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to earth, then snapping viciously at the res- 

 cuing wand that would raise him. Wisdom's 

 bird though he be, he shines only in the 

 dark. Sailing slow and noiseless through 

 midnight forest aisles, his great eyes gleam- 

 ing a green phosphorescence, he is a sight 

 to thrill the stoutest heart. Here, in broad, 

 honest daylight, like many another bogy, he 

 is merely amusing. 



Now we come to a runnel draining slow 

 from out the wood. What a brown clear- 

 ness the water wears between the white- 

 heaped banks ! Here, in the skirting thicket, 

 is one of Nature's store-houses a waste- 

 place, irreclaimable, wherein she lays up for 

 her wild creatures all manner of fruit and 

 seed. What clumps of buck-berries grow 

 here all the slender, drooping twigs crowd- 

 ed with red-purple fruit to the bigness of 

 your linger. What scarlet cones of sumach, 

 too what fruit of bramble and partridge 

 vine what seed of grass and weed ! No 

 wonder the place is awhir with wings that 

 fine, faint footmarks write on the snow the 

 tale of other comers. Squirrels have crept 

 down to drink. Brer Possum has dragged 

 himself clumsily hither. There are deep 

 footmarks, too, to say Reynard the Fox has 

 gone padding past. He is a delicate drink- 



