THE VESPER SONG OF THE WOODCOCK. 79 



every frog had gone to the bottom and hidden 

 in the leaves and mud. The pool was lined 

 with many layers of brown leaves, most of which 

 preserved their outlines and told their names. 

 Across them twigs and branches had fallen, and 

 bits of lichen and moss had sunk there, too. 

 Many specks were floating in the water. They 

 seemed to move, some one way, some another. 

 They were alive. Bending closer over the 

 water, I watched them attentively. Some moved 

 quite evenly, others hitched across the pool by a 

 series of jerky advances. There were lively red 

 ones among them, contrasting with the darker, 

 duller ones. Some were so minute that they 

 could be seen only as a ray 'of light pierced the 

 pool. As minutes passed and no frog moved, I 

 grew weary and rose. Instantly a frog kicked 

 among the leaves and mud, betraying by motion 

 what his color had protected. A second later I 

 had him, feebly squirming in my pocket. 



North of One Pine Hill a flock of thirty or 

 more birds were feeding in a stubble field. 

 They were j uncos and tree sparrows, in about 

 equal numbers. The juncos did not say where 

 they had been all winter. Only just out of my 

 sight, perhaps, all the time. At five o'clock the 

 ravine was reached. It was full of shadows, 

 and the raw east wind had piled masses of cloud 

 across the sky, making the sun's light pale and 



