When I strike Adirondacks in print I put down my book and think a while.

It's a picture word.

It brings back my earliest childhood as far as I can remember.

I call words that make pictures that way moose words; they jump up in your memory like a scared moose in a thicket and crash into the woods like a cavalry charge.

I can remember things that happened when I was three years old: one day father shot a deer in our cornfield and I recall it perfectly.
The general atmosphere of the old place steals over me yet.