A Pond. 213 



about in the very middle of the great field, far 

 out of reach of the gun. If ever he ventures to the 

 brook, it is not till after a careful survey from the fir 

 tree, his tower of observation ; and, when in the 

 brook, his long neck is every now and then extended, 

 that he .may gaze above the banks. 



By the gateway, reached by crossing a rude bridge 

 for the wagons, wild hops festoon the thickets. Be- 

 hind the maple bushes in the corner the water of 

 the pond, overhung with willow, is dark almost 

 black in the depth of shadow. Out of it a narrow 

 and swift current runs into that slow straight brook 

 which bounds the right side of the meadow. Here 

 in the long grass and rushes growing luxuriantly 

 between the underwood lurk the moor-hens, building 

 their nests on bunches of rushes against the bank 

 and almost level with the water. Though but barely 

 hatched, and chips of shell clinging to their backs, 

 the tiny fledglings swim at once if alarmed. When 

 a little older they creep about on the miniature ter- 

 races formed along the banks by the constant run- 

 ning to and fro of water-rats, or stand on a broken 

 branch bent down by its own weight into the water, 

 yet still attached to the stem, puffing up their dark 

 feathers like a black ball. 



If all be quiet, the moor-hens come out now and 

 then into the meadow ; and then, as they stand up- 

 right out of the water, the peculiar way in which 

 their tails, white marked, are turned upwards is 

 visible. The bill is of a fine color almost the 

 ' orange-tawny ' of the blackbird, set in thick red coral 

 at its base. Under the 'shallow water at the 

 mouth of the pond the marks of their feet on the 



