Kept springing into the lake with a final croak of disapproval.
We made our way back to the hotel across the velvety grass,
already wet with dew, to find a crowd of splendidly attired
tourists, poring over their cards or dancing away those rare
hours, at the close of "one of those heavenly days that cannot
die."
"Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds."
So thought we as the day that was breaking found us out in the
lovely glen; hemmed in on all sides by lofty hills. The birds at
this season of the year do most of their singing in the morning
hours. Early as the time was, we were not the first to greet the
coming dawn.
The blue mantle that clothed the mountains had been withdrawn so
that the serrated points of spruce and pine stood out in bold
relief against the pale blue of the morning sky. The stars, like
far-off beacon lights along the mountain tops, slowly melted
into the dawn. Over in the direction of Mount Willard the rich
contralto of the wood thrush sounded; the white crowned
sparrow's sweet, wavering whistle rang from the spruce crested
slopes; from the telephone poles down by the railroad station
the king birds were loudly disputing with the indigo buntings
for full possession of the wires; flickers and downy woodpeckers
called loudly or gave vent to their morning enthusiasm by
beating a lively tattoo upon the dead pine stubs; while the
ringing reveille of the cardinal must have awakened the
sleepiest denizen of the forest.
