Songs of the Fields 



The roads run systematically across the face 

 of earth, singing the song of travel and commerce. 

 Then there is a far sweeter song, sung by little The Song 

 streams of water, wandering as they will, in be- * the 

 neficent course, quenching the thirst of the earth, 

 enhancing its beauty, and lulling us with their 

 melody. Any one of these little streams is typical 

 of all, but each nature-lover has his own particu- 

 lar brook that to him is most beautiful. 



I come from haunts of coot and hern," 



sang Tennyson of his. My Limberlost comes 

 from the same haunts, and nothing can convince 

 me that any running water on the face of earth is 

 more interesting or more beautiful. I have read 

 of the streams that flow over India's golden sands, 

 down Italy's mountains, through England's mead- 

 ows; but none of them can sing sweeter songs or 

 have more interest to the inch than the Limberlost. 

 It is born in the heart of swampy wood and 

 thicket, flows over a bed of muck or gravel, the 

 banks are grass and flower-lined, its waters cooled 

 and shaded by sycamore, maple, and willow. June 

 drapes it in misty white, and November spreads a 

 blanket of scarlet and gold. In the water fish, 

 turtle, crab, muskrat, and water puppy disport 

 themselves. Along the shores the sandpiper, 

 plover, coot, bittern, heron, and crane take their 

 pleasure and seek their food. Above it the hawk 

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