CHRISTMAS AT SABBA DAY FALLS . 283 
mists, talking in gentle music to one another. 
One was left on a dead tree in the bog, and 
uttered a plaintive cry again and again. Leav¬ 
ing the ice, we struck across the frozen bog, 
now and then breaking through the soft places, 
but generally finding ice or roots to sustain our 
weary feet. As we progressed, we gathered an 
armful of club-mosses and a bunch of checker- 
berry plants bearing their gay fruit. The fog 
closed in around us, and the air became chilly. 
Not a mountain could we see. It was a relief to 
strike firm soil, though it was only a few inches 
higher than the bog. Presently we came to the 
river, and for a second time I shouldered my 
friend and took him over dryshod. After do¬ 
ing the same, a few moments later, at Sabba 
Day Brook, we gained the end of the intervale 
road near Bumblebee’s hut. It was now grow¬ 
ing dark, yet a mile of yellow mud still lay be¬ 
fore us. Colors had faded; the graceful out¬ 
lines of the forest were dimmed; nothing but 
the martial spruces remained with us, drawn up 
in stiff lines beside the road. 
When we reached home, the Christmas greens 
and checkerberries were made by our inexperi¬ 
enced fingers into a cross, a wreath, and a long 
strip for festooning. These we presented to 
the three-year-old Lily of the intervale, whose 
ideas of Christmas had been obscured by the 
