The spot which Abel Jones chose for his home had many of the characteristics of a scene in Maine. Hills were backed by other hills, and not far in from the lake was a mile-long "horseback."[2] The trees were not pigmies in those days, but giant oaks and pines,
"Whose living towers the years conspired to build,
Whose giddy tops the morning loved to gild."
There were dense forests of cedar, and the scattered bass-woods made the whole place fragrant in the spring. Never had an axe swung in these solitudes, and the mighty power of the ages was felt as these stout pines met the breeze. It was no small privilege to be canopied with such a tent as their meeting tops made.
"Whoso walks in solitude
And inhabiteth the wood,
Choosing light, wave, rock, and bird
Before the money-loving herd,—
Into that forester shall pass,
From these companions, power and grace.