XXII
I want to tell you something more about our walks. Tom and I have a couple of light, tough cedar alpenstocks, which we regard as very helpful in hill climbing; and I like them for another reason. In the end of each is a very sharp spike, which I have secretly thought would be of service if I should chance to meet one of the furry folk of the forest, and find it necessary to engage him in single-handed combat.
When Di Vernon joined me on these excursions, it seemed but courteous to offer her one of them. She carried it twice; on its third presentation she remarked, “If it won’t hurt your feelings, I’d rather not take that pole.” Pole indeed! my nice, smooth, sand-papered, cedar alpenstock! Rather chagrined, I asked, “Why? Don t you like it?” “No; I don’t care much for it. You see I’m accustomed to the hills, have climbed them from childhood, and I really have no use for it.” I had observed that she carried it like a music-roll—under her arm.
“I’ll venture to say,” she added, “that you never have seen a native of the hills walking with one of these poles; only newcomers carry them.”
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