22 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



stop on the bridge. Swamp sparrows are 

 trilling on either side of me a spontaneous, 

 effortless kind of music, like water running 

 downhill. A phoebe chides me gently; 

 passengers are expected to use the bridge 

 to cross the brook upon, she intimates, not 

 as a lounging-place, especially as her nest is 

 underneath. Yellow bladderworts lift their 

 pretty hoods above the slimy, black water, 

 and among them lies a turtle, thrusting his 

 head out to enjoy the sun. Once I see him 

 raise a foreclaw and scratch the underside of 

 his neck. The most sluggish and cold-blooded 

 animal that ever lived must now and then 

 be taken with an itching, I suppose. 



Beyond the bridge the woods are full of 

 white azalea (they are full of it now, that is 

 to say, so long as the bushes are in blossom), 

 but I listen in vain for the song of a Cana- 

 dian warbler, whom I know to be living 

 somewhere in its shadow. A chickadee, 

 looking as if she had been through the wars, 

 her plumage all blackened and bedraggled, 

 makes remarks to me as I pass. The cares 

 of maternity have spoiled her beauty, and 

 perhaps ruffled her temper, for the time be- 



