234 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
At their foot boulders of every shape and size 
fought the progress of the water. The stream 
dashed itself against them, hurling spray into 
the air; the spray fell upon the snow and froze, 
fell upon the boulders and froze, or drained 
back into the stream, freezing in icicles of mar¬ 
velous forms. The water, colored doubtless by 
the mosses and weeds below its surface, was 
green,—a cold, pale green,-—with something 
of the cruelty of a winter ocean in its tones. 
Now and then we met and passed sleds heavily 
laden with lumber or logs. One load of birch 
logs was on fire at the hinder end, and the driver 
was warming his hands at the blaze. A few 
poor farms lined the road at points where small 
patches of tillable land were to be found be¬ 
tween the rocky fingers of Moat. As we passed 
one of these farms a flock of two dozen or more 
snow-buntings rose from a field full of tall weed- 
stalks and whirled over us singing. Their 
sweet notes fell on us as holy water falls on a 
kneeling congregation. 
The road grew steeper, and then it crossed 
the river, passing through a huge covered 
bridge, and soon we found ourselves inside of 
the portals of Chocorua and Moat, with the 
high ridge of Bear Mountain, covered with 
black spruces, barring our westward way. The 
wall of sullen forest seemed without a cleft, yet 
