The Last Forest

Not many boys are born and reared in the midst of such happy surroundings as I was. I had neither brother nor sister to interfere. My parents were elderly, so that beyond the range of their vision when they sat upon the porch of the log house, I did much as I pleased.


True, there was farm work to be done upon the plateau, and since my father was too infirm to give much assistance, it early became necessary that I toil long hours in the fields.


But up on the plateau, toil was akin to romance. Eastward, at the foot of the mountain, a clear river laughed its way through deep woods. A little to the north, where the narrow canyon widened to make room for tiny valleys, clearings had been made, and in these open spaces the river could be seen sparkling in the sunshine. Also, these clearings were the home sites of half a dozen mountaineer families, who were the kindest of neighbors. When the shadows of the western ranges fell across the narrow valley in the evening, smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys below me, giving sign that the neighboring housewives were preparing supper. A little later, when the shadows came to the plateau and dusk settled upon the deeper valley, I could see the plow teams making their slow way to the barns, and cows sauntering through the pastures toward the milking-pens. Eastward beyond the scurrying river, as far as the eye could see, wave after wave of densely timbered mountains shone blue at noonday and black when twilight fell.


The river, the valley farms, and rolling Alleghenies were to the east. But the real romance was to the westward.


My father’s house stood with its back against that dark spruce-covered mountain known to our people as the Big Black, and beyond it toward the setting sun were fifty miles of wilderness and mystery.