The Project Gutenberg eBook of Field and Forest, by Oliver Optic

Lieutenants Pope and Jackson were of the pleasant party in the reconstructed house. Both of them were good singers, and I experienced a new sensation. Ella was able to sit up all day now, and she and her mother sang. To the accompaniment of the grand piano, the party sang what they called old and familiar tunes. I had never heard anything which could be called singing before, and I was more delighted than I can express. The instrument, highly as I had appreciated it before, seemed to have a double power and a double melody.

The tunes were Old Hundred, Peterboro', Hamburg, and others like them, which have since become familiar to me. They raised my soul from earth to heaven, and inspired me with new love and new hope. I had read some of the hymns they sang; but their musical interpretation gave them a purer and loftier sentiment than their words could convey. Ella sang a little song alone; and, as I listened to her sweet voice, I could hardly restrain my tears, the melody was so new and strange, and withal so heavenly. What would earth be if men and women could not sing!

It was a gloomy moment to me when the party separated. It was like coming down from heaven to earth when the music ceased, and I heard only the commonplace sounds which were familiar to me. I left the house with the two officers; but it was still early in the evening, and I invited Mr. Jackson, to whom I had become much attached, to go into the Castle with me. He had taken an interest in me and in my affairs, and I wanted to talk with him about the great world I had never seen. After the raptures of the evening, I could not help shuddering as I thought of the time when the Gracewoods would return to their old home in St. Louis. The thought of a separation was intolerable, and I resolved to abandon Field and Forest when they decided to go.

"Is that the chest of which you spoke, Phil?" said Mr. Jackson, as we entered the Castle, where a bright fire of pitch-wood was burning.

"Why don't you open it?" added the officer. "It may afford you some information in regard to yourself."

"I only know that Matt carried the key in his pocket, and I suppose it was buried with him."

"No, it wan't," said Kit Cruncher, walking in at the open door. "Not if you mean the key to that box."

"That is what we were speaking of, Kit," I replied. "I thought you had gone up to your cabin."

"I've been, and got back. 'Pears like them Injuns is comin' down agin. They've stole all my bacon."

"Probably they did that on their retreat," suggested the lieutenant. "They are short of food, and the wounded one told me they were going down to the buffalo country, after they had revenged themselves for the death of the chief."

"You shall have it, Kit," I replied. "We have plenty of bacon, and Mrs. Gracewood made some bread to-day, which will be a treat to you."

I went to the store-room, and cut off a large slice of bacon, and put it in the pan on the fire. The white bread, which had been baked in the stove, was a new thing at the Castle, and I put the loaf on the table.

"What was you talkin' about when I kim in?" asked Kit, while he was waiting for his supper.

"We were talking about opening this chest," replied Mr. Jackson. "Perhaps it contains something which will help Phil to find who his parents were."

"I know it do," added Kit. "Leastwise, there used to be, for I've seen the traps myself. Matt Rockwood didn't want to hev me say nothin' to the boy about 'em, for the old man sort o' doted on that boy, and was afeard o' losin' on him."

"I understood you to say that the key of the chest was not buried with the owner," said the lieutenant.

"No; it wan't. I took it off on him myself. Hyer it is," replied the hunter, handing the key to the officer. "I don't reckon you'll stop hyer a great while now, boy."

"I see the house from the island has been fotched over hyer. I cal'late Mr. Greasewood's folks mean to stop hyer a spell, from that."

"They will spend the summer here; and when they go, I think I shall go too," I answered.

"I reckon, boy, from what I know on't, that you belong to a good family. If you do, your bringin' up won't be no disgrace to you. I don't reckon there's many boys in the towns that know any more'n you do."

"From the traps he had on when Matt picked him up. There was sunthin' else, too. What I was go'n to say, boy, was this: I'm gittin' old, and can't run through the woods as I used to. Twenty mile a day rather wears on me. I don't reckon I shall do much more trappin', and when you go, boy, I'll buy your place at a fair price."

"You needn't buy it, Kit. You can take it. I wish you would come down and live with me now."

"I do, with all my heart. I shouldn't have been alive now if you hadn't stood up against the Indians when they came."

"Don't say nothin', boy; I'll come right off. But when you leave, I'll buy the place, for Matt owned it just as much as any man could own a piece of ground. I cal'late he took out the gov'ment papers for it."

