132 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



dejected perhaps he rests, for he does not know 

 the value of rain, nor how essential it is to his 

 future happiness and life. 



Before my tent, two hundred feet up the 

 stream, two sycamores arise, straight and slen- 

 der for sixty feet and more. Nearly to the top 

 of one of them a woodbine or Virginia creeper 

 has clambered, and is still climbing, still ad- 

 vancing so that soon its upper tendrils will be 

 free to kiss the sky. The dark green, five parted 

 leaves of the creeper contrast prettily with the 

 large, light green kidney-shaped ones of the 

 sycamore, while the foliage of the vine festoons 

 the trunk of tree in most pleasing fashion. 



During the drought the green herons reaped 

 a harvest from the fast disappearing pools along 

 the brooklet. On yesterday one arose from the 

 site of a former pool near my furnace, and ut- 

 tered as he flew his loud squawk of displeasure 

 at my return. Tadpoles, crawfish, minnows, 

 hellgrammites and many other aquatic and 

 semi-aquatic forms he had found in the soft 

 mud and beneath the smaller stones. Now 

 that the pools are full again he will have to 

 search longer and over a wider territory to sat- 

 isfy his appetite and that of a nestful of his 

 growing youngsters. Even as I write, up he 

 arises from the margin of the same pool and 

 true to one of his names flies up the creek 

 uttering his cuss words as he goes. What 



