Years and years ago the Indian knew this valley and its adjacent wooded hills and low plateaus as a favored hunting place. Later white hunters and trappers here sought and found wild game,--the deer, the bear, the panther, the wolf, and even the beaver. Pioneer settlers followed in their turn. For the latter, however, the country was too broken by rocky ledges and hills. The more level and fertile lands offered greater attractions for their husbandry, so they carried their work of clearing, ploughing and planting elsewhere. For years after the country all about had been quite opened up, wild game continued to be found in the rough region now known as the Ship woods. It continued thus to be a hunting place. Men traveled many miles to try their skill as sportsmen there, finding pigeons, wild turkeys and smaller game for a great while after the last deer and the last bear were gone. At noon Phil and Paul came together beside a considerable waterfall of the creek. Seated on a great beech tree, partially uprooted by the undermining of the stream and now lying across it, the two ate their lunch. No reward for their searching had yet come to them. Through the screen of leaves and low bushes they could see in the distance a farmhouse. It meant that the road bounding the Ship woods on the north was very near. "Humph! Didn't think we _would_ find anything right off," observed Paul, philosophically. "But it wouldn't surprise me if we'd have some luck this afternoon." And a minute later, as if fortifying himself against disappointment,--a really wise thing for anyone to do where the element of chance is a factor--"Then again," said he, "it wouldn't _surprise_ me if we _didn't_." But although Paul had thus plainly stated that he was not to be surprised at any event, the fact remains that he gave a most joyful yell a couple of hours later, in answer to Phil's loud signal,--"Guess we've found something!" "Not the three stones, but something pretty good, though!" Way called again, easily, as Jones bounded forward. "It's slippery elm! Twenty trees if there's one!" "Good enough!" Paul cried enthusiastically. "Wish it had been the other thing but anyhow we wanted slippery elm, too! We haven't failed entirely, have we, Phil?" Delighted as could be, Jones frisked about like a colt while with his axe Way trimmed from a tree before him a long strip of bark. Then again and again he pulled off shreds of the inner fiber and tasted them. "Let me see!" Paul demanded. He sank his teeth into the interior surface of a piece of the bark. It was soft and moist and had a peculiarly sweetish taste. In one's mouth it seemed to be melting away and in a smooth, oily manner like butter. "Gee! It's slippery, all right!" ejaculated Paul, seriously, his lips screwed up like the mouth of a jug, his nose all wrinkled.