"You shall have it all, Kit, and be welcome to it, so far as I am concerned," I persisted.

"Your supper is ready, Kit," I added, putting the frying-pan on a block upon the table, according to our usual custom, though I did not do it while the ladies were my guests.

"You kin open the box, boy," said Kit, as he sat down at the table, and helped himself out of the pan.

Mr. Jackson unlocked the chest, and raised the lid. It contained a very great variety of articles, including a tolerably good suit of clothes, which I had never seen upon the person of the old man. I took these out, and discovered a little dress, musty and mildewed. It was made of fine material, and was elaborately ornamented. There was a complete suit, and also a heavy plaid shawl.

"You was tied up in that blanket when Matt picked you up," said Kit. "Look in the till, in the end of the box."

I opened the till, and found there a locket, attached to a string of beads. There was also a pair of coral bracelets, which the lieutenant said had been used to loop up the sleeves of the child's dress at the shoulders. On them were the initials P. F., which were certainly the first letters of my present name; but I concluded that Matt had made the name to suit the initials. Mr. Jackson opened the locket, and found it contained a miniature of a lady. He passed it to me, and I gazed at it with a thrill of emotion? Was it my mother who looked out upon me from the porcelain? Did she perish in the terrible steamboat calamity from which I had been so providentially saved? I carried the locket to the fire, where I could examine more minutely the features of the person. It was the portrait of a lady not more than twenty-five years of age. If she was not handsome, there was something inexpressibly attractive to me in the gentle look of love and tenderness which she seemed to bestow upon me.

"Of course I know nothing about it, but I should suppose it was. Whose portrait but a mother's would a little child be likely to wear?"

"It must be!" I exclaimed, so tenderly impressed by the picture that I was not willing to believe anything else; and I felt that my instinct was guiding me aright.

"Let us see what else there is in the chest," said the lieutenant. "We may find something that will give us further light on the subject."

I placed the miniature on the table, and returned to the chest. Mr. Jackson took from it an old time-stained newspaper. He threw it upon the floor, as a matter of no consequence; but I picked it up, for I remembered what I had heard Matt say about a newspaper. But it contained only a brief paragraph, and alluded to another and fuller account of the calamity contained in a previous issue.

There was nothing else in the chest that related to me, but I felt that I had enough. Mr. Jackson said that, if I ever went to St. Louis, I could find a file of the newspaper of which we had a single copy, and could find the number containing the names of the saved and the lost at the burning of the Farringford. The portrait would enable me to identify my mother, if she were still living, and also to establish my own identity.

"Here is Matt Rockwood's money," said the lieutenant, as he took from the bottom of the chest several shot-bags.

"I have some money to add to it," I answered, taking from the store-room the amount I had received for wood since the death of my foster-father.

"The old man did a good business here, I should say," added Mr. Jackson, as he held up the bags in order to estimate their weight.

Counting the money seemed to have a greater fascination to my friend the officer than to me. He placed the coins upon the table in piles of one hundred dollars each. When he had nearly finished, I counted eight of them. There was not enough, even with the silver, to make another, and the whole amount was eight hundred and ninety-one dollars.

"It is a pity to let it lie idle here. If you invest it, you will have double this amount when you are of age."

"I can only invest it in a mud bank up here," I replied. "But we have nearly a hundred cords of wood at the landing, which ought to bring about four hundred dollars more, as it sells this year. A great many steamers come up here now, and I think we shall sell it all this season."

"Then you will have twelve or thirteen hundred dollars. If Mr. Gracewood goes to St. Louis this fall, I advise you to let him invest it for you."

"Here are papers relating to Matt Rockwood. There are names upon them, and if you desire, you can obtain some information in regard to your foster-father."

I did not care to look at the papers; and returning the money and other articles to the chest, I locked it, and put the key in my pocket. Mr. Jackson went to his tent, and Kit and I slept together in the Castle. The picture of my mother, as I insisted upon believing it was, seemed to be before me; and I gazed upon it in imagination till sleep shut it out from my view.

The Sabbath sun rose bright and beautiful, and shed its hallowed light upon field and forest. Sunday had always been a day of rest at the clearing since the coming of Mr. Gracewood. Matt Rockwood and I used to spend the day at the island when the weather would permit us to go there. The recluse, on these occasions, invariably read several chapters of the Bible to us, explaining the meaning of the verses as he proceeded, when necessary. After this he read a sermon, or a portion of some religious book.

