They kept on up the steep hill for some distance, and then struck off into the forest. The straight pine trees stood up solemn and stiff. Instead of tender leaves, they bristled all over with dark green "needles." They had no blessings of birds' nests in their branches; yet they gave out a pleasant odor, which the boys said was "nice." "But they aren't so splendid, Peter, as our trees out west--don't begin! _They_ grow so big you can't chop 'em down. I'll leave it to Pincher!" "Chop 'em down? I reckon it can't be done!" replied Pincher--not in words, but by a wag of his tail. "Well, how _do_ you get 'em down then, cap'n?" "We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's girdlin' the tree, and then, ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself." "O, my stars!" cried Peter, "I want to know!" "No, you DON'T want to know, Peter, for I just told you! You may say, 'I wonder,' if you like; that's what we say out west." "Wait," said Peter. "I only said, '_I_ want to know what other trees you have;' that's what I meant, but you _shet_ me right up." "O, there's the butternut, and tree of heaven, and papaw, and 'simmon, and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees." "What's a 'simmon?" "O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n choke-cherries." "What's a papaw?" "A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat it. It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to work." "Well, what's a tree of heaven?" "O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know? It's a tree of heaven, I suppose. It has pink hollyhocks growing on it. What makes you ask so many questions?" Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones. Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was strange how many it took to fill such "_enormous_ big baskets." "Now," said Horace, "I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen. You said you knew it by sight." "Wintergreen? wintergreen?" echoed Peter: "O, yes, I know it well enough. It spangles 'round. See, here's some; the girls make wreaths of it." It was _moneywort_; but Horace never doubted that Peter was telling the truth, and supposed his grandmother would be delighted to see such quantities of wintergreen. After some time spent in gathering this, Horace happened to remember that he wanted sarsaparilla. "I reckon," thought he, "they'll be glad I came, if I carry home so many things." Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for there was not a root of any sort which did not grow "in the pines;" of that he was sure. So they struck still deeper into the woods, every step taking them farther from home. Pincher followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never dreaming that serious trouble was coming.