:^fff^se AcnD 



224 UPON A DAY 



Of all the birds that haunt our woodlands, the 

 pigeon is perhaps most wide awake. You will not 

 easily catch him napping. He does not even drink 

 like other birds. He does not sip and hold his head 

 up to let the water trickle down his throat ; he just 

 liTvtf^^^r- «« takes one long steady pull, and then he is off again to 

 the bean-field. 



Time would fail to tell of all or of one-half of the 

 incidents of humble life that come under the tent- 

 dweller's ken in even this one sleepy hour of a broil- 

 ing summer day ; of the cock-pheasant, radiant in 

 purple and gold, who comes down to drink, walking, 

 delicately as Agag, through the nettles ; of the caddis- 

 worm, architect and builder, collecting sticks and 

 shells for the castle he will bear about with him 

 through life; of the caddis-flies, rising buoyant 

 through the water, and, dry almost at once, stretching 

 their wings to lose themselves forthwith in the quiver- 

 ing noonday heat. There is much indeed to see, but 

 the tent-dweller notes it all. And could we stay, we 

 too might come to see it with his eyes. But our holi- 

 day is all but over, and we have many a mile to go ere 

 night. 



May I drop the historic present — for all this 

 happened long ago — and just tell you what the tent- 



