all complete. Beside the bed is a washstand, also bark-covered, and rather an ornamental piece of furniture. Next is the book-case, capable of holding a couple of hundred volumes, which are there too. The upper shelf holds many mantel treasures and bits of bric-à-brac. A clock ticks the hours away cheerfully; backgammon, chess, a cribbage-board, fieldglasses, a piece or two of pottery, a smoking set, a flask (it contains medicine), and numerous other ornaments are there. This book-case, by-the-way, furnishes a modest specimen of what may be made of the native woods here, its material consisting chiefly of black ash, which, when oiled and varnished, is an extremely pretty wood. Here is room for a writing-table, which the Reporter made in odd moments when he could use the jackknife to at least better purpose than a pen. The table is baize-covered, a part of the wood-work being light, with which is contrasted spruce, balsam, and fir, with the bark left on. A dozen different varieties of wood, all of them gathered in the immediate neighborhood, enter into the composition of this home-made piece of furniture. Its top is an inviting litter of newspapers, manuscripts, writing utensils, pipes, tobacco, cigars, and what not. Out of this confusion rises a studentlamp, and just now a dish of fruit. Here is a chintz-covered ottoman, which you can open-but pray don't! Here is a trunk, which does not look at all like a INTERIOR OF TENT. trunk, hidden as it is by a gay-colored | November, was strong enough to pull up travelling rug, and made to serve as a the stakes with his own hands. It would seat. Here is a sleep-inviting easy-chair, be absurd to deny that camping out, when and here one of rustic design, home-made, done for health and not sport, and when like the table. Against the inner upright made to cover a period of four or five pole hangs a mirror surmounted by a months, becomes at times wearisome; yet deer's head, which the Reporter did not the camp life of an invalid may be made, shoot himself. At night, when the air as has been shown, physically comfortgrows chilly, these tent flaps are let down, able, even to a degree of luxury, while it the one lapping well over the other, and will be pleasant precisely in proportion this board, running lengthwise and form- to one's own resources for making it so. ing a part of the piazza, is raised on hinges, The three degrees of comfort attainable the flaps drawn secure, and the board then where invalidism is an accompaniment of let down, holding the canvas so tight that the camping-out experiment, may be thus a fly can not crawl in. Many an evening, placed: If the patient is in the earlier when the October winds have howled sav- stages of the disease, able to roam about agely through the great forest, you might at will, possessed of an honest love of nahave envied the Reporter and his wife sit- ture, and with that propensity for rod and ting here in this canvas habitation, the gun which is generally believed to be an fire blazing cheerily, the student - lamp inborn and universal trait of the animal lighted, and as cozy an atmosphere of se- man, there is no reason why his camp life clusion surrounding everything as if with- should not afford him superlative happiin the cherished precincts of home. ness. Again, supposing him still strong enough to enjoy all physical comforts, and to feel a well man's interest in what is taking place, then, even if he have no taste for the sportsman's pursuits, the camp may nevertheless represent comparative contentment. But if he be an actual sufferer from the more acute phthisical symptoms, doomed to wearying inaction, and additionally unfortunate in possessing neither a love of sport nor a mind to grasp the beauties of nature, his lot in the wilderness may seem to him one of positive misery. Yet in so deplorable a condition it may be questioned whether he would not be positively miserable anywhere. If you make the wilderness experiment, whatever else you may be forced to dispense with, buy a good tent, and fit it up comfortably. It would be useless to undertake to describe what sleeping in a tent is like. It is like nothing else in the world. It is one of the subtle pleasures of this life which must be experienced to be in any way understood. The perfect purity of the air one breathes, the processes of ventilation which are constantly going on, the sense of security, even when the winds are whistling about your frail shelter, the awaking in the morning to an atmosphere absolutely free from that peculiar stifling odor which is perceptible even in the best ventilated sleeping-rooms-all these things combine to make the tent a bedroom so delicious that the fate of Endymion would become a blessing. One can not sleep always, however, even in camp. Days will come when the monotony of this manner of life will doubtless oppress the invalid-when the grandeur of the scene about him will fail utterly to compensate for the absence of familiar faces and accustomed pursuits. He will long for that exhilaration which is the charm of active life. It is then, of all times, that he needs to bring his philosophy and his pluck into play. It is then that he may with profit remember the Reporter, who could discover no improvement in his condition for weeks after getting into camp, but who, when he took down his tent in a driving snow-storm in Companionship will go a great way toward making the wilderness exile pleasant. With wife and children-and it is wholly practicable that these should come the patient stands in little need of sympathy, so far as his isolation is concerned. In any case, some one near of kin and dear to heart should, if possible, bear the health-seeker company. Then the consciousness that one is gaining, even if it be by inches, is a potent aid in the fight against disease. To a greater degree than any other method of cure