This had been our Sunday routine for the last three years; and Mr. Gracewood told Matt and me that his religious experience dated no farther back than this period. He declared that he was really worried about me, a child of eight, who had received no religious training. As my education had fallen to him, his conscience troubled him because he confined his instruction to secular branches. He did not feel competent to instruct me in sacred things; but he had devoted himself to a study of the Bible for my sake, that he might be able to teach me. His stock of religious books was very small, but he had sent to St. Louis for a new supply.

The study of the Bible, which he pursued with maps, commentary, and Bible dictionary, soon became very interesting to him. It awakened in his mind a new spirit, and kindled emotions which before had been foreign to him. He was an earnest teacher, while he was an inquiring student. The course of study which he had undertaken for my sake had been even a greater blessing to himself than to me, though I am sure I profited by his instructions. After we had studied together for a year, a prayer was added to our Sunday exercises. Mr. Gracewood told us that he prayed morning and evening, and begged us to do the same. Sometimes Kit Cruncher came down and joined our little class.

On these occasions, which were always very pleasant to me, the grand piano gave forth its deepest and most solemn tones. Mr. Gracewood played only sacred music on the Sabbath; and he performed the pieces with so much interest and feeling, that we were always moved by them. He never sang, declaring that his voice was not adapted to singing.

With this knowledge of Mr. Gracewood's religious views and feelings, I was not surprised when Ella told me, after breakfast, that her father would have a service at his house in the forenoon and in the afternoon. All the soldiers were invited, and all of them came. The familiar hymn, "The morning light is breaking," was sung first, and was followed by a prayer, and the reading of a chapter from the New Testament. The beautiful hymn,—

"When all thy mercies, O my God,

My rising soul surveys,

Transported with the view, I'm lost

In wonder, love, and praise,"—

was then sung. Many of the soldiers joined, and I was almost carried away by the strange effect, at once so melodious and so inspiring. The words of the hymn had a peculiar fitness, for the occasion, after we had been spared from the vengeance of the savages. Mr. Gracewood read each verse before it was sung, so as to recall the words to the audience. After the singing, he read a sermon appropriate to the circumstances of the family. At the end of it he spoke of Matt Rockwood, and paid a very pleasant tribute to his memory.

In the afternoon we attended another service. That Sunday was a holy day to me, and the singing had opened a new avenue of inspiration to me. In the evening Ella told me about her Sunday school in St. Louis, and I listened to her description with intense interest. I wished that I could attend one, hear the children sing, and receive the instructions of kind teachers. I was astonished when she told me that many young people did not go to the Sunday school, though all were invited to do so. I could not understand how any were willing to forego such a blessed privilege.

Early on Monday morning the troops marched for the Indian country at the north of us. I loaned them the wagon and horses to convey their baggage, and Kit Cruncher went as guide. I saw the column disappear in the forest. By this time Ella was able to walk about on the farm, and I derived great pleasure from the excursions I made with her about the clearing. I pulled up Little Fish River with her in the barge, and showed her where the battle with the Indians had occurred. We landed, examined the breastwork, and visited the mound which marked the burial-place of the savages who had fallen in the affray.

Later in the week I rowed up to Fish Rapids, and showed her how to catch a trout. She tried her hand, and soon hooked a two-pounder, which would have realized my dream about her, if I had not taken the line in my own hands. We caught half a dozen, and returned to the clearing. This kind of life was delightful to my fair young companion, and, with her, it was equally so to me. She seemed to have inherited something of her father's fondness for the sports of the wilderness and the prairie.

On Saturday the troops arrived from their march to the Indian region. Lieutenant Pope had met some of the principal chiefs, had listened to their grievances,—for they always have some,—and had promised to redress them. They had smoked the pipe of peace together, and the "big Indians" had assured him that they would keep their word. After the severe lesson which had been administered, they were, doubtless, glad enough to make peace on these easy terms. During the rest of my stay at the Castle, they gave us no trouble. Though they came down occasionally to the landing, they were always peaceable and friendly. We took care of the wounded Indian at the shanty till he was able to return to his people, and he left us filled with gratitude. Three months after, he brought us in his canoe, down Crooked River, three antelopes, which he had shot in the region above us, for much of the best game had abandoned the vicinity of our settlement.

