Rifle-Eye disgustedly.

"Well, I never saw a trail before that you couldn't see," responded
Wilbur defiantly.

The old hunter stopped his horse.

"Turn half round," he said. Wilbur did so. "Now," he continued, "can you
see any trail through there?"

The boy looked through the long cool aisles of trees, realizing that he
could ride in any direction without being stopped by undergrowth, but he
could see nothing that looked like a trail.

"Now turn round and look ahead," said the hunter.

The moment Wilbur turned he became conscious of what the old mountaineer
wanted to show him. Not a definite sign could he see, the ground was
untrampled, the trees showed no blaze marks, yet somehow there was a
consciousness that in a certain direction there was a way.

"Yes," he said vaguely. "I can't see it, but I feel somehow that there's
a trail through there." He pointed between two large spruces that stood
near.

The hunter slapped his pony on the neck.

"Get up there, Milly," he said, "we'll teach him yet! You see," he
continued, "there ain't no manner of use in tryin' to see a trail. If
the trail's visible, the worst tenderfoot that ever lived could follow
it. It's the trail that you can't see that you've got to learn to
follow."

"And how do you do it, Rifle-Eye?" asked the boy.

"Same as you did just now. There's just a mite of difference where folks
have ridden, there's perhaps just a few seedlin's been trodden down,
an' there's a line between the trees that's just a little straighter
than any animal's runway. But it's so faint that the more you think
about it, the less sure you are. But, by an' by, you get so that you
couldn't help followin' it in any kind of weather." And the old hunter,
seeing the need of teaching Wilbur the intricacies of the pine country
forests, gave him hint after hint all the way to his little camp.

When he got there Wilbur gave an exclamation of delight. The camp, as
the Supervisor had said, was near a little spring, which indeed bubbled
from the hillside not more than ten feet away from the tent, and
gleaming on the slope a couple of hundred feet below, he could see the
little lake which was "so full of trout" glistening itself like a silver
fish in the sunlight. A tall flagstaff, with a cord all reeved for the
flag, stood by the tent, and for the realities of life a strong,
serviceable telephone was fastened to a tree.

Wilbur turned to the hunter, his eyes shining.

"What a daisy