THE PATH TO JOE'S POND 



IT is first a road, a winding, clambering, 

 stony mountain road; but long before it 

 reaches Joe's Pond it dwindles into a foot 

 path, skirting the ridges, diving into the hol 

 low to cross the brook, and sometimes mak 

 ing a dash at a ledge and going up over the 

 top of it like a squirrel. Every foot of the 

 way, from the edge of the village to the 

 forest-circled pond, is a delight to the na 

 ture-lover with sound legs and lungs. A 

 long, sweet, quiet walk it is, with the grand 

 old hills before one, and the lovely valley 

 behind like going up the steps of God's 

 temple with an offering of gladness and 

 gratitude in one's heart. 



To begin with, we cross the river by way 

 of the open bridge, and look down at the 

 wild water foaming between the rocks, as 

 it leaps over the shoulder of the village into 

 the mill-pond. Then up the valley, past 

 scattered farms, with old Baldtop glistening 

 in front of us, and all about him the lesser 



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