92 FIVE DAYS ON MOUNT MANSFIELD. 
o'clock that morning in an open wagon for 
an excursion to the summit. Like myself, 
they had driven into a cloud, and up to this 
time had seen nothing more distant than the 
stable just across the road, within a stone’s 
toss of the window, and even that only by 
glimpses. One of the party was a doctor, 
who must be at home that night. Hour after 
hour they watched the clouds, or rather the 
rain (we were so beclouded that the clouds 
could not be seen), and debated the situation. 
Finally, at three o’clock, they got into their 
open wagon, the rain pelting them fiercely, 
and started for the base. Doubtless they 
soon descended into clear weather, but not 
till they were well drenched. Verily the 
clouds are no respecters of persons. It is 
nothing to them how far you have come, nor 
how worthy your errand. So I reflected, 
having nothing better to do, when my wag- 
onful of pilgrims had dropped out of sight 
in the fog — as a pebble drops into the lake 
— leaving me with the house to myself; and 
presently, as I sat at the window, I heard 
a white-throated sparrow singing outside. 
Here was one, at least, whom the rain could 
not discourage. A wild and yet asweet and 
