SUMMER IN A BOG. 27 



But with the cessation of the rain the waters 

 subside and the turbid brook sinks back into 

 its bed. Yet all the summer the springs con- 

 tinue to flow from the hillsides, feeding the 

 stream, where the waters shallowly murmur 

 to the stones or, leaping the rocks in cas- 

 cades, sing loud and cheeringly, unmindful of 

 drought. 



Once in my wanderings, shortly after the 

 subsidence of such a freshet, I oame to a level 

 tract of shining brown sands, through which 

 ran the stream of water. This place I had 

 heretofore avoided, after several attempts to 

 find solid footing. But something of daring 

 urged me to make one more trial. 



It was the straight line in my progress; 

 otherwise, either to right or left, a hill I must 

 climb to find the sure pathway. 



Would the sands bear me? The stream is 

 an easy jump, so narrow is it and so peace- 

 fully it glides along. 



One foot I ventured boldly, and in a moment 

 the sand was up to my knee, with no sign of 

 foundation for the foot. Instantly I threw 

 myself back on the grassy bank and was safe. 

 Had I escaped one of the quicksands of the 

 bog? 



How many there may be I never attempted 

 to ascertain; but that there was another one 

 near a path which I always traveled in these 



