HIDING PLACES 



ruffled blades beyond, and taste of the 

 white wild strawberries that reach their 

 eerie ripeness in the shade. A woodchuck 

 may sit up and gaze at you across the 

 barrier, or a bright-eyed chipmunk scuttle 

 out on a limb for a better view. They 

 leave you alone soon, and at twilight even 

 the cow bell is quiet. 



A balsam fir that grows on a bowlder 

 leaning out halfway down a ravine hospit- 

 ably spreads its aromatic boughs flat upon 

 the rock, after the inviting manner of this 

 slumber-giving Northern tree. The very 

 breath of the hills is shed here. It is 

 almost dark by day, and at night the stars 

 show yellow above the upper firs. The 

 wind goes murmuring between gray walls, 

 and the sound of the stream, far down, 

 comes vaguely save in the freshet month. 

 This is the farthest hiding place of all. 

 Only the daring would find the perilous 

 way to its solitude. 



[83] 



