218 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
The cry of a pileated woodpecker and the sput¬ 
tering complaint of a Hudson Bay titmouse 
rang in my ears. Birds of the north, strangers 
to these cherished spots, why were they here ? 
Why were their voices full of weird warning? 
The rain came softly, surely onward, over the 
glassy water, and with a shiver I hurried to¬ 
wards the fireside. After all, men, like birds 
and insects, flowers and leaves, feel the chill of 
autumn and tremble at it. Full as the season 
may be of eternal promise, it is charged also 
with a message of present death and decay. 
Leaves wither and fall, flowers drop their petals 
and turn to seeds, the locust dies in the grass, 
the bird takes wing and saves his life by finding 
a gentler clime in the far south, and man, if he 
is to linger under Chocorua’s lee, must gather 
his corn into barns, pile his shed full of wood, 
and fortify his mind to endure long nights, in¬ 
tense cold, deep snows, the wailing of wintry 
winds, and the gruesome voice of the lake as the 
ice throttles it. If the heart is brave and serene, 
there is peace in the long nights, pleasure in 
the cold, joy in snowshoe races on the snow, and 
exhilaration in the wailing of the wind and the 
moaning of the lake. As the viking exulted in 
sailing his ship through the fierce gale of the 
north, so his offspring can find joy in the win¬ 
try breath of Chocorua. 
