46 PEPACTON 



plied with springs. Every creek starts in a bog or 

 marsh, and good water can be had only by excavat- 

 ing. 



What a charm lurks about those springs that are 

 found near the tops of mountains, so small that 

 they get lost amid the rocks and d(^bris and never 

 reach the valley, and so cold that they make the 

 throat ache! Every hunter and mountain-climber 

 can tell you of such, usually on the last rise before 

 the summit is cleared. It is eminently the hunter's 

 spring. I do not know whether or not the foxes 

 and other wild creatures lap at it, but their pursuers 

 are quite apt to pause there and take breath or eat 

 their lunch. The mountain-climbers in summer 

 hail it with a shout. It is always a surprise, and 

 raises the spirits of the dullest. Then it seems to 

 be born of wildness and remoteness, and to savor of 

 some special benefit or good fortune. A spring in 

 the valley is an idyl, but a spring on the mountain 

 is a genuine lyrical touch. It imparts a mild thrill; 

 and if one were to call any springs "miracles," as 

 the natives of Cashmere are said to regard their 

 fountains, it would be such as these. 



What secret attraction draws one in his summer 

 walk to touch at all the springs on his route, and 

 to pause a moment at each, as if what he was in 

 quest of would be likely to turn up there ? I can 

 seldom pass a spring without doing homage to it. 

 It is the shrine at which I oftenest worship. If I 

 find one fouled with leaves or trodden full by cattle, 

 I take as much pleasure in cleaning it out as a 



