"Oh! I wish I had worn my tramping togs," exclaimed Nixon Warren as the four boys, after covering an easy mile along the highroad and over the uplands that lay between marsh and woodland, plunged, whooping, in amid the forest shadows roofed by the meeting branches of pines, hemlocks, oaks, and birches, with here and there a maple already turning ruddy, that formed the outposts of the dense woods. A dwarf counterpart of the same trees laced with vines and prickly brambles made an undergrowth so thick that they parted with shreds of their clothing as they went threshing through it, in a fascinating gold-misted twilight, through which the slender sunbeams flashed like fairy knitting-needles weaving a scarf of light and shade around each tall trunk. "Why! you're better 'togged' for the woods than the rest of us are," answered Leon Starr Chase, looking askance at the new boy. "That's a dandy hat; must shade your eyes a whole lot when you're tramping on open ground! I guess ours don't need any shading!" A wandering sunbeam kindled a brassy spark in Leon's brown eye which looked as if it could face anything unabashed. In his mind lurked the same suspicion that had hovered over Colin's at first sight of Nixon, that this newcomer from a distant city might be somewhat of a flowerpot fellow, delicately reared and coddled, not a hardy plant that could revel and rough it in the wilderness atmosphere of the thick woods. Nothing about the boy-stranger supported such an idea for a moment, except to Leon, as the party progressed, the interest which he took in the floral life of the woodland: in objects which Starrie Chase who invariably "hit the woods" as he phrased it, with destruction in the forefront of his thoughts, generally overlooked, and therefore did not consider worth a second glance. He stood and gaped as Nixon, with a shout of delight, pounced upon some rosy pepper-grass, stooped to pick a wood aster or gentian, or pointed out to Coombsie the green sarsaparilla plant flaunting and prolific between the trees. "What do you call this, Marcoo?" the strange boy would exclaim delightedly, finding novel treasure trove in the rare white blossoms of Labrador tea. "I don't remember to have seen this flower on any of our hikes through the Pennsylvania woods!" To which Coombsie would make answer:-- "Don't ask me, Nix; I know a little about birds, but when it comes to knowing anything of flowers or plants--excepting those that are under our feet every day--I 'fall down flunk!' Hullo! though, here are some devil's pitchforks--or stick-tight--I do know them!"