The squirrels are perhaps counting over their store of nuts in a hollow tree, and the hermit-thrush spares his voice until evening.
The woods are close--not cool and fragrant as the foolish romances describe them--but warm and still; for the breeze which sweeps across the hilltop and ruffles the lake does not penetrate into these shady recesses, and therefore all the inhabitants take the noontide as their hour of rest. Only the big woodpecker--he of the scarlet head and mighty bill--is indefatigable, and somewhere unseen is "tapping the hollow beech-tree," while a wakeful little bird,--I guess it is the black-throated green warbler,--prolongs his dreamy, listless ditty,--'te-de-terit-sca,--'te-de-us--wait.
After about an hour of easy walking, our trail began to ascend more sharply. We passed over the shoulder of a ridge and around the edge of a fire-slash, and then we had the mountain fairly before us. Not that we could see anything of it, for the woods still shut us in, but the path became very steep, and we knew that it was a straight climb; not up and down and round about did this most uncompromising trail proceed, but right up, in a direct line for the summit.