THE MINK'S HUNTING 

 GROUND 



1 WISH I could have seen the country 

 about the great spring which goes by 

 the name, locally, of " Fountain Head " 

 the year that the clock stopped for the 

 glaciers hereabout. That year when the 

 last bit of the ice cap, that for ages had 

 slid down across southeastern Massachu- 

 setts and built up its inextricable confu- 

 sion of sand and gravel moraines, melted 

 away, would have shown a thousand 

 great springs like it, bubbling up all 

 through the region, almost invariably 

 from the northerly base of gravelly cliffs 

 over which the sun can hardly peep at 

 noonday, so steep they are. Here they 

 flow to-day in the same mystery. Why 



