A BED OF BOUGHS. 185 



was not an owl," said he after a moment; "let us 

 help the legend along by believing it was the voice 

 of the lost maiden." 



" By the way," continued he, " do you remember 

 the pretty creature we saw seven years ago in the 

 shanty on the West Branch, who was really help- 

 ing her mother cook for the hands, a slip of a girl 

 twelve or thirteen years old, with eyes as beautiful 

 and bewitching as the waters that flowed by her 

 cabin ? I was wrapped in admiration till she spoke : 

 then how the spell was broken ! Such a voice ! It 

 was like the sound of pots and pans when you ex- 

 pected to hear a lute." 



The next day we bade farewell to the Rondout, 

 and set out to cross the mountain to the east branch 

 of the Beaverkill. 



" We shall find tame waters compared with these, 

 I fear, a shriveled stream brawling along over 

 loose stone, with few pools or deep places." 



Our course was along the trail of the barkmen 

 who had pursued the doomed hemlock to the last 

 tree at the head of the valley. As we passed along, 

 a red steer stepped out of the bushes into the road 

 ahead of us where the sunshine fell full upon him, 

 and with a half-scared, beautiful look begged alms 

 of salt. We passed the Haunted Shanty ; but both 

 it and the legend about it looked very tame at ten 

 o'clock in the morning. After the road had faded 

 out we took to the bed of the stream to avoid the 

 gauntlet of the underbrush, skipping up the mount- 



