So deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook that
here late summer had not dislodged early spring. Everywhere was a
soft, fresh, bright green. The old gray cliffs were festooned with
ferns, lichens and moss. Under a great, shelving rock, damp and
stained by the copper-colored water dripping down its side, was a
dewy dell into which the sunshine had never peeped. Here the swift
brook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under the cliff, as
though loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more to
enthusiasm in its murmuring flight.
Life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot.
Little brown and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ran
along the leaf-strewn ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes;
robins and flickers darted beneath the spreading branches. Squirrels
scurried over the leaves like little whirlwinds, and leaped daringly
from the swinging branches or barked noisily from woody perches.
Rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling at the
tender shoots of sassafras and laurel.
Along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a rifle
cautiously stepped, peering into the branches overhead. A gray flash
shot along a limb of a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrel
flitted into a well-protected notch, from whence, no doubt, a keen
little eye watched the hunter's every movement.
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