134 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



however, was not a flower, but a bird ; a 

 Blackburnian warbler fluttering along before 

 me in the low bushes an extraordinary 

 act of grace on the part of this haunter of 

 treetops as if on purpose to show himself. 

 He was worth showing. His throat was like 

 a jewel. A bay-breast, always deserving of 

 notice, was singing among the evergreens 

 near by. So I believed, but the flies were 

 so hot after me that I made no attempt to 

 assure myself. I was fairly chased away 

 from the water-side. One place after 

 another I fled to, seeking one where the 

 breeze should rid me of my tormentors, till 

 at last, in desperation, I took to the piazza 

 of the little shop now unoccupied at 

 which the summer tourist buys birch-bark 

 souvenirs, with ginger-beer, perhaps, and 

 other potables. There I finished my lunch- 

 eon, still having a skirmish with the enemy's 

 scouts now and then, but thankful to be out 

 of the thick of the battle. The rippling lake 

 shone before me, a few swifts were shooting 

 to and fro above it, but for the time my en- 

 joyment of all such things was gone. That 

 half hour of black-fly persecution had dissi- 



