"Well, Peter, come ahead."
"I don't believe you know your way in these ere woods," returned Peter, with an air of importance. "I'll go fust. It's a mighty long stretch, 'most up to Canada; but I could find my way in the dark. I never got lost anywheres yet!"
"Poh! nor I either," Horace was about to say; but remembering his adventure in Cleveland, he drowned the words in a long whistle.
They kept on up the steep hill for some distance, and then struck off into the forest. The straight pine trees stood up solemn and stiff. Instead of tender leaves, they bristled all over with dark green "needles." They had no blessings of birds' nests in their branches; yet they gave out a pleasant odor, which the boys said was "nice."
"But they aren't so splendid, Peter, as our trees out west—don't begin! They grow so big you can't chop 'em down. I'll leave it to Pincher!"
"Chop 'em down? I reckon it can't be done!" replied Pincher—not in words, but by a wag of his tail.
"Well, how do you get '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."