62 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



, / through the black waters of the mill-pond, out under' 

 / the open of the April sky, night and day, and every 

 A day, the four seasons through. 



I have seen the still surface of a pond break sud- 

 denly with a swirl, and flash a hundred flecks of 

 silver into the light, as the minnows leap from the 



jaws of the terrible pike. Then a loud rattle, a streak 

 of blue, a splash at the centre of the swirl, and I 

 see the pike twisting and bending in the beak of 

 the terrible kingfisher. The killer is killed. But at the 

 mouth of the nest-hole in the steep sand-bank, sway- 

 ing from a root in the edge of the turf above, hangs 

 . the terrible black snake, the third killer ; and the 

 belted kingfisher, dropping the pike, darts off with 

 a startled cry. 



I have been afield at times when one tragedy has 

 followed another in such rapid and continuous suc- 

 cession as to put a whole shining, singing, blossom- 

 ' ing springtime under a pall. Everything has seemed 

 | to cower, skulk, and hide, to run as if pursued. 

 There was no peace, no stirring of small life, not 

 even in the quiet of the deep pines ; for here a hawk 

 would be nesting, or a snake would be sleeping, or 







