206 WILD SPORTS IN THE SOUTH. 



waters croon, the leaves whisper, the wood-thrush warble 

 his low chant, and I forget to listen to that inner voice 

 complaining. I see the bold plunge of the kingfisher div- 

 ing for his prey ; bright eyes are peering at me from bush 

 and hole, cautiously at first, familiarly afterward; the 

 leafy vault above me dazzles the eye with a confused 

 motion of waning, glimmering brightness, and catches of 

 sunshine come and go athwart the foam and on the 

 flowers, and I do not see the cold, hard faces that were 

 staring at me but now. I drink the water, I smell the 

 odor of the moss, I lean my face against the cool beech 

 trunk ; every sense is drinking in the religion of nature, 

 and the soul, forgetting itself, goes up in the million- 

 colored, million-formed works of creation, through their 

 instincts, their changes, and their birth, to that pervad- 

 ing essence that made them all and guides them all, and 

 placed me among them all a very little thing in this 

 wonderful place. And then comes forth the Muskrat ; 

 he swims out to an apple you had tossed in the stream, 

 and, smelling it an instant, takes it in his mouth, and 

 bears it away to yonder stone. He sees you now; a 

 moment's pause ; he is watching you ; perchance he sees 

 that softening heart that has come over you with the 

 teachings of the hour, and therefore he does not fear 

 you. He goes on munching his apple, while his whiskers 

 move up and down with every movement of his grave 

 cheek. His keen eyes wink with satisfaction. When he 

 has finished his meal he passes his hand over his face, and 

 dresses his robe a moment. He looks up the stream and 



