As he licked his cracking lips, he caught a faint, tinkling,
rumbling sound of falling water somewhere to the right. Of a sudden his
sufferings of mind and body were merged into one burning desire to
drink, and he turned eagerly in that direction.
At the edge of the woods he found a little fairy, foamy waterfall, which
had tumbled down from the mountain to be lost in the dismal swamp. But
Dol felt that it had accomplished its mission when he unfastened the tin
drinking-mug which hung from his belt, and drank--drank--drank! He
straightened himself again, feeling that some of the bubbling life of
the mountain torrent had passed into him. His eyes lit on a towering
pine-tree just beyond it. And then--
Well! if that sky-piercing pine had suddenly changed at a jump into a
gray post, bearing the inscription, "One mile to Boston," Dol Farrar
could not have been more astonished and relieved than when he saw for
the first time a rude forest guide-post.
To the dark, knotted trunk was fastened a piece of light, delicate bark,
stripped from a white-birch tree.
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