There were a few stubs here and there upon its shaft--the roost of crows and owls and hen-hawks.

It must have passed for a low resort in the feathered kingdom because it was only the robbers of the sky that halted on Lone Pine.
This towering shaft of dead timber commemorated the ancient forest through which the northern Yankees cut their trails in the beginning of the century.

They were a tall, big fisted, brawny lot of men who came across the Adirondacks from Vermont, and began to break the green canopy that for ages had covered the valley of the St Lawrence.

Generally they drove a cow with them, and such game as they could kill on the journey supplemented their diet of 'pudding and milk'.

Some settled where the wagon broke or where they had buried a member of the family, and there they cleared the forests that once covered the smooth acres of today.
Gradually the rough surface of the trail grew smoother until it became Paradise Road--the well-worn thoroughfare of the stagecoach with its 'inns and outs', as the drivers used to say--the inns where the 'men folks' sat in the firelight of the blazing logs after supper and told tales of adventure until bedtime, while the women sat with their knitting in the parlour, and the young men wrestled in the stableyard.
The men of middle age had stooped and massive shoulders, and deep-furrowed brows: Tell one of them he was growing old and he might answer you by holding his whip in front of him and leaping over it between his hands.
There was a little clearing around that big pine tree when David Brower settled in the valley.