A MAY VISIT TO MOOSILAUKE 23 



Greenland sandwort, — faded, winter-worn, gray- 

 green tufts, tightly packed among the small 

 boulders. Whatever lives here must lie low and 

 hang on. And with it is the shiny-leaved moun- 

 tain cranberry, — Vaccinium Vitis-Idcea. Let 

 me never omit that pretty name. Neither cran- 

 berry nor sandwort shows any sign of blossom 

 or bud as yet ; but it is good to know that they 

 will both be ready when the clock strikes. I can 

 see them now, pink and white, just as they will 

 look in July — nay, just as they will look a 

 thousand years hence. 



Again my course alters, and the wind lets me 

 lean back upon it as it lifts me forward. Who 

 says we are growing old? The years, as they 

 pass, may turn and look at us meaningly, as 

 if to say, "You have lived long enough;" yet 

 even to us the climbing of a mountain road 

 (though by this time it must he a road, or some- 

 thing like it) is stOl only the putting of one foot 

 before the other. 



So I come at last to the top, and make haste 

 to get into the lee of the house, which is tightly 

 barred, of course, just as its owners left it seven 

 or eight months ago. The wind chases me round 

 the corners, one after another ; but by searching 

 I discover a nook where it can hit me no more 

 than half the time. Here I sit and look at the 



