134 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



thumping oars against resisting water. It was 

 more like becoming a part of the air and glid- 

 ing on in its embrace, silently, swiftly, without 

 friction. Side by side our boats slipped on past 

 whispering grasses, over the black water, under 

 the violet sky in which the high stars were now 

 appearing. Behind us the dark water was 

 broken into ripples. They held quivering, 

 bending bits of color, deep red, orange, yellow, 

 and silver, scattered over the inky blackness of 

 the stream. In front of us was a hill. It 

 seemed very high in the gathering gloom. 

 Nearer and on our right was a grove of lofty 

 white pines. There are few such trees in this 

 part of New England ; they are a fragment of 

 the primeval woods, full of wind voices and 

 memories of a lost race of men, and a vanishing 

 race of birds and mammals. As we neared this 

 grove a mysterious greeting came to us from its 

 depths. A voice at once sad, deep, soft, and 

 full of suppressed power seemed to question us. 

 My friend responded in the stranger's language, 

 and a few moments after a dark form floated 

 over us, its great wings making no sound as 

 they beat against the night air. Then from the 

 foot of Fairhaven Hill the voice called to us 

 again ; and soon the form passed back over the 

 river to the tops of the pines. Behind Fairhaven 

 Hill the eastern clouds reflected a slowly iucreas- 



