DAYS WITH THE BROOK. 73
nute cavern. His little chubby face was dripping with the water taken on his last plunge. I pitied his cramped position, and as he evidently did not wish to make my acquaintance. I passed on.
Soon I crossed another main road, and in the pasture the brook divided again. Beyond, tall golden-rods, clad in feathery costumes, stood waiting a propitious breeze to waft their many winged seeds afar: quantities of these seeds fastened themselves to me, and I willingly bore them on in my journey.
As I pushed through a bunch of alders I woke, from a mid-day nap, a trio of horses. The oldest fled, and the colts followed; one little bushy fellow showed plainly by his gait that he would be a pacer when he became a roadster.
The brook now ran under the road, and on the other side a small tarn walled in, confined the head-waters of this branch; swamp maples grew on one side and elms on the other; red squirrels were holding converse in the tall stone wall at the north side. In this diminutive tarn the water was dark, and the bright maple leaves buried beneath it, shone the brighter for the burying. In the field opposite cattle, like Jacob's of old, were busy cropping the frost-bitten rowen.
I walked along in the highway until I came to the branch I had left below. Here I entered another cow pasture, and my watery guide led me into a swamp of birches and maples. I made my way noiselessly over the brittle twigs. Here I was alone with the woods; the leaves had dropped and left the branches bare. I could catch glimpses of the blue sky ever and anon. Suddenly I was awakened from my musings by the dull whirring sound of wings; looking up quickly I saw two partridges rise and light in a scrubby apple tree. I crept up and saw the cock, with his feathery cap, taking swift observations. One more move on my part and the twain flew off with much ado.
Farther on in the swamp, nearly out to another main road, this tributary commences its life in a spring. I think that the cattle feeding in the pasture, and the wild animals, alone frequent this source.
Retracing my steps I gained open ground, and discovered and old cellar. Here many years ago stood the Ezekiel (?) Ricker house, and the traces of the wheel path running near are all that is left of the old "county road."
As the roads run now, this cellar seems left by civilization; but when it was inhabited, the people lived on the main road from Dover to Norway Plains.
I walked through the tall, white grass, and it bent like wire under my tread. I could see nothing east of me but the pine clad side of "Capt. Ich.'s hill." I intended to climb it, and my path led through a grove of savins. The warm sun brought out a cedar-like smell from the shrub that was most agreeable. My footing over the glossy pine needles was precarious, but I was well paid for my physical efforts, when I reached the summit. Dividing 'Zekiel Ricker's side of the hill from Otis Ricker's (for whom the hill is sometimes called), a wall stood, and can be traced to-day, although it was long since mustered out of service.
Large oaks hold the top and spread their strong arms in a protecting manner over the small pitch pines growing in the cleared space where thirty years ago corn was planted. I sat down amid the baby pines and thought how, in a few years, they would be called "young growth," and some one would be speculating about "how many cords to the acre." Behind me I heard the noisy protest of the crisp oak leaves as they fell to the ground. The warm wind wafted a mingled perfume of pine and cedar to me, and a strong love of nature filled my soul. I felt that I was blessed indeed to be here. How perfect every thing was. All had been arranged by a never erring hand. The horizon at the north was guarded by Bonneg-Beag, the east by Agamenti-
