w and then an ugly spotted adder by no means pleasant to
touch with bare feet. There were great black snakes, too, in the ledges
of the neighboring knolls; and on one occasion in early spring I found
myself in the midst of a score at least of them,--holding their wicked
meeting of a Sabbath morning on the margin of a deep spring in the
meadows. One glimpse at their fierce shining beads in the sunshine, as
they roused themselves at my approach, was sufficient to send me at full
speed towards the nearest upland. The snakes, equally scared, fled in
the same direction; and, looking back, I saw the dark monsters following
close at my heels, terrible as the Black Horse rebel regiment at Bull
Run. I had, happily, sense enough left to step aside and let the ugly
troop glide into the bushes.

Nevertheless, the meadows had their redeeming points. In spring
mornings the blackbirds and bobolinks made them musical with songs; and
in the evenings great bullfrogs croaked and clamored; and on summer
nights we loved to watch the white wreaths of fog rising and drifting in
the moonlight like troops of ghosts, with the fireflies throwing up ever
and anon signals of their coming. But the Brook was far more
attractive, for it had sheltered bathing-places, clear and white sanded,
and weedy stretches, where the shy pickerel loved to linger, and deep
pools, where the stupid sucker stirred the black mud with his fins. I
had followed it all the way from its birthplace among the pleasant New
Hampshire hills, through the sunshine of broad, open meadows, and under
the shadow of thick woods. It was, for the most part, a sober, quiet
little river; but at intervals it broke into a low, rippling laugh over
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. There had, so tradition said, once
been a witch-meeting on its banks, of six little old women in short,
sky-blue cloaks; and if a drunken teamster could be credited, a ghost
was once seen bobbing for eels under Country Bridge. It ground our corn
and rye for us, at its two grist-mills; and we drove our sheep to it for
their spring washing, an anniversary which was looked forward to with
intense delight, for it was always rare fun for the youngsters.
Macaulay has sung,--

"That year young lads in Umbro
Shall plunge the struggling sheep;"

and his picture of the Roman sheep-washing recalled, when we read it,
similar scenes in the Country Brook. On its banks we could always find