At the Bend of the River. 79 



' There is sweet music here that softer falls 

 Than petals from blown roses on the grass. 

 Music that gentler on the spirit lies 

 Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.' 



Above the gentler sounds breaks in at times the 

 shrill call of a pheasant. His mate and he wander in 

 the covers idle and disconsolate. Other tenants of 

 the wood are toiling for their children's bread ; their 

 work is taken from them. 



Even now, among the coops scattered along the 

 sunny slope of the paddock on the hill, the keeper has 

 his hands full with the foster-mothers and their tender 

 charge. 



When the young broods are strong and are driven 

 to the woods, they will meet their rightful parents as 

 strangers altogether. 



A brief life at best is theirs. A single summer 

 among the green wilderness of this quiet valley, and 

 then, some cool October morning, swift fate will over- 

 take them, and struck down, perhaps by the very hand 

 that now with jealous care protects them, they will fall, 

 dying on the dying leaves. 



Suddenly there comes a shadow on the water, and 

 a slow, stately beat of wings. 



A heron drifts by along the river, nor dreams that 

 strange eyes see him pass. His long legs trail behind 

 him; his sharp beak is sunk upon his breast. He 

 is so near that you may see every tone of grey and 

 white and black among his plumage, the long feathers 



