Songs of the Fields 



voices to the running chorus. Through Grove's 

 meadow, adjoining, the creek is wilder and wider, 

 and then gathering force in a last rush, with a glad 

 song it goes hurrying to mingle with the Wabash. 



The river, when swollen with the flood of 

 spring rains, sings a sweeping, irresistible measure 

 that carries one's thoughts by force; but this is its The 

 most monotonous production. There is little vari- Flood 

 ation, and the birds are the strongest accompanists. 

 Later, when it falls into the regular channel, it 

 sings its characteristic song and appears so much 

 happier and more content. I believe the river 

 loves and does not willingly leave its bed. When a 

 strong, muddy current it sweeps the surface from 

 valuable fields, drowns stock and washes away 

 fences; it works as if forced, and I like to think 

 the task is disagreeable. At times it seems to moan 

 and sob, while sucking around big tree trunks and 

 washing across meadows and fields. 



When it comes home again and runs in the 

 proper channel it shouts and sings with glee the 

 true song of the river. You can hear the water 

 triumph as it swirls around great maple and syca- 

 more roots, chuckle as it buffets against rocks, 

 gurgle across shoals, and trill where it ripples over 

 a pebbly floor. The muskrat weaves currents 

 against its flow, the carp wallow in mucky pools, 

 and the black bass leap in air as if too full of life 

 to remain in their element. 

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