OUTDOORS 



branch of fishing is without its delights. 

 Come with me to the old bridge now and you 

 will see what I mean. Twilight is coming 

 on, and over the hills the nighthawks, long 

 and sharp-pointed of wing, are moving with 

 jerky, irregular flight. Their short, queru- 

 lous cry echoes constantly as they dart about 

 after insects in the upper spaces. Blackbirds 

 are flying past in long lines, and for the most 

 part in sober silence. Robins are coming 

 home to their roosting-places in the tamarack 

 swamp beyond, and after them the turtle- 

 doves, drab meteors in flight, swiftly follow. 

 The bull-frogs are beginning to chant, and 

 veiled shadows are forming thickly toward 

 the east. Distant hills stand like black monu- 

 ments, and up from the west comes the call 

 of a whippoorwill. 



Let us sit by the centre of the bridge as the 

 night comes on. Now the bats are beginning 

 to dodge about, and the shadows grow longer 

 and deeper, and the stars are commencing to 

 show themselves above the trees some of 

 them faintly and timidly; others quite con- 

 fidently and brightly. The birds are gone, 

 and a strange, gloomily shimmering warp 

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