184 AT TEE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
ened tlie other day by the crash of orchestral 
music at a Boston theatre. 
While I listened to the pines a chickadee sang 
his phoebe-note. It was but once, but it told 
of his happiness as he bustled about in the dark 
pine wood from which warbler and vireo had 
departed, and upon which before many days the 
first snows of winter are to fall. Brave little 
titmice! they are among the sturdiest of New 
England’s sons. 
In the heart of the pines stands a house. I 
well remember the gray autumn morning when 
three of us, on a Thanksgiving holiday, staked 
out its foundation lines in the thin snow and 
drifted leaves. We tramped back and forth 
among the trees, now higher, now lower, then a 
little to the left, then more to the right. The 
peak of Chocorua must clear those monster 
pines; that bunch of low pines must be left low 
enough to give a free view of the large lake, and 
finally the young trees rising on the left must 
not on any account cover the charming glimpse 
of the third lake with its grove. At last we 
settled the spot, and drove our first stakes, fin¬ 
gered the long brass tape and drove more stakes. 
Our hands, ears, and noses were cold, but it 
was rare sport settling just where that new home 
should be planted among the singing pines. 
To this house, deserted like my own sunny 
