Towards evening I had occasion to renew my youth,—in other words, “run on an errand,” as my mother put it,—and going half a mile through the woods, I came to a narrow but well-worn path. This was so akin to my footprint thoughts of the morning that I gladly followed it instead of making a short cut. It was fortunate, for the path led directly to where I wished to go, and our theoretical geography, as usual, was terribly out of joint. As it was, on the edge of an old village I found a very old man in a very old house. His memory as to the earlier half of the century was excellent, and he gave me the desired information and more. I spoke of the path through the woods, and he chuckled to himself. “Through the woodses, eh? Well, when I made the path, goin’ and comin’ through the brush that wasn’t shoulder-high, there was no trees then. That was more’n forty years ago.” "No, John, ’twa’n’t," piped a weak voice from the interior of the little cottage; “’twa’n’t mor’n——” "Laws, man, don’t mind her. She disputes the almanac, and every winter gets in New Year’s ahead of Christmas." I did not stop to argue the matter, but hurried campward, glad that, if I could find no footprints of human interest and historic, I at least had followed a path made forty years ago,—a path that had been worn among bushes and now led through a forest. It was indeed suggestive. By the camp-fire that night I vowed to plant a forest where now there was but a thicket, and in my dreams I walked through a noble wood. Think how much might be done to beautify the world, and how little is accomplished. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER SIXTEENTH _FOOTPRINTS_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------