the black man of the forest trudges, scrambles, and cuts his journey to the coast. Indeed, a trail such as this has an analogy to the history of the people whose footsteps preserve it. For every turn that it makes, gully it avoids, one forgets the long since buried pion- eer who wandered off this way and that way only to return and say that this way and that way were no good. At its best, the well-travelled conclusion of many many years, it is still a shadow line in the great green confusion of the forest, altered when a little earth slides from the ridge, when a puff of wind conquers a too grown old tree, or when a boulder slips and with it an ancient and dependable ridge becomes an intransversable ravine. As it stretches out its compromises with the natural obsta- cles contending it, over a spring bottom upon whose weedy rocks it leaves a path of small bare surfaces, skirting here a gnarled rooty knoll, there the extended figure of a fallen tree, and mounting ever upwards on boulder tops and favorable roots, affecting really no tree, no spring, no boulder by its passage, it seems more a ghostly thing than a useful thing, more the casual motions of some woodland sprite, who, being in a holiday mood, cared not the least where he was going. The wind blew hard against the trees and there were few birds on the ridges. Above four thousand feet it rained continually. For the first time the mountain top was even colder than mid-winter New England, with a com- bination of wind, rain, and fog all doing business sim- ultaneously. The swaying of the pandanus trunks made a