which the doctors have advocated, this camping out tends to turn a man's thoughts away from his own condition. That is no small thing in itself. One can not live very long in St. Augustine or Santa Barbara, an invalid himself, without daily contact with those suffering from the same mal ady, and seeking the same end by precise- | For the daily routine labors in a permaly the same measures. That end has not nent camp are neither very burdensome been reached often enough to make the nor very numerous. The chief difficulty subject an encouraging one for conversa- is to find a really good man who takes tion. And yet a dozen invalids thrown together will inevitably turn to their ills as the one theme in which there is unanimous interest. Still worse, on this account, is any regular sanitarium, where the constant society of those similarly afflicted must be, as it always has been, a serious drawback to recovery. In the wilderness camp the patient is effectually removed from all these unfavorable conditions. Then, too, his isolation is not allied to that sense of lonesomeness which attends those who seek more remote resorts. The Reporter addresses himself now, of course, to those who dwell in the Eastern and Middle States, for from this vast region thousands of health-seekers have gone forth in the past, journeying to faraway places, nor ever bethinking them of the rare virtues of this forest which lay, as it were, at their doors. Probably every physician of much experience has had occasion to note the ill effects which frequently attend this removal from home and friends. There is a kind of heartyearning-call it homesickness if you please-which takes hold of a sick man banished to unfamiliar places, too strong to be resisted. Now, while an Adirondack camp may seem cut off from the busy world as completely as a South Pacific island, yet the invalid knows that in fact he is not very far away from his home. He knows that the journey back is no very great undertaking. In short, he knows that he can put an end to his voluntary banishment to-morrow if he chooses. And that gives him courage to remain to-day. So far as the Reporter's own case is concerned, this sense of freedom to do as he pleased went a good way toward making camp life endurable. The domestic economy of the camp is generally intrusted to the guide; and if he be the right sort of a man, this method saves considerable trouble. If, however, a more direct supervision of affairs become desirable, there is no reason why it can not be exercised. Supposing the camp to contain but two persons, the invalid and his companion, and supposing further that the money question can not be eliminated from the wilderness experiment, then one competent guide should be counted as sufficient for all the work. ST. JOHN'S CHURCH IN THE WILDERNESS, NEAR "PAUL" SMITH'S. kindly to this sort of life. Very many himself to hunting and fishing, this suggestion is made for the benefit of those who care nothing for sport, and who may be compelled to economize in order to make the experiment at all. to a thousand Americans upon whom consumption has laid its skeleton hand, the long journey to Switzerland would be as impossible as a journey to the moon, this wilderness experiment may be made by all, and made with small outlay of money, and little physical discomfort. Accepting the theory, which is held to by most medical authorities of the day, that phthisis is a disease requiring in its A variety of ways of spending the wintreatment an abundance of the most nu- ter in the Adirondacks is opened to the tritious food, the invalid in the woods health-seeker. The greater number of finds himself in a peculiarly fortunate po- those who have thus far tried the experisition. For here, supposing him always ment have taken up their abode in Sarwithin easy reach of "Paul" Smith's, he anac Lake. This is a midge of a town .may obtain, with comparatively little trou- lying on the Saranac River, thirteen ble, almost anything he desires to eat. A miles from "Paul" Smith's, and six from well-supplied store in the hotel furnishes Bloomingdale. It was here that Dr. Trualike the staple articles of food and many deau, the pioneer of the present little coldelicacies. Beef, mutton, and poultry ony of St. Regis health-hunters, spent his are always to be had. In its season, ven- first winter in the woods, and to that fact, ison, while not superabundant, can gen- rather than to any special advantages erally be obtained as often as the patient possessed by the place, is due the followcraves it. Speckled trout, fresh from the ing of other experimenters. To those clear waters of the mountain streams, who depend largely upon society for recare as plentiful as smelts in Fulton Mar- reation, Saranac is to be recommended ket. Later, the partridge tempts the ap- as the most desirable point. Such faint petite, and is supplied at surprisingly glimmerings of social gayeties as are to cheap rates. Fresh eggs, pure milk, and be found anywhere in the backwoods excellent butter are all to be had from shine in Saranac. There is one moderthe inhabitants or hotel. In short, if ately large boarding-house, and a numgood living will enable a man to conquer ber of smaller ones, designed especially consumption, this is the spot to win the for the accommodation of winter guests. victory. There is a post-office, which gets a daily mail, and there are churches, a schoolhouse, a village store with its customary multifarious treasures, and telegraphic communication with the outside world. These advantages are likewise possessed by Bloomingdale, which would afford an equally desirable home to the winter sojourner. Now and then a guest has remained through the winter at "Paul" Smith's, but as a rule the house is closed at that season. The Reporter preferred to make his winter home in a farmhouse midway between Bloomingdale