Ill 



The Haunts of the Ram's-Head 

 Moccasin-rioi?<rers 



I call the old time back : I bring my lay 

 In tender memory of the summer day 

 When, where our native river lapsed away, 

 We dreamed it over, while the thrushes made 

 Songs of their own, and the great pine-trees laid 

 On warm noonlights the masses of their shade. 



Whittier, Mabel Martin. 



THE following morning, after my strenuous ex- 

 cursion through the swamps of Etchowog, I 

 was somewhat tired and stiffened, but still 

 ready for a journey which must be made to 

 North Adams, a distance of ten miles from Mount 

 CEta. As it was Saturday, Lorenna's mother would 

 soon be passing over the hill on her way to that city, 

 with butter and eggs, so I decided to accompany her. 

 Lorenna's mother, formerly a teacher in District Four- 

 teen in the neighborhood, had always considered my 

 propensity for tramping through these bogs and wood- 

 lands, searching for flowers, as rather " queer." This 

 habit, coupled with my fondness for the poets, led her 

 to believe I had sustained some great sorrow,— perhaps 

 the loss of a lover, — and in those early days she in- 

 variably eyed me closely through her green goggles 



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