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 myseK. 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 limch- 

 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- 



