BOG BOGLES 



A SPIRIT of mystery always broods 

 over the great bog of Ponkapog Pond. 

 Only occasionally does man disturb its 

 quaking, sinking surface with his foot. 

 You may wade all about on it, even to the 

 edge where the billowing moss yields to 

 the scarcely less stable pond surface; but 

 to do so in safety you must know it inti- 

 mately, else you will go down below, sud- 

 denly, to become a nodule in the peat, and 

 perhaps be dug up intact a thousand years 

 from now and put in a museum. 



Hence man rather shuns the bog, and it 

 has become, or perhaps I might better say 

 it has remained, the home of all sorts of 

 shy creatures that shun man. It would 



not be surprising if the little people that 

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