The soldiers remained a week at the landing, waiting for a steamer to convey them up to the fort. At the end of that time they departed. I had several long talks with Lieutenant Jackson, who gave me much good advice in regard to the future course he thought I ought to pursue; and when he left I felt that I had parted with a true friend. To the steamer which conveyed the soldiers up the river, I sold twenty cords of wood, and added eighty dollars to the gold in the chest.

Mrs. Gracewood insisted that Kit and myself should take our meals at the house, instead of keeping up a separate mess. Her husband had purchased a supply of table ware of the steamer which had just left, and we found ourselves quite civilized. The old hunter was rather embarrassed and awkward, for he had always been in the habit of eating his bacon out of the pan in which it had been cooked; but he soon accustomed himself to the new order of things, though it was impossible for him to be very graceful at the table, or anywhere else.

As the season advanced we ploughed and planted the field. With Mr. Gracewood, who insisted upon doing his full share of the labor, and Kit to help me, the task was not so hard as it had been. We planted a large piece of ground with corn, potatoes, and vegetables, and by the middle of June, everything was up, and looked finely. The rich soil and the southern slope were favorable to our crops, and we had abundant promises of a rich harvest.

During the preceding year there had been an immense emigration from the eastern states. Kansas and Nebraska were in rapid progress of settlement, and during the season which followed the events I have described, the wave of civilization had almost touched the Castle. We were not out of the reach nor out of the influence of this tide of emigration. Twice as many steamboats went up the river, carrying emigrants and goods on their way to Oregon. In July I had sold all my wood, and after haying we went to work in the forest to obtain a new supply. By September the hot sun of our southern slope had rendered it fit for steamboat use. In the mean time, we managed to obtain a supply of dry wood sufficient to meet the demand, by obtaining a double-handed saw, and cutting up the logs and drift-wood brought down by the rivers.

During the season we sold wood to the amount of seven hundred dollars, which was equally divided between Kit and me, for Mr. Gracewood refused his share. We all worked hard, but we were very happy. Mrs. Gracewood, lady as she was in the city, was busy all the time, and even Ella declared that she found a new delight in working. I ought to say that, after our corn and potatoes were planted, all the rest of the work in the field was done with the horses. We planted in hills, and covered with the plough. The first weeding was done with the cultivator, and in the light alluvial soil of the clearing it was easy work even for a boy like me to use it alone. Firefly was well trained, and understood his business perfectly.

At the second weeding, I ran the cultivator through the long rows and the cross rows, and then, with the small plough, threw the soil up against the plants. We did not use a hoe except in the vegetable garden. We got along so well that I was only sorry we had not planted twice as many acres.

September and October were busy months to us; but we revelled in the joys of a plentiful harvest. Three hundred bushels of corn, and four hundred of potatoes, rewarded our toil, besides more than we could use of garden vegetables. This was three times as much as we had ever raised in a season before, and we had not room for it in our barn and storehouse. We could not use a quarter of the potatoes, even if we all remained at the farm through winter. We offered them for sale to the steamers and traders, and sold three hundred bushels to a speculator, who doubled his money on them at a settlement, where the people had come too late to make a crop that season.

The cool weather was coming, and, after we had slaughtered our pigs, the hard work of the season was over. The Gracewoods had decided not to remain over winter, and I could not think of parting with them. I was determined to see the world. I heard so much of the country below that I could not resist the temptation to visit it. I stated my intention to Kit Cruncher and the Gracewoods. None of them offered any objections, not even the hunter, who was to be left alone.

"This place is wuth money, boy," said Kit Cruncher, when I had told him what I intended to do.

"I'm willin' to pay for the place and the improvements. I've made well on it this year—more'n ever I could trappin'. Then, you see, the settlements is workin' up this way, and another year I shall hev 'em all round me."

"I don't think I have any rights here which I can sell. You are welcome to everything that belongs to me. But I will leave the whole matter to Mr. Gracewood. I know he will do what is fair."

"Just as you say, Phil. This life jest suits me, now I'm gittin' old, and don't want to tramp through the woods no more. It's a good sitooation for me, and I shall be lucky to get it at any fair price. I shan't want it long, and when I've done with it, yon kin hev it agin, for I hain't no relations to fight over what I leave behind me."

