106 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



out is always in luck if he can find, sheltered by 

 the trees, a soft hole in the ground, even if he has 

 a stone for a pillow. The earth must open its 

 arms a little for us even in life, if we are to sleep 

 well upon its bosom. I have often heard my grand- 

 father, who was a soldier of the Revolution, tell 

 with great gusto how he once bivouacked in a little 

 hollow made by the overturning of a tree, and slept 

 so soundly that he did not wake up till his cradle 

 was half full of water from a passing shower. 



What bird or other creature might represent the 

 divinity of Pleasant Pond I do not know, but its 

 demon, as of most northern inland waters, is the 

 loon; and a very good demon he is, too, suggesting 

 something not so much malevolent as arch, sar- 

 donic, ubiquitous, circumventing, with just a tinge 

 of something inhuman and uncanny. His fiery-red 

 eyes gleaming forth from that jet-black head are full 

 of meaning. Then his strange horse-laughter by 

 day, and his weird, doleful cry at night, like that 

 of a lost and wandering spirit, recall no other bird 

 or beast. He suggests something almost supernatu- 

 ral in his alertness and amazing quickness, cheating 

 the shot and the bullet of the sportsman out of 

 their aim. I know of but one other bird so quick, 

 and that is the hummingbird, which I never have 

 been able to kill with a gun. The loon laughs the 

 shotgun to scorn, and the obliging young farmer 

 above referred to told me he had shot at them 

 hundreds of times with his rifle, without effect, — 

 they always dodged his bullet. We had in our 



