THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQUID. 



MONDAY, the 6th of April, found me, with a 

 friend who lives close to nature's heart, floating 

 down the current of Musketaquid. We launched 

 a light Rushton boat at the feet of the Mmute- 

 Man, and were swept past him, by the battle- 

 ground, in the tide and through the eddies which 

 Thoreau knew so well and has made immortal. 

 On that morning bright with sunshine yet cold 

 with the breath of snowbanks on Wachusett, it 

 was Thoreau's spirit more than that of the fight- 

 ing farmers or fanciful Hawthorne which seemed 

 to rule the Old Manse ground, the ancient trees 

 along the water's edge, the swirling river, the 

 singing blackbirds, and the landscape of willows, 

 hills, and distant woods. As we were taking 

 out the boat from its house, a downy woodpecker 

 drummed for his mate's enjoyment on the sound- 

 ing branches and trunk of a dead tree at the 

 water's edge. He made three different tones on 

 his drum. A white-bellied nuthatch was going 

 from tree to tree calling loudly. His home of 

 last year had been cut down, and he seemed to 



