It was the qualification in the Instructor’s remark, “when the sun is
shining,” that gave the quick-witted Mike his clue.
“My first plan was to climb to the top,” said he with that gravity which
he knew so well how to assume, “but I feared I should tumble before I
could complete the measuring of the same, as me mither’s second cousin
did whin he tried to climb the lightning rod of the church backward.
Obsarve me.”
Every eye was fixed upon the Irish youth who, while speaking, had been
scrutinizing his surroundings. The pine towered fully twenty feet above
any of its near neighbors. The wood was so open that the shadow of the
top fell athwart a small natural clearing to the westward. Mike walked
to the conical patch of shade, stood on its farthest edge, and facing
the puzzled spectators, crooked his finger.
“Have one of ye sich a thing as a measuring tape in yer pockets?”
The majority carried the useful article, coiled around a spring in a
flat, circular metal box. Three boys started on a trot toward Mike, but
Kenneth Mitchell out-sped his companions.
“Now, if ye’ll measure the precise distance from the tip of me shoe to
the fut of the pine, ye’ll have the satisfaction of doing a good turn
for the rest of the byes, as me dad did whin he fixed things so that six
men instead of two had a share in the shindy at Tipperary on his
birthday.”
While Kenneth was carefully stretching the tape over the ground in a
straight line to the base of the pine, a couple of the boys smiled, for
they had caught on to the ingenious scheme of Mike. The yellow tape was
a dozen feet long and divided as usual into fractions of an inch. When
the owner after using the full length several times grasped it part way
between the ends with his thumb and forefinger, so that they touched the
bark near the ground, he straightened up and made a quick mental
calculation.
“How fur are we apart?” asked Mike from his first position.
“Sixty-two feet, eight inches,” was the reply.
“Come hither and while me young friend is doing the same, the rist of ye
may get your pencils and bits of paper riddy.”
When Kenneth reached the master of ceremonies, he was standing in the
oasis of sunlight. Resting one end of the buckthorn cane which he
carried on the ground, he held the stick exactly vertical.
“Will ye oblige me by measuring the shadow of the same?”
It was done in a twinkling.
“It is one foot, one inch.”
By this time every one of the smiling scouts understood the simple
method by which Mike proposed to solve the problem. He called to them:
“The length of me shillalah is three feet, two inches; the length of its
shadow is one foot, one inch; the length of the shadow of the pine is
sixty-two feet, eight inches: what more can ye ask of me?”
“Nothing,” replied Scout Master Hall, “figure it out, boys.”
This is the “statement” which the lads jotted down in their note books
or on pieces of paper:
Length of Length Length of Height
cane’s shadow of cane pine’s shadow of pine
1 foot, 1 inch 3 feet, 2 inches 62 feet, 8 inches ?
The fractional ratios made considerable computation necessary, and
several boys erred in their work, but when nine of them reached the same
result, and a comparison proved their accuracy, there could be no
question as to the correctness of the result, which was that the height
of the noble pine was more than one hundred and eighty feet. (Figure out
the exact number of feet and inches for yourself.)
“You did well,” said the pleased Instructor to Mike, who made a quick
salute and gravely remarked to the scouts:
“Don’t be worrying, byes; I’ll recognize ye the same as before.”
At a nod and wink from Patrol Leader Chase, the whole troop lined up in
front of the astonished Mike and silently made the regulation salute. So
far as it was possible to do so, his red face blushed and for the first
time the waggish youth showed slight embarrassment, but he was instant
to rally.
“Comrade,” said Colgate Craig, “you can tuck in the end of your
necktie.”
“And why should I do the same?”
“You have done your good turn for today.”
“I’ll let me banner wave on the outside, for who shall say how many more
good turns I shall have to do ye before night?”
“There may be more truth in that remark then he suspects,” remarked
Uncle Elk, who now gave the word to push on to his home, still fully a
mile away. The Instructor kept pace with the scouts, walking a little to
their right, while the Scout Master did the same on the left of the
laughing, chattering, straggling party. All, however, made good use of
their eyes and nothing worth seeing escaped them. It must be remembered
that a goodly number of the boys lived in the country and had a more or
less knowledge of the woods in the neighborhood of their own homes.
