AMONG THE REEDS AND RUSHES. 13 



carnival in broad clay, and under its spell the stormy lake 

 seemed to grow more tempestuous. But we drove through all 

 right, just dodged the upright fluke of an old anchor left by 

 the river-drivers in the outlet, rounded in beneath the lee of a 

 bank, and safe in a sheltered nook where no wind disturbed 

 the calm, blew the water from our noses and wiped it from our 

 eyes with much love of the land. 



The loon is the spirit of the lake. Nothing in our Northern 

 waters so entirely fits the framework of the wild, mysterious 

 forest that hems them round. To hear the loon's cry at night 

 is almost as if the lake were speaking. 



Once, while camping on the shores of Chesuncook Lake in 

 Maine, I witnessed an impressive incident. It was late after- 

 noon before a rain, and I had stepped down to the shore and 

 stood looking at Big Spenser Mountain across the lake, feeling 

 the quiet and grayness and flatness that falls upon a landscape 

 with an approaching storm. There was no sound but that of 

 a cricket; no ripple on the great smooth lake; nothing had 

 moved recently enough to leave a circle on its surface within 

 half a mile ; yet, slowly, not five rods from me, out of the 

 heart of the quiet water, rose the green head and neck of a 

 loon. I could see its velvety softness, every white line on its 

 little collars, the keen bill and the keener red eye, a head 

 without a body, alone in the vastness of the great lake. Then 

 it sank, slow, noiseless, mysterious, without a wake. So sank 

 the sword Excalibur when Sir Bedivere at Arthur's bidding 

 cast it in the lake. 



" Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 

 But when I looked again, behold, an arm, 

 Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

 That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him 

 Three times, and drew him under in the mere." 



