100 THAT WITCHING SONG. 



"I 'm going to seek my singer," was the mes- 

 sage I flung back next morning, as, opera-glass 

 in hand, I started down the orchard towards the 

 woods. I followed the path under the apple- 

 trees, passed the daisy field, white from fence to 

 fence with beauty, despair of the farmer, but 

 delight of the cottagers, hurried across the pas- 

 ture beyond, skirting the little knoll on which 

 the cow happened this morning to be feeding, 

 crossed the brook on a plank, and reached my 

 daily walk. 



This was a broad path that ran for half a 

 mile on the edge of the lake. Behind it, pene- 

 trated every now and then by a foot-path, was 

 the bit of old woods that the clearers of this land 

 had the grace to leave, to charm the eye and 

 refresh the soul (though probably not for that 

 reason). Before it stretched the clear, spark- 

 ling waters of Lake George, and on the other 

 side rose abruptly one of the beautiful mountains 

 that fringe that exquisite piece of water. 



Usually I passed half the morning here, 

 seated on one of the rocks that cropped out 

 everywhere, filling my memory with pictures to 

 take home with me. But to-day I could not 

 stay. I entered one of the paths, passed into 

 the grand, silent woods, found a comfortable 

 seat on a bed of pine needles, with the trunk of 

 a tall maple tree for a back, and prepared to 