Moreover, there is no marked difference between most of the trees in
their neighborhood and those of Maine. Thus, a superb black walnut,
nearly as tall as the giant pine, was identified at a glance by several
of the youths, and Ernest Oberlander told of its hard, close-grained
wood, dark, purplish gray in color and very durable; and of its fruit,
two inches round, the stain from whose green husks has a way of sticking
to one’s hands until sandpaper and soap are necessary to remove it.
Every one was familiar with the white walnut or butternut. Its height is
generally about half that of the walnut, its bark is smoother and its
leaves similar in shape, but larger and coarser. Its leaflet stalks and
new twigs are covered with a sticky brown substance. The leaves are very
long, though the leaflets are less than six inches in length.
“You know the delicious, oblong fruit with its prickly shell,” said the
Instructor; “when you lay the nut on its side to break it open——”
“No, you don’t,” interrupted Corporal Robe, quick to detect the little
subterfuge of Uncle Elk to draw them out: “that isn’t the right way to
crack a butternut.”
“It isn’t!” repeated the old gentleman, in pretended surprise; “will you
be good enough to explain the proper method?”
“I don’t think there is much need of explaining, for every fellow knows
or ought to know that you should stand the nut on one end and strike the
top.”
“What advantage do you gain by that plan?”
“The meat is not broken,—that is if you are careful. I have often
cracked a butternut so that the meat came out without a break.”
“I like the butternut more than the walnut,” remarked Alvin Landon.
“So do I, but it has another use than to serve as food or a luxury. Of
course you can tell me what that is.”
He looked into the expectant faces, but no one could answer him.
“The oil is, or once was, very popular with jewelers. I remember that my
father would squeeze out a drop, which was sufficient to lubricate all
the works of the family clock. He applied the oil with a tiny feather
and never needed more than the single drop. The jewelers have a refined
fluid which serves their purposes, but father would never admit that any
oil equaled that of the butternut. It has always been one of my
favorites, much more so than that small tree growing in that dry sandy
soil, which we call—what?”
Considerable discussion took place before the Instructor accepted the
name and description of the common or aspen-leaved birch, whose wood is
soft, close grained, weak, splits in drying and is valueless for weather
and ground work. Each armpit has a black, triangular scar, which does
not appear in the canoe birch.
Uncle Elk gave the boys a brief talk on the genus of trees known as the
_Betulaceœ_ or birch.
“Its flowers grow in catkins—so called from their resemblance to a
cat’s tail—whose scales are thin and three-lobed. With one exception
the species grows beyond the tropic in the northern hemisphere.”
“Will you tell us something about the birch from which canoes are made?”
asked Scout Master Hall, and the faces of the boys showed their
eagerness to hear the explanation which they knew awaited them.
“The paper or canoe birch is the most valuable American kind. Cabinet
makers sometimes use the wood, but it quickly decays when exposed to
climatic changes. It sounds strange, but the bark is most esteemed
because of its durable nature. Many times I have come upon a fallen
birch which appeared to be perfectly sound, but on examination, I found
the wood entirely rotted away, with the bark as firm and perfect as when
the tree stood erect and was growing. You can easily see why it is so
valuable for canoes. Would you like me to tell you how we make a birch
canoe?”
Every head nodded.
“Of course I pick out the largest trees with the smoothest bark. In the
spring I make two circular incisions several feet apart, with a
longitudinal incision on each side. Pushing a wedge under the bark, it
is easily lifted off. With threads prepared from the fibrous roots of
the white spruce fir, the pieces of bark are sewn together over a
framework of wood, and the seams are caulked with resin of the Balm of
Gilead fir. Such boats are so light that they are readily carried over
the shoulders of a boy when he finds it necessary to make a portage. My
canoe weighs less than fifty pounds and will bear up four or five boys.”
“I obsarved, Uncle Elk,” said Mike, who was one of the most interested
of the listeners, “that ye have no seats in yer boat, which the same I
fail to understand, as Jerry Hooligan said whin his taicher told him
that if ye multiply one fraction by anither, the answer is less than
aither of ’em.”
“A birch canoe has no seat because the craft is so unstable it is almost
certain to tip over with you; you have to sit as low as possible. The
birch not only serves well for canoes, but log houses are often thatched
with it, and small boxes, cases and even hats are manufactured from the
same material. You are all fond of sweet birch and I can see you chewing
the tender, aromatic bark, when you were barefooted boys on your way
home from school.
“The canoe is so unstable and sensitive that care is necessary to avoid
accidents. In the first place there is the right and wrong way to enter
it, with the probability that you will take the wrong one every time.
