THE CURRENT OF MUSKETAQ.UID. 101 



bunches of pitch-pines almost as rich as savins 

 in their olive-green coloring ; ancient orchards 

 in which respectable families of bluebirds still re- 

 side untroubled by the emigrant sparrow ; single 

 graceful elms on whose finger tips dangled the 

 gray purses of last year's orioles ; fringes of wil- 

 lows bearing their pussies, a few of which showed 

 their yellow stamens just projecting; and maples 

 on whose highest twigs balanced the resident red- 

 wings, running over with rippling laughter. My 

 friend spoke of a theory that all bird music is 

 imitative of the sounds best known to the spe- 

 cies, and said that the notes of the redwings 

 seemed to bear out this pretty hypothesis, hav- 

 ing the sound of water running through their 

 sweet measures. 



Gliding across a placid bay in the meadow we 

 came to a wooded shore where a noble oak had 

 just been slain. We landed, and kneeling by its 

 stump counted the year rings. At first it had 

 grown slowly, its young life trembling in the 

 balance ; then it gained strength, and the rings 

 were broader and more firmly marked ; some- 

 times narrower ones suggested years of drought ; 

 then as our count rose to a hundred, the rings 

 grew closer and closer, as though life passed by 

 very fast in those" years. In all, the oak must 

 have lived one hundred and twenty-five years, and 

 have heard the echo of those musket shots which 



