Presently George trotted up behind us with the other dogs. "We
lost him down on the hot dry ridges. Hounds couldn't track him," was
all George said. Thereupon Edd blew four blasts upon his hunting-horn,
which were signals to those on the stands above that the hunt was over
for the day.
Even in the jungle tropics I had never seen such dense shade as this
down in Horton Thicket. The timber grew close and large, and the
foliage was matted, letting little sunlight through. Dark, green and
brown, fragrant, cool thicket indeed it was. We came to a huge spruce
tree, the largest I ever saw--Edd said eight feet through at the base,
but he was conservative. It was a gnarled, bearded, gray, old monarch
of the forest, with bleached, dead top. For many years it had been the
home of swarms of wild honey bees. Edd said more than one bee-hunter
had undertaken to cut down this spruce. This explained a number of
deeply cut notches in the huge trunk. "I'll bet Nielsen could chop it
down," declared Edd. I admitted the compliment to our brawny Norwegian
axe-wielder, but added that I certainly would not let him do it,
whether we were to get any honey or not.
By and bye we reached the bottom of the thicket where we crossed a
swift clear cold brook. Here the smells seemed cool, sweet, wild with
spruce and pine. This stream of granite water burst from a spring
under a cliff.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290