WOODLAND PATHS 



goldeneyes, more commonly called whist- 

 lers, because they so excel in wing music. 

 They swung a wide circle over my head 

 and then dropped back into the pond, 

 where an opening in the young ice gave 

 them opportunity. Curiosity probably 

 brought them up. They wanted to see 

 what that was prowling on the pond shore 

 in the uncertain light, a prompting that 

 might have cost them dear had I carried 

 a gun, for they came within easy range; 

 then, having seen, they went back to their 

 fishing. Their presence added a touch of 

 wildness to the scene that was not with- 

 out its charm, for you can hardly call the 

 bluebird or the song sparrow wild birds. 

 They are almost as domestic as the garden 

 shrubbery. 



For the moment the bird songs and the 

 whistling of the ducks' wings through the 

 rosy morning light made me forget the 

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