A Day on Bear Brook. 



"When autumn winds begin to blow, 

 And rustling leaves drift to and fro; 

 Then shadowy forms of bygone days 

 Dance in the sunshine's golden rays." 



It was a lovely day early in November. The oaks and 

 maples were blazing forth in their autumnal colors ; the elms 

 along the creek bank were sadly giving up their yellow leaves 

 to Mother Earth. Sharp frosts had killed the tender vegeta- 

 tion and browned the uplands and fields ; but here and there in 

 sheltered spots along the sunny banks of the stream the grass 

 was still green, as if trying to persuade the passer-by that an- 

 other summer had come. But alas ! the falling leaves, the fad- 

 ing golden rod, the tints of the foliage and the blighted vegeta- 

 tion told too well the tale that summer's days were o'er and 

 that the twilight season of the year had come. I had started 

 out for a day in the woods, with my little 20-bore on my 

 shoulder and my setter, Queen, at my heels. Striking across 

 the meadow land that separated my home from the timber, I 

 came out on the banks of the creek and followed its winding 

 course to the southward. It was a quiet, lazy day ; one of those 

 dreamy fall days when all the world seems to be at a stand- 

 still halting between summer and winter. The spirit of the 

 hour seemed to catch me, and I strolled along, following every 

 winding turn of the stream forgetting the gun on my shoulder 

 and the empty game pockets in the old Barnard. 



A thick fringe of willows lined the bank, completely hid- 

 ing me from the stream. Every few rods I cautiously parted 

 them and peeped up and down the creek, in hopes of catching 

 sight of a stray mallard or teal ; but I reached the point where 

 I was to leave the main water course without seeing so much 

 as a duck feather. About three miles from town I struck the 

 mouth of a little rivulet, known locally as Bear Brook a clear, 

 swift little stream that comes from some large springs away 



[1551 



