ON BALD MOUNTAIN 67 



had never seen the dear old road birdier, even 

 in May, though of course I had often seen the 

 number of species very much larger. 



At the height of land I came upon the first 

 snow, a ragged fringe left on the shady side of 

 the way. I made a snowball, for the sake of 

 doing it (or, as I said to myself, suiting the boy- 

 ish act with a boyish word, " for greens "), and 

 decided all at once not to go down into the 

 Notch, but up to the top of Bald Mountain. 

 From that point, if the sky cleared, as I felt 

 hopeful it would, there would be sights worth 

 remembering. 



The mountain is only a little one, but it is 

 steep enough the upper half, at all events 

 to give the eager pedestrian a puff for his 

 money. For myself, I had time to spare, and, 

 fortunately or unfortunately, had been over the 

 path too often to be subject to the state of 

 mind (I know it well) which we may charac- 

 terize as climbers' impatience. Unless something 

 unforeseen should happen, the summit would 

 wait for me. Halfway up, also, a flock of blue 

 jays, five or six at least, who were holding a 

 long and mysterious confabulation close by the 

 path, afforded me a comfortable breathing spell. 

 For a moment I suspected the presence of an 

 owl, against whom the rascals were plotting mis- 



