178 LOCUSTS AND WILD HONEY 



woods. And then it is enougli to come upon a 

 spring in the woods and stoop down and drink of 

 the sweet, cold water, and hathe your hands in it, 

 or to walk along a trout brook, which has absorbed 

 the shadows tiU it has itself become but a denser 

 shade. Then I am always drawn out of my way by 

 a ledge of rocks, and love nothing better than to 

 explore the caverns and dens, or to sit down under 

 the overhanging crags and let the wild scene absorb 

 me. 



There is a fascination about ledges ! They are an 

 unmistakable feature, and give emphasis and char- 

 acter to the scene. I feel their spell, and must pause 

 awhile. Time, old as the hills and older, looks out 

 of their scarred and weather-worn face. The woods 

 are of to-day, but the ledges, in comparison, are of 

 eternity. One pokes about them as he would about 

 ruins, and with something of the same feeling. 

 They are ruins of the fore world. Here the founda- 

 tions of the hills were laid; here the earth-giants 

 wrought and buUded. They constrain one to silence 

 and meditation; the whispering and rustling trees 

 seem trivial and impertinent. 



And then there are birds'-nests about ledges, too, 

 exquisite mossy tenements, with white, pebbly eggs, 

 that I can never gaze upon without emotion. The 

 little brown bird, the phoebe, looks at you from her 

 niche till you are within a few feet of her, when 

 she darts away. Occasionally you may find the nest 

 of some rare wood- warbler forming a little pocket in 

 the apron of moss that hangs down over the damp 

 rocks. 



