motes ot tbe 



sound as this, I crept cautiously for some distance, 

 not long ago, certain some preying mammal had 

 its still living victim in the trees overhead. Mov- 

 ing almost noiselessly along, watching the trem- 

 bling leaves of every branch above me, and locat- 

 ing the sound, first here, then there, and when at 

 last sure that I had come upon a raccoon in the 

 birches just ahead, my face came in contact with 

 a dense web in which a beetle was entangled. 

 Its buzzing, now low, now loud, a veritable wail 

 of despair, could have been heard, I think, in the 

 still night, twenty or thirty rods away. 



At last, I left the woodland path and entered a 

 clearing, an open space, with grassy sod softer 

 than velvet. The winds, whichever way they 

 came, swept it carefully. Near the center was a 

 low mound, with a few low bushes near it. Longer 

 ago than any one now living can remember, John 

 Watson had his cottage here, living alone, and, 

 when not dreaming, playing on his flute. At the 

 door of his cabin, so runs the story, he would sit 

 when the moon shone, and charm the wild life of 

 the woods about him. The fox and the hare, the 

 raccoon, the opossum, and all the smaller crea- 

 tures came and circled about him as he played. 

 This is, of course, an exaggeration ; but that music, 

 or any strange and long continued sound, will rouse 

 the curiosity and banish the fear of many animals 

 is incontestable. I thought of this when I reached 

 the mound and sat down upon the one projecting 

 36 



