Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas.
Tramp, tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and
hot, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his
path, the gray deer snorted, and the panther sneaked aside.
Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and the Washburn Ridge was blue against
the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the low, level, mile-long slope he
went, and when the Day- god burnt the upper hill-rim he was by
brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen miles.
By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge cock, in the pride
of spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol,
fired, then hung the headless body while he made a camper's
blaze: an oatcake, the partridge, and river water were his meal.
His impulse was to go on at once. His reason, said "go slow." So
he waited for fifteen minutes. Then again, beginning with a slow
walk, he ere long added to his pace. In half an hour he was
striding and in an hour the steady "trot, trot," that slackened
only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was on the
Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that
empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in
his strength, he sang in his heart for joy.
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