82 Reminiscences of 



Whatever season it may be, the Maine forests are 

 lovely, and it is difficult to say when they are the 

 most so. One might say in the early spring, when 

 the buds of the deciduous trees are expanding and 

 the ferns and brakes unfolding, or when full-fledged, 

 or in the decadence, when the autumnal tints appear ; or 

 in the winter, when garnished with wreaths of snow. 



The period of falling leaves is exceptionally charm- 

 ing. As the leaves fall they exude the various odors 

 of their belonging, so that one with closed eyes may 

 tell the character of the prevailing trees. I have 

 often thought of the pleasure I should take if I were 

 blind in walking among the localities I am familiar 

 with, when the pleasant recognition of well-known 

 trees would guide my steps. 



In my taste the late fall and first half of the winter 

 dispute with any other season, and I am not sure if 

 I do not prefer the rough and changing time of winter 

 at the lakes, with its accompaniments, to any other. 

 At least the summer is too short and the scene must 

 lap over. Tell me not of orange groves and flowers, 

 and vines with clinging clusters, but of the winter 

 forest in its kaleidoscopic beauty, and of the lakes in 

 their broad mantles of ice and snow. The singing of 

 the wind around the tree-tops and the whirling flakes 

 have more charm for my accustomed sight and ear 

 than the cooing of the dove in midsummer bower. 



There are scarcely any Maine forests, however 

 tangled they may appear, which do not possess 

 pleasant and accessible reaches of park-like valleys 

 and hillsides, or rounded ridges of hardwood growth 

 or pine, allowing comfortable travelling for the stalker. 

 Possessed with the unerring compass and a tolerable 



