So we gave that up, and they were driven back five miles into the
country to pasture.
There is something ominous and most depressing about a burnt forest.
There is no life, nothing green. It is a ghost-forest, filled with tall
tree skeletons and the mouldering bones of those that have fallen, and
draped with dry gray moss that swings in the wind. Moving through such a
forest is almost impossible. Fallen and rotten trees, black and charred
stumps cover every foot of ground. It required two hours' work with an
axe to clear a path that I might get to the little ridge on which my
tent was placed. The day had been gray, and, to add to our discomfort,
there was a soft, fine rain. The Middle Boy had developed an inflamed
knee and was badly crippled. Sitting in the drizzle beside the
camp-fire, I heated water in a tin pail and applied hot compresses
consisting of woolen socks.
It was all in the game. Eggs tasted none the worse for being fried in a
skillet into which the rain was pattering. Skins were weather-proof, if
clothes were not. And heavy tarpaulins on the ground protected our
bedding from dampness.
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