68 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



ing for the water, set with rosy bloom. My 

 attention is drawn to it by the humming of 

 bees, a busy, contented, content-producing 

 sound. How different from the hum of the 

 factory that I passed an hour ago, through 

 the open windows of which I saw men hur- 

 rying over " piece-work," every stroke like 

 every other, every man a machine, or part 

 of a machine, rather, for doing one thing. I 

 wonder whether the dreariness of the modern 

 " factory system " may not have had some- 

 thing to do with the origin and rapid devel- 

 opment of our nineteenth-century breed of 

 peripatetic thieves and beggars. 



Above the music of the bees I hear, of a 

 sudden, a louder hum. " A hummingbird," 

 I say, and turn to look at a jewel-weed. Yes, 

 the bird is there, trying the blossoms one 

 after another. Then she drops to rest upon 

 an alder twig (always a dead one) directly 

 under my nose, where I see her darting out 

 her long tongue, which flashes in the sun- 

 light. I say " she." She has a whitish 

 throat, and is either a female or a male of 

 the present season. Did any one ever see a 

 hummingbird without a thrill of pleasure? 

 Not I. 



