a sort of hungry regret when old settlers told how plentiful the Deer
used to be. But now he had a relief from these sorrows, for surely
there was one place where the great trees should stand and grow as in
the bright bygone; where the Coon, the Mink and the Partridge should
live and flourish forever. No, indeed, no one else should know of it,
for if the secret got out, at least hosts of visitors would come and
Glenyan be defiled. No, better that the secret should "die with him,"
he said. What that meant he did not really know, but he had read the
phrase somewhere and he liked the sound of it. Possibly he would
reveal it on his deathbed.

Yes, that was the proper thing, and he pictured a harrowing scene of
weeping relatives around, himself as central figure, all ceasing their
wailing and gasping with wonder as he made known the mighty secret of
his life--delicious! it was almost worth dying for.

So he kept the place to himself and loved it more and more. He would
look out through the thick Hemlock tops, the blots of Basswood green
or the criss-cross Butternut leafage and say: "My own, my own." Or
down by some pool in the limpid stream he would sit and watch the
arrowy Shiners and say: "You are mine, all; you are mine. You shall
never be harmed or driven away."

A spring came from the hillside by a green lawn, and here Yan would
eat his sandwiches varied with nuts and berries that he did not like,
but ate only because he was a wildman, and would look lovingly up the
shady brookland stretches and down to the narrow entrance of the glen,
and say and think and feel. "This is mine, my own, my very own."