All too soon I came to the edge of the swamp, and consequently, the end of “Fairyland.”  One “long last look” I gave, and then climbed the fence to the wheat hills just beyond.  Over these I walked rapidly, heading for the little Beaver.  “Cigar Hill, “ those really close at hand was at first invisible, owing to the thick mists, which the sun as yet had been unable to dispel.  Down at the Little Beaver, was again the domain of frost.  The creek, frozen over, presented a beautiful scene.  Owing to some sulphuric element in the water, the ice in places was yellow, looking as tho rusted.  On both sides, as far as the eye could reach, white bushes fringed the banks, - the distance, as before was hidden in mist.
     Owing to ice which had been cast up during a freshet, the walking right along the creek was exceedingly difficult, and in fact nigh impossible.  So I contented myself with walking along the edge of the brush.  My way led up over a slight rise of ground.  Here were some prostate beeches and haws, that had evidently been felled when the leaves were yet green, as the haws had retained all their foliage.  The colors of the leaves – yellow, russet,