40 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



A kingbird, one of two or three here- 

 about, comes to sit on a branch over my 

 head. He is full of twitters, which sound 

 as if they might be full of meaning ; but 

 there is no interpreter. He, too, like the 

 oriole, is on his last month. I have great 

 respect for kingbirds. A phrebe shows her- 

 self in the hedge, flirting her tail airily as 

 she alights. " Pretty well, I thank you," 

 she might be saying. Every kind of bird 

 has motions of its own, no doubt, if we look 

 sharply enough. The phoebe's may be seen 

 of all men. 



I had meant to go out and sit awhile 

 under the spreading white oak yonder, on 

 the upper side of the pasture, near the 

 huckleberry patches; but why should I? 

 Well enough is well enough, I say to my- 

 self; and it sounds like good philosophy, 

 in weather like this. It may never set the 

 millpond on fire ; but then, I don't wish to 

 set it on fire. 



And although I go on mentioning par- 

 ticulars, a flower, a bird, a bird's note, it 

 is none of these that I am really enjoying. 

 It is the day the brightness and the quiet, 



