A Cup in the Hills 



We had breakfast by candle-light, never- 

 theless, and rattled out of the village in my 

 host's Concord buggy at four o'clock A. M. 

 by my watch. A seven-mile climb up the 

 mountain road, during which I alternately 

 admired and pitied the muscular power and 

 endurance of our horse, brought us to the 

 Giant's Cup ; and at half-past five we pushed 

 the old flat-bottomed boat out from shore 

 and dropped our lines into the pond. 



The sun was just coming up over the 

 glistening woods, and the birds were in full 

 song. It seemed to me that I had never 

 heard such a heavenly chorus of praise 

 going up to God. My rod lay across my 

 lap, my forefinger "stopping" the line just 

 above the reel, mechanically awaiting the 

 tremor which announces that a fish is nos- 

 ing and nibbling the bait, preparatory to 

 the twanging bite that sets every angler's 

 nerves a-tingle. But for a time I forgot that 

 I was fishing. My heart and soul were not 

 in it, but caught up with the glorious morn- 

 ing hymn of the birds. On one side of the 

 pond a hermit thrush was pouring out that 

 inexpressible song whose notes can be lik- 

 ened only to a combination of the violin and 



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