A MOUNTAIN POND 95 



catcher and the music of the frogs, one of 

 them a regular Karl Formes for profundity ; 

 and in general waiting to see what would 

 happen. Nothing of special importance 

 seemed likely to reward my diligent idleness, 

 and I turned back toward the town. On the 

 way I halted at the bridge, as I always did, 

 and presently a carriage drove over it. In- 

 side sat a woman under an enormous black 

 sunbonnet. She did me, without knowing 

 it, a kindness, and I should be glad to thank 

 her. As the wheels of the carriage struck 

 the plank bridge, a bird started into sight 

 from under it or close beside it. A sand- 

 piper, I thought ; but the next moment it 

 dropped into the water and began swim- 

 ming. Then I knew it for a bird I had 

 never seen before, and, better still, a bird 

 belonging to a family of which I had never 

 seen any representative, a bird which had 

 never for an instant entered into my North 

 Carolina calcidations. It was a phalarope, 

 a wanderer from afar, blown out of its course, 

 perhaps, and lying by for a day in this little 

 mountain pond, almost four thousand feet 

 above sea level. 



My first concern, as I recovered myself, 



