Perhaps his most characteristic attitude was sitting on a log, with a short pipe in his mouth.  If ever man was formed to sit on a log, it was Old Phelps.  He was essentially a contemplative person.  Walking on a country road, or anywhere in the “open,” was irksome to him.  He had a shambling, loose-jointed gait, not unlike that of the bear:  his short legs bowed out, as if they had been more in the habit of climbing trees than of walking.  On land, if we may use that expression, he was something like a sailor; but, once in the rugged trail or the unmarked route of his native forest, he was a different person, and few pedestrians could compete with him.  The vulgar estimate of his contemporaries, that reckoned Old Phelps “lazy,” was simply a failure to comprehend the conditions of his being.  It is the unjustness of civilization that it sets up uniform and artificial standards for all persons.  The primitive man suffers by them much as the contemplative philosopher does, when one happens to arrive in this busy, fussy world.

If the appearance of Old Phelps attracts attention, his voice, when first heard, invariably startles the listener.  A small, high-pitched, half-querulous voice, it easily rises into the shrillest falsetto; and it has a quality in it that makes it audible in all the tempests of the forest, or the roar of rapids, like the piping of a boatswain’s whistle at sea in a gale.  He has a way of letting it rise as his sentence goes on, or when he is opposed in argument, or wishes to mount above other voices in the conversation, until it dominates everything.  Heard in the depths of the woods, quavering aloft, it is felt to be as much a part of nature, an original force, as the northwest wind or the scream of the hen-hawk.  When he is pottering about the camp-fire, trying to light his pipe with a twig held in the flame, he is apt to begin some philosophical observation in a small, slow, stumbling voice, which seems about to end in defeat; when he puts on some unsuspected force, and the sentence ends in an insistent shriek.  Horace Greeley had such a voice, and could regulate it in the same manner.  But Phelps’s voice is not seldom plaintive, as if touched by the dreamy sadness of the woods themselves.

When Old Mountain Phelps was discovered, he was, as the reader has already guessed, not understood by his contemporaries.  His neighbors, farmers in the secluded valley, had many of them grown thrifty and prosperous, cultivating the fertile meadows, and vigorously attacking the timbered mountains; while Phelps, with not much more faculty of acquiring property than the roaming deer, had pursued the even tenor of the life in the forest on which he set out.  They would have been surprised to be told that Old Phelps owned more of what makes the value of the Adirondacks than all of them put together, but it was true.  This woodsman, this trapper, this hunter, this fisherman, this sitter on a log, and philosopher, was the real