But it must not be supposed that every spot in the woods is suitable for a camp, or that a good tenting-ground can be chosen without knowledge and forethought.  One of the requisites, indeed, is to be found everywhere in the St. John region; for all the lakes and rivers are full of clear, cool water, and the traveller does not need to search for a spring.  But it is always necessary to look carefully for a bit of smooth ground on the shore, far enough above the water to be dry, and slightly sloping, so that the head of the bed may be higher than the foot.  Above all, it must be free from big stones and serpentine roots of trees.  A root that looks no bigger that an inch-worm in the daytime assumes the proportions of a boa-constrictor at midnight—­when you find it under your hip-bone.  There should also be plenty of evergreens near at hand for the beds.  Spruce will answer at a pinch; it has an aromatic smell; but it is too stiff and humpy.  Hemlock is smoother and more flexible; but the spring soon wears out of it.  The balsam-fir, with its elastic branches and thick flat needles, is the best of all.  A bed of these boughs a foot deep is softer than a mattress and as fragrant as a thousand Christmas-trees.  Two things more are needed for the ideal camp-ground—­an open situation, where the breeze will drive away the flies and mosquitoes, and an abundance of dry firewood within easy reach.  Yes, and a third thing must not be forgotten; for, says my lady Greygown: 

“I shouldn’t feel at home in camp unless I could sit in the door of the tent and look out across flowing water.”

All these conditions are met in our favourite camping place below the first fall in the Grande Decharge.  A rocky point juts out into the rivet and makes a fine landing for the canoes.  There is a dismantled fishing-cabin a few rods back in the woods, from which we can borrow boards for a table and chairs.  A group of cedars on the lower edge of the point opens just wide enough to receive and shelter our tent.  At a good distance beyond ours, the guides’ tent is pitched; and the big camp-fire burns between the two dwellings.  A pair of white-birches lift their leafy crowns far above us, and after them we name the place Le Camp aux Bouleaux.

“Why not call trees people?—­since, if you come to live among them year after year, you will learn to know many of them personally, and an attachment will grow up between you and them individually.”  So writes that Doctor Amabilis of woodcraft, W. C. Prime, in his book, Among the Northern Hills, and straightway launches forth into eulogy on the white-birch.  And truly it is an admirable, lovable, and comfortable tree, beautiful to look upon and full of various uses.  Its wood is strong to make paddles and axe handles, and glorious to burn, blazing up at first with a flashing flame, and then holding the fire in its glowing heart all through the night.  Its bark is the most serviceable of all the products of the wilderness.  In Russia,