DOWN THE CREEK 



iHATEVER the season, it is a 

 place of delight. The creek 

 itself is no sluggish stream 

 crawling betwixt muddy banks. 

 In winter it is a bold, blue tor- 

 rent, brawling rarely over pebbles and around 

 boulders. Spring makes of it almost a river, 

 swirling and boiling from hill to hill. Heats 

 of August shrink it to a bare thread of bright 

 water, stealing in long runnels through the 

 water -worn grooves in its limestone bed. 

 Sometimes they take most curious shapes. 

 Here is a capital W written in limpid wave- 

 lets upon a stretch of solid stone. Where 

 the channel falls it is no trouble to step 

 across it. About every half-mile comes a 

 "lake," where gravel beds, fallen timber, and 

 dead leaves have built an alluvial dam and 

 spread a long, bright pool, wherein frogs 

 and fish and muskrats disport themselves 

 the summer through. 



Oddly enough, when the wood-birds go 