and "Paul" Smith's. So far as climatic benefits are concerned, it is a matter of little consequence where the patient remains, so long as he keeps within the boundaries of the St. Regis region. The year in the wilderness naturally divides itself in the invalid's calendar into two seasons-that of camp life, and that of house life. The former, although necessarily varying in length, may be set down as covering at its maximum five months. It will seldom be safe to go into camp earlier than the first of June, nor is it practicable to remain later than the first of November. The intervening seven months constitute the winter season in the wilderness; that is, the season of house life. It is by no means a new theory, however sharply it may conflict with the generally accepted belief, this sending pulmonary patients to winter in a cold region. The virtues of the Alps have been put to the test for many years, and with results that justify the practice. An interesting paper bearing on this subject was printed some years ago in the Fortnightly Review, under the title of "Davos in Winter." The writer claimed much for the little Alpine village, but all that he said could be applied with equal force to the St. Regis country. And whereas, is abundant, and three or four months of continuous sleighing may be counted upon with certainty. In winter, as in summer, the first duty of the patient should be to live out-of-doors as much of the time as is practicable. If not strong enough to hunt-and winter hunting is rare good sport here—or to tramp over the snow-covered roads, then he may resort to riding, and thus secure the benefits of the bracing air. With a reasonable amount of care, there is no danger of taking cold, nor need the health-hunter be frightened out of his daily drive by storm, or wind, or snow. Inwrapped in a buffalo-skin coat-which, by-the-way, is to be recommended as the garment of all others for riding the Reporter found himself perfectly comfortable with the thermometer marking forty degrees below zero. is simply amazing how much cold even a sick man can endure here, and with less discomfort than would be experienced in an average winter in New York city. It Wherever the winter sojourner may take up his quarters, whether at Saranac, Bloomingdale, "Paul" Smith's, or in a farm-house, he will need to look to the outside world for one important item of food, viz., beef. Adirondack beef is tougher than anything in this world with which it has been the lot of the Reporter to grapple-an assertion not lacking in solemnity when it is remembered that reportorial experience familiarizes a fellow with criminals, politicians, and the orthography of the man who writes gratuitous communications (on both sides of the sheet) to the daily press. Barring the beef, a wholesome and nutritious diet may be counted upon in the winter boardinghouses. With pleasant in-door surroundings, a good table, a daily drive of two or three hours, an occasional jaunt on foot, plenty of books and newspapers-you will get your mail every day, as in summer-and, above all, the cheering consciousness of steady progress toward recovery, this winter exile in the wilderness is by no means so terrible a thing as one might at first suppose. Perhaps there will be some return of the bad symptoms upon removing from the camp to house quarters. That need cause no alarm. After sleeping three or four months in a tent, any room, however well ventilated, will at first seem close and stifling. The lungs have grown acutely sensitive to vitiated air. Still, the atmosphere in a wilderness house is incomparably purer than that the patient would breathe in his city home. While, therefore, the change from tent to bedroom may here be accompanied with some unpleasant effects, it is apparent that such change is far less productive of evil than would be the transition from the woods to the city house. It is a good thing to remember that, whether in-doors or out, we breathe the air that surrounds us. If that air is pure outside, it will be proportionately pure within. And with no noxious odors, no defective drains or gaspipes, no wretched furnaces or heaters, no double windows to shut out the oxygenwith none of these abominations, but, in place thereof, cheery wood fires, open chimney - places, and a surrounding atmosphere of absolute purity, it must be admitted that in-door life in the Adirondacks gives the lungs something very different from the air of the average town house. To all who may be induced to try the wilderness experiment, the Reporter reiterates the advice-stay through the winter. Even if the camping season fail to accomplish any perceptible good, let the patient hold fast to his faith in the coldweather theory. The winter brings the invalid sojourner into much closer relationship to the native inhabitants than does the period of camp life. If, as Mr. Richard Grant White has somewhere recorded, "there is nothing in the world more charming than simple, unpretending ignorance, nothing more respectable, nothing surer to elicit sympathy from healthy minds," then, to find what is supremely charming, overwhelmingly respectable, and superlatively deserving of sympathy, Mr. White and the rest of the world have only to come up here and mingle with these Adirondack backwoodsmen. Nowhere else is it so easy to divide mankind into distinct classes, at once comprehensive and immutable, as here. For in the St. Regis coun try every man must be either a guide or a sportsman. For the qualifications of the latter, it may be enough to explain that the Reporter, who had never jointed a rod nor sighted a gun in his life, was not fairly in the wilderness before he discovered that he came under the all-absorbing head-that he was a sportsman! The guide is a more interesting if less comprehensive species. Even his nationality is a sort of unsolved problem. Ca |