This is what you should do: take the paddle in your right hand and lay
it across the gunwale. Seize the outside gunwale with your left hand,
resting the right on the other gunwale. Then put your left foot gently
but steadily into the boat, being careful to place it exactly in the
middle and follow with the other foot, after which you will kneel or sit
as you prefer and can push away from the float. By this method you will
preserve the equilibrium of the canoe and escape mishap.
“By the way, you should never let the paddle pass out of your grasp, for
in case of an upset, it will keep you afloat until help arrives. Nor
should you go far without an extra paddle in case of breakage. If you
have a lady companion, regard safety before grace. Grasp the nearest
gunwale with your left hand, reach up your right and take her nearest
hand. She should step in right foot first, grasping the outside gunwale
to balance herself. Thus steadied, she can easily lift the left foot
into the boat and sit down comfortably, using her right hand to arrange
her skirts.
“You should sit near the middle when alone, for, if too far toward the
stern, the prow lifts up, and a puff of wind is sufficient to tip over
the boat. If an upset occurs, don’t forget to keep a firm grasp upon
your paddle, and don’t swim away from the overturned canoe. One of the
craft seldom overturns completely, because you are pretty sure to plunge
overboard so suddenly that the boat hasn’t time to take in much water.
It is easy to climb in again, provided you know how to do it. Lay your
paddle across the gunwale, your left hand grasping the paddle and middle
brace; bring your legs sharply together as you do when climbing aboard a
raft. This will lift the body far enough out the water to enable you to
reach for the farther gunwale and you can roll yourself into the boat
with no trouble at all.
“Suppose you fall overboard with a companion. Remember the canoe will
not sink of itself and each of you has retained his paddle. You approach
from opposite directions, and one holds down his side of the canoe,
while the other carefully climbs in, after which he can readily preserve
the equilibrium while his friend joins him.
“Remember these precautions: never change places in a canoe after
leaving the shore, and avoid moving quickly. It is the easiest thing in
the world to grasp a pond lily in passing and by means of the sudden
pull overturn the craft; don’t even turn your head suddenly to look at
another canoe that is passing; don’t frolic or try to stand up in the
canoe, and in no case take out a lady without having a cork-stuffed
pillow with you. Finally, no person should ever have anything to do with
a canoe until he has learned how to swim.”
“What kind of birch produces the most valuable timber?” asked Scout
Master Hall.
“The black or mahogany. Its reddish brown wood is hard and
close-grained. When it attains the height of seventy feet, with a
diameter of three feet, it is one of the handsomest trees in the forest.
It buds early in spring, at which time its leaves are covered with a
short thick coat of down, which disappears later in the season and
leaves them of a vivid green color.”
A little way ahead, the Instructor halted the scouts again. This time it
was no pretence on his part when he expressed himself as surprised by
what he saw. He stood for a minute or two viewing a tree some thirty
feet high, with a score of green prickly burrs scattered here and there
among the branches.
“Why are you surprised?” asked the Scout Master.
“Maine lies above the range of the chestnut, though now and then you
come upon a specimen in the southern part of the state. That is the
first one I have seen in this section and I doubt if another exists. I
should be glad to welcome this tree, did I not know that it is already
doomed. We have plenty of horse chestnuts, however.”
“The chestnuts in the Middle States have suffered a good deal during the
last few years,” said the Scout Master. “I had a couple of fine ones in
my yard at home but some pest attacked them. I called in a tree surgeon,
after doing all I could to save them, and he confessed that he was
powerless. The disease first appeared in the neighborhood of New York in
1904. Two years later a hitherto unknown fungus was discovered growing
in the substance of the bark of the tree, and it looks to me as if the
blight will follow the chestnuts all the way to Tennessee, which is
their southern range. Even your horse chestnuts do not escape and the
all-pervading spruce is threatened with extinction from a vicious moth.”
“That’s too bad,” commented more than one boy, who recalled the delights
of chestnut hunting and the delicious flavor of the fruit itself, both
raw and roasted; “we used to have such big crops of chestnuts that it
didn’t pay the farmers to gather them.”
“As plants, flowers and trees increase, so do their enemies,” commented
Uncle Elk, “until it has become a constant fight for life. But man will
always be the victor so long as he does not grow lazy or indifferent.
Now we come upon several specimens of the white and the red oak. Will
one of you point out the chief differences between them?”
