2,0 Bog-Trotting for Orchids 



until I had finall}' crossed the " dead hole " and stood 

 on ierra firma once more. 



There is certainly no experience like being stuck in 

 a bog to arouse fearful forebodings. The discouraging 

 eflfort to keep one foot above the ground only to find 

 the other sinking deeper is most terrifying, and leads 

 to hasty and excited movements which but increase 

 the danger, and may finally lodge both feet fast in the 

 mud. In such a case the sight of a board fence upon 

 which an elbow may be rested is as welcome as a sail 

 to a ship- wrecked mariner. There is in truth much art 

 and science in walking safely through mud and sphag- 

 num. One cannot saunter over the surface, and meditate 

 at ease, but one must be ever alert, elastic as a rubber 

 ball, and quick to feel a danger before it can be seen. 



The fields and woods are a good deal like the books 

 we read: the more we become familiar with printed 

 page or forest path, the oftener we return to certain 

 thoughts and trails that lead us back to scenes and as- 

 sociations enjoyed before. I like to mark passages in 

 books I love, here and there, as I would blaze a tree to 

 guide me to the haunt of a cool stream or a rare flower's 

 hiding-place. Whenever I turn to such passages, I 

 find that time and season have expanded some new 

 thought in my mind, even as they have developed 

 the buds to full-grown flowers since my first journey 

 through the wood^ 



There is a beautiful cold spring under the hill near 

 the swamps of Etchowog. I have known of it all 

 my life, and were I to visit this region every day for 



