The small, petty things of life
will lose their seeming importance and great things will look larger and
infinitely more worth while. You will know that the woods, the fields,
the streams and great waters bear wonderful messages for you, and,
little by little, you will learn to read them.
The majority of people who visit the up-to-date hotels of the
Adirondacks, which their wily proprietors call camps, may think they see
the wild and are living in it. But for them it is only a big
picnic-ground through which they rush with unseeing eyes and whose
cloisters they invade with unfeeling hearts, seemingly for the one
purpose of building a fire, cooking their lunch, eating it, and then
hurrying back to the comforts of the hotel and the gayety of hotel life.
[Illustration: One can generally pass around obstructions like this on
the trail.]
At their careless and noisy approach the forest suddenly withdraws
itself into its deep reserve and reveals no secrets. It is as if they
entered an empty house and passed through deserted rooms, but all the
time the intruders are stealthily watched by unseen, hostile, or
frightened eyes.
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