"No, John, ’twa’n’t," piped a weak voice from the interior of the little cottage; “’twa’n’t mor’n——”
"Laws, man, don’t mind her. She disputes the almanac, and every winter gets in New Year’s ahead of Christmas."
I did not stop to argue the matter, but hurried campward, glad that, if I could find no footprints of human interest and historic, I at least had followed a path made forty years ago,—a path that had been worn among bushes and now led through a forest. It was indeed suggestive. By the camp-fire that night I vowed to plant a forest where now there was but a thicket, and in my dreams I walked through a noble wood.
Think how much might be done to beautify the world, and how little is accomplished.
CHAPTER
SIXTEENTH