was sheer joy to spring briskly up the steep, wet path—no loitering today—up and up and up! Joy to be climbing again after three days of bondage in the house, except for brief excursions down the road to the gate, a mile and a half away. The woods were still drenched and the rich, indescribable odor of rejoicing earth fresh from its bath rose on every side. The few birds that August had left recalled their June jubilation in mad joy of living. The note of the hermit thrush came flutily from the direction of Monte Rosa across the steep declivity between. Everything was free again.
The climber reached at last the spot he had in mind. It was a point of vantage that Thoreau loved, on the east side of the unsuspected, high-nestled little mountain meadow, in the middle of the small plateau which lies under the east flank of the summit. He found his sheltering nook; a pew-like ledge with blueberries creeping close to his hand along the crevice between seat and back, and at his feet a little charming
