112 THE BROOK BOOK 



existence of the hot August sunshine at the edge 

 of the forest, cool water dripping and tinkling. A 

 half-dozen great trees had been so undermined by 

 the action of the water long ago that they had 

 tumbled headlong into the stream bed. There 

 they lay, heads down, criss-cross — one completely 

 spanning the brook just below the spring — their 

 tangled roots like great dragons twisting and thrust- 

 ing at the shadows. The water trickled slowly over 

 the smooth rocky bottom as if reluctant to leave a 

 spot enchanted. A few yards below, the overflow 

 from Indian Spring joined the main stream, and 

 their waters mingled in a pretty little cataract. 

 We went below and looked back at it. How it 

 wrinkled and paused over the level spaces, played 

 with the bubbles in the eddies, and ran laughing 

 and turning summersaults wherever the ledges 

 were abrupt ! 



Back we went over the path by which we had 

 come. The woods were growing dark, and the 

 shadows grim. The familiar landmarks did not look 

 the same approached from the opposite direction, 

 and even the guide-posts had assumed strange, un- 

 canny shapes. Silence had taken possession of the 

 party. The wonder and the mystery of the woods 

 filled us and made conversation impossible. A 

 shout of joy and relief arose when we came within 

 sight of the "Big Maple" and caught the parting 

 rays of the setting sun through its branches. 



