58 jock's TiAKE. 



outlet, where we left our boat unci scrambled down over 

 rocks and fallen trees, near the rapid stream, to " the fly " 

 (vlci ?) — a broad, shallow, marshy pond, half overgrown 

 with lily-pads — where deer love to feed. We gathered 

 wintergreens on our wa3% and pitcher-plants b}^ the shore, 

 picked u}) a feather from an eagle's wing, — that was al)out 

 all — but heartily enjoyed the sunshine and shade and I lie 

 weird stillness. 



Tbe forest has its sounds, even on tlie (piictcst of days, — 

 the slight rustle of the aspen leaves, perhap;., — tbe low, sad 

 note of the wood bird flitting through the shade, — the 

 startled chirrup of the chipmunk. — the scream of an eagle 

 soaring high above the trees, — the buzzing of tlies in the 

 sunshine, — but the total impression is of a stillness almost 

 appalling. But there come days in the woods, and especially 

 nights, when nature becomes restive and wakens from this 

 sleep of her forces. The air so soft and gentle becomes 

 nervously tense and strong as the muscles of a rudely 

 awakened giant. It stretches out its invisible jirms and 

 swings and sways them until the wild, rushing sounds roar 

 through the trees ; dashes ui)on the placid watei-s, and the 

 waves rvm to and fro as in fear or in m.-idness; sweeps and 

 plunges down through the mountain ])asses, and the mouin- 

 ful wail of the startled recesses rises in a passionate i)rayer 

 for peace again; seizes the monarchs of the forest and 

 wrestles and strives with them until the}' groan in the 

 mad grasp of a power that cannot be grasped again, for it 

 is the intangible power of the air. And then, the storms! — 

 the wild carnival of the lightnings, — the horrid bellow and 



