al, rocky stream, at the foot of
high and slender falls, which poured into a broad amber basin. Out of
this basin we had just taken trout enough for our supper, which had been
killed, and roasted over the fire on sharp sticks, and eaten before they
had an opportunity to feel the chill of this deceitful world. We were
lying under the hut of spruce-bark, on fragrant hemlock-boughs, talking,
after supper. In front of us was a huge fire of birchlogs; and over it
we could see the top of the falls glistening in the moonlight; and the
roar of the falls, and the brawling of the stream near us, filled all
the ancient woods. It was a scene upon which one would think no thought
of sin could enter. We were talking with old Phelps, the guide. Old
Phelps is at once guide, philosopher, and friend. He knows the woods and
streams and mountains, and their savage inhabitants, as well as we know
all our rich relations and what they are doing; and in lonely bear-hunts
and sable-trappings he has thought out and solved most of the problems
of life. As he stands in his wood-gear, he is as grizzly as an old
cedar-tree; and he speaks in a high falsetto voice, which would be
invaluable to a boatswain in a storm at sea.

We had been talking of all subjects about which rational men are
interested,--bears, panthers, trapping, the habits of trout, the tariff,
the internal revenue (to wit the injustice of laying such a tax on
tobacco, and none on dogs:--"There ain't no dog in the United States,"
says the guide, at the top of his voice, "that earns his living"), the
Adventists, the Gorner Grat, Horace Greeley, religion, the propagation
of seeds in the wilderness (as, for instance, where were the seeds lying
for ages that spring up into certain plants and flowers as soon as
a spot is cleared anywhere in the most remote forest; and why does
a growth of oak-trees always come up after a growth of pine has been
removed?)--in short, we had pretty nearly reached a solution of many
mysteries, when Phelps suddenly exclaimed with uncommon energy,-- "Wall,
there's one thing that beats me!"

"What's that?" we asked with undisguised curiosity.

"That's 'pusley'!" he replied, in the tone of a man who has come to
one door in life which is hopelessly shut, and from which he retires in
despair.

"Where it comes from I don't know, nor what to do with it. It's in my
garden; and I can't get rid of it. It beats me."

About "pusley" the guide had no theory and no hope.