238 FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 



At first, as I lay there, the world seemed life- 

 less, so utterly silent was it. No insect's wing 

 gleamed in the sunlight, no squirrel ran on the 

 wall, no bird spoke in the treetops. There are 

 wonderfully still moments in midsummer, when 

 the breeze dies away, the sun's rays glow like 

 fire in the lake, and the birds sit motionless 

 and drowsy in the thickets. In those moments, 

 however, the watchful eye can always see the 

 dragon-fly darting back and forth over the water, 

 the inch-worm reaching out its aimless and in- 

 quiring arm from the tip of a grass stalk, or the 

 ant marching back and forth wdth endless pa- 

 tience under the stubble forests. Still and seem- 

 ingly dead as was this winter morning, I had 

 faith that if I listened attentively enough some 

 voice would come to me out of the silence ; and 

 sure enough, as soon as my presence was forgot- 

 ten, two or three golden-crested kinglets began 

 lisping to each other in the nearest cedars. 

 Soon they came into view, hovering, fluttering, 

 clinging, among the evergreen branches ; some- 

 times head downwards, often sideways, always 

 busy clearing the foliage of its insect dwellers. 



While I was watching thesQ tiny workers, now 

 and then catching a glimpse of their bright yel- 

 low crown-patches, I saw a much larger bird 

 alight in a leafless ash-tree about fifty feet from 

 me, near the orchard wall. The next moment 



