151 BOULDER REVERIES. 



turkeys' gaze and crop, but on yonder swaying 

 limb I note a wood peewee and on another a 

 great crested flycatcher, each eager and ready 

 to play the game in tree-top which the turkeys 

 play so well over the sod beneath. War, then, 

 not peace, exists here on this charming Au- 

 gust morn a never ending struggle in which 

 the high and the low are the chief participants. 

 From this first point of vantage I saunter on 

 toward the gray boulders, where my saints of 

 inspiration dwell, yet sometimes are not at home 

 when I knock upon their portals. While climb- 

 ing the slope to their side, I espy, peeping above 

 the gray mold amidst the leaves of the ivy and 

 brunella, something white and glistening. 

 Stooping I pick up a piece of semi-transparent 

 quartz; pure white, vitreous and in outline 

 roughly angular ; yet worn by abrasion until its 

 sharp edges and corners are rounded. How 

 came it here? Go back through the centuries 

 to the ice sheet, four hundred feet and more in 

 thickness, which once covered this spot. Fol- 

 low that sheet northward to some deep ravine 

 whose edges are clothed with fir and pine, and 



