For this straggling and stumbling band the world is young again:  it has come to the beginning of things; it has cut loose from tradition, and is free to make a home anywhere:  the movement has all the promise of a revolution.  All this virginal freshness invites the primitive instincts of play and disorder.  The free range of the forests suggests endless possibilities of exploration and possession.  Perhaps we are treading where man since the creation never trod before; perhaps the waters of this bubbling spring, which we deepen by scraping out the decayed leaves and the black earth, have never been tasted before, except by the wild denizens of these woods.  We cross the trails of lurking animals,—­paths that heighten our sense of seclusion from the world.  The hammering of the infrequent woodpecker, the call of the lonely bird, the drumming of the solitary partridge,—­all these sounds do but emphasize the lonesomeness of nature.  The roar of the mountain brook, dashing over its bed of pebbles, rising out of the ravine, and spreading, as it were, a mist of sound through all the forest (continuous beating waves that have the rhythm of eternity in them), and the fitful movement of the air-tides through the balsams and firs and the giant pines,—­how these grand symphonies shut out the little exasperations of our vexed life!  It seems easy to begin life over again on the simplest terms.  Probably it is not so much the desire of the congregation to escape from the preacher, or of the preacher to escape from himself, that drives sophisticated people into the wilderness, as it is the unconquered craving for primitive simplicity, the revolt against the everlasting dress-parade of our civilization.  From this monstrous pomposity even the artificial rusticity of a Petit Trianon is a relief.  It was only human nature that the jaded Frenchman of the regency should run away to the New World, and live in a forest-hut with an Indian squaw; although he found little satisfaction in his act of heroism, unless it was talked about at Versailles.

When our trampers come, late in the afternoon, to the bank of a lovely lake where they purpose to enter the primitive life, everything is waiting for them in virgin expectation.  There is a little promontory jutting into the lake, and sloping down to a sandy beach, on which the waters idly lapse, and shoals of red-fins and shiners come to greet the stranger; the forest is untouched by the axe; the tender green sweeps the water’s edge; ranks of slender firs are marshaled by the shore; clumps of white-birch stems shine in satin purity among the evergreens; the boles of giant spruces, maples, and oaks, lifting high their crowns of foliage, stretch away in endless galleries and arcades; through the shifting leaves the sunshine falls upon the brown earth; overhead are fragments of blue sky; under the boughs and in chance openings appear the bluer lake and the outline of the gracious mountains.  The discoverers of this paradise, which they have entered to destroy, note the babbling of the brook that flows close at hand; they hear the splash of the leaping fish; they listen to the sweet, metallic song of the evening thrush, and the chatter of the red squirrel, who angrily challenges their right to be there.  But the moment of sentiment passes.  This party has come here to eat and to sleep, and not to encourage Nature in her poetic attitudinizing.