WOODLAND PATHS 



It lies at the southeast corner of the 

 pond, beginning at the little bogs, from 

 which it springs abruptly. Along the 

 water's edge of these bogs picknickers 

 row their boats all summer long, and catch 

 fish and eat sandwiches. Inland, a foot 

 or two, the duck hunter in the autumn 

 treads precariously along the quaking sur- 

 face with his eyes on the margin, or per- 

 haps on the ducks that swim in the open 

 pond, but rarely does any one penetrate 

 the bog-carpeted swamp of great cedars 

 just back of this quaking margin. 



And this is strange. The passion for 

 exploration is born in all hearts. We 

 are prompted to go to Tibet, or seek the 

 sources of the Nile, or penetrate the 

 jungles that lie between the Amazon and 

 the Orinoco. I have felt this impulse 

 strongly myself, and longing for distant 



lands have passed unnoticed this oppor- 

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