A TASTE OF MAINE BIRCH. 47 



The camper-out is always in luck if lie can find, she!* 

 tered by the trees, a soft hole in the ground, even if 

 he has a stone for a pillow. The earth must open its 

 arms a little for us even in life, if we are to sleep 

 well upon its bosom. I have often heard my grand- 

 father, who was a soldier of the Revolution, tell with 

 great guato how he once bivouacked in a little hollow 

 made by the overturning of a tree, and slept so' 

 soundly that he did not wake up till his cradle was 

 half full of water from a passing shower. 



What bird or other creature might represent the 

 divinity of Pleasant Pond I do not know, but its 

 demon, as of most northern inland waters, is the loon ; 

 and a very good demon he is too, suggesting some- 

 thing not so much malevolent, as arch, sardonic, ubi- 

 quitous, circumventing, with just a tinge of something 

 inhuman and uncanny. His fi<3ry red eyes gleaming 

 forth from that jet-black head are full of meaning. 

 Then his strange horse laughter by day and his weird, 

 doleful cry at night, like that of a lost and wandering 

 spirit, recall no other bird or beast. He suggests 

 something almost supernatural in his alertness and 

 amazing quickness, cheating the shot and the bullet of 

 the sportsman out of their aim. I know of but one 

 other bird so quick, and that is the humming-bird, 

 which I have never been able to kill with a gun. The 

 loon laughs the shot-gun to scorn, and the obliging 

 young farmer above referred to told me he had shot 

 at them hundreds of times with his rifle, without 

 effect, — they always dodged his bullet. We had in 

 our party a breach-loading rifle, which weapon is per- 

 haps an appreciable moment of time quicker than the 

 ordinary muzzle loader, and this the poor loon could 

 ^ot or did not dodge. He had not timed himself to 



