gotten ghost that had passed into the land of spirits, without yet meeting
one of his kind with whom to hold converse.
The condition of a man lost in the woods is one of the most perplexing
that could be imagined by a person who has not himself been in a like predicament.
Every object he sees, he at first thinks he recognises, and while
his whole mind is bent on searching for more that may gradually lead to
his extrication, he goes on committing greater errors the farther he proceeds.
This was the case with the live-oaker. The sun was now setting
with a fiery aspect, and by degrees it sunk in its full circular form, as if
giving warning of a sultry morrow. Myriads of insects, delighted at its
departure, now filled the air on buzzing wings. Each piping frog arose
from the muddy pool in which it had concealed itself; the squirrel retired
to its hole, the crow to its roost, and, far above, the harsh croaking voice
of the heron announced that, full of anxiety, it was wending its way to
the miry interior of some distant swamp. Now the woods began to resound
to the shrill cries of the owl; and the breeze, as it swept among the
columnar stems of the forest-trees, came laden with heavy and chilling
dews. Alas, no moon with her silvery light shone on the dreary scene, and
the Lost One, wearied and vexed, laid himself down on the damp ground.
Prayer is always consolatory to man in every difficulty or danger, and the
woodsman fervently prayed to his Maker, wished his family a happier
night than it was his lot to experience, and with a feverish anxiety waited
t.htfe'. rlr e..tyuirPn. o.rr iOdajy .d forfa odi fr/d liYou
may imagine the length of that cold, dull, moonless night. With
the dawn of day came the usual fogs of those latitudes. The poor man
started on his feet, and with a sorrowful heart, pursued a course which he
thought might lead him to some familiar object, although, indeed, he
scarcely knew what he was doing. No longer had he the trace of a track
to guide him, and yet, as the sun rose, he calculated the many hours of
day-light he had before him, and the farther he went continued to walk
the faster. But vain were all his hopes : that day was spent in fruitless
endeavours to regain the path that led to his home, and when night again
approached, the terror that had been gradually spreading over his mind,
together with the nervous debility induced by fatigue, anxiety, and hunger,
rendered him almost frantic. He told me that at this moment he
beat his breast, tore his hair, and, had it not been for the piety with which
his parents had in early life imbued his mind, and which had become habitual,
would have cursed his existence. Famished as he now was, he laid
himself on the ground, and fed on the weeds and grass that grew around
him. That night was spent in the greatest agony and terror. " I knew
my situation,1'' he said to me. " I was fully aware that unless Almighty
God came to my assistance, I must perish in those uninhabited woods. I
knew that I had walked more than fifty miles, although I had not met
with a brook, from which I could quench my thirst, or even allay the
burning heat of my parched lips and blood-shot eyes. I knew that if I
should not meet with some stream I must die, for my axe was my only
weapon, and although deer and bears now and then started within a few
yards or even feet of me, not one of them could I kill; and although I
was in the midst of abundance, not a mouthful did I expect to procure, to
satisfy the cravings of my empty stomach. Sir, may God preserve you
from ever feeling as I did the whole of that day
For several days after, no one can imagine the condition in which he
was, for when he related to me this painful adventure, he assured me
that he had lost all recollection of what had happened. " God," he continued,
" must have taken pity on me one day, for, as I ran wildly
through those dreadful pine barrens, I met with a tortoise. I gazed upon
it with amazement and delight, and, although I knew that were I to follow
it undisturbed, it would lead me to some water, my hunger and thirst
would not allow me to refrain from satisfying both, by eating its flesh,
and drinking its blood. With one stroke of my axe the beast was cut in
two, and in a few moments I dispatched all but the shell. Oh, Sir, how
much I thanked God, whose kindness had put the tortoise in my way ! I
felt greatly renewed. I sat down at the foot of a pine, gazed on the
heavens, thought of my poor wife and children, and again, and again
thanked my God for my life, for now I felt less distracted in mind, and
more assured that before long 1 must recover my way, and get back to
my home.'1
The Lost One remained and passed the night, at the foot of the same
tree under which his repast had been made. Refreshed by a sound sleep,
he started at dawn to resume his weary march. The sun rose bright,
and he followed the direction of the shadows. Still the dreariness of the
woods was the same, and he was on the point of giving up in despair,
when he observed a racoon lying squatted in the grass. Raising his axe,
he drove it with such violence through the helpless animal, that it expired
without a struggle. What he had done with the turtle, he now did with the