"Forty," hesitated Bob, "and I don't believe it's that!" he added. "Four
feet," he amended when he had measured.
"Climb in," said Welton; "now you're in a proper frame of mind to listen
to me with respect. The usual run of tree you see down through here is
from five to eight feet in diameter. They are about all over two hundred
feet tall, and some run close to three hundred."
Bob sighed. "All right. Drive on. I'll get used to it in time." His face
lighted up with a grin. "Say, wouldn't you like to see Roaring Dick
trying to handle one of those logs with a peavie? As for driving a
stream full of them! Oh, Lord! You'd have to send 'em down one at a
time, fitted out with staterooms for the crew, a rudder and a gasoline
engine!"
The ponies jogged cheerfully along the winding road. Water ran
everywhere, or stood in pools. Under the young spruces were the last
snowbanks. Pushing up through the wet soil, already showed early
snowplants, those strange, waxlike towers of crimson. After a time they
came to a sidehill where the woods thinned. There still stood many
trees, but as the buckboard approached, Bob could see that they were
cedars, or spruce, or smaller specimens of the pines.
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