Boone’s array of arguments, to influence those whom he wished to share this daring enterprise with him, was tinctured with the coloring of rude poetry.  “They would ascend,” he said, “the unnamed mountains, whose green heads rose not far from their former hunting-grounds, since fences and inclosures had begun to surround them on all sides, shutting up the hunter from his free range and support.  The deer had fled from the sound of the axe, which levelled the noble trees under whose shade they could repose from the fatigues of pursuit.  The springs and streams among the hills were bared to the fierce sun, and would soon dry up and disappear.  Soon ‘the horn would no more wake them up in the morn.’  The sons of their love and pride, instead of being trained hunters, with a free, bold step, frank kindness, true honor, and a courage that knew not fear, would become men to whom the pleasures and dangers of their fathers would seem an idle tale.”  The prospect spreading on the other side of the mountains, he pictured as filled with all the images of abundance and freedom that could enter the thoughts of the hunter.  The paintings were drawn from nature, and the words few and simple, that spoke to the hearts of these sons of the forest.  “The broad woods,” he pursued, “would stretch beneath their eyes, when the mountain summits were gained, one extended tuft of blossoms.  The cane was a tangle of luxuriance, affording the richest pastures.  The only paths through it were those made by buffaloes and bears.  In the sheltered glades, turkeys and large wild birds were so abundant, that a hunter could supply himself in an hour for the wants of a week.  They would not be found like the lean and tough birds in the old settlements, that lingered around the clearings and stumps of the trees, in the topmost of whose branches the fear of man compelled them to rest, but young and full fed.  The trees in this new land were of no stinted or gnarled growth, but shot up tall, straight, and taper.  The yellow poplar here threw up into the air a column of an hundred feet shaft in a contest with the sycamore for the pre-eminence of the woods.  Their wives and children would remain safe in their present homes, until the first dangers and fatigues of the new settlement had been met and overcome.  When their homes were selected, and their cabins built, they would return and bring them out to their new abodes.  The outward journey could be regulated by the uncontrolled pleasure of their more frail travellers.  What guardians could be more true than their husbands with their good rifles and the skill and determination to use them?  They would depend, not upon circumstances, but upon themselves.  The babes would exult in the arms of their mothers from the inspiring influence of the fresh air; and at night a cradle from the hollow tree would rock them to a healthful repose.  The older children, training to the pursuits and pleasures of a life in the woods, and acquiring vigor of body