Some of these monarchs were eight feet thick at the base and two hundred feet high.

Here and there one lay, gaunt and prostrate, a victim of the wind.

The smell of pitch pine was sweetly overpowering.
"When I went through here two weeks ago, the snow was a foot deep, an' I bogged in places," said Frank.

"The sun has been oozin' round here some.

I'm afraid Jones won't find any snow on this end of Buckskin." Thirty miles of winding trail, brown and springy from its thick mat of pine needles, shaded always by the massive, seamy-barked trees, took us over the extremity of Buckskin.