98 DAYS OUT OF DOORS. 



summer is now decked with every color of the rainbow. 

 There is always a fascination in the still waters of a deep 

 pool. The improbable appearance of some strange creat- 

 ure from its depths is the subtle thought that holds me 

 whenever I chance to pass by the great bend of Poastquis- 

 sings. Once, on a chill and dull November day, a great 

 snapping turtle thrust his head above the surface, yawned, 

 and disappeared. And how vividly I can recall an expe- 

 rience of thirty years ago ! While yet some distance off, I 

 saw what I took to be an otter, and commenced creeping 

 slowly toward it, in hopes of a better view. Nearer and 

 nearer I drew, and the unsuspecting otter remained at his 

 post. Finally, I reached the water's edge, and looked di- 

 rectly into it. My face was within a foot of the surface, 

 and directly in front was a nest-making sunfish. Did you 

 ever look one squarely in the face ? If so, you have seen 

 a monster a stranger shape than fevered fancy ever de- 

 picted. The supposed otter was a slimy log. 



I often think of that long-distant day, and when the 

 quiet waters sparkle with long rows of glistening bubbles, 

 the gas from decomposing vegetation, I think of creatures 

 that may startle my maturer years as the great red-eared 

 sunfish frightened an eager boy. 



A feature of winter, and even of spring so late as 

 April, is last year's leaves. As I walked recently along a 

 wooded hill-side, over tree-margined fields, and skirted a 

 swamp too wet, as yet, to enter, I noticed many a tree 

 with last year's leaves still on it. Except one tupelo, 

 which usually drops its foliage earlier than our other forest 

 trees, these leaf -bearers were all oaks or beeches. Thoreau 

 speaks of the white oaks about Concord retaining their 

 leaves as a rule, and others deny that this is true, or more 

 than an occasional occurrence. 



The conclusions derived from my own memoranda, 



