Larch-trees and Deer 



tenderly when they fell. The few remaining ones 

 stand as watch-towers for the hawks and eagles; 

 their broken branches make strange sepia draw- 

 ings of dragon-knots and hooked beaks on the blue 

 sky. A tiny moth killed all these great larches; 

 the caribou moved northward, leaving the country, 

 and the deer moved in to take possession. 



This and many other stories of the past my little 

 pond told me, as I watched from its shores or fol- 

 lowed the game-trails that were spread like a net 

 about its edges. Back in the woods these trails 

 wandered about in devious fashion, seeking good 

 browse or easy traveling; while here or there a 

 faint outgoing branch offered to lead you, if your 

 eyes were keen, to the distant ridge where a big 

 buck had his daily loafing-place. On the bog the 

 trails went more circumspectly, uniting at certain 

 places in a single deep path, a veritable path of 

 ages, which was the only path that might safely 

 be followed by any creature with more weight 

 than a fox. The moment you ventured away 

 from it the ground began to shiver, to quake 

 alarmingly, to sink down beneath your feet. Only 

 a thin mat of roots kept you afloat; the roots 

 might anywhere part and drop you into black 

 bottomless ooze, and close forever over your head. 

 A queer place, one might think, for heavy beasts 

 to gather, and so it was ; but the old caribou-trails 



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