but a few lofty and noble specimens remained,
as if to show what had been there. The stumps of these departed giants
of the forest were scattered in every direction, and some of them were
of great size. They had no measuring tape, but Mr. Davenport, after
carefully examining one of these stumps, calculated that it measured
fully seventeen feet in circumference, at the “cut.” There was a pine
still standing, near by, which he thought would measure almost as much
as this. Its height he estimated at one hundred and thirty feet.
But though there were few white pines left, there was no lack of
trees. Among those which Clinton recognized, was a small, scraggy
species of pine; the stiff, cone-shaped cedar; the mountain ash, with
its clusters of bright red berries; the noble and cleanly beech;
the thrifty, broad-headed butternut; the graceful birch, with its
silvery trunk; the maple, the larch, the spruce, etc. There was also
a dense growth of smaller trees or bushes, among which he found the
hazel, filbert, moose-wood, alder, bear-berry, winter-green, and other
familiar shrubs. The conversation turned upon the properties and
uses of these several trees,—for Mr. Davenport always improved such
occasions for giving Clinton useful information concerning the objects
around him. He told him what an excellent substitute beech leaves were
for straw, for filling beds; and how valuable the sugar-maples will one
day be considered, when the people get in the way of making sugar as an
article of export; and how the Shakers use the wood of the butternut
for making bowls, and sell the bark to the apothecaries for medicinal
purposes; and how fond the partridge is of the little red bear-berries.
“As to the birches, which are so plenty along here, I suppose you
already know something of their peculiar virtues,” continued Mr.
Davenport.
“I guess a few of the boys at school discovered what they are good for,
this winter,” replied Clinton, with a laugh.
“Well, I made the same discovery myself, when I went to school,” added
Mr. Davenport. “The master got out of birch rods, one day, and sent me
off to cut some. The tree which we usually patronized for this purpose
was near by a pond where there happened to be excellent skating; and
as my skates were handy, I having hid them under a log before going
into school, I thought I would take a turn or two round the pond, after
cutting the twigs. I did so; and then returned to school, with half a
dozen long, stout rods. As the master took them, he said, with a smile,
‘Ah, these look nice, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating,
so I will just test them a little.’ I laughed at his pleasantry, and
turned to go to my seat, when he said, ‘Here, sir, come back, I’m in
earnest—I want to test these a little before you take your seat.’ And
sure enough, he did test one of the longest of them, so that I carried
proofs of its virtues upon my legs for several days after. ‘There,’
said he, after he had satisfied himself, ‘these rods will do very well;
now you may go to your seat, and when I send you after the next lot,
_don’t you stop to skate on the pond_!’ I afterwards learned that he
grew suspicious of my long absence, and sent out a boy to see what had
become of me, who reported to him that I was skating. Ever since that
day, I have had a very lively recollection of the virtues of the birch
tree.”
“Master Eaton often says boys are subject to some complaints that have
to be doctored on the botanical system—he says there is nothing but oil
of birch that will save them,” remarked Clinton.
“Speaking of the oil of birch,” said Mr. Davenport, “did you know that
it is valuable for tanning leather, as well as boys’ hides?”
“No, sir, I didn’t know there was really such a thing as the oil of
birch,” replied Clinton. “I thought people used the words only in fun.”
“There is such a substance, and it is said to be used in tanning hides,
and currying leather, in Russia. They distil it from the outside bark
of the tree. Did you never notice that the birch-bark often remains
entire, after the tree to which it belonged has gone to decay?”
“Yes, sir, I know some trees back of our house that have been dead ever
since I can remember, and are all rotten inside, and yet the bark
looks as though it was alive.”
“That is because this oil in the bark preserves it from decay. And
there is another curious thing about this tree—it is generally the
first to spring up after a forest has been cut down, or burned over.
I suppose most of these birches that we see around us, have grown up
since the pines were cut down. They are not at all particular about
their location, but will manage to flourish wherever they can find a
standing place. They seem to take it for granted that a birch tree is
better than no tree, and so they squeeze in and fill up the spaces in
the forests, and settle down upon all unappropriated tracts. And in
fact they are not to be despised; for they grow rapidly, are rather
pretty, and are not only useful to tanners and school-masters, but
their branches make strong withes, when green, and their wood makes
good fuel, when seasoned.”
“Quite a catalogue of virtues,” remarked Clinton.
“Yes—and here we are, almost at Uncle Tim’s, nearly half through our
journey,” added Mr. Davenport.
Mr. Lewis, or “Uncle Tim,” as he was always called, was an old pioneer,
who settled down in this wilderness years ago, his “clearing” being
many miles distant from any neighbor. This was the last house they
would meet, on the road to the camp, and as Uncle Tim’s dwelling was a
sort of tavern, at which all travellers over the road were accustomed
to stop, Mr. Davenport had determined to rest Fanny there until the
next morning.