THE HEART OF THE MOUNTAIN. 13 
Painted tortoises, which had been baking on 
logs and stones in the full glare of the sun, 
dropped off unwillingly into the water. Count™ 
less dragonflies skimmed the surface of the 
pond, devouring smaller insects, and from a 
dead limb overlooking the shore, a crow, whose 
plumage gleamed with iridescent lights, flapped 
sluggishly out of sight among the trees. Snakes 
love to lie coiled in the hottest sunlight; squir¬ 
rels stretch themselves contentedly on horizon¬ 
tal limbs and bask by the hour; the fox, wood¬ 
chuck, and weasel, and even toads and newts, 
and those so-called birds of darkness the barred 
owls, seek the broadest glare of the midsummer 
sun and absorb comfort from its scorching rays. 
Taking tribute from the pond-basin by a deep 
drink of ice-cold water at a spring in its bank, 
I crossed another strip of open pasture — where 
the tinkle-tankle of the cow-bells sounded with 
each bite the cows took of the grass — and 
gained the edge of the forest and the foot of the 
mountain. There was something akin to cool¬ 
ness in the shade of the birches, poplars, and 
beeches. New flowers bloomed here and new 
birds called. The dependent bells of the white 
pyrola, of the small green pyrola, and of the 
quaint pipsissewa were found beneath the brakes. 
Here, too, was the Indian pipe, looking as 
though formed from sheets of colorless wax, 
