34 ALONG THE WATERWAYS 



salt entering its blood, it disappears among the 

 marshes, being drawn seaward with tide -water. 



If you ask Time o' Year what he is doing when 

 you meet him wandering along the birches on river 

 banks, or sitting watching the sway of the white 

 Water Lily pads and the reflection of purple Pick- 

 erel Weed in some quiet nook well out of the cur- 

 rent, he will answer, "Fishing," at the same time 

 taking a seasonable bait, worm, grasshopper, or 

 suchlike, from his basket, perfectly unconscious that 

 your eyes are riveted, perhaps, on the flower of a 

 rare Pitcher-plant, that dangles from his frayed 

 buttonhole, telling of a long tramp through marshy, 

 fishless places, where the ground is sphagnum -cov- 

 ered, the haunt of the strange insect -killing Sun- 

 dews, Arums, Water Plantains, Cranberries, Fringed 

 Orchids, and other bog plants. 



Fishing ? Why should he be doubted, when rod 

 and line and water all are there ? Even if trout 

 should be out of season, he knows the run of every 

 eel, bass, perch, or pike. But Time o' Year is no 

 pot-hunter, either with rod or gun; a morsel for 

 his own need is all he ever takes of fin, fur, or 

 feather. No: he is listening to the river-voice that 

 has been calling, calling, ever since it first moved 

 on the face of seething waters, to those that have 



