she met a wild boy on Bitter Mountain last June while gathering her annual strawberry jelly supply.
“ ‘She said the boy was brown-haired, dusty, and wandering aimlessly around the mountains. However, she added, he seemed to be in good flesh and happy.
“ ‘The old woman, a resident of the mountain resort town for ninety-seven years, called this office to report her observation. Local residents report that Mrs. Fielder is a fine old member of the community, who only occasionally sees imaginary things.’ ”
Bando roared. I must say I was sweating, for I really did not expect this turn of events.
“And now,” went on Bando, “and now the queen of the New York papers. This story was buried on page nineteen. No sensationalism for this paper.
BOY REPORTED LIVING OFF LAND IN CATSKILLS
“ ‘A young boy of seventeen or eighteen, who left home with a group of boy scouts, is reported to be still scouting in that area, according to the fire warden of the Catskill Mountains.
“ ‘Evidence of someone living in the forest—a fireplace, soup bones, and cracked nuts—was reported by Warden Jim Handy, who spent the night in the wilderness looking for the lad. Jim stated that the young man had apparently left the area, as there was no evidence of his camp upon a second trip—’ ”
“What second trip?” I asked.
Bando puffed his pipe, looked at me wistfully and said, “Are you ready to listen?”
“Sure,” I answered.
“Well, here’s the rest of it. ‘. . . there was no trace of his camp on a second trip, and the warden believes that the young man returned to his home at the end of the summer.’
“You know, Thoreau, I could scarcely drag myself away from the newspapers to come up here. You make a marvelous story.”
I said, “Put more wood on the fire, it is Christmas. No one will be searching these mountains until May Day.”
Bando asked for the willow whistles. I got them for him, and after running the scale several times, he said, “Let us serenade the ingenuity of the American newspaperman. Then let us serenade the conservationists who have protected the American wilderness, so that a boy can still be alone in this world of millions of people.”
I thought that was suitable, and we played “Holy Night.” We tried “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” but the whistles were too stiff and Bando too tired.
“Thoreau, my body needs rest. Let’s give up,” he said after two bad starts. I banked the fire and blew out the candle and slept in my clothes.
It was Christmas when we awoke. Breakfast was light—acorn pancakes, jam, and sassafras tea. Bando went for a walk, I lit the fire in the fireplace and spent the morning creating a feast from the wilderness.
I gave Bando his presents when he returned. He liked them. He was really pleased; I could tell by his eyebrows. They went up and down and in and out. Furthermore, I know he liked the presents because he wore them.
The onion soup was about to be served when I heard a voice shouting in the distance, “I know you are there! I know you are there! Where are you?”
“Dad!” I screamed, and dove right through the door onto my stomach. I all but fell down the mountain shouting, “Dad! Dad! Where are you?” I found him resting in a snowdrift, looking at the cardinal pair that lived near the stream. He was smiling, stretched out on his back, not in exhaustion, but in joy.
“Merry Christmas!” he whooped. I ran toward him. He jumped to his feet, tackled me, thumped my chest, and rubbed snow in my face.
Then he stood up, lifted me from the snow by the pockets on my coat, and held me off the ground so that we were eye to eye. He sure smiled. He threw me down in the snow again and wrestled with me for a few minutes. Our formal greeting done, we strode up the mountain.
“Well, son,” he began. “I’ve been reading about you in the papers and I could no longer resist the temptation to visit you. I still can’t believe you did it.”
His arm
“ ‘She said the boy was brown-haired, dusty, and wandering aimlessly around the mountains. However, she added, he seemed to be in good flesh and happy.
“ ‘The old woman, a resident of the mountain resort town for ninety-seven years, called this office to report her observation. Local residents report that Mrs. Fielder is a fine old member of the community, who only occasionally sees imaginary things.’ ”
Bando roared. I must say I was sweating, for I really did not expect this turn of events.
“And now,” went on Bando, “and now the queen of the New York papers. This story was buried on page nineteen. No sensationalism for this paper.
BOY REPORTED LIVING OFF LAND IN CATSKILLS
“ ‘A young boy of seventeen or eighteen, who left home with a group of boy scouts, is reported to be still scouting in that area, according to the fire warden of the Catskill Mountains.
“ ‘Evidence of someone living in the forest—a fireplace, soup bones, and cracked nuts—was reported by Warden Jim Handy, who spent the night in the wilderness looking for the lad. Jim stated that the young man had apparently left the area, as there was no evidence of his camp upon a second trip—’ ”
“What second trip?” I asked.
Bando puffed his pipe, looked at me wistfully and said, “Are you ready to listen?”
“Sure,” I answered.
“Well, here’s the rest of it. ‘. . . there was no trace of his camp on a second trip, and the warden believes that the young man returned to his home at the end of the summer.’
“You know, Thoreau, I could scarcely drag myself away from the newspapers to come up here. You make a marvelous story.”
I said, “Put more wood on the fire, it is Christmas. No one will be searching these mountains until May Day.”
Bando asked for the willow whistles. I got them for him, and after running the scale several times, he said, “Let us serenade the ingenuity of the American newspaperman. Then let us serenade the conservationists who have protected the American wilderness, so that a boy can still be alone in this world of millions of people.”
I thought that was suitable, and we played “Holy Night.” We tried “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” but the whistles were too stiff and Bando too tired.
“Thoreau, my body needs rest. Let’s give up,” he said after two bad starts. I banked the fire and blew out the candle and slept in my clothes.
It was Christmas when we awoke. Breakfast was light—acorn pancakes, jam, and sassafras tea. Bando went for a walk, I lit the fire in the fireplace and spent the morning creating a feast from the wilderness.
I gave Bando his presents when he returned. He liked them. He was really pleased; I could tell by his eyebrows. They went up and down and in and out. Furthermore, I know he liked the presents because he wore them.
The onion soup was about to be served when I heard a voice shouting in the distance, “I know you are there! I know you are there! Where are you?”
“Dad!” I screamed, and dove right through the door onto my stomach. I all but fell down the mountain shouting, “Dad! Dad! Where are you?” I found him resting in a snowdrift, looking at the cardinal pair that lived near the stream. He was smiling, stretched out on his back, not in exhaustion, but in joy.
“Merry Christmas!” he whooped. I ran toward him. He jumped to his feet, tackled me, thumped my chest, and rubbed snow in my face.
Then he stood up, lifted me from the snow by the pockets on my coat, and held me off the ground so that we were eye to eye. He sure smiled. He threw me down in the snow again and wrestled with me for a few minutes. Our formal greeting done, we strode up the mountain.
“Well, son,” he began. “I’ve been reading about you in the papers and I could no longer resist the temptation to visit you. I still can’t believe you did it.”
His arm
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