ADOWN THE WOODLAND STREAM. 175 



II. 



July 27, '99. 'Tis Sunday morn again. 

 How quickly the tide of time ebbs and flows 

 during these serene summer months. To-day I 

 shall again wander 'neath an azure sky, by quiet 

 pools and shadowy ripples and learn what the 

 woodland stream has to tell of life within its 

 waters or along its shores. 



As usual almost every pool has its spring 

 frog sitting as sentinel upon its banks. As I 

 approach in he leaps with resounding plunge, 

 thus causing all the denizens of the pool to be 

 wary. Is it a squeak of affright, of defiance, or 

 of impudence which this green frog utters as he 

 springs? He burrows into the sand and silt 

 at the bottom of the pool, but shortly his head 

 appears above the surface and for a long time 

 he "treads water," while he keeps a bright eye 

 fixed upon me. A few days ago I noted a bull- 

 frog thus treading water. His body was al- 

 most erect and how like the body of a man is 

 that of a frog when erect and his front feet 

 moving at the wrists kept up a slow but con- 

 tinuous paddling motion. Occasionally the 



