THE VINTAGE OF THE LEAVES. 171 
number, and unusually wary, were not so easily 
mistaken for leaves, nor were the robins, which 
occasionally rose in flocks from the grass and 
sought the branches of leafless maples or butter¬ 
nuts. 
After a hasty dinner I left the hotel and 
crossed field and copse to the outlet of the Cho- 
corua lakes. The third lake, with its deep, 
dark water and its grove of lofty white pines 
shutting it in from distant views, is one of the 
most daintily lovely nooks in this region of 
beauty and grandeur. Crows love the dark 
pines, wild ducks float in their shadows, and 
many a mink has been trapped at the end of 
the dam. I found no life stirring in woods or 
water, so stepping cautiously along the moul¬ 
dering logs of the dam, I gained the farther 
shore and crossed a broad, rock-strewn pasture, 
once covered by a growth of lofty pines. I 
know not how many years ago they fell or were 
felled, but this I do know, that scores of pitch- 
soaked knots are hidden in their ruins and 
among the ferns and bushes which have sprung 
from the decaying stumps. Many is the winter 
evening in town that I have sat by the fireside 
and gazed into the red flame of the blazing 
“light-wood ” gathered in happy October days 
from this old pasture. As the pitch grew hot 
and burst through the dry wood, whining and 
