He
believed he was blazing out in his mind this woodland trail, so that
should fortune favor him and he contrive to escape, he would be able
to find his way back to the river. Also, he was enjoying the wild
scenery.
This forest would have appeared beautiful, even to one indifferent
to such charms, and Joe was far from that. Every moment he felt
steal stronger over him a subtle influence which he could not
define. Half unconsciously he tried to analyze it, but it baffled
him. He could no more explain what fascinated him than he could
understand what caused the melancholy quiet which hung over the
glades and hollows. He had pictured a real forest so differently
from this. Here was a long lane paved with springy moss and fenced
by bright-green sassafras; there a secluded dale, dotted with
pale-blue blossoms, over which the giant cottonwoods leaned their
heads, jealously guarding the delicate flowers from the sun. Beech
trees, growing close in clanny groups, spread their straight limbs
gracefully; the white birches gleamed like silver wherever a stray
sunbeam stole through the foliage, and the oaks, monarchs of the
forest, rose over all, dark, rugged, and kingly.
Joe soon understood why the party traveled through such open forest.
The chief, seeming hardly to deviate from his direct course, kept
clear of broken ground, matted thickets and tangled windfalls.
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