"How long have you lived in the woods, Kit?" I asked; for, though I had known him from my childhood, I had no knowledge of his antecedents.

"I was born and raised down in Kaintuck. My father died when I was young, and I took to the river for a livin'. I worked a choppin', a flat boatin', and firin' on a steamboat. I was down in Loosiana one time, on a plantation, when the owner's cub—and he war wus nor any bar's cub I ever see—tied up a black woman who had been sick, because she didn't do all her stent. He wanted me to lick her. I told him I wouldn't do it, no how. This made him mad, and he struck me. I knocked him down with my fist quicker'n you could wink. He got up, and kim at me with a knife. I hit him with a heavy stick on the head. He dropped, and didn't move no more."

"I dunno; I don't reckon I did. But I feared I hed; but whether I hed or not, it would have been all the same with me. It mought have cost me my life if they'd cotched me, and I left. I travelled across the country till I came to the Ark'saw River, and thar I went to work agin firin' on a steamer. When I got money enough I bought my rifle, and traps, and went into the woods. I hev tramped all over the pararies, and in the end I fotched up here."

"Allus; I hedn't no 'fection for them pesky half breeds, nor them French Kanucks nuther. They are thick enough all along the river, and I allus kep away from 'em. I reckon I got more bufler hides nor any on 'em; but the critters is druv off now. I sold a good many skins of all sorts, and as I never drunk no liquor, I've got the money now. I fotched it down with me t'other day."

"She died long afore I kim off. Now, boy, I kin live jest as I want to here, and I'll buy your farm."

"We will talk with Mr. Gracewood about it. I will do whatever he says is right."

My fortunes as a farmer were certainly very satisfactory, and I had no reason to complain. I was to leave my Field and Forest with about fifteen hundred dollars in my pocket; and I could not but ask myself whether I was not going from a certainty to an uncertainty. Farming, in connection with the wood business, had paid well. But then I wanted to see something of the great world, of which I had heard so much. I had a decided taste for some mechanical calling, and I was sure that I could make my way in life if I had fair play. Yet, if my prospects had been far less favorable, I could not have endured the separation from the Gracewoods.

Leaving Kit in the Castle, thinking over his future operations, I went to the house of Mr. Gracewood, in order to consult him in regard to the disposal of the farm. I found him with his pipe in his mouth, playing on the grand piano, and lost in the inspiration of the "Gloria." I could not interrupt him, and I waited till he had finished, which, however, was not till his pipe was exhausted.

"Phil, I must take this piano with me; but we have not force enough to put it in the box."

"I think we have, sir," I replied. "If you say it must go, it shall be at the landing when the steamer comes down."

"Two men and a boy cannot put it into the box, to say nothing of loading it upon the wagon."

"I think we can, sir, if we have time enough; for, as you taught me, what is gained in power is lost in time. I will take the job, sir."

"As we haven't a dozen now, we can do it with two men and a boy, if we have time. The next boat will not come down for a week. But I wanted to see you about another matter. Kit wants to buy the farm of me, and I don't think I own it. We left the decision to you."

"If Matt Rockwood has any heirs, they can obtain whatever legal rights he had in the premises."

"Matt owns the quarter section, as an actual settler. I found the paper signed by a land agent."

"I do not think it would be right for you to sell it. You cannot give him a legal title to it. But it is right for him to pay you for your share of the produce now on the place."

This seemed to me to be a fair and just decision, and I repeated it to Kit, who was, of course, entirely satisfied. It was agreed that he should pay me one hundred dollars for my share, and the business was completed. Mr. Gracewood presented him, as a free gift, the house and all it contained, except the piano, books, and other articles which were strictly personal. The barge was included in the gift, and Kit suddenly became a rich man, in his own estimation.

In a box, which Mr. Gracewood gave me, I packed up all the articles I intended to take with me, including the child's suit and some of Matt's papers. My money, except a reasonable sum for expenses, I placed in the hands of Mr. Gracewood, who gave me a note for the amount. I meant to take my rifle with me, as a memorial of my life in the woods. As Kit took care of the horses and pigs now, I had a great deal of time for idle dreaming. I went to all the familiar localities in the vicinity with Ella. While I was sad at the thought of leaving the haunts of my childhood, I was excited by the prospect of seeing new and strange sights. A new life seemed to be opening upon me, and the indefinite wonders of the civilized world flitted wildly through my mind.

