But, hark! the roar is dying away; voice after voice drops out; here and there is one laggard in the song, still dragging out the chorus.  Now all is still again, save the note of the little peeper along the shore.  In two minutes that band will strike up again.  The roar will go bellowing over the lake through the woods, to be thrown from hill to hill, to die away into silence again; and so it will be through all the long night, and until the sun looks out from among the tree tops in the morning.  Touch that solemn looking old croaker on yonder broad leaf of that pond lily, with the end of your fishing rod, while the music is at the highest, he will send forth a quick discordant and cracked cry, like that of a greedy dog choked with a bone, as he plunges for the bottom; and note how suddenly that sound will be repeated, and how quick the roar of the frogs will be hushed into silence.  That is a cry of alarm, a note of danger, and every frog within hearing understands its import.

Is it asked where we are?  I answer, we are on the Lower Saranac Lake, just on the south point, at the entrance of the romantic little bay, at the head of which stands Martin’s Lake House, the only human dwelling in sight of this beautiful sheet of water.  On the point where we now are, long ago, was the log shanty of a hunter and fisherman, surrounded by an acre or two of cleared land.  But its occupant moved deeper into the wilderness, over on the waters of the Rackett, many years since; the log shanty has rotted away, and a vigorous growth of brush and small timber, now covers what once may have been called a field.

But the night shadows are beginning to gather over the forest, throwing a sort of spectral gloom among the old woods, giving a distorted look to the trunks of the trees, the low bushes, the turned up roots, and the boulders scattered over the ground.  See what ogre shapes these things assume as the darkness deepens.  Look at that cedar bush, with its dense foliage!  It is a crouching lion, and as its branches wave in the gentle breeze, he seems preparing for his leap; and yonder boulder is a huge elephant!  The root that comes out from the crevice is his trunk, and the moss and lichens which hang down on either side are his pendant ears; and see, he has a great tower on his back, wherein is seated a warrior in his ancient armor, grasping battle-axe and spear.  Beyond, through that opening upon the bay, is a castle looming darkly against the sky, with massive towers and arched gateway.  Such are the forms which fancy gives to these forest things, in the doubtful twilight of a summer evening.  While we have been looking upon these unsubstantial shadows, the sunlight has left the mountain peaks, the stars have come out in the sky, and the moon has started on her course across the heavens.