The Republican journal., 1909-08-19
The Lake and the Woods.
Boyhood Memories of Half-Moon Pond.

~ss~ss
Near the old homestead where I was
born and reared, separated from the
farm by half a mile of forest-cCvered
hills, lay lake. Its name, Half Moon
Pond, gives only remotely an idea of its
shape, for it was distinctly triangular.
If its christening had been left to me,
in memory of the joy I have felt in its
waters, and the blessed hours l have
spent on its rocky shore, would have
called it Full Moon, at least, or some
thing of more celestial suggestiveness.
During all my early years its waters
brimmed the basin, except when the
thirsty summer drought greedily swal-
lowed them up. Then a rocky beach
would appear, fifty or sixty feet wide,
with here and there paths of stones that
had been forced to its outer edge by the
expanding ice. Those little straight
paths were constant source of wonder
to me, but one in particular was source
of wonder and superstitious awe to older
people. 1t was several feet broad, and
extended twenty rods out into the lake.
A huge boulder thrust into the bank had
been pushed inch by inch for centuries
by the inhospitable ice, until it found
permanent lodgings beneath the hanging
boughs of the fir trees.
The pond was about two miles long,
with al outlet at one end where an old
saw-mill used to stand. A quarter of a
mile away a more ancient outlet had
been partially filled, leaving trembling
bog and Shiny pool inhabited by huge
bullfrogs. There were very few sandy
beaches along the margin, but now and
then a muddy and rocky inlet populous
with leeches, fry of red perch and club
and the awkward bullfrog tadpoles.
At the three angles of the pond were
beds of water-lilies, growing in deep
water, and the tempting fragrance of
the flowers have lured at least two to
their death. 1t seemed to me that it
would rot be an unpleasant experience
to sink down beneath the lily pads, if
one could lie there undisturbed with his
open eyes always watching the light
from the sun and stars, and not be oblig-
ed to return to the bayfield, again.
From the field on the western slope of
The hill where l lived, we boys could
catch glimpse now and then of a blue
patch of water, but in winter when the
leaves had fallen we could see acres of
shining ice that covered the surface of
the pond Why does Nature love to
tempt boys to disobedience? Two miles
of sparkling ice only half a mile away,
hard crusty snow that supported our
light weight, skates at hand that had
been earned by hard labor or harder
self -denial-a cord of wood to chop
before the night fell, and chores after
wards, what could a boy do? Or, in
summer, when the hot sun drove even
the butterflies from the field, and the
scythe had been swung through the
morning hours, and that blue patch of
liquid paradise in sight-again l ask,
what could boy do? We ran away and
skated and swan, and I'm glad we did.
Cod put that beautiful sheet of water
between the hills, surrounded it with
trees, filed it's basin with fish that
would bite any hook,-at least they
would mine, and He just meant that we
boys should enjoy it, work or no work.
And we did.
Then those old paths thro' the woods,
that perhaps the feet of wild deer had
beaten. and certainly our bare feet had
improved, led thro' the shadiest places
in the world, dark at noon day so that
we were sure bears or some other terrible
beasts were there lying in wait for dis
obedient boys. But they never touched
us. What chance had bear to catch a
barefoot boy? 1t seemed a long way
through the woods, but there was always
time before reaching home to pluck the
sweet twin flower, and the lady s slipper,
and the trillium, and to make gaudy
bouquet to placate the wrathful parents
at home.
The lake still shimmers in the sunshine,
the looms upon its bosom still utter their
weird cry, the hoarse-voiced bullfrogs
can still be heard on quiet evening a
mile away the brook running from the
outlet down to the meadow gurgles over
the stones, and when darkness comes
over the forest, and stiffness pervades
the world, its gurgles still become a
lullaby to the birds swaying in the
branches; but the old charm has fled.
The waters of the lake, drained for a
new mill, and to supply the needs of
neighboring towns, have receded from
the green banks, leaving broad, un-
slightly beach of slippery rocks.
No.temptation now to run away; new
roads have been built, the old paths have