VOICES OF THE BROOKSIDE 185 



pouts at any season, but these little chaps are 

 peculiar to the dog days. I have an idea they 

 hibernate in the mud at bottom until warm 

 weather calls them forth, and that by next spring, 

 so voracious is their appetite and such their agil- 

 ity in satisfying it, they are as big as the others of 

 their kind. So eager are these gourmands for 

 bait that if but one is in a pool you may catch 

 him, throw him back and catch him again times 

 without number, provided the hook does not hap- 

 pen to injure his tough jaw. 



Such a glimpse of the submarine life of the 

 brook the muskrat has given me with the musky 

 odor of his passing. After a little all is quiet 

 down there and I have a chance to admire the 

 life which flits above the surface. The hawking 

 dragonflies weave gossamer fabrics of dreams in 

 their unending flight to and fro and the lull of 

 the forest symphony bids one yield to these as 

 the waning afternoon builds up its shadows from 

 all hollows and glens. In the open pastures the 

 heat still quivers, but here the woodland deities 

 are building night, block on block, for the cooling 

 and soothing of the world. The heliographing 

 ceases. The foam writing blurs in the shadows. 

 Down long aisles of perfumed green the voice of 



