Although I have been familiar with this region from childhood, viewing it from the roadside only, I never at any time had ventured to follow Ball Brook through all its meanderings to the Bogs of Etchowog near Pownal Pond, a distance of some three miles. This would not be a long walk on a fair road, but it becomes rather dangerous and formidable when leading through quaking marshes in the soaking currents of a stream. A short distance to the right, north of the schoolhouse in Number Fourteen, there is an old pathway nearly overgrown with bushy pines and birch and chestnut underbrush. This I followed, entering the hollow under the brow of the hill, and passing along the wood road which skirts the margins of one of the deepest, darkest jungles in these regions. The old people look upon it as akin to “Witch Hollow,” on the Gulf Road near by, and tell strange tales of ghosts, and of some mythological peddler who was swallowed here in the black mud of this ancient tarn, after having been robbed of his fine silks and precious jewels. Weird, hollow drummings issue and echo through these shaded vales from time to time. Probably they are due, however, to nothing more startling than the alarum of a partridge, or the hoot of the screech-owl; or the creaking and rubbing of partially fallen trees against their supporting brothers, voicing a portent of coming storm. I hear in this woodland seclusion little save the whispering of the winds, the sighing of the pines, and snapping of dead twigs, mingled with the chorus of the thrushes. The first settlers here about interpreted these wood-sounds far differently; then the primeval forests were dense, and the noises were deep and full of mystery, and there was fear of the Redman’s war-whoop. As Burroughs writes: “The ancients, like women and children, were not accurate observers. Just at the critical moment their eyes were unsteady, or their fancy, or their credulity, or their impatience got the better of them, so that their science was half fact and half fable.... They sought to account for such things without stopping to ask, Are they true? Nature was too novel, or else too fearful to them to be deliberately pursued and hunted down.”[3] I stopped on a corduroy bridge to draw on my high-water boots and rubber gloves, for one feels safer when entering this dense swamp if protected from poisonous roots and foliage, biting insects and things that creep and crawl. I had started out with small belief that I would find any prime blossoms of the Orchid Family, for nothing of importance had yet unfolded in Aurora’s Swamp in North Adams. But when I penetrated the heart of these rich, warm glooms, I found waiting for me a fragrant company of Dwarf Yellow Lady’s Slipper (_Cypripedium parviflorum_); and innumerable Stemless Pink Lady’s Slippers, more frequently called the Indian’s Moccasin-Flower (_Cypripedium acaule_), stood as sentinels on the dryer edges of the swamp.