
and bobbing heads, half walking, half running 
at the water’s edge on the other shore. It 
seemed a little remarkable that, whichever side 
of the stream I might be on, those tilting little 
sandpipers were sure to be on the opposite side 
—so like some folks. A phoebe also was linger- 
ing about the water. It was no holiday for him, 
he had a keen eye to business, and was making 
frequent sallies from the branch of an ancient, 
Calvinistic oak gnarled with age, and scarred 
with adversity, but grim and defiant to the 
outermost twig; beneath whose angular shade 
on a stretch of sloping green I lay and watched 
the shallow, eddying current, whose incessant 
flow seemed to palliate my own supreme idle- 
ness. 
A drove of cows returning home from pasture, 
lazily stopping here and there to browse, and 
one after the other splashing through the water 
with true bovine dignity and enjoyment, or 
standing in its delicious coolness—luxuriant 
trees growing from the margin, and casting long 
shadows as the sun declined—a troop of red- 
winged blackbirds flying about and chattering 
loudly as they settled in the trees, with now and 
then the daintier tone of some mellow-voiced 
goldfinches—cliff and bank swallows with flinty 

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