A Bit of River 77 



the river waits below. For how long has that grand 

 old tree remained on guard ? Older than the civ- 

 ilization it overlooks, the tooth of time has bitten 

 deeply into its upper trunk. The wolf has howled 

 at its foot when the sand bore fresh imprint of the 

 deer's dainty tread. The canoe of the savage has 

 drifted beneath those limbs and startled the wild 

 turkey from its lofty roost, yet the old tree stands 

 firm. Now the red-headed woodpecker bores 

 where the sap has ceased to flow, the purple martin 

 and white-bellied swallow wheel at will about the 

 round black holes, and flocking grackles rest awhile 

 before the last long flight to the distant marsh- 

 lands. Year after year one hundred fledglings have 

 loved this tree as home. 



The sycamore has goodly company. Broad, 

 leafy basswoods, far-reaching Norway maples, pale- 

 tinted butternuts, rich-wooded walnuts, rough chest- 

 nuts, shivering willows, dark-looking mulberries and 

 elms, shapely maples and oaks, are ranged in stately 

 columns. Below them crowd alders and ferny 

 sumachs, among which blaze the golden stars, dear 

 to country maids. In places, too, the vines run 

 riot. The creeper trails its graceful length from 

 many a limb, the wild grape's tough rigging stays 

 a hundred living masts, and the clematis bursts its 

 smoky balls till they hide the bushes in hazy clouds. 



Well do the birds and small beasts love such 

 sanctuary. The morning chorus swells with the 

 voices of many species. The kingfisher rouses his 

 rattle and drops like a plummet upon his prey. 

 The flicker enjoys his airy canter from trunk to 

 trunk and shouts his lusty challenge to following 



