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He ended a red oration with a roar: "Damned if I do it any more." The little man gazed dim-eyed away. "I've been wonderin' what it leads to." "What?" "That road out yonder. I've been wonderin' what it leads to. Maybe, some discovery or something," said the little man. The pudgy man laughed. "You're an idiot. It leads to ol' Jim Boyd's over on the Lumberland Pike."
"Ho!" he said. "There's Boyd's house and the Lumberland Pike." The mountain under his feet was motionless. Where the path wended across the ridge, the bushes of huckleberry and sweet fern swarmed at it in two curling waves until it was a mere winding line traced through a tangle.
After a time he stopped and mopped his brow. "My legs are about to shrivel up and drop off," he said.... "Still if I keep on in this direction, I am safe to strike the Lumberland Pike before sundown." He dived at a clump of tag-alders, and emerging, confronted Jones's Mountain. The wanderer sat down in a clear space and fixed his eyes on the summit.
But this is what we have done with this lumberland of foolish writing: we have probed, as if it were some monstrous new disease, what is, in fact, nothing but the foolish and valiant heart of man. Ordinary men will always be sentimentalists: for a sentimentalist is simply a man who has feelings and does not trouble to invent a new way of expressing them.
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