66 Bog-Trotting for Orchids 



swamp minks or wicked weasels, or perchance by the 

 tiny feet of the meadow-moles, who apparently had 

 blindly rooted various underground tunnels in every 

 direction. I can fancy them all trotting swiftly along, 

 playful at times, yet with an eye to their afifairs, — quite 

 as important in the scheme of Nature and Science 

 as are the brokers' studied operations in Wall Street. 

 The weasels and minks are the terrors of the other 

 path-holders in this natural syndicate. They are in- 

 deed the high and dreaded trust oflScials of the lesser 

 and blind rooters of the earth. 



Tangled vines of the marsh cranberry were now in 

 full bloom, and at the same time the soft fruit of last 

 autumn's crop was present on the vines, still bright 

 crimson, even after enduring the winter's frosts and 

 stubborn snows. 



Looking northward to see what fields lay unexplored 

 beyond me, I realized the remoteness of this region 

 slumbering amid these glacial hills. To my right tow- 

 ered the Dome, the highest mountain of Pownal, of a 

 bluish-green tone, against the sky. Nearer, graceful 

 elms, tall pines, and numerous low pointed, lighter green 

 tamarack trees lifted their spires, and adorned the dis- 

 tant meadow; while in the wide expanse on the west 

 side, along the edges of the swamp, rose the giant 

 forms of elm and pine, and tall, lithe trees of the swamp 

 maple, flashing forth their crimson and gold blossoms, 

 reminding me of the coloring of autumn leaves. The 

 nearer marsh was rich with tasselled grasses and blos- 

 soming vines, dotted here and there with the cardinal 



