WOODLAND PATHS 



looking up nesting material, haw-hawed 

 right out over my head till they had to 

 stop flapping and sail, they were so weak 

 from it, and a whole flock of chickadees 

 tittered all along behind my back for a 

 quarter of a mile as I went on up the 

 swamp on the left bank of the Euphrates. 



It was amusing, and after a little I 

 tould see the joke and laugh myself. The 

 Tigris was on my right, and by-and-by 

 the two began to prattle down over a 

 hard bottom from higher ground. Only 

 for a little way, though, for here we 

 came to another wide swamp which the 

 two traversed under low sprouts of 

 swamp maple and birch, the ground hav- 

 ing been cut over within a few years. 



And right here I ran into a full chorus, 

 a raucous cacophony, an Homeric din that 

 sounded as if all the rough-voiced goblins 



between Blue Hill and the Berkshires were 

 126 



