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of the fox, which a sharp nose detects here and there, 

 and which is a good perfume in the woods. And 

 then it is enough to come upon a spring in the woods 

 and stoop down and drink of the sweet, cold water, 

 and bathe your hands in it, or to walk along a trout- 

 brook, which has absorbed the shadows till it has it- 

 self become but a denser shade. Then I am always 

 drawn out of my way by a ledge of rocks, and love 

 nothing better than to explore the caverns and dens, 

 or to sit down under the overhanging crags and let 

 the wild scene absorb me. 



There is a fascination about ledges ! They are an 

 unmistakable feature, and gave emphasis and charac- 

 ter to the scene. I feel their spell, and must pause 

 awhile. Time, old as the hills and older, looks out 

 of their scarred and weather-worn face. The woods 

 are of to-day, but the ledges, in comparison, are of 

 eternity. One jokes about them as he would about 

 ruins, and with something of the same feeling. They 

 are ruins of the fore world. Here the foundations 

 of the hills were laid ; here the earth-giants wrought 

 and builded. They constrain one to silence and med- 

 itation ; the whispering and rustling trees seem triv- 

 ial and impertinent. 



And then there are birds'-nests about ledges, too, 

 exquisite mossy tenements, with white, pebbly eggs, 

 that I can never gaze upon without emotion. The 

 little brown bird, the phcebe, looks at you from her 

 niche till you are within a few feet of her, when she 

 darts away. Occasionally you may find the nest of 



