The farms along our road were only stumpy recesses in the wilderness, with irregular curving outlines of thick timber--beech and birch and maple and balsam and spruce and pine and tamarack--forever whispering of the unconquered lands that rolled in great billowy ridges to the far horizon.
We were surrounded by the gloom and mystery of the forest.

If one left the road or trail for even a short walk he needed a compass to guide him.

That little brass box with its needle, swaying and seeming to quiver with excitement as it felt its way to the north side of the circle and pointed unerringly at last toward its favorite star, filled me with wonder.
"Why does it point toward the north star ?" I used to ask.
"That's a secret," said Uncle Peabody.

"I wouldn't wonder if the gate o' heaven was up there.

Maybe it's a light in God's winder.