IN THE PONKAPOAG BOGS 



no pure white nymphaea sends forth its 

 rich odor. 



Only the bog cranberry may hold its 

 own in any quantity against the throt- 

 tling squeeze of those grass roots. Where 

 these grow is the high sea of the bog, 

 its waves rising and falling in the free 

 winds. Yet, just as pickerel weed and 

 water-lily give way before the advance 

 of the marsh grass, so it in turn falls 

 on the landward side before the advanc- 

 ing hosts of the swamp. 



A steady phalanx of swamp cedars 

 pushes its foothold farther and farther 

 out upon it, year by year, scouting with 

 button bush and black alder and holding 

 every inch that they obtain for it. Now 

 and then something happens to a brief 

 area of marsh grass and cranberries so 

 that their dense packed minions faint 

 and release their root grip on the quak- 



