A BED OF BOUGHS 153 



The finishing touch is given by the moss with 

 which the rock is everywhere carpeted. Even in 

 the narrow grooves or channels where the water runs 

 the swiftest, the green lining is unbroken. It sweeps 

 down under the stream and up again on the other 

 side, like some firmly-woven texture. It softens 

 every outline and cushions every stone. At a cer- 

 tain depth in the great basins and wells it of course 

 ceases, and only the smooth-swept flagging of the 

 place-rock is visible. 



The trees are kept well back from the margin of 

 the stream by the want of soil, and the large ones 

 unite their branches far above it, thus forming a 

 high winding gallery, along which the fisherman 

 passes and makes his long casts with scarcely an 

 interruption from branch or twig. In a few places 

 he makes no cast, but sees from his rocky perch the 

 water twenty feet below him, and drops his hook 

 into it as into a well. 



We made camp at a bend in the creek where there 

 was a large surface of mossy rock uncovered by the 

 shrunken stream, — a clean, free space left for us in 

 the wilderness that was faultless as a kitchen and 

 dining-room, and a marvel of beauty as a lounging- 

 room, or an open court, or what you will. An ob- 

 solete wood or bark road conducted us to it, and dis- 

 appeared up the hill in the woods beyond. A loose 

 bowlder lay in the middle, and on the edge next the 

 stream were three or four large natural wash-basins 

 scooped out of the rock, and ever filled ready for 

 use. Our lair we carved out of the thick brush 



