WE carry too much with us when we go into the woods. I had rather dine upon a handful of wild strawberries than gorge myself with canned apricots. Doing the former, one is ready to realize what is transpiring; the latter, and the chances are you will feel like a fool. Eat, as a matter of necessity, when in the field; but do not poison the fresh air of a wilderness with the fumes from a frying-pan. It is a woful error to carry the city in a grip-sack whenever we take to wild life. It forces the thoughts of civilization to the front, and we are simply out of place, while anxious to be in touch with nature. Town trumpery in the woods is mental poison. Twist a broad oak-leaf into a funnel, and you have a goblet worthy of pure spring water; and if a mussel-shell, reflecting all the hues of a sunset sky, is not a spoon to suit you, keep out of the woods. The shady side of a village street is all you need.

There were high hills behind the tent, a broad river in front, and in mid-stream two beautiful islands. The latter were evidently one island originally, although the oldest inhabitant denies it. Whether or not, I shall call them one, for the separating cross-flow of water does not prevent wading from the upper to the lower section. The interest here is threefold, its natural history, its archaeology, and its colonial history. When we find so much worthy of contemplation, and so little of man's destructive interference, it is well to be in touch with our surroundings. Merely catching a glimpse from the car-window of the river and its double island, one would little suspect how much has transpired in this quiet nook, and how very much remains of truly olden times. Moss had gathered on the walls of more than one house before the Revolution was dreamed of, and on that island once lived that sturdy hunter that walked (?) sixty odd miles in a day and a half, in the interests of the brothers Penn.

This man, Edward Marshall, has passed into history, and tales of his exploits in Indian warfare are endless throughout the neighborhood. I sat for a while, one morning, on the porch of his brother's house, holding the doughty Edward's rifle in my lap, the while listening to the strange adventures, as tradition has them, wherein this rifle played a most important part. With it, one story goes, Marshall killed ninety-nine Indians, and his sole regret at dying was, that he had not had opportunity to make it an even hundred. It is true the Indians had killed his wife, but this is overmuch revenge for one who claimed to be a Quaker. Doubtless many a fanciful touch has been added to the family traditions in the last century, but that he was a man of unusual parts is certain. A few words concerning Indians credited to him indicates this: “When I discover an Indian I shut one eye and we never meet again."

But let us to weightier matters: awake at dawn, but not responding with commendable promptness to the call of a red-bird perched upon the high rocks behind us, I allowed myself to indulge in that dearest of the day's occupations, matutinal reveries, too often “dear" in every sense of the word. There was endless work to do, but who can resist the golden chains that birds bind about us? There was a Carolina wren within a stone's throw of the tent, and when it sang, I was down the river fifty miles or more, and rusty barns replaced the rugged mountains. It is not advocating laziness to lie abed, if life's pleasure comes by so doing, and our time is not another's. To insure being in touch with nature this day, I had the birds rouse me very gradually, and my proper business was to do wholly as I pleased.

The sun was well above the Jersey hills when the river was crossed and we stood on the island. I confess to our method being too cold-blooded and business-like. It had been told us that Indians once lived here; it was left to us to prove it. Nothing would come amiss, whether bones or stone weapons. It was our purpose to explore, but with the first arrow-head found, I was surfeited; kicked over the traces and made for the woods. The others labored; I loafed. Shut in by a goodly company of ancient trees, there was opportunity to reduce loafing to a fine art. I did not offer to take the trees by the hand, but every one patted me upon the back. There was no stereotyped murmur of the wind high overhead, but, instead, a gentle crooning of every tree and shrub: a communing among themselves that my presence did not disturb. T was welcome to all they had to tell, but alas! who has lived that can report the secrets of a forest? It is idle to attempt it, but none the less is the rambler repaid who can unaffectedly think of trees as his friends.

While walking thus aimlessly along, profiting, I trust, through unconscious cerebration, I chanced upon a dark pool that might from appearance have been bottomless, but doubtless was extremely shallow. Probably it would not be remembered now, but for a turtle that proved a physicist, if not a philosopher. It was sunning itself or taking an airing, for the sunshine was limited to very uncertain flashes, and resting on a bit of wood more than sufficient for its own needs, but not enough for a neighbor. This latter fact was doubtless well impressed upon its mind, and when presently another turtle popped its head above the surface of the water near the raft and attempted to climb on board, the turtle in possession objected and pushed the intruder back. Again and again the swimming turtle tried, but without success. Brute force failing, the persistent fellow sunk out of sight and was gone perhaps a minute, when it suddenly reappeared in the rear of the one on the raft, and, giving it a quick blow with its snout from below upward, sent it sprawling into the water; then the tricky fellow climbed quickly on board and looked about, oh, so innocently. It was the modern political game of the “ins" and the “outs." It showed, too, that a ready wit counts for a great deal, even among turtles.

But now, although little past noontide, the woods began to grow dark; the pleasant murmur ceased, and a forbidding muttering came from the clustered giants of the wood. The lofty tulip-trees were violently moved; the older oaks protested sullenly: a moment of absolute silence, and then the pelting rain. It proved but a passing cloud, and there is no merrier music than tinkling rain-drops rolling from leaf to leaf, splashing and sparkling in the fitful sunbeams. Every bird, too, was ready to sing the song of the shower. Better, I thought, living woods than dead Indians, as I re-entered the open country: a conclusion that led to discussion when I saw my campmate's grand discovery. He had laid bare a one-time village site, and brought to light many a long-buried secret

In suggestive array were the simple weapons with which they hunted and fought; the devices with which they fished; the simpler tools with which they tilled the ground; their corn-mills, cooking utensils and dishes; and, more striking than all else, a cache of more than one hundred beautifully-clipped stone knives that, from the day when the cunning artisan hid them safely until now, had been lying in the ground. They had been closely packed in a small circular hole, so closely that but little sand had sifted between the blades. This was a discovery well worth making, and he is but a sluggish lump of laziness who cannot enthuse under such circumstances. Writes William Strachey, in his "History of Travaile in Virginia," more than two centuries ago: “Their corne and (indeed) their copper, hatchetts, howses (hoes), beades, perle and most things with them of value according to their estymacion, they hide, one from knowledge of another, in the ground within the woods and so keep them all the yeare, or until they have fit use for them."

Seeing all these things, as I stood on that lonely island, my companion was an Indian: so was I. The whole country was, in very truth, a wilderness, and the owner of this unearthed treasure might well have rushed upon us out of the fast-gathering darkness. A shadowy Indian stalked at my elbow as we crossed over to the main shore; he stood by the flickering camp-fire while supper was prepared; nor left us in peace until the moon rose above the mountain and flooded the valley with a searching, silvery light. What volumes of history there may be in a fragment of broken stone!

All night I dreamed of a dual existence: that of a loafer and of a relic-hunter, the merits of which battled for supremacy. A red-bird aroused me before sunrise with the question still unanswered, but not so torn by conflicting emotions but that I remained still in touch with Nature.