THE POND. 337 
ture lake, unpoetically dubbed “the Pond,” recalls to mem- 
ory the stories of our childhood, in which naiads and 
nymphs, with the enchanting Lurline for their sovereign, 
prominently figure. 
The Pond, at some seasons, affords splendid sport, espe- 
cially at the entrance and exit of the river, which flows 
through it, but it can not be fished except from a boat, 
which can be brought down, if desired, from the dam 
above—no easy task to be performed, but frequently ac- 
complished by the expert lumbermen, who appear equally 
at home in handling the axe or shooting rapids in their 
flat-bottomed punts. 
Having rested sufficiently to recruit, and probably im- 
bibed a small glass of something stimulating, diluted with 
water that trickles from a neighboring spring—which is 
always cold as ice, however warm the weather may be—as 
scarcely more than a couple of miles are before us, we may 
just as well hurry on. The walk now leaves the river, and 
becomes much more hilly and inclosed; one time crossing 
a deep boggy ravine, the next threading its erratic course 
along the summit of some stony hill-side. The timber here 
is very beautiful, much superior to what we have formerly 
met, and the graceful silver-birch prevails—-a tree than 
which no prettier or more beautiful exists. Although the 
road in some places must be quite half a mile from the 
water, still the deep rumbling of the numerous rapids is 
distinctly audible, the neighboring portion of the Andros- 
coggin River being wild and broken in the extreme. 
We have scarcely ever threaded this part of our jour- 
ney without seeing ruffed grouse, and frequently Canada 
grouse, one of the most beautiful of the indigenous birds, 
and resembling more closely than any of the American 
family the red grouse of Scotland; the deep scarlet iris, 
the rich, dark chestnut coloring of both are similar; but 
15 
