io The Confessions of a Poacher. 



is always the chief artery of the land, as in it 

 are found the life-giving elements. All the 

 birds, all the plants, flock to its banks, and its 

 wooded sides are hushed by the subdued hum 

 of insects. There are tall green brackens- 

 brackens unfurling their fronds to the light, 

 and full of the atoms of beautiful summer. At 

 the bend of the stream is a lime, and you may 

 almost see its glutinous leaves unfolding to 

 the light. Its winged flowers are infested with 

 bees. It has a 

 dead bough al- 

 most at the bot- 

 tom of its bole, 

 and upon it there 

 sits a grey-brown 

 bird. Ever and 

 anon it darts 

 for a moment, 

 hovers over the 

 stream, and then returns to its perch. A 

 hundred times it flutters, secures its insect 

 prey, and takes up its old position on the 

 stump. Bronze fly, bluebottle, and droning 



