BRINGING HOME THE BEAR. 
85 
winding through my pasture and belts of white 
birches. Then we turned from it and plowed 
through beds of brake and blackberry bushes 
dripping and glistening with dew. We might 
as well have waded waist deep in the lake, 
which would have been warmer though no more 
wet than that dew-deluged tangle. Next came 
a ravine filled with spruces, over which towered 
two immense canoe birches, at whose feet a cold 
spring bubbled in a sandy pool. The horse 
wound in and out among the trees, shaking from 
them showers of cold dew-drops. Small sap¬ 
lings and bushes bowed before the wagon and 
passed under its axles; large ones were bent 
away by strong hands, or hacked down. Some¬ 
times the wheels locked against tree-trunks, 
bringing the horse to a sudden standstill, and 
almost throwing the passengers to the ground; 
and sometimes they sank into unseen hollows 
filled to the brim with ferns, making the wagon 
careen so that all its contents slid, or struggled 
not to slide, against its sinking side. 
Beyond the ravine and its dripping spruces 
was a narrow sunny valley pointing straight 
towards the mountain. Up this valley our 
party continued its course, the sun drying the 
dew from our clothes, and flashing many colors 
in the drops still clinging to brakes and grasses. 
Fifteen hundred feet above us towered the West 
