84 ON THE BIRDS' HIGHWAY 



the yellow spatter-docks into the frag- 

 rance of the true pond-lilies at the far end 

 of the pond, two night herons sailed out 

 of the fading light. I paddled within a 

 few yards of one perched on an old dead 

 cedar stub. A veery rolled out his music 

 from near where I embarked. Darkness 

 began to obliterate the shore, and to frog 

 music I left the shadowy pond. The 

 moon that rose from behind Wachusett 

 later stretched its long finger of yellow 

 light across the water when the night was 

 far advanced, making the lingering shad- 

 ows more intense. 



Far up the valley where Monadnock 

 loomed above the lower hills I drove next 

 morning, passed the other ponds, one 

 particularly picturesque with its old water 

 wheel and dam. I was to visit a myste- 

 rious cave, which, tradition has it, smug- 

 glers inhabited. Where a turn is made 

 into the less frequented lane that leads to 

 the cave a giant chestnut stands, fully two 

 hundred and fifty years old and fourteen 

 feet in circumference four feet above the 

 ground. High up a precipitous slope 

 which the top of the great pines hardly 

 reach, the entrance of the cave runs down 



