Digital heart book

Nature is not
made after such a fashion as we would have her. We piously
exaggerate her wonders, as the scenery around our home.
Such was the heaviness of the dews along this river that we were
generally obliged to leave our tent spread over the bows of the
boat till the sun had dried it, to avoid mildew. We passed the
mouth of Penichook Brook, a wild salmon-stream, in the fog,
without seeing it. At length the sun's rays struggled through
the mist and showed us the pines on shore dripping with dew, and
springs trickling from the moist banks,--
"And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms,
Of unshorn mountains blown with easy winds,
Dandle the morning's childhood in their arms,
And, if they chanced to slip the prouder pines,
The under corylets did catch their shines,
To gild their leaves."
We rowed for some hours between glistening banks before the sun
had dried the grass and leaves, or the day had established its
character. Its serenity at last seemed the more profound and
secure for the denseness of the morning's fog.


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