"Well, Phil Farringford, if we are going to move the piano, it is about time to begin," said Mr. Gracewood, one morning.

"We shall be obliged to take down a part of the house—one end and a portion of the floor."

I sawed four cotton-wood sticks so that they would just reach from the ground to the timbers of the attic floor. We placed them in position to support the frame above, which was to bear the weight of the piano during the process of loading it upon the wagon. I then placed a couple of hewn sticks across the attic floor, after removing the boards. Two stout ropes were then passed around the piano and over these sticks, drawn tight. The piano-case was protected from chafing by a couple of blankets.

Kit and I then went into the attic, and with a lot of wedges I had made, proceeded to raise the two hewn timbers, over which the rope passed. We drove the wedges between the sticks and the timbers of the frame. As fast as we gained an inch, we put a board under, upon which we drove another series of wedges. The process was slow but it was sure, and in time the piano below hung suspended clear of the floor.

When this task was accomplished, we took up the floor and joists under the instrument, and removed the sill on the end of the house. Of course we had to take out the studs below the plate; but the posts I had put in were amply sufficient to support the frame. We levelled down the banking so as to form a smooth road to the ground beneath the piano. I then carefully measured the distance from the bottom of the piano to the earth. It was four feet and one inch, while the body of the wagon, which I intended to back under the instrument, was only two feet and a half high. We laid down some logs crosswise, upon which we placed a track of boards for the wheels of the wagon. The vehicle was then backed beneath the piano, with the box upon the platform. The oil-cloth was placed in the case, so that we could cover the instrument after it had been deposited in the box.

Kit and I had hewn four timbers of the length of the wagon, on opposite sides, like a railroad sleeper. Raising the vehicle with levers, we placed these sticks under the wheels. As we lifted up the wagon, the box was elevated so as to enclose the instrument. The timbers under the wheels were each about six inches thick, and when we had them in position, the bottom of the piano was not an inch from the bottom of the case. We then drove our wedges between the two timbers, on each of which rested two of the wheels, securely blocked. The wagon rose till the ropes which supported the piano were slackened, and we untied and removed them. The instrument rested on heavy pads in the bottom of the box, so that we had no trouble in pulling out the ropes. Covering the piano with the oil-cloth, we screwed on the lid of the case. By this time it was dark, though we had begun early in the morning.

The next day we made an inclined plane of cotton-wood sticks, upon which to run the wagon down upon level ground. This we did by hand, and then we were ready to hitch on the horses. We did not intend to haul it down to the landing till we heard the whistle of the steamer, for the boat would wait a whole day for half a ton of freight on her down trip. But it was three days more before we heard any whistle.

After we had restored the house to its former condition, Ella and I wandered in the woods and along the banks of the river, waiting impatiently for the expected signal. I had dressed myself in my best clothes, discarding forever my hunting-frock and skin cap. I thought I was a pretty good-looking fellow, and Ella said as much as this to me.

At last we heard the whistle, and Kit and I hastened to hitch on the horses. We placed all the baggage on the wagon with the piano-case, and for the last time I drove old Firefly and Cracker down to the landing. A dozen men lifted the piano from the wagon, and placed it on the deck of the steamer. The trunks and other baggage were carried on board; and, after the deck hands had taken in twenty cords of wood, the whistle sounded again.

"Good by, Kit," said I, as I grasped his rough hand. "May God bless and keep you. I hope I shall see you again."

"It mought be, and it mought not; leastwise I don't reckon you will, if you don't come here. But good by, boy. I hope everything will allus go well with you; and if you kin, just kim up here and see me. Good by, boy."

Kit displayed more emotion than I had ever seen him exhibit before, and I found it difficult to suppress a rising tear. Mr. Gracewood and his family shook hands with him, and left their best wishes for his future prosperity and happiness.

"Good by, Mr. Greasewood. You are a good man, and you will allus be happy. Don't forget old Kit."

"I never shall," protested Mr. Gracewood, as the old hunter stepped on shore; and that was the sentiment in all our hearts.

The bell rang, the boat started, and we waved our adieus to the old man on shore, who stood gazing solemnly and sadly at us. The wheels of the steamer were turning, and as I gazed upon the familiar shore, I realized that I was departing, perhaps forever, from my Field and Forest.