72 LITERARY PILGRIMAGES 



ing dusk there is no mystery about the place. It 

 is just a wee baby of a pond that is tired and has 

 been put to bed. But as children often do when 

 we think them asleep for the night the pond, as 

 darkness gathered, seemed to dimple with wake- 

 ful laughter, to kick off the shadow quilt and 

 dance with a new radiance of life. Gathering 

 clouds of sultry August thunderstorms had 

 gloomed the sky with the passing of the sun, and 

 there was no star to give an answering twinkle, 

 but the whole surface of the pond laughed up to 

 the clouds in silvery light. It was as if all the 

 mica-shine of all the granite ground together and 

 sifted to make its unfathomed bottom had come 

 to the surface, the infinitesimal flakes joining 

 hands in a fairy dance to the tiny tune of the little 

 evening winds. The pond was such a gentle little 

 part of the vocal earth then that it did not seem 

 as if it had ever been mysterious and informed 

 with all the deep wisdom of the stars. Its surface 

 was no bigger than the counterpane of a white 

 crib on which danced the fairy dreams of the child 

 that slumbered happily below. 

 Later someone lighted a fishing fire on the op- 



