Camp Venture: A Story of the Virginia Mountains

by George Cary Eggleston

While they were chopping in the afternoon, just as a big tree on which the Doctor was at work began swaying to its fall, a large raccoon which had been hiding in the hollow of one of its upper limbs leaped to the ground. The Doctor, who had become almost as "quick on trigger" as Tom himself, seized a shotgun and fired. The animal fell instantly, riddled with turkey shot, and a minute later the Doctor held it up by the tail, saying:

"Here's a supper for us, boys! It'll be a change from bear beef, any how, and you are to have the skin, Tom."

The boys shouted for joy, for they were growing exceedingly weary of bear meat by this time, and there are few things more appetizing than a fat raccoon. So the Doctor carried his game to the house, where Ed proceeded at once to dress it for supper.

It was not until after supper that Tom related the story of his mountain adventure, and as he was an expert mimic, he succeeded in so presenting the mountaineer's part in the conversation as to cause a deal of laughter, in which Tom himself joined heartily, although his own memory of his difficult journey was anything but ludicrous.

The weather had grown exceedingly cold again and the logs were piled high on the fire. As the boys basked in the heat that was radiated into the room, some one said: "What a pity it is to waste all the heat that is going off up the chimney! It would run an engine."

"So it would," said the Doctor, "but that is what all the world is constantly doing. The wood that we have burned since supper would supply a French or Italian house with fire for a month at least."

"But how?" asked Jack. "Surely wood burns up as fast in France or Italy as it does here."

"Of course. But the French and Italians—especially the Italians—have very little wood, and they use it very sparingly. When they make an open fire it is made of sticks about eight or ten inches long, very small and usually consisting of round wood. They rarely have a split stick, because they never cut down a tree, or if they do they use every part of it that is bigger than your wrist for some kind of lumber useful in the arts."

"But if they don't cut down trees," asked Harry, "how do they get any wood at all?"

"They have very few trees," answered the Doctor, "and instead of cutting them down they trim off the branches from time to time and make fire wood of them, utilizing every particle, even down to the smallest twigs, which they cut into eight inch lengths and tie up in bundles for use in boiling their soup kettles. In some parts of Southern California," continued the Doctor, "they get their fire wood in the same way, though they do not have to bother with the little twigs, as tree growth is enormously rapid in that winter-less climate. At San Bernardino I have seen many houses standing in large grounds, with a row of cottonwood trees all around at the edge of the sidewalk. I have often seen these trees with every limb cut off close to the stem of the tree—not more than a few feet from it at farthest. In that way the owner gets his fire wood—he doesn't need much of it—for three years to come. The trees thus pollarded quickly put out a host of new branches and as these grow rapidly in a climate that has no winter, they are ready to be cut again three years later."