e rough
riflemen which I had not suspected--their passionate devotion to the
forest. What the sea is to mariners, the endless, uncharted wilderness
was to these forest runners; they loved and hated it, they suspected and
trusted it. A forest voyage finished, they steered for the nearest port
with all the eager impatience of sea-cloyed sailors. Yet, scarcely were
they anchored in some frontier haven than they fell to dreaming of the
wilderness, of the far silences in the trackless sea of trees, of the
winds ruffling the forest's crests till ten thousand trees toss their
leaves, silver side up, as white-caps flash, rolling in long patches on
a heaving waste of waters.

Yet, in all those weeks I never heard one word or hint of that devotion
expressed or implied, not one trace of appreciation, not one shadow of
sentiment. If I ventured to speak of the vast beauty of the woods, there
was no response from my shy companions; one appeared to vie with another
in concealing all feeling under a careless mask and a bantering manner.

Once only can I recall a voluntary expression of pleasure in beauty; it
came from Jack Mount, one blue night in July, when the heavens flashed
under summer stars till the vaulted skies seemed plated solidly with
crusted gems.

"Them stars look kind of nice," he said, then colored with embarrassment
and spat a quid of spruce-gum into the camp-fire.

Yet humanity demands some outlet for accumulated sentiment, and these
men found it in the dirge-like songs and laments and rude ballads of the
wilderness, which I think bear a close resemblance to the sailor-men's
songs, in words as well as in the dolorous melodies, fit only for the
scraping whine of a two-string fiddle in a sugar-camp.

The magic of June faded from the forests, smothered under the
magnificent and deeper glory of July's golden green; the early summer
ripened into August, finding us still afoot in the Kingsland district
gathering in the loyal, warning the rash, comforting the down-cast,
threatening the suspected. Twice, by expresses bound for Saratoga, I
sent full reports to Schuyler, but received no further orders. I
wondered whether he was displeased at my failure to arrest Walter
Butler; and we redoubled our efforts to gain news of him. Three times we
heard of his presence in or near the Kingsland district: once at Tribes
Hill, once at Fort Plain, and once it was said he was living quietly in
a farm-house near Johnstown, which he had