THe Bo^s of ErtcHo^vo^ 31 



months, I should invariably be drawn unconsciously to 

 this fountain. It is here that I quench my thirst and 

 rest after wading through the neighboring swamps. I 

 have turned many stones here in the past, and lifted 

 the dead leaves from the choking throat of the spring. 

 I have gathered the sundew growing in tlie moss 

 fringing the banks ; and in the sweet solitude and 

 peace I have dreamed many dreams, inextricably min- 

 gled with the music of the stream. 



To-day I sought this spring to rest. I bathed my 

 face and combed my hair over Nature's own mirror, 

 after taking a generous draught from the sparkling 

 water. It bubbles and gushes continuously from under 

 the rocky hillside, bringing sand and delicate-hued 

 pebbles to scatter in the bottom of its bowl the year 

 round, I rested here a full hour, and rinsed the mud 

 cflf my boots. 



From here it is but a short walk to Barber's Mill at 

 the foot of Pownal Pond. Alders, willows, shad-bushes 

 and pink azaleas, small white birches, tamaracks, 

 pines, and beautiful swamp or soft maples fill the broad 

 expanse of marsh-land to the right; while the rocky, 

 burnt-over, and blackened hillside rises up to the left. 

 I was tempted into the deeper underbrush, but pro- 

 ceeded very slowly, as the treacherous bog was so 

 spongy with sphagnum that I would often sink from 

 twelve to fifteen inches into its soft, pink depths. But 

 here I felt secure, since there were many fallen trees 

 and growing saplings to which I could hold and cling, 

 in case I stepped into a " dead hole." 



