goes
humming through the woods, or a woodchuck hole, with well beaten and
worn entrance, and with the saplings gnawed and soiled about it, or the
strong, fetid smell of the fox, which a sharp nose detects here and
there, and which is a good perfume in the woods. And then it is enough
to come upon a spring in the woods and stoop down and drink of the
sweet, cold water, and bathe your hands in it, or to walk along a trout
brook, which has absorbed the shadows till it has itself become but a
denser shade. Then I am always drawn out of my way by a ledge of rocks,
and love nothing better than to explore the caverns and dens, or to sit
down under the overhanging crags and let the wild scene absorb me.

There is a fascination about ledges! They are an unmistakable feature,
and give emphasis and character to the scene. I feel their spell, and
must pause awhile. Time, old as the hills and older, looks out of their
scarred and weather-worn face. The woods are of to-day, but the ledges,
in comparison, are of eternity. One pokes about them as he would about
ruins, and with something of the same feeling. They are ruins of the
fore world. Here the foundations of the hills were laid; here the
earth-giants wrought and builded. They constrain one to silence and
meditation; the whispering and rustling trees seem trivial and
impertinent.

And then there are birds'-nests about ledges, too, exquisite mossy
tenements, with white, pebbly eggs, that I can never gaze upon without
emotion. The little brown bird, the phoebe, looks at you from her niche
till you are within a few feet of her, when she darts away.
Occasionally you may find the nest of some rare wood-warbler forming a
little pocket in the apron of moss that hangs down over the damp rocks.

The sylvan folk seem to know when you are on a peaceful mission, and
are less afraid than usual. Did not that marmot to-day guess that my
errand did not concern him as he saw me approach from his cover in the
bushes? But when he saw me pause and deliberately seat myself on the
stone wall immediately over his hole, his confidence was much shaken.
He apparently deliberated awhile, for I heard the leaves rustle as if
he were making up his mind, when he suddenly broke cover and came for
his hole full tilt. Any other animal would have taken to his heels and
fled; but a woodchuck's heels do not amount to much for speed, and he
feels his only safety is in his hole. On he came in the most obstinate
and