62 



THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



through the black waters of the mill-pond, out under 

 the open of the April sky, night and day, and every 

 day^ the four seasons through. 



I have seen the still surface of a pond break sud- 

 denly with a swirl, and flash a hundred flecks of 

 silver into the light, as the minnows leap from the 



jaws of the terrible pike. Then a loud rattle, a streak 

 of blue, a splash at the centre of the swirl, and I 

 see the pike twisting and bending in the beak of 

 the terrible kingfisher. The killer is killed. But at the 

 mouth of the nest-hole in the steep sand-bank, sway- 

 ing from a root in the edge of the turf above, hangs 

 the terrible black snake, the third killer ; and the 

 belted kingfisher, dropping the pike, darts off with 

 a startled cry. 



I have been afield at times when one tragedy has 

 followed another in such rapid and continuous suc- 

 cession as to put a whole shining, singing, blossom- 

 ing springtime under a pall. Everything has seemed 

 to cower, skulk, and hide, to run as if pursued. 

 There was no peace, no stirring of small life, n6t 

 even in the quiet of the deep pines ; for here a hawk 

 would be nesting, or a snake would be sleeping, or 



