Our course was along the trail of the bark-men who had pursued the
doomed hemlock to the last tree at the head of the valley. As we passed
along, a red steer stepped out of the bushes into the road ahead of us,
where the sunshine fell full upon him, and, with a half-scared,
beautiful look, begged alms of salt. We passed the Haunted Shanty; but
both it and the legend about it looked very tame at ten o'clock in the
morning. After the road had faded out, we took to the bed of the stream
to avoid the gauntlet of the underbrush, skipping up the mountain from
boulder to boulder. Up and up we went, with frequent pauses and copious
quaffing of the cold water. My soldier declared a "haunted valley"
would be a godsend; anything but endless dragging of one's self up such
an Alpine stairway. The winter wren, common all through the woods,
peeped and scolded at us as we sat blowing near the summit, and the
oven-bird, not quite sure as to what manner of creatures we were,
hopped down a limb to within a few feet of us and had a good look, then
darted off into the woods to tell the news. I also noted the Canada
warbler, the chestnut-sided warbler, and the black-throated blue-back,
--the latter most abundant of all. Up these mountain brooks, too, goes
the belted kingfisher, swooping around through the woods when he spies
the fisherman, then wheeling into the open space of the stream and
literally making a "blue streak " down under the branches.

At last the stream which had been our guide was lost under the rocks,
and before long the top was gained. These mountains are horse-shaped.
There is always a broad, smooth back, more or less depressed, which the
hunter aims to bestride; rising rapidly from this is pretty sure to be
a rough, curving ridge that carries the forest up to some highest peak.
We were lucky in hitting the saddle, but we could see a little to the
south the sharp, steep neck of the steed sweeping up toward the sky