88 FOOTING IT IN FRANCONIA 



strange sensation, as if I had stepped into 

 another world ; bare, leafless woods and sud- 

 den blank silence. All the way hitherto 

 birds have been singing on either hand, my 

 ear picking out the voices one by one, while 

 flies and mosquitoes have buzzed continually 

 about my head ; here, all in a moment, not 

 a bird, not an insect, — a stillness like that 

 of winter. Minute after minute, rod after 

 rod, and not a breath of sound, — not so 

 much as the stirring of a leaf. I could not 

 have believed such a transformation possible. 

 It is uncanny. I walk as in a dream. The 

 silence lasts for at least a quarter of a mile. 

 Then a warbler breaks it for an instant, and 

 leaves it, if possible, more absolute than be- 

 fore. I am going southward, and downhill ; 

 but I am going into the Notch, into the very 

 shadow of the mountains, where Winter 

 makes his last rally against the inevitable. 



And yes, here are some of the early flow- 

 ers I have come in search of : the dear little 

 yellow violets, whose glossy, round leaves, no 

 more than half-grown as yet, seem to love 

 the very border of a snowbank. Here, too, 

 is a most flourishing patch of spring-beauties, 



