Tanglewood Lane and Skippack Creek 



Over and over again he carols his golden 

 strain. 



A pair of sleek, long-tailed Brown 

 Thrashers run along the ground, side by 

 side, some distance ahead and disappear; 

 a ''Wild canary'' chirps merrily and flies 

 rollicking away — up and down, up and 

 down, Hke a tiny canoe on the waves; 

 then two Blue Jays rustle by voiceless, the 

 only silent ones just now in all this dim-lit 

 chapel of the woods, as if they felt their 

 harsh and strident tones would be out of 

 place and spoil the evening harmony; and 

 far below — for the trees break off abruptly 

 and there is a sheer fall of nearly two 

 hundred feet as you look down — the limpid, 

 winding water flows in noisy, babbling 

 monotone over many a rock ancl shallow. 



There is deep magic in it all. But across 

 the valley the sun has dropped behind the 

 hills; the Chimney Swifts outside are 

 gathering for their mad, twiUght frolic 

 until dark; Crow and Blackbird caw and 

 clack more drowsily, and we must up and 

 away. 



[107] 



