272 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



business. The joys of Nature are not for such as 

 he; the love of the wild which exists in every one 

 of us is, in him, too thickly "sicklied o'er" with 

 the veneer of convention and civilisation. 



Even as late as November, when the water 

 begins to freeze in the tiny cups of the pitcher 

 plants, and the frost brings into being a new kind 

 of foliage on glass and stone, a few insect-eaters 

 of the summer woods still linger on. A belated 

 red-eyed vireo may be chased by a snowbird, and 

 when we approach a flock of birds, mistaking them 

 at a distance for purple finches, we may discover 

 they are myrtle warblers, clad in the faded yel- 

 low of their winter plumage. In favoured locali- 

 ties these brave little birds may even spend the 

 entire winter with us. 



One of the best of November's surprises may 

 come when all hope of late migrants has been 

 given up. Walking near the river, our glance falls 

 on what might be a painter's palate with blended 

 colours of all shades resting on the smooth sur- 

 face of the water. We look again and again, 

 hardly believing our eyes, until at last the gorge- 

 ous creature takes to wing, and goes humming 

 down the stream, a bit of colour tropical in its 

 extravagance — and w r e know that we have seen 

 a male wood, or summer, duck in the full grandeur 

 of his white, purple, chestnut, black, blue, and 

 brown. Many other ducks have departed, but this 



