162 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



one probe in investigating the tilings of this life, and 

 content themselves with the belief that there is no bot- 

 tom, because they fail to reach it. 



Marvellous stories were told of this quicksand or huge 

 boiling spring by many old residents. One, current in 

 my childhood, was to the effect that a dozen sheep were 

 caught in its troubled waters and sucked out of sight, 

 and nine of them turned up alive on Duck Island in the 

 river about noon of the next day. Think of it! For 

 more than a day tossed in the depths of a deep spring, 

 carried half a mile tlirough a subterranean passage, and 

 landed upon an island alive ! This was not told as a bit 

 of fun to excite the wonder of children, but as a sober 

 fact ; and so firmly grounded was the belief that these 

 quicksands v/ere wellnigh fathomless, that every state- 

 ment made concerning them, however absurd, was readi- 

 ly accepted as further evidence of their wonderful char- 

 acter. My own experience with quicksands is too full 

 of horror to be related, at least I shudder when I recall 

 a sunny summer afternoon of long ago. I stood upon 

 a patch of quaking grass, pleased with its elastic yield- 

 ing and too intent upon watching a pair of nesting finches 

 to realize that I was slowly sinking. At last I noticed 

 that my eyes were gradually approaching the horizon 

 of the low-built nest, and looking about and beneath me, 

 saw the treacherous waters creeping above the matted 

 weeds upon which I stood. The latter were trembling 

 more and more violently, and the fearful truth was plain. 

 I was over a quicksand. 



I had a double task to perform, and that right quick- 

 ly — avoid fright and reach terra firma ; but how ? But 



