em down then, cap'n?"

"We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's girdlin' the tree, and then,
ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself."

"O, my stars!" cried Peter, "I want to know!"

"No, you DON'T want to know, Peter, for I just told you! You may say, 'I
wonder,' if you like; that's what we say out west."

"Wait," said Peter. "I only said, '_I_ want to know what other trees
you have;' that's what I meant, but you _shet_ me right up."

"O, there's the butternut, and tree of heaven, and papaw, and 'simmon,
and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."

"What's a 'simmon?"

"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right
sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when
they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n
choke-cherries."

"What's a papaw?"

"A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat it.
It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to
work."

"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"

"O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know? It's a tree of heaven, I
suppose. It has pink hollyhocks growing on it. What makes you ask so
many questions?"

Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at
the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones.
Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was
strange how many it took to fill such "_enormous_ big baskets."

"Now," said Horace, "I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen.
You said you knew it by sight."

"Wintergreen? wintergreen?" echoed Peter: "O, yes, I know it well
enough. It spangles 'round. See, here's some; the girls make wreaths of
it."

It was _moneywort_; but Horace never doubted that Peter was telling the
truth, and supposed his grandmother would be delighted to see such
quantities of wintergreen.

After some time spent in gathering this, Horace happened to remember
that he wanted sarsaparilla.

"I reckon," thought he, "they'll be glad I came, if I carry home so many
things."

Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for there was not a root of any
sort which did not grow "in the pines;" of that he was sure. So they
struck still deeper into the woods, every step taking them farther from
home. Pincher followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never
dreaming that serious trouble was coming.

The boys dug up various roots with their jackknives; but they both knew
th