I was pretty well soaked after wading around these muddy shores, and not a little tired with the planning and building of bridges. I rested, therefore, on the hillside among the ferns, watching the daring devil’s-darning-needles—dragon-flies—come and go about my head. The name of darning-needle is still full of alarm to me, but the dragon-fly is harmless both in name and nature. Bees were busy humming at their duty, frogs were croaking the hours away, and the wind was still flapping the ancient pads of Nymphæa, while low, sweet tones through the forest crept. I could have fallen fast asleep here beneath these shades, yet I was far from home, and my boots were heavy and wet. I made slow progress homeward to-day, with my heavy foot-gear and vasculum. I followed the dusty road to the Ball Farm gate. Here I turned into the old grassy way which had been in use before the present road was built near Thompson’s Brook. One can scarcely trace a track of the traffic of the past years in the present sod. The stone walls on either side of the lane are hidden with woodbine and red-raspberry bushes. Beside this path towers a great pine tree. I had promised myself a long rest beneath this shade, and gladly threw down my pack, and made a pillow of my tin can. The fleecy clouds rolled across the infinite blue over my head, and a sense of relaxation and solitude stole over me. I must have fallen asleep, and I was suddenly aroused by the cawing of crows that were circling above me,—wondering perhaps whether Major and I were in a proper condition for their approach. I was more tired after my rest than before, and I began to question, as many of my neighbors had done, the wisdom and profit of my bog-trotting. Well, my neighbors see no value in pitcher-plants and sundew. They say there is no money in them, and pity me for investing my time as I do. Neither do I understand why the farmer chooses to cultivate squash rather than follow some other occupation. It is his business to cultivate squash as it is my business to cultivate sundew. Some crops are failures in their monetary returns,—others in their yield of pleasure. As many wish money only to procure pleasure, if pleasure can be procured without it, why not take the easy way? The end is the same without the worry of the squash-bugs, and the weeding and hilling of the crop,—to say nothing of selling the fruit. The sundew plant would die were it to exchange its habitat for that of the squash. Giving myself a shake, I arose and again started on my way. Once through the fence, I nailed fast the board I had loosened, and climbed up to the road through the blackberry briars.