Alvin Landon nudged Mike, who saw that the eyes of the Instructor were
fixed upon him.
“You know the two colors; he is expecting you to answer.”
Mike promptly fell into the trap.
“One of ’em has red leaves and the ither white.”
The reproving look of Mike in response to the general merriment caused
even Uncle Elk and Scout Master Hall to laugh. Kenneth Henke and Bobby
Snow between them explained that the grain of the red oak is hard,
strong and coarse but warps and has little value for weather or ground
work. Its acorns require two seasons to ripen, whereas those of the
white oak mature in one season. The latter is called white because of
the pale color of its bark and wood. This kind is fine-grained, heavy,
strong, very durable and of great value. When we speak of “hearts of
oak” it is always the white variety we have in mind. You know how
important it is for ship building and other enterprises. There are too
many varieties to be named in this place, and I fear an extended
description would prove tedious to you.
Tramping a short distance farther the Inspector directed the attention
of the boys to a broad, spreading symmetrical tree fully a hundred feet
high and with a trunk more than three feet in diameter. The bark was
smooth and ash colored and the foliage purplish. It ranks among the
handsomest trees of the American forest and every boy identified it at
once as a beech, of the _Fagus_ genus of trees. It is so common that I
am sure you are all familiar with it. Possibly you are unaware that the
roots do not descend deeply into the soil but extend to a considerable
distance close under the surface. The beech is a favorite, and several
beautiful varieties are cultivated, some displaying purple, silver, and
other colored foliage. I recall a beech whose leaves in the autumn,
after being touched by frost, were so vivid and blood red, that they
resembled a huge cone of flaming fire when seen among the differently
tinted foliage.
One of the chief uses of the beech from the viewpoint of boys is to
furnish an admirable surface upon which to carve their names with their
jack-knives. I cannot compute the number of beech trunks in the woods of
my boyhood home which display my initials. Only the other day I came
across the bark, now bulging, contorted and overgrown, upon which I
broke the blade of my new knife, when I was so young that I didn’t know
any better than to form two of the letters backward. Moreover, a few
feet above my name was that of my grandfather, which he cut into the
bark when he was a youngster fully sixty years before.
“The beech,” remarked Uncle Elk, “furnishes fire wood, though my
preference is apple wood, followed next by hickory, sugar maple and
beech.”
Uncle Elk was too wise to weary his young friends with much scientific
description. As he strolled forward, he made his talk more general and
asked fewer questions. He reminded them of the excellent appearance of
the white elm, which often grows to a height of a hundred feet or more.
It is not valuable, however, because its reddish brown, coarse wood soon
rots near the ground. A peculiarity of the sycamore, which often attains
a stature of a hundred and fifty feet, is that it sheds its bark as well
as its leaves.
The black locust is another tree with which I am sure you are all
familiar. You have seen rows of them lining the highways and growing
about old lawns. The timber is close grained and tough and good for
planking vessels. The mealy fruit is sweet, and we used to try to
persuade ourselves that we liked it, but I don’t think any of us boys
ever wholly succeeded.
When boiled and fermented the juice forms an intoxicating drink
resembling beer.
I was always fond of the red and water or swamp maples. The sap from
them when boiled down furnishes us the most delicious syrup and sugar in
the world. When we seek the sugar, however, it is from the variety known
by that name. The manufacture of maple sugar is a leading industry
during the spring months in many sections, especially in Vermont, and
some parts of New York and other states.
Have you ever taken a hand in the making of maple sugar? If so, you will
never forget its delights. In March, when the first signs of thaw
appear, you bore only a little way with an auger into the juicy wood,
when the sap comes bubbling down the small wooden spout driven into the
opening, and is caught in the trough or kettle waiting below. As these
fill up the sweet fluid is carried to a huge iron kettle suspended over
a roaring fire, and poured into the vessel. It boils steadily away, but
the supply is kept up, the steam diffusing a most fragrant odor through
the surrounding atmosphere. The sap slowly grows thicker as the watery
part is given off in vapor, until it granulates and syrup and sugar
result.
After the thick syrup is poured out of the big kettle there is always a
considerable quantity left clinging to the interior. Balancing
themselves over the edge of the iron reservoir, the heads of the boys
used to disappear with only their feet showing while they scraped off
the saccharine coating within and ate and ate until nature protested and
we had perforce to cease, but were soon ready to resume our feast at the
